Pascaline Hutner
We didn’t see this coming. We never imagined things could fall apart this way. Never. Not Lionel, not me. We’re alone and confused. Who can we talk to about it? We ought to talk about it, but a secret like this — who could we tell it to? We ought to be able to discuss it with people we trust, with very compassionate people who wouldn’t so much as suggest that they found anything humorous in it. We don’t tolerate the smallest hint of humor on the subject, although we’re well aware, Lionel and I, that we might laugh about it if it didn’t involve our son. Actually, given the slightest inducement, we’d probably laugh about it in company. We haven’t even told Odile and Robert. The Toscanos have been our friends forever, despite the fact that it’s not so easy to maintain a friendship between couples. An in-depth friendship, I mean. In the end, the only truly intimate relationships are those between two people. We should have seen one another in twos, separately, just the women or just the men, or maybe even one of each (assuming that Robert and I would have managed to find anything to talk about in private). The Toscanos make fun of our mutual devotion. They’ve developed a certain attitude toward us, a kind of permanent irony that makes me tired. We can’t say a word without them reacting like we’re the very image of a congealed couple, suffocated by well-being. The other day, I made the mistake of saying that I’d prepared a turbot