Only Criss was dressed in a variety of colors. She had almond-shaped eyes and a vivacious face, and her arms were burdened with presents. She was looking for him but hadn’t managed to find him. When she turned around, she saw the other women walking toward the horizon without speaking to one another. She thought it wasn’t a dream, but it wasn’t hers, it belonged to the man whom she loved, although she’d never lived with him.
It had been a story like no other. They had suddenly fallen in love, and then just as brutally fallen out of it. She’d fulfilled a fantasy, or even a wish, because she’d loved the artist before she’d even met the man behind that artist. Their love had been strong, then she’d gotten up one morning and said, “It’s over!” He’d looked at her, made a gesture to indicate this was against his wishes. But she’d been serious, her face had changed, and even her way of moving. She’d become unrecognizable and, over the course of a single night, had transformed into a woman who was too busy for him. She’d confessed that she was afraid of men and that he’d confirmed those fears, thanking him as though he’d been a plumber or an electrician who’d just repaired something in her house.
Before shutting the door behind him, she’d said: “I’ll always be your friend, we just won’t be having sex anymore. I love solitude, and sometimes I betray that solitude by spending time with men who are much like you, artists who are famous, but not too tall. Then I go back to my solitary life and my work, which I’m very passionate about and which gives me a great deal of satisfaction. When I get horny, I pleasure myself and occasionally use a vibrator to orgasm. There we have it, darling. Know that we had something very beautiful and very intense. Goodbye!”
He’d lingered there a moment, rooted in his spot. Seeing someone change from one kind of person to another in the space of a single season had left a big impression on him. Criss hadn’t had a sense of humor and had been immature when it came to her dealings with men. Maybe she preferred women but didn’t want to admit it? Nevertheless, she’d said that she’d loved sleeping with him. He didn’t argue: he’d torn up the photos they’d taken on a few trips they’d taken together and he’d decided to turn over a new leaf.
Then it was Zina’s turn. She was the first woman he’d ever fallen in love with. He’d nursed the memory of her throughout his life without ever having laid eyes on her again. He’d never stopped looking for her in other people’s faces: a brunette with dark skin and a body sculpted by desire and sensuality. Their affair had come to a dramatic end and it had been responsible for the greatest frustration he’d endured in his sentimental life. He’d never actually made love to Zina, or at least not fully, since they’d decided to wait for the wedding night that never took place for a series of complicated reasons. It was a time when virginity wasn’t something that a woman could compromise, and when they’d been happy just to touch each other, their bodies rubbing against one another until they orgasmed, wiping up the mess with handkerchiefs that she washed in her sink after she got back home. They’d flirted with one other in the dark alleys of the city, or in cemeteries, right up until the day when they were chased out by the groundskeeper who threw stones at them. She’d been struck on the head by one of them, which had left a little gash on her temple. She’d had to cover herself with a veil until the scar had faded. They used to meet at the house of a friend whose parents had left to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. They’d loved that time of their life, when they’d felt safe and away from prying eyes, but they still hadn’t had sex. That time of clandestine rendezvous had left a deep impression on him. Then one day he’d seen her walking down the street hand in hand with an older man. It had all come to an end, and it had been worse than a disappointment, it had been a disaster. Looking back on it, the painter smiled because the jealousy had made him do ridiculous things.
And there she was again thirty years later, walking through the white space while the painter took stock of his love life. She was wearing a veil and fingering a string of prayer beads. She’d become a believer and was said to frequent the circles of Sufi mystics.
All of a sudden, he saw Angelika gracefully break away from the group and come toward him. She was a Greek acrobat, incredibly beautiful, but also terribly fickle. She would affect naïveté, but actually always had her head screwed on right. Angelika had merely been interested in him. She’d never loved the painter, but had let him love her. She’d suggested taking him for a tour of her country’s most remote regions in the depths of winter. Utterly in love, he had spent the little money he’d had to travel to where she was. Her beauty was an enigma, her body graceful, and she was prone to mood swings, but her voice had always been suffused with sensuality. He’d walked out on her the day another man had come knocking on her door, looking for his girlfriend. The painter had felt betrayed, used, and cheated by an actress who’d merely pretended to love. He still felt bitter about it to this day, even though he’d managed to erase all memories of her. He hadn’t invited her, but she’d shown up anyway, looking like someone who’d stumbled onto the scene by accident. Angelika had always had a certain flair.
The only blonde he’d ever loved in his life came forward at this point, looking as radiant as on the day he’d met her. He’d been seduced by her deep-blue eyes, her sense of humor, and her laughter. He’d invited her to come stay with him in Morocco at a time when he’d still been single, and when he hadn’t been looking for the “ideal woman,” but for someone who made him want to be with her. He still remembered the moment when she’d arrived on the boat, beaming amidst the crowds of weary travelers. He loved those rendezvous at train stations or ports. It was the romantic in him. They’d spent the next few days fooling around. Then they’d left for Corsica, and their relationship had come to a brutal end without any explanations or acknowledgements. She’d simply not shown up. He’d waited for her in a Moroccan restaurant whose décor he still remembered. He also remembered the expression on the face of the young waiter who usually served him and who’d understood that the painter had been stood up. To console him, the waiter had said: “I get it, a woman did that to me, and I gave her a good smack!” The painter had lifted his gaze and replied: “No, I don’t have it in me, and that’s not my style. You can only keep women by being sweet to them, not hitting them. The way we do things here in Morocco is behind the times in most other countries!”
While she walked in front of him without noticing him, the beautiful blonde was thronged by memories of the lover she’d had for a few weeks and whom she’d called her “precious friend,” whom she’d left so suddenly so as to have only good memories of him.
A hand abruptly pulled the painter out of the sweet reverie he’d plunged himself into. It was a nurse who’d come to give him his injections. Still stunned by his dreams, he thought she belonged to the group of women he’d loved. But she was a stern, efficient woman who dressed like a man. She worked in silence and barely even asked him where he preferred to have his injections.
When the nurse left, the painter felt overwhelmed by a great anxiety. After nightfall, the light in his studio had taken on a sad air. Against all odds, one of his former loves had made him feel nostalgic, a feeling he’d wanted to avoid at all costs — as he himself had always said: “Memories are boring!” Then his exhaustion made him numb again. He looked around himself and refused to believe that his life had come to an end, that his work would be left unfinished. He wanted to move but realized he could barely do so and with great difficulty at that. He hated himself and wanted to scream. He thought that if he could destroy everything around him it would at least be a means to answer the call of death, which had shamelessly settled within him. “Death is the disease!” he’d repeated.