restaurants. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldnât write songs instead of plays. Cheers. You want to grab a bite?â
âWould you mind if I didnât?â
He looked so serious when he replied that Laugier stared at him, surprised and, in spite of his usual irony, somehow awed.
âYou really are in bad shape, arenât you?â
âIâm sorry â¦â
âOf course, old ⦠Listen â¦â
No. It was impossible. His nerves were on edge. Even the street, with its racket he usually didnât notice, its stupid hustle-bustle, was maddening. He stood for a minute or two at the bus stand, and then, when a taxi stopped nearby, he ran over, jumped inside, and gave his address.
He wasnât sure what he feared most, finding her there or not finding her there. He was mad at himself, and at Kay, without knowing exactly why. He felt humiliated, terribly humiliated.
The streets flashed by. He didnât look at them or recognize them. He thought to himself, She grabbed her chance and ran, the bitch.
At almost the same time, he thought: Me or somebody else ⦠It doesnât matter who ⦠Or the gigolo in Cannes â¦
Through the window he looked up and down his street as if expecting it to have changed somehow. He was pale and knew it. His hands were clammy, and his forehead was damp.
She wasnât at the window. He didnât see her there, as he had in the morning, when the sun was shining and the day was new and she slid her hand gently, lovingly against the glass.
He ran up the stairs and didnât stop until the third floor. He was so furious that he was ashamed. For a moment, he could have laughed.
There, against the slightly sticky banister, that morning, just two hours earlier â¦
He couldnât wait any longer. He had to know if she was gone. He jammed his key into the lock and was still fumbling when the door swung back.
Kay was there, smiling at him.
âCome on,â he said, not looking at her.
âWhatâs the matter?â
âNothing. Come on.â
She was wearing her black silk dress. Obviously she had nothing else to wear. But she must have bought the little white embroidered collar. He didnât recognize it, and it infuriated him.
âCome on.â
âBut lunch is ready.â
He could see. He could see perfectly well that the room had been all tidied up, which it hadnât been for a long time. He could also imagine the bearded tailor across the street, but he didnât want to think about him.
He didnât want to think about anything. Not Kay, who was bewildered, even more bewildered than Laugier had been just now. But in her eyes, too, he saw the same submission and respect.
He was at the end of his rope. Didnât they realize that? If they didnât, let them say so. Heâd crawl off to die in a corner, all alone.
There!
As long as they didnât make him wait, as long as they didnât ask him any questions. Because heâd had enough of questions. The ones he asked himself, in any case, the ones that were turning him into a nervous wreck.
âWell?â
âIâm coming, François. I thought â¦â
Thought what! Thought sheâd fix him a nice lunchâhe could see, he wasnât blind. And then? Was that how he loved her, with her blissful air of a new bride? Were the two of them already able to just stop?
Not him, at any rate.
âBut the hot plate â¦â
To hell with the hot plate, which could burn away until someone had time to think about him. Hadnât the light been on, too, for forty-eight hours? Had he worried about that?
âCome on.â
What was he so afraid of? Kay? Himself? Fate? All he knew for sure was that he needed them to plunge back into the crowd, to walk, to stop at little bars, to rub up against strangers, people you didnât have to apologize to for bumping into them or stepping on their toes, maybe he even needed Kay to
âWould you mind if I didnât?â
He looked so serious when he replied that Laugier stared at him, surprised and, in spite of his usual irony, somehow awed.
âYou really are in bad shape, arenât you?â
âIâm sorry â¦â
âOf course, old ⦠Listen â¦â
No. It was impossible. His nerves were on edge. Even the street, with its racket he usually didnât notice, its stupid hustle-bustle, was maddening. He stood for a minute or two at the bus stand, and then, when a taxi stopped nearby, he ran over, jumped inside, and gave his address.
He wasnât sure what he feared most, finding her there or not finding her there. He was mad at himself, and at Kay, without knowing exactly why. He felt humiliated, terribly humiliated.
The streets flashed by. He didnât look at them or recognize them. He thought to himself, She grabbed her chance and ran, the bitch.
At almost the same time, he thought: Me or somebody else ⦠It doesnât matter who ⦠Or the gigolo in Cannes â¦
Through the window he looked up and down his street as if expecting it to have changed somehow. He was pale and knew it. His hands were clammy, and his forehead was damp.
She wasnât at the window. He didnât see her there, as he had in the morning, when the sun was shining and the day was new and she slid her hand gently, lovingly against the glass.
He ran up the stairs and didnât stop until the third floor. He was so furious that he was ashamed. For a moment, he could have laughed.
There, against the slightly sticky banister, that morning, just two hours earlier â¦
He couldnât wait any longer. He had to know if she was gone. He jammed his key into the lock and was still fumbling when the door swung back.
Kay was there, smiling at him.
âCome on,â he said, not looking at her.
âWhatâs the matter?â
âNothing. Come on.â
She was wearing her black silk dress. Obviously she had nothing else to wear. But she must have bought the little white embroidered collar. He didnât recognize it, and it infuriated him.
âCome on.â
âBut lunch is ready.â
He could see. He could see perfectly well that the room had been all tidied up, which it hadnât been for a long time. He could also imagine the bearded tailor across the street, but he didnât want to think about him.
He didnât want to think about anything. Not Kay, who was bewildered, even more bewildered than Laugier had been just now. But in her eyes, too, he saw the same submission and respect.
He was at the end of his rope. Didnât they realize that? If they didnât, let them say so. Heâd crawl off to die in a corner, all alone.
There!
As long as they didnât make him wait, as long as they didnât ask him any questions. Because heâd had enough of questions. The ones he asked himself, in any case, the ones that were turning him into a nervous wreck.
âWell?â
âIâm coming, François. I thought â¦â
Thought what! Thought sheâd fix him a nice lunchâhe could see, he wasnât blind. And then? Was that how he loved her, with her blissful air of a new bride? Were the two of them already able to just stop?
Not him, at any rate.
âBut the hot plate â¦â
To hell with the hot plate, which could burn away until someone had time to think about him. Hadnât the light been on, too, for forty-eight hours? Had he worried about that?
âCome on.â
What was he so afraid of? Kay? Himself? Fate? All he knew for sure was that he needed them to plunge back into the crowd, to walk, to stop at little bars, to rub up against strangers, people you didnât have to apologize to for bumping into them or stepping on their toes, maybe he even needed Kay to
Similar Books
