He licks off the traces of coffee lining his upper lip and assumes a grave expression. Sylvie has asked for a divorce, Maxime is devastated. She can’t help smiling. That’s hardly surprising. She said it without malice, he gives her a hard look. He obviously isn’t pleased with her response to Maxime’s tribulations. I really don’t see what’s so amusing about it. And he takes the opportunity to break off physical contact with her. Now that it is uncovered, her hand feels cold. She is about to admit that she hasn’t shown much compassion, to apologize and quickly change the subject, her opinion even. But he goes on. Sometimes you really do have strange reactions. The word is like a dart, boring straight into her chest. His first chance and already he has adopted the common opinion of her. She feels like singing. A song she heard that morning on the radio, which she would have liked to dedicate to him and which she can’t get out of her head. You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you. Only he might find her attitude inappropriate and use it as further evidence in support of his weirdness theory. She looks for another way out: a good old argument to eject him from her life. She’ll tell him that he’s just like the others, even if she doesn’t think so and doesn’t have anyone to compare him to. He’d roar back that Ange is far better and leave her to the mercy of the waiter. But instead, she makes do with biting the top of her right thumb and letting her eyes wander about, avoiding his gaze. He knocks back his coffee and shakes his head. You have to admit it’s weird that you get a kick out of it, no? His tone is cutting, almost vengeful. I don’t get a kick out of it, I just find it rather ironic. She feels the tears welling in her eyes. Then explain to me what’s so ironic about my friend’s wife walking out on him. She could spill the beans. The champagne at the Hotel Lutétia, the lowering of the zip in the taxi, the brightly colored cocktails at the private club, the immaculate, palatial apartment. She has no idea how he would react, but it would serve him right. She now realizes that it’s up to her to define the nature of the bond between them, either by speaking or keeping silent. She’s not used to justifying herself, nor does she have the heart of a snitch. But he is demanding an explanation.
One night as she was leaving the station, she had run into Maxime by chance. He hadn’t recognized her straight off, and so she had had to remind him of the circumstances of their meeting, the famous dinner party where she had passed herself off as a prostitute. Maxime had admitted to her that he hadn’t believed her story. He had invited her for a coffee, as a reward for her effort in creating such a character. Once they had found themselves a table in a local bistro, Maxime had seemed troubled. She’d asked him if he was all right, and he had started telling her about the crisis his marriage was in. She’d listened, and he had ended up telling her that he was seeing another woman. He wanted to end the relationship but his mistress wouldn’t let him. She’d wished Maxime luck, and that was the last they’d seen of each other until they all met up in the bar, where she had asked him if he’d broken it off, which had led to his angry outburst. That’s it.
He goes on staring at her in silence, looking for an expression that might allow him to verify the truthfulness of her account. You see, she concludes, if there was someone else involved, Sylvie may have found out about it. Thanks to you! She frowns, she hadn’t seen things in that light. She very much doubts that she had the slightest role in this divorce. That he should point an accusing finger at her is completely unfair. She looks down. She could stand up, tell him she’s at the wrong table, and walk off without a second thought. And yet she remains glued to her chair, her mouth twitching oddly until she is able to add, I might turn out to be responsible for your splitting up with Ange, but I’m certainly not to blame for what’s happened to Maxime. Her words appear to take him by surprise, to force him to reflect on what they are doing, as if he were suddenly required to look to his left and his right at the same time. But the problem with eyes is that they both move in the same direction. Maxime and Sylvie, he and Ange, it’s not the same, she’d better get that straight. He raised his voice; she’s starting to despise this moment, this fit of anger pouring down on her even though she has nothing to do with it. She also has to understand that he and Maxime are different; Maxime has always had a soft spot for women, whereas he is the faithful sort. . usually. He forces himself to finish his sentence, adding the last word in order to regain his balance. Then he stops, betrayed by his own self-description. Usually, she repeats in a quiet voice. She wants to believe that he needs time to accept what is happening.
It’s night, and she is lying in bed. The city is playing softly in the background. The curtains are open, and light from her neighbors pours through the window into the room. She has always enjoyed that moment of calm when the body loosens its grip. Nothing more is asked of it. As a teenager it was at such moments, waiting for sleep to overcome her, that she would invent the perfect lover. She always met him on a beach, it was always a late afternoon in summer. She found him attractive. She never gave him any specific physical traits, but she would choose his gestures, always the same. The imaginary scene would reach its height at the moment he kissed her. She had never kissed a boy back then and she was curious to discover what kissing with her tongue would feel like. She could imagine nothing better than kissing the boy she called, for lack of originality, her Prince Charming. She moves her arm over the portion of empty sheet next to her. His body would be there; a mass of tender warmth would envelop her completely, the smell of another person distinct from her own but so familiar she would barely notice the difference. She would have the right to caress that body, to rub her skin against his, and to repeat the same ritual every evening. She would never tire of it. She has dreamed of this repetition with him, the assurance that he would be there the following night.
Years later, when she thinks about him again, she will recall one meeting in particular. They had met at the usual place. She had arrived, her heart thumping, impatient to be with him. Once inside the café, she had lost all notion of time. There was only a great bath of liquid, and she was floating in it, borne away by amnesia and euphoria. That day, after they had religiously drunk their espressos and swapped details about the minor events that had disturbed their routines since they last met, he had announced that he wanted to go somewhere with her. Right now? Right now. He had a little time that day. He had led her to the nearest métro station. On the train, they had sat next to each other on the pull-down seats; he had slipped his hand onto her back, under the layers of fabric that covered her body, touching her bare skin. They didn’t talk. They smiled whenever they turned their heads at the same time to look at each other. It was then that she had imagined a life together for the first time. They were on that métro because they were going home, as they did every evening. Home was a small apartment somewhere in Paris, on the top floor. From the living-room windows, there was a view of the grey rooftops and the chimneys with their pointed hats. They were going home, and that familiar journey was becoming the symbol of a shared life, a life that struck her as more ideal than she had imagined for herself up till then. She was on her way back to the apartment they had chosen together; she could not ask for more.