shutting out the city. Perched atop the tiers, you see the gates through which were released the hungry lions, and through the stage door appears your mother.
She spots you right away, a large shape swaddled in your gray coat like a makeshift tent. When she reaches you she says arenât you a little crazy, in this weather, you could have come to my place, after all. You reply I know, but Iâm in a hurry. You observe the texture of her image. The extreme materiality of the features that are just as youâve always known them, the bumps, the hollows, the special glow of the skin, the general allure like no other. You are really crazy she says again indulgently, and looks as if sheâs about to reach toward you, but in the end she holds back, turns, and vanishes among thetrees. You remain alone with the knives, delivered up to the snow that begins falling again.
Julien will arrive from the northeast. Getting off the No. 86 bus in front of the Institut du Monde Arabe, heâll walk past the Faculté des Sciences, slalom among the poorly parked vehicles and the perpetual work in progress along that stretch of the sidewalk, then at the intersection with Rue des Ãcoles, take Rue Linné toward the Jardin des Plantes. After the small supermarket, heâll turn onto Rue des Arènes to reach Rue Monge.
With your back to the arena, you walk toward the circular barred fence that surrounds the enclosure, following the curve of the street. There is one place, at the junction with Rue de Navarre, where one can observe the path of an eventual passerbyâbecause for the moment there are noneâfrom Rue Linné to Rue Monge. You are standing at that spot. Across the street are apartment buildings of noble discretion, stylish without excessive complications. Now and then a window opens to allow the shaking out of a tablecloth. A shadow passes a curtain; a cat behind a window demands the opening of his aquarium but by the time someone complies itâs too late, he has lost interest.
After half an hour you can definitely see yourhusband down the street. Julien seems to be carrying the world on his shoulders, which for an instant you again see naked against yours, enveloping you to perfection. You drive away that image. You replace it with the one of everything he owes you, the knives in your purse, your flyaway daughter, your runaway mother. You draw close to the barred fence but of course he doesnât see you. Muffled by the snow, silent, invisible, you run toward the exit of the amphitheater and by the time you reach the sidewalk, heâs already turning onto Rue Monge. Itâs too late to call to him discreetly, to lead him over to the métro entrance no one ever uses because it has a hundred steps whereas the main entrance over on Place Monge has an escalator.
Julien is striding along but you have no trouble matching his fleeing pace. Nothing happens along the way to Place Saint-Médard, where youâre careful to stay back, skirting the church garden while heâs busy with the keypad lock a few yards ahead of you. He vanishes into your motherâs buildingâthe one that was yours as well for twenty-eight years, yes, thatâs how long you lived there, but no one forced you to stay, you liked the place.
On the square there is a brasserie where the firstfloor offers an excellent view of the surrounding neighborhood. You choose a table near the window and order a hot toddy, never taking your eyes off the door through which Julien has disappeared, where he reappears a few minutes later, only to stop at the intercom. He taps on his cell phone and correlatively yours begins to vibrate in your pocket. You observe that three messages have already been recorded. You do not open the phone; you do not listen to the messages. The object continues to vibrate on the table and Julienâs name appears on the screen, calling and calling again in the void.
Then he walks around the square,
She spots you right away, a large shape swaddled in your gray coat like a makeshift tent. When she reaches you she says arenât you a little crazy, in this weather, you could have come to my place, after all. You reply I know, but Iâm in a hurry. You observe the texture of her image. The extreme materiality of the features that are just as youâve always known them, the bumps, the hollows, the special glow of the skin, the general allure like no other. You are really crazy she says again indulgently, and looks as if sheâs about to reach toward you, but in the end she holds back, turns, and vanishes among thetrees. You remain alone with the knives, delivered up to the snow that begins falling again.
Julien will arrive from the northeast. Getting off the No. 86 bus in front of the Institut du Monde Arabe, heâll walk past the Faculté des Sciences, slalom among the poorly parked vehicles and the perpetual work in progress along that stretch of the sidewalk, then at the intersection with Rue des Ãcoles, take Rue Linné toward the Jardin des Plantes. After the small supermarket, heâll turn onto Rue des Arènes to reach Rue Monge.
With your back to the arena, you walk toward the circular barred fence that surrounds the enclosure, following the curve of the street. There is one place, at the junction with Rue de Navarre, where one can observe the path of an eventual passerbyâbecause for the moment there are noneâfrom Rue Linné to Rue Monge. You are standing at that spot. Across the street are apartment buildings of noble discretion, stylish without excessive complications. Now and then a window opens to allow the shaking out of a tablecloth. A shadow passes a curtain; a cat behind a window demands the opening of his aquarium but by the time someone complies itâs too late, he has lost interest.
After half an hour you can definitely see yourhusband down the street. Julien seems to be carrying the world on his shoulders, which for an instant you again see naked against yours, enveloping you to perfection. You drive away that image. You replace it with the one of everything he owes you, the knives in your purse, your flyaway daughter, your runaway mother. You draw close to the barred fence but of course he doesnât see you. Muffled by the snow, silent, invisible, you run toward the exit of the amphitheater and by the time you reach the sidewalk, heâs already turning onto Rue Monge. Itâs too late to call to him discreetly, to lead him over to the métro entrance no one ever uses because it has a hundred steps whereas the main entrance over on Place Monge has an escalator.
Julien is striding along but you have no trouble matching his fleeing pace. Nothing happens along the way to Place Saint-Médard, where youâre careful to stay back, skirting the church garden while heâs busy with the keypad lock a few yards ahead of you. He vanishes into your motherâs buildingâthe one that was yours as well for twenty-eight years, yes, thatâs how long you lived there, but no one forced you to stay, you liked the place.
On the square there is a brasserie where the firstfloor offers an excellent view of the surrounding neighborhood. You choose a table near the window and order a hot toddy, never taking your eyes off the door through which Julien has disappeared, where he reappears a few minutes later, only to stop at the intercom. He taps on his cell phone and correlatively yours begins to vibrate in your pocket. You observe that three messages have already been recorded. You do not open the phone; you do not listen to the messages. The object continues to vibrate on the table and Julienâs name appears on the screen, calling and calling again in the void.
Then he walks around the square,
Similar Books
