wanted a beer. She said, you shouldn’t drink any more alcohol. I said, it’s nice of you to look after me. She smiled. Those people impressed me, I said. I live a stupid fucking life. All the people I know are stupid, stupid and insipid. She said, not everybody’s lucky enough to be born in coal-mining country. —You too, you impress me too. Ah, at last! Odile said, making a gesture that meant I should develop this line of thought. —You’re involved, engaged, strong. You’re beautiful. —Rémi? Hello? Are you all right? —Don’t, I’m serious. You fight with them, for them. —That’s my job. —You could do it differently. You could be more aloof. The workers love you. Odile laughed (I’ve already mentioned that I adore her laugh). —The workers love me! The common people love me, you see, I really should go into politics. And you, my poor darling, you’re going to sleep well tonight. —You’re wrong to laugh. I’m serious. The way you danced and cleared away the plates, the comforting words you said, you made the day enchanting. —You didn’t think those pants made me look fat? —No. —You think my hair looks like I used a rake on it? —Yes, but I like it better than the helmet look you had this morning. And suddenly I thought, tomorrow we’ll be in Paris.Tomorrow evening, Odile will be at home in her cozy cell, with husband and children. And me, I’ll be the devil knows where. Ordinarily none of that mattered, but since things had taken an abnormal turn, I thought, take your precautions, old boy. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, said excuse me to Odile, and looked for Loula Moreno’s number. She’s beautiful, she’s funny, she’s desperate. Exactly what I need. I sent her a text message: “Free tomorrow evening?” Odile was blowing on her soup. I felt myself invaded by a kind of panic. A dread of abandonment. When I was a child, my parents would leave me with other people. I’d find a dark spot and remain there immobile, getting smaller and smaller. The screen on my cell phone lit up and I read, “Free tomorrow evening, my angel, but you’ll have to come to Klosterneuburg.” I remembered that Loula was making a movie in Austria. Let’s see, who else … Everything OK? Odile asked. Everything’s fine, I said. —You look frustrated. —A client postponing a meeting, nothing important. And then I put on an indifferent air and tossed out, what are you doing tomorrow evening? We’re celebrating my mother’s seventieth birthday, Odile replied. —At your place? —No, at my parents’ house in Boulogne. Having guests is good for my mother. Doing the shopping, cooking for everybody. I have a fear of my parents sitting around being depressed. —Don’t they do anything? —My father was a senior inspector of finances. When Raymond Barre was prime minister, my father was one of his advisers, and later he was director of the Wurmster Bank. Ernest Blot, ever heard of him? —Vaguely. —He had to retire from the bank because of a heart problem. Now he’s chairman of the board of directors, but it’s just an honorary position. He does a little volunteer work, he spins his wheels.My mother does nothing. She feels alone. My father’s hateful to her, they should have separated a long time ago. Odile fished the slice of lemon out of her empty teacup and separated the peel from the pulp. One of the effects of emotional malfunction is that nothing gets passed over anymore. Everything stands for something else, everything’s in code and needs deciphering. I was unhinged enough to imagine that Odile’s last words contained a message, and so I asked her, have you ever thought about separating, you and your husband? I immediately covered her face with my hands and said, I don’t give a damn, forget I said that, I absolutely don’t give a damn. When I removed my hands, Odile said, he must think about it every day, I’m horrible. I’m sure you are, I said. Robert’s horrible too, but
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