The Elegance Of The Hedgehog Part 17

What is this war we are waging, when defeat is so certain? Day after day, already wearied by the constant onslaught, we face our terror of the everyday, the endless pa.s.sageway that, in the end-because we have spent so much time walking to and fro between its walls-will become a destiny. Yes, my angel, that is our everyday existence: dreary, empty, and mired deep in troubles. The pathways of h.e.l.l are hardly foreign; we shall end up there one day if we tarry too long. From a pa.s.sageway to a pathway: it is an easy fall, without shock or surprises. Every day we are reacquainted with the sadness of the pa.s.sageway and step by step we clear the path toward our mournful doom.

Did he see the pathways? How is one reborn after a fall? What new pupils restore sight to scorched eyes? Where does war begin, where does combat end?

Thus, a camellia.

15. His Shoulders Soaked with Sweat.

At eight o'clock, Paul Nguyen comes to my loge, his arms loaded with packages.

"Monsieur Ozu has not come back yet-there's a problem at the emba.s.sy regarding his visa-so he asked me to bring all of this to you," he says, with a lovely smile.

He places the packages on the table and hands me a little card.

"Thank you," I say. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Thank you, but I still have a great deal to do. I'll take a rain check for your invitation, for another time."

He smiles again, and there is something warm and happy about his expression: this does me untold good.

Alone in the kitchen I sit by the packages and open the envelope.

"Suddenly on his shoulders soaked with sweat he felt a pleasant and airy sensation that he could not initially explain; but during the pause, he noticed that a huge black cloud drifting low in the sky had just fallen to earth."

Please accept these few gifts with simplicity.

Kakuro.

The summer rain on Levin's shoulders as he is scything ... I raise my hand to my chest, touched in a way I have never been. One by one, I open the packages.

A wraparound dress in a pearly gray silk, with a high round neck and a black satin strap to hold it closed.

A purple silk scarf, light and bracing like the wind.

Low-heeled pumps, in leather of so fine and soft a grain that I lift one to my cheek.

I look at the dress, the scarf, the pumps.

Outside, Leo is scratching at the door, meowing to come in.

I begin to cry, quietly, slowly, a trembling camellia in my breast.

16. Something Must Come to an End.

The next morning at ten there is a knock on the gla.s.s.

A sort of immense beanpole, dressed all in black with a navy blue knit beanie on his head and military boots that must have seen duty in Vietnam. It happens to be Colombe's boyfriend, a world specialist in the use of the ellipsis in stock polite formulas.

"I'm looking for Colombe," says Tibere.

Appreciate, if you will, how ridiculous this sentence is: I am looking for Juliet, said Romeo.

"I'm looking for Colombe," thus spake Tibere, who fears nothing, save shampoo; this becomes apparent when he removes his head covering, which he does not because he is courteous but because it is very warm.

It is May, by Jove!

"Paloma said she was here," he adds.

And concludes, "s.h.i.+t, what the f.u.c.k."

Paloma, you are having a good time.

I send him promptly on his way and become immersed in strange thoughts.

Tibere ... such an ill.u.s.trious name for such a pathetic demeanor ... I think of Colombe Josse's prose, the silent corridors of Le Saulchoir ... and my mind finds itself in Rome ... Tiberius ... The memory of Jean Arthens's face suddenly takes me unaware, then I see his father, and that outdated lavaliere of his, so ridiculous ... So many quests, all these different worlds ... Can we all be so similar yet live in such disparate worlds? Is it possible that we are all sharing the same frenetic agitation, even though we have not sprung from the same earth or the same blood and do not share the same ambition? Tiberius ... I feel weary, to be honest, weary of all these rich people, all these poor people, weary of the whole farce ... Leo jumps from his armchair and comes to rub up against my leg. This cat, made obese only by virtue of charity, is also a generous soul who can feel the irresolution of my own. Weary, yes, I am weary.

Something must come to end; something must begin.

17. The Travails of Dressing Up.

At eight o'clock I am ready.

The dress and the shoes fit perfectly (12 and 7).

The shawl is Roman (2 feet wide and 6 feet long).

I dried my hair, which I had washed 3 times, with the BaByliss 1600-watt hair dryer, and combed it 2 times in all directions. The results are astonis.h.i.+ng.

I sat down 4 times and got up again 4 times which explains why at present I am standing up and do not know what to do.

Sit down, perhaps.

From their box hidden behind the sheets at the back of the wardrobe I have brought out 2 earrings inherited from my mother-in-law, the monstrous Yvette-antique silver, dangling, with 2 pear-shaped garnets. I made 6 attempts before I managed to clip them properly to my earlobes and now must live with the sensation of having 2 potbellied cats hanging from my distended lobes. 54 years without jewelry do not prepare one for the travails of dressing up. I smeared my lips with 1 layer of "Deep Carmine" lipstick that I had bought 20 years ago for a cousin's wedding. The longevity of such a useless item, when valiant lives are lost every day, will never cease to confound me. I belong to the 8% of the world population who calm their apprehension by drowning it in numbers.

Kakuro Ozu knocks 2 times at my door.

I open.

He is very handsome. He is wearing a charcoal gray suit consisting of straight trousers and a jacket with a mandarin collar and ornamental frog fastenings in matching tones; on his feet are soft leather loafers that look like luxurious slippers. The effect is very ... Eurasian.

"Oh, you look magnificent!" he says.

"Oh, thank you," I say, touched, "and you look very handsome yourself. Happy birthday!"

He smiles, and after I have carefully closed the door behind me, before Leo can manage to slip past, Kakuro extends an arm out for me to place my slightly trembling hand on his elbow. Let us hope no one will see us, begs a voice inside, still resisting, the voice of Renee the clandestine. No matter that I have tossed a goodly number of my fears onto the bonfire, I am not yet ready to serve as copy for the Grenelle gossip columns.

Someone's in for quite a surprise.

The front door, where we are headed, opens before we have even reached it.

It is Jacinthe Rosen and Anne-Helene Meurisse.

A pox upon it! What am I to do?

We are already upon them.

"Good evening, good evening, dear ladies," twitters Kakuro, pulling me firmly over to his left, pa.s.sing them quickly, "good evening, dear friends, we are late, lovely to see you, we are in a terrible rus.h.!.+"

"Oh, good evening Monsieur Ozu," they simper, enthralled, turning in unison to follow us with their gaze.

"Good evening, Madame," they say to me (to me), smiling with all their teeth.

I have never seen so many teeth all at once.

"Until we next have the pleasure," whispers Anne-Helene Meurisse, staring intently as we make our way through the door.

"To be sure! To be sure," chirps Kakuro, pus.h.i.+ng the door with his heel.

"Heavens," he says, "if we had stopped, we would have been there for an hour."

"They didn't recognize me," I say.

I come to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, completely flabbergasted.

"They didn't recognize me," I repeat.

He stops in turn, my hand still on his arm.

"It is because they have never seen you," he says. "I would recognize you anywhere."

18. Flowing Water.

All it takes is one experience of being blind in broad daylight and able to see in pitch dark to wonder what sight is all about. Why do we see? While climbing into the taxi that Kakuro had ordered, I think about Jacinthe Rosen and Anne-Helene Meurisse, who noticed nothing of me beyond what they could see (on Monsieur Ozu's arm, in a world of hierarchy), and I am struck with incredible force by this proof that sight is like a hand that tries to seize flowing water. Yes, our eyes may perceive, yet they do not observe; they may believe, yet they do not question; they may receive yet they do not search: they are emptied of desire, with neither hunger nor pa.s.sion.

And as the taxi glides through the early twilight, I become thoughtful.

I think of Jean Arthens, his scorched pupils illuminated with camellias.

I think of Pierre Arthens, his sharp eye, with the blindness of a beggar.

I think of these avid ladies, their greedy gaze unseeing, futile.

I think of Gegene, his sunken eyes with neither life nor force, seeing nothing beyond his own fall.

I think of Lucien, ill-suited to vision, because obscurity often, in the end, proves too strong.

I think even of Neptune, whose eyes are a doggy nose that does not lie.

And I wonder how well I myself can see.

19. They s.h.i.+mmer.

Have you seen Black Rain Black Rain?

Because if you have not seen Black Rain Black Rain - or, in a pinch, Blade Runner - it will surely be difficult for you to understand why, when we go into the restaurant, I have the sensation that I am on the set of a Ridley Scott film. There is that scene in - or, in a pinch, Blade Runner - it will surely be difficult for you to understand why, when we go into the restaurant, I have the sensation that I am on the set of a Ridley Scott film. There is that scene in Blade Runner Blade Runner, in the snake woman's bar, where Deckard calls Rachel from a mural videophone. There is also the call girls' bar in Black Rain Black Rain, with Kate Capshaw's blond hair and naked back. And those shots lit as if through a stained gla.s.s window, with a brilliance of cathedrals, surrounded by all the penumbra of h.e.l.l.

"I like the light in here," I say to Kakuro as we sit down.

They have led us to a quiet little booth, filled with a solar light circled with s.h.i.+mmering shadows. How can shadows s.h.i.+mmer? They s.h.i.+mmer, that's all there is to it.

"Have you seen Black Rain Black Rain?" asks Kakuro.

I should scarcely have believed that between two people there could exist such a congruity of tastes and thought patterns.

"Yes," I say, "at least a dozen times."

The atmosphere is brilliant, bubbly, racy, plush, crystalline. Magnificent.

"We are going to have an orgy of sus.h.i.+," says Kakuro, unfolding his napkin with panache. "I hope you don't mind, I've already ordered; I want you to discover what I consider to be the very best Paris has to offer in the way of j.a.panese cuisine."

"I don't mind at all," I say, my eyes open wide, because the waiters have placed before us several bottles of sake and myriad little bowls filled with cl.u.s.ters of tiny vegetables that have clearly been marinated in something bound to be very tasty.

And we begin. I fish for a piece of marinated cuc.u.mber, only nominally either marinated or cuc.u.mber, as it has been transformed into something that is delicious beyond description. With his auburn wooden chopsticks Kakuro delicately lifts a fragment of ... mandarin orange? tomato? mango? and skillfully causes it to vanish. I immediately dip into the same bowl.

It is a sweet carrot for a gourmet G.o.d.

"Happy birthday, then!" I raise my cup of sake.

"Thank you, thank you very much!" We touch our cups together.