swearing at her, Ada managed, through sheer force of will, to look at her aunt’s harsh, intelligent, bitter face, not as an ill-treated young girl would, but with the eye of a painter. Afterwards, she would take a page from her sketchbook and reproduce the features etched in her memory.
Sometimes, she would intentionally annoy her aunt in order to get another look at the little wrinkle at the corner of her mouth that only appeared when she was extremely angry. That cruel, sardonic expression fascinated her: it surfaced and disappeared like a serpent’s tail twitching in the grass; it was impossible to catch. It both terrified and thrilled her in a unique way. The outside world was full of shapes and colours that were impossible to remember for ever, constantly lost, but seeking them out, pursuing them, was the most precious thing on earth.
‘You live in a dream-world,’ said Lilla. ‘You’re nearly sixteen years old and you act as if you’re twelve. You draw and nothing else matters; you’re wasting the best years of your life,’ she added.
They were leaning against the narrow window ledge in the attic, up above the street. It was a hot evening, too oppressive for the beginning of spring. The sound of crying children was heard onevery floor. Ada thought she would try to paint this wide avenue, the way the evening shadows were interspersed by flashes of light, the stormy sky that seemed to crackle with sparks, the flower seller with her red hair tied up in a bun, and that woman dressed in mourning clothes walking beneath the street lamps who looked up now and again, as if she were suffocating and needed air; her distraught face seemed made of white lead beneath the light.
Lilla stretched languidly. ‘Haven’t you ever met a man you found attractive?’ she asked.
What? What was Lilla saying? Hadn’t she, Ada, ever met . . .? No. No. She shook her head, proud and defiant. She was destined for an existence that was different from Lilla’s; she was destined for other pleasures, emotions that no one could understand or share. And yet . . . for a fifteen-year-old girl, certain words spoken in her presence ( a man, attractive . . .) are like refrains from within, murmured by a voice inside her, calling up a muffled, almost threatening echo.
Madame Mimi was in the room. Her hair was white, but she still stood tall on her delicate legs; her hands were knotted and deformed by rheumatism, but she still had a keen eye.
‘Ada is still thinking about that little Harry Sinner,’ she said.
‘No, Madame Mimi!’ cried Ada.
Lilla laughed. Aunt Raissa sniggered.
‘That’s her all over,’ Ben groaned with scorn.
‘You still think about him, Ada. You’ll never forget him,’ Madame Mimi said once more, her voice low and mocking. It was the voice of an elderly seer, the tone she used when speaking of love, as if only then some chord vibrated within her, one musical note still alive amongst all the others that time had all but destroyed.
‘You know that we’re neighbours, don’t you?’ Lilla whispered in her ear.
‘Neighbours?’
‘I mean, they live quite near us, on the other side of l’Étoile,on the Rue des Belles-Feuilles, number 40. I happened to notice it in the telephone directory.’
Instinctively, Ada leaned out of the window and looked at the avenue that led to the Place de l’Étoile. It was strange to think that he was closer to her here in Paris than in their home-town, where they had been separated by the lower town, the long boulevard lined with poplar trees, and the hills.
They were all laughing, and she was ashamed at feeling her former passion rise within her.
‘It’s not my fault,’ she thought. ‘It’s because I just can’t forget certain faces once I’ve seen them, or certain houses, or certain sights. They’re indifferent or fickle because they remember nothing. But I can’t forget, I can’t. It’s a unique curse that makes me recall every feature, every word,
Sometimes, she would intentionally annoy her aunt in order to get another look at the little wrinkle at the corner of her mouth that only appeared when she was extremely angry. That cruel, sardonic expression fascinated her: it surfaced and disappeared like a serpent’s tail twitching in the grass; it was impossible to catch. It both terrified and thrilled her in a unique way. The outside world was full of shapes and colours that were impossible to remember for ever, constantly lost, but seeking them out, pursuing them, was the most precious thing on earth.
‘You live in a dream-world,’ said Lilla. ‘You’re nearly sixteen years old and you act as if you’re twelve. You draw and nothing else matters; you’re wasting the best years of your life,’ she added.
They were leaning against the narrow window ledge in the attic, up above the street. It was a hot evening, too oppressive for the beginning of spring. The sound of crying children was heard onevery floor. Ada thought she would try to paint this wide avenue, the way the evening shadows were interspersed by flashes of light, the stormy sky that seemed to crackle with sparks, the flower seller with her red hair tied up in a bun, and that woman dressed in mourning clothes walking beneath the street lamps who looked up now and again, as if she were suffocating and needed air; her distraught face seemed made of white lead beneath the light.
Lilla stretched languidly. ‘Haven’t you ever met a man you found attractive?’ she asked.
What? What was Lilla saying? Hadn’t she, Ada, ever met . . .? No. No. She shook her head, proud and defiant. She was destined for an existence that was different from Lilla’s; she was destined for other pleasures, emotions that no one could understand or share. And yet . . . for a fifteen-year-old girl, certain words spoken in her presence ( a man, attractive . . .) are like refrains from within, murmured by a voice inside her, calling up a muffled, almost threatening echo.
Madame Mimi was in the room. Her hair was white, but she still stood tall on her delicate legs; her hands were knotted and deformed by rheumatism, but she still had a keen eye.
‘Ada is still thinking about that little Harry Sinner,’ she said.
‘No, Madame Mimi!’ cried Ada.
Lilla laughed. Aunt Raissa sniggered.
‘That’s her all over,’ Ben groaned with scorn.
‘You still think about him, Ada. You’ll never forget him,’ Madame Mimi said once more, her voice low and mocking. It was the voice of an elderly seer, the tone she used when speaking of love, as if only then some chord vibrated within her, one musical note still alive amongst all the others that time had all but destroyed.
‘You know that we’re neighbours, don’t you?’ Lilla whispered in her ear.
‘Neighbours?’
‘I mean, they live quite near us, on the other side of l’Étoile,on the Rue des Belles-Feuilles, number 40. I happened to notice it in the telephone directory.’
Instinctively, Ada leaned out of the window and looked at the avenue that led to the Place de l’Étoile. It was strange to think that he was closer to her here in Paris than in their home-town, where they had been separated by the lower town, the long boulevard lined with poplar trees, and the hills.
They were all laughing, and she was ashamed at feeling her former passion rise within her.
‘It’s not my fault,’ she thought. ‘It’s because I just can’t forget certain faces once I’ve seen them, or certain houses, or certain sights. They’re indifferent or fickle because they remember nothing. But I can’t forget, I can’t. It’s a unique curse that makes me recall every feature, every word,
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