he used to shut himself up for days on end, and that his first reflex upon arriving was to listen to Bach played by Glenn Gould, the Goldberg Variations , he’d never have stood for another version, Glenn Gould or nothing at all he used to say (indeed), Glenn Gould now and forever (I’ll confirm). But maybe she was wrong. Perhaps he’d bought a large stock of darts and was spending his days aiming at the target, a map of France tacked to the wall at the other end of the bedroom, perhaps he’d become an all-round champion at darts, planting the darts precisely where he wanted them on the road map, after all wasn’t that better than imagining him under the influence of Foucault.
106. While she was busy writing this letter, she heard it again. This time, the noise seemed determined to penetrate the thick walls, to travel across the room until it reached her. She’d just sat down to write a letter that would of course go unanswered, and which she would soon forget after she’d sent it, she tried to forget each letter she sent, a forgetfulness that would protect her, immunize her against the disappointment and rancor, this was the only way she could continue writing me. It (the noise) seemed to emanate from someone who wanted to be seen, while still remaining in the shadows, someone hesitant to make himself known, yet quietly insistent. It was an intentional noise, directed at her, she thought, aimed at her, and no one else; it was trying to distract her, to get her away from her writing, insinuating itself into her consciousness. It was the early warning signs of a presence, complete with everything that was threatening, worrying, and even reassuring about that presence, and for some reason, which she was unable to explain, she also sensed something familiar in it. She’d stopped writing her letter in mid-sentence (as the noise had seemed to demand), she knew at once that she would have to find out what it was before she could get back to her writing, and yet—she thought furtively—she wasn’t sure what she would do if she found something, she couldn’t swear that she wouldn’t be forced to tear up, in a few minutes or a few hours, those pages covered in her writing, because perhaps she wouldn’t be able to pick up the thread again, perhaps in reading these words she’d written earlier, she wouldn’t be able to ascribe them any meaning. It hadn’t even crossed her mind to ask my father or to let him know, she’d somehow known she was the only one who could solve the noise problem; and then, really, the very prospect of going to see him upstairs was just too discouraging. He hadn’t heard a thing, probably, and anyway he would just say again: It’s just a stray cat, or a rat, without remembering that he’d said the same thing last time. He was more than capable of that, since arriving in the villa, repeating sentences without thinking, oblivious to everything, especially to her uneasiness. The best-case scenario was that he’d perhaps try to reassure her, offering to inspect the villa to prove that there was nothing to worry about, that the villa was completely vacant, and that they were safe—but she was convinced, and there was nothing he could do to sway her; he would never rid her of the idea they weren’t alone in the villa. And even if he were to convince himself that he’d heard something too, even if he were to pretend to look with her, climbing the stairs, opening the bedroom doors, inspecting the corridors, this would only push the noise away. It was too difficult to explain why, but now she was sure she’d been listening for this noise for weeks, maybe even years, and that she alone could hear it. Had she given up the piano simply in order to be more receptive? This noise, she’d said, had put her on the path to something, and now that it’d returned, she couldn’t avoid looking for whatever it was any longer, so as to get to the bottom of things. So she’d stood up and she’d gone
106. While she was busy writing this letter, she heard it again. This time, the noise seemed determined to penetrate the thick walls, to travel across the room until it reached her. She’d just sat down to write a letter that would of course go unanswered, and which she would soon forget after she’d sent it, she tried to forget each letter she sent, a forgetfulness that would protect her, immunize her against the disappointment and rancor, this was the only way she could continue writing me. It (the noise) seemed to emanate from someone who wanted to be seen, while still remaining in the shadows, someone hesitant to make himself known, yet quietly insistent. It was an intentional noise, directed at her, she thought, aimed at her, and no one else; it was trying to distract her, to get her away from her writing, insinuating itself into her consciousness. It was the early warning signs of a presence, complete with everything that was threatening, worrying, and even reassuring about that presence, and for some reason, which she was unable to explain, she also sensed something familiar in it. She’d stopped writing her letter in mid-sentence (as the noise had seemed to demand), she knew at once that she would have to find out what it was before she could get back to her writing, and yet—she thought furtively—she wasn’t sure what she would do if she found something, she couldn’t swear that she wouldn’t be forced to tear up, in a few minutes or a few hours, those pages covered in her writing, because perhaps she wouldn’t be able to pick up the thread again, perhaps in reading these words she’d written earlier, she wouldn’t be able to ascribe them any meaning. It hadn’t even crossed her mind to ask my father or to let him know, she’d somehow known she was the only one who could solve the noise problem; and then, really, the very prospect of going to see him upstairs was just too discouraging. He hadn’t heard a thing, probably, and anyway he would just say again: It’s just a stray cat, or a rat, without remembering that he’d said the same thing last time. He was more than capable of that, since arriving in the villa, repeating sentences without thinking, oblivious to everything, especially to her uneasiness. The best-case scenario was that he’d perhaps try to reassure her, offering to inspect the villa to prove that there was nothing to worry about, that the villa was completely vacant, and that they were safe—but she was convinced, and there was nothing he could do to sway her; he would never rid her of the idea they weren’t alone in the villa. And even if he were to convince himself that he’d heard something too, even if he were to pretend to look with her, climbing the stairs, opening the bedroom doors, inspecting the corridors, this would only push the noise away. It was too difficult to explain why, but now she was sure she’d been listening for this noise for weeks, maybe even years, and that she alone could hear it. Had she given up the piano simply in order to be more receptive? This noise, she’d said, had put her on the path to something, and now that it’d returned, she couldn’t avoid looking for whatever it was any longer, so as to get to the bottom of things. So she’d stood up and she’d gone
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