garage. The small items of furniture that he made. Back to our laughter. And the Radiola TV set, the low-alcohol beer, his friends on a Saturday, my only real friends, he called them. And you. He wanted to come back and find me as I was. I want to be loved by you again, he wrote, I have realised that to love is to understand . * He promised. I’ll persuade you to forgive me. I was afraid, I ran away. He swore. He made declarations. I love you, he wrote. I miss you. He was suffocating. I know that he wasn’t lying, but it was too late for these careful, pretty words.
My merciful curves had melted away. The ice was taking shape, and it had a cutting edge to it.
He had enclosed a cheque with his letter.
Fifteen million one hundred and eighty-six thousand and four euros, seventy-two centimes.
Made out to Jocelyne Guerbette.
Look, I’m asking you to forgive me, said the figures. Forgive my betrayal, my cowardice; forgive my crime, my lack of love.
Three million three hundred and sixty-one thousand, two hundred and ninety-six euros, fifty-six centimes had vanquished his dream and his self-disgust.
I expect he bought his Porsche, his flat-screen TV, all the James Bond films, a Seiko watch, a Patek Philippe, maybe a Breitling, shiny and flashy, several women younger and more beautiful than me, depilated, Botoxed, perfect; he must have had some bad experiences, as people do when they have a treasure trove – remember the cat and the fox who steal the five gold pieces given to Pinocchio by Mangiafuoco? He must have lived like a prince for a while, as you always want to do when fortune suddenly comes your way, to get your revenge for not having it sooner, for not having had it at all. Five-star hotels, Taittinger Comtes de Champagne, caviar; and then whims and fancies, yes, I can easily imagine my thief developing them: I don’t like this room, the shower drips, the meat is overdone, the sheets are scratchy; I want another girl; I want friends.
I want what I’ve lost.
I never replied to my murderer’s letter. I let it slip out of my hands – the sheets fluttered for a moment, and when they finally came down they were reduced to ashes, and I began to laugh.
* Adapted from André Maurois (1815–1967), ‘Love can stand up to absence or death better than to doubt or betrayal.’
* After Françoise Sagan (1935–2004), ‘To love is not just to love well but above all to understand.’ (In Qui je suis.)
M y last list.
Go to the hairdresser, have a manicure and depilation (for the first time in my life get someone other than me to remove the hair from my legs / armpits / bikini line – well, not the full Brazilian, all the same).
Spend two weeks in London with Nadine and her red-headed lover.
Give her the money to make her next little film (she’s sent me the screenplay, from a short story by Saki, it’s brilliant!!!)
Open a savings account for my rascal of a son.
Choose a new wardrobe (I’m a size 10 now!!!! Men smile at me in the street!!!!).
Organise an exhibition of Maman’s drawings.
Buy a house with a big garden and a terrace with a view of the sea, maybe at Cap Ferrat, where Papa will be comfortable. Above all, don’t ask the price, just write the cheque, casually .
Get Maman’s grave moved to near me and Papa. (In the garden of the house mentioned above?)
Give a million to someone at random. (Who? How?)
Live with him. (Well, beside him, really.) And wait .
And that’s all.
I did everything on my last list with the exception of a couple of details
In the end I did have a full Brazilian wax – it’s odd, very little girl-like – and I haven’t decided who to give the million to yet.
I’m waiting for an unexpected smile, a small ad in the newspaper, a sad but kindly look; I’m waiting for a sign.
I spent two wonderful weeks in London with my daughter. I found my way back to the old times, when Jo’s cruelty made me take refuge in her room, and she stroked my hair until I was as calm as
My merciful curves had melted away. The ice was taking shape, and it had a cutting edge to it.
He had enclosed a cheque with his letter.
Fifteen million one hundred and eighty-six thousand and four euros, seventy-two centimes.
Made out to Jocelyne Guerbette.
Look, I’m asking you to forgive me, said the figures. Forgive my betrayal, my cowardice; forgive my crime, my lack of love.
Three million three hundred and sixty-one thousand, two hundred and ninety-six euros, fifty-six centimes had vanquished his dream and his self-disgust.
I expect he bought his Porsche, his flat-screen TV, all the James Bond films, a Seiko watch, a Patek Philippe, maybe a Breitling, shiny and flashy, several women younger and more beautiful than me, depilated, Botoxed, perfect; he must have had some bad experiences, as people do when they have a treasure trove – remember the cat and the fox who steal the five gold pieces given to Pinocchio by Mangiafuoco? He must have lived like a prince for a while, as you always want to do when fortune suddenly comes your way, to get your revenge for not having it sooner, for not having had it at all. Five-star hotels, Taittinger Comtes de Champagne, caviar; and then whims and fancies, yes, I can easily imagine my thief developing them: I don’t like this room, the shower drips, the meat is overdone, the sheets are scratchy; I want another girl; I want friends.
I want what I’ve lost.
I never replied to my murderer’s letter. I let it slip out of my hands – the sheets fluttered for a moment, and when they finally came down they were reduced to ashes, and I began to laugh.
* Adapted from André Maurois (1815–1967), ‘Love can stand up to absence or death better than to doubt or betrayal.’
* After Françoise Sagan (1935–2004), ‘To love is not just to love well but above all to understand.’ (In Qui je suis.)
M y last list.
Go to the hairdresser, have a manicure and depilation (for the first time in my life get someone other than me to remove the hair from my legs / armpits / bikini line – well, not the full Brazilian, all the same).
Spend two weeks in London with Nadine and her red-headed lover.
Give her the money to make her next little film (she’s sent me the screenplay, from a short story by Saki, it’s brilliant!!!)
Open a savings account for my rascal of a son.
Choose a new wardrobe (I’m a size 10 now!!!! Men smile at me in the street!!!!).
Organise an exhibition of Maman’s drawings.
Buy a house with a big garden and a terrace with a view of the sea, maybe at Cap Ferrat, where Papa will be comfortable. Above all, don’t ask the price, just write the cheque, casually .
Get Maman’s grave moved to near me and Papa. (In the garden of the house mentioned above?)
Give a million to someone at random. (Who? How?)
Live with him. (Well, beside him, really.) And wait .
And that’s all.
I did everything on my last list with the exception of a couple of details
In the end I did have a full Brazilian wax – it’s odd, very little girl-like – and I haven’t decided who to give the million to yet.
I’m waiting for an unexpected smile, a small ad in the newspaper, a sad but kindly look; I’m waiting for a sign.
I spent two wonderful weeks in London with my daughter. I found my way back to the old times, when Jo’s cruelty made me take refuge in her room, and she stroked my hair until I was as calm as
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