young man with his gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword, that youthful, ineffectual arrogance. It was just like Irène to offer her policeman husband the collected works of a murderous painter.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it!”
His mother had loved Caravaggio. He still remembered her talking about “David with the Head of Goliath”. Leafing through the book now, he came across the painting. He stared into the face of Goliath. This was clearly a day for severed heads.
“You would swear that it’s a depiction of Good versus Evil,” his mother used to say. “Look at the fury in David’s eyes, while Goliath’s expression is calm and sorrowful. Where is Good, where is Evil? Now there’s a question …”
9
After dinner they took a little stroll, wandering hand in hand as far as the
grands boulevards
. In public, Camille had only ever been able to hold Irène’s hand. He would have liked to put his arm around her shoulder, to slip his arm around her waist, to be like other men, and felt saddened not to be able to make thisproprietorial gesture. Over time, this sadness had faded. Holding her hand was a more subtle sign of possession, and one that suited him now. Almost imperceptibly, Irène’s pace slowed.
“Tired?”
“A bit, maybe.” She smiled, breathing hard.
She ran a hand over her belly as though smoothing an invisible crease.
“I’ll go and get the car,” Camille said.
“No, you don’t have to do that.”
But he did have to.
It was late. The boulevards were still thronged with people. They agreed that Irène would sit at a table outside one of the cafés while he went to get the car.
At the corner Camille turned back to look at her. Her face had changed and Camille felt a pang of dread because suddenly the distance between them seemed unbridgeable. Even as she watched the passers-by, her hands clasped over her stomach, Irène had retreated into her own little world, into the mystery of the life growing within her, and Camille felt excluded. But his fears subsided because he knew that this distance that separated them was not about the love they shared. It was much simpler: she was a woman, he was a man. This was the chasm between them, but it was no wider today than yesterday. And it was this distance that had drawn them together. He smiled.
This was what he was thinking when he lost sight of her, his view blocked by a young man who now stood next to him, waiting, like Camille, for the traffic lights to change. “Young people are so tall these days,” Camille thought, realising that he barely came up to the boy’s elbow. He had read something recently about the fact that the whole world was growing taller. Even the Japanese.As he reached the other side of the street, already fumbling in his pocket for the car keys, the missing link in his earlier train of thought suddenly came to him: Gwendolyn Playne reminded him of Gwynplaine, the hero of Victor Hugo’s
The Man who Laughs
, and of a quote he thought he had forgotten: “The tall are what they choose to be. The short are what they can be.”
10
“The palette knife is used to work on the depth of a painting. Watch …”
Mama does not often take the time to offer advice. The studio smells of turps. Mama is working with reds. She applies liberal quantities – blood reds, carmines, reds dark as night. The palette knife bends under her pressure, leaving thick layers which she then spreads using lighter touches. Mama likes reds. I have a Mama who likes reds. She looks at me affectionately. “You like reds too, don’t you, Camille?” Instinctively, Camille recoils, suddenly gripped by fear.
*
Camille woke with a start shortly after 4 a.m. He leaned over Irène’s distended body, holding his own breath for a moment the better to listen to her slow, regular breathing, the faint snore of a woman grown heavy. He gently laid a hand on her belly. Only when he feels her warm skin, the smooth tautness of her belly, does
“Do you like it?”
“I love it!”
His mother had loved Caravaggio. He still remembered her talking about “David with the Head of Goliath”. Leafing through the book now, he came across the painting. He stared into the face of Goliath. This was clearly a day for severed heads.
“You would swear that it’s a depiction of Good versus Evil,” his mother used to say. “Look at the fury in David’s eyes, while Goliath’s expression is calm and sorrowful. Where is Good, where is Evil? Now there’s a question …”
9
After dinner they took a little stroll, wandering hand in hand as far as the
grands boulevards
. In public, Camille had only ever been able to hold Irène’s hand. He would have liked to put his arm around her shoulder, to slip his arm around her waist, to be like other men, and felt saddened not to be able to make thisproprietorial gesture. Over time, this sadness had faded. Holding her hand was a more subtle sign of possession, and one that suited him now. Almost imperceptibly, Irène’s pace slowed.
“Tired?”
“A bit, maybe.” She smiled, breathing hard.
She ran a hand over her belly as though smoothing an invisible crease.
“I’ll go and get the car,” Camille said.
“No, you don’t have to do that.”
But he did have to.
It was late. The boulevards were still thronged with people. They agreed that Irène would sit at a table outside one of the cafés while he went to get the car.
At the corner Camille turned back to look at her. Her face had changed and Camille felt a pang of dread because suddenly the distance between them seemed unbridgeable. Even as she watched the passers-by, her hands clasped over her stomach, Irène had retreated into her own little world, into the mystery of the life growing within her, and Camille felt excluded. But his fears subsided because he knew that this distance that separated them was not about the love they shared. It was much simpler: she was a woman, he was a man. This was the chasm between them, but it was no wider today than yesterday. And it was this distance that had drawn them together. He smiled.
This was what he was thinking when he lost sight of her, his view blocked by a young man who now stood next to him, waiting, like Camille, for the traffic lights to change. “Young people are so tall these days,” Camille thought, realising that he barely came up to the boy’s elbow. He had read something recently about the fact that the whole world was growing taller. Even the Japanese.As he reached the other side of the street, already fumbling in his pocket for the car keys, the missing link in his earlier train of thought suddenly came to him: Gwendolyn Playne reminded him of Gwynplaine, the hero of Victor Hugo’s
The Man who Laughs
, and of a quote he thought he had forgotten: “The tall are what they choose to be. The short are what they can be.”
10
“The palette knife is used to work on the depth of a painting. Watch …”
Mama does not often take the time to offer advice. The studio smells of turps. Mama is working with reds. She applies liberal quantities – blood reds, carmines, reds dark as night. The palette knife bends under her pressure, leaving thick layers which she then spreads using lighter touches. Mama likes reds. I have a Mama who likes reds. She looks at me affectionately. “You like reds too, don’t you, Camille?” Instinctively, Camille recoils, suddenly gripped by fear.
*
Camille woke with a start shortly after 4 a.m. He leaned over Irène’s distended body, holding his own breath for a moment the better to listen to her slow, regular breathing, the faint snore of a woman grown heavy. He gently laid a hand on her belly. Only when he feels her warm skin, the smooth tautness of her belly, does
Similar Books
