She was never the first to write, but she replied to all his letters. She wrote about her studies, her family, her friends. She did not mention that Manuel had come to visit her in Paris, just as she did not mention her trips to Switzerland. Not until Andreas had finished his degree and got an assistantship in a school on the outskirts of Paris did she tell him, in a postscript, that she would be going to Switzerland in October. She and Manuel were an item, and all the to-ing and fro-ing had gotten a bit wearing, and a bit expensive as well.
Andreas was stunned. He asked himself why he had never thought to visit Fabienne. He thought of turning down the job, but then he went there anyway. He resolved to speak to Fabienne. For weeks he thought about what he would say to her. He couldn’t imagine what she saw in Manuel, who had just taken a job as a gym teacher in the village where he and Andreas had grown up.
No sooner had he got to Paris than he called Fabienne. She said she was very busy, she was sitting her exams. They ended up arranging to meet on one of the following days in the tearoom of the mosque.
In the two years they hadn’t seen each other, Fabienne had grown still more beautiful. She had lost some weight, and her features were clearer, more mature. She looked utterly self-possessed, walking across the crowded café to greet Andreas, ordering mint tea and pastries for them. Andreas talked about his job, his pupils, and his new colleagues. Fabienne talked about her exams, which had gone well, about her summer vacation, about the books she had read. She said she was going to Zürich to finish her degree. Her German was still not good, she badly needed to spend time in a German-speaking environment. Andreas said she didn’t have the trace of an accent, and anyway Switzerland was the last place she should go to for that. Fabienne just laughed. He didn’t say what he had meant to say. After an hour, Fabienne got up and said she had to go, she was due to meet a girlfriend.
In the two months that Fabienne remained in Paris, they met four or five times. They drank tea or coffee, and once they went to the cinema to see a Fritz Lang film. Just before the end, the film tore, and after a long pause the house lights came on, and a woman walked to the front and said that for technical reasons they were unable to show the ending of the film. In a few sentences she told them how the story ended.
Andreas asked Fabienne to have a drink with him. She was tired, she said. He walked her back to her place. The whole evening they had spoken only banalities. As they walked along side by side, he wanted to say at last the things he had wanted to say, but he couldn’t get a syllable out, only a wheeze. Fabienne asked if he had said something. No, he said, it was just a frog in his throat.
Andreas never supposed that falling in love with an au pair was a particularly original thing to do. It had probably happened lots of times. But what was striking were the many details of his story that chimed with the book. The nickname he had given Fabienne, her appearance, the fact that she had bought herself a cat in Paris, and liked seeing old German films. That she sang him French nursery rhymes, and that her father was a doctor.
The author of the little book was named Gregor Wolf. There was a little biographical sketch of him at the front of the book. Apparently, he was born in 1953, and after training to be a bookseller, he had done various jobs, among them waiter and night porter. He had lived abroad for a long time. As of 1985, he was a freelance writer, living in Flensburg and Majorca. The biography sounded like every other author biography. Andreas had never heard of him, but that didn’t mean much. At the back of the book was a list of other books by Gregor Wolf, and there followed a dozen or so catchpenny titles.
Andreas asked himself whether Fabienne had ever met the author, and told him her story. It seemed unlikely, but what was even more unlikely was that all the coincidences were accidental.
He put the book down and turned on the TV to catch the news. Afterward he switched it off. The programs that would have interested him were generally on too late. He went to bed early, and was soon asleep. When the alarm went off, he still felt tired. He went to the bathroom, cleaned his teeth, and showered, first hot then cold. He didn’t eat any breakfast, just gulped down a cup of coffee, and set off.
On Wednesday, Andreas met Sylvie. They always arranged to meet on afternoons of no school, but other things often got in the way. Sylvie had three children, and when one of them was ill, or had a music lesson canceled, she would send him a text message to cancel their meeting. When they did meet, she would always make a joke about their relationship. Sometimes Andreas suspected she had other lovers besides him, but he never asked. He thought it was none of his business, and in fact he didn’t care either way.
Sylvie would arrive on her bicycle. She was out of breath when she walked past him into the apartment. He asked if she wanted a drink, but she said she didn’t have much time, put her arms around him, and dragged him into the bedroom.
Once they had slept together, Sylvie was a little calmer. She talked about her husband and her children, and the little catastrophes that always seemed to befall her. She had numerous relatives and close friends who always seemed to need her help, and Andreas listened to her, and got the people she talked about all mixed up. She only ever used first names. That’s your brother, right? asked Andreas. No, said Sylvie, with a show of irritation, he’s my best friend’s husband, or my husband’s cousin, or Anne’s French teacher. Sometimes Sylvie asked him why he never talked. He said he had nothing to say. His life was too formless, and at the same time too much of a tangle to give rise to any stories. Sylvie didn’t listen. She stood by the window looking out. She was naked, but she behaved quite as if she were dressed.
“What a horrible yard,” she said. “What kind of people live here?”
“I’ve hardly met any of the neighbors.”
“How long have you lived in this building?”
Andreas figured it out.
“Almost ten years,” he said.
Sylvie laughed and returned to bed. She kissed him on the mouth. Andreas grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her down. Sylvie sat up.
“Now you can offer me a drink, if you like.”
Andreas put on his pants, and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Sylvie followed him. She said she didn’t understand how he could stand to live in such a tiny apartment.
“I can’t afford a bigger one.”
“I’ve got some friends in Belleville who want to sell their apartment. It’s three big rooms, and not expensive. I’m sure you’d get four hundred thousand for yours. The area’s become so fashionable.”
Andreas said the apartment wasn’t as small as all that. And he felt at home in it. He didn’t need any more space. Then he told Sylvie about Angélique and Jens, and his love for Fabienne.
“It’s the exact same story,” he said. “Isn’t that amazing.”
“But your version of it ended badly.”
“Yes, for me,” said Andreas. He handed Sylvie a cup, and sat down on the kitchen table. “Maybe she met the author. He lives on Majorca. Stranger things have happened.”
“Then why should she tell him the story with a happy ending?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Andreas.
“Perhaps she was in love with you. Perhaps she wanted it to end well.”
“I was an idiot,” said Andreas.
Sylvie asked what was special about Fabienne. Andreas said she was very beautiful when he first met her. But that couldn’t be the whole story. If he met Fabienne now, he would still find her attractive, maybe he would approach her, have an affair with her. She wouldn’t be the great love of his life, not now, not anymore. Presumably it wasn’t even Fabienne herself that he longed for, so much as the love of those years, the unconditionality of the feeling that still floored him now, twenty years later.