“Excuse me?” Hippolyte asked, coming out of the bathroom.
“I imagine you’re going to have a talk now. Right, Germain?”
“Er . . . yes . . . why?”
“I ask so I know if I can carry on reading here or in my room. I think it’d probably be wiser if I made myself scarce.”
Without waiting, she grabbed her book and walked around the table. Disconcerted, flabbergasted that a child of ten should say that it would “probably be wiser if I made myself scarce,” Hippolyte caught her by the arm as she walked past him.
“What are you reading, sweetheart?”
“Alice in Wonderland.”
Naturally, he did not know the story—since childhood, he never imagined it was really possible to enjoy a book. Trying to be kind, he persisted, “What’s Wonderland like? Is it nice?”
“It’s horrible! There’s a rabbit running in all directions, a sly cat, a mad hatter, and there’s also a wicked queen with an army of idiotic soldiers. Not exactly Wonderland. More like Nightmareland.”
“You don’t like it, then?”
“Oh, I love it!”
She blew her father a kiss and went into her room, impatient to return to her monsters.
Hippolyte collapsed onto the sofa bed, blissful.
Germain looked at him. “I assume that since you only just got back, you . . . ”
“Yes.”
The two men looked at each other.
Germain was genuinely pleased with his friend’s success. Through empathy, he received the calm vibes emitted by Hippolyte, the calm of a sated body and an ecstatic soul.
As for Hippolyte, he would have liked to describe to Germain what had happened, only he lacked the vocabulary—the few paltry words he had would have made the story of his amorous odyssey sound trivial. So he simply made a gesture to convey Patricia’s feminine curves. His hands caressed her ghost. He sighed with happiness.
Had he had the right words, he would have told how since the previous evening he had quivered every second, how he had savored the emotions—anxiety, temptation, fear, delight, enjoyment, nostalgia. Yes, he had drunk those moments to the full, those delicious, paradoxical, intense moments. Patricia had cast a spell on him. What he had sensed about her from her appearance had been confirmed by the hours he had spent with her: she was not a woman but rather the woman, the one from whom we come, the one to whom we return, the matrix of love, at the same time mother and lover, the starting point and the point of arrival.
Three years earlier, he had first seen Patricia on Place d’Arezzo, a queen in a dress whose light fabric gave you a sense of her hips, her belly, her chest; he had been so awestruck at such majesty that he had not dared speak to her, a victim not of a social but of a male complex: next to that imposing oak, he was nothing but a vine shoot, dry, knotty, woven of bones, tendons, and muscles.
Hippolyte believed that weight was a female quality. A mistress had to be large, slow, milky, voluminous. When a friend had said he liked “fat women,” Hippolyte had protested: the word “fat” suggested a defect; Hippolyte loved ripeness, fulfillment, harmony; the nasty word “fat” castigated Junoesque figures and took “thin” as an absurd point of reference.
There were two kinds of women: real ones and fake ones. The real ones had triumphant bodies. The fake ones claimed to be female but lacked bellies, thighs, hips, and breasts. It was hard for them to dress: the cloth swayed in the air around them, their clothes didn’t provide a space for broad, noble patterns, and they were condemned to plain fabrics and tiny motifs. In addition, the fake ones met a sad end: they showed their age, became wrinkled, laughed less, stooped, and kept a low profile, like cachectic rats.
Whenever he went to Matongé, the black quarter of Brussels, Hippolyte would find himself in a dazzling world: as far as he was concerned, African women, draped in their shimmering boubous, plump, proud, self-confident, cheerful, evoked an image of female supremacy. Seeing their husbands, who were more athletic, more high-strung, more tightly wound, he concluded that a man is always ridiculous compared with a woman; of course, he might be stronger and faster, but what about more beautiful? No. More reassuring? Never. In his eyes, Patricia was an African queen who had somehow ended up in a white skin, on Place d’Arezzo.
Although he condemned female thinness, Hippolyte watched his own weight because the extra pounds don’t look good on a man: they add fat without the benefit of splendor or generosity. The proof of that was that, instead of spreading the fat evenly throughout his body, the male stores it all in his belly and looks like an insect with indigestion, becoming uglier, less flexible, less able to breathe easily. Women, on the other hand, swell everywhere, like a brioche in the oven.
So he was unable to tell Germain how dazzled he was by Patricia, how he had made love, slowly, gently, with tenderness. The night had provided them with a carnal extension to their previous emotions: care, respect, gentleness, kindness. For him, sex didn’t represent an end in itself, but rather the confirmation of a relationship. Lovemaking had to be sweet, a sigh that grew into a cry of joy, a gradual ecstasy. He hated taking, conquering, but preferred to melt, to glide. If a woman expected ostentatious passion, male chauvinism, let alone violence, he declined—not that he lacked desire, strength, or stamina; he simply refused to play that game. Didn’t Faustina, one of the residents on Place d’Arezzo, once try to seduce him, inviting him to freshen up in her apartment? He had immediately seen what breed she belonged to, the kind that drives the male to act as a predator, the kind that has sex out of sheer exasperation, the kind that expects a man to knead her, to plow her; to resist her insane come-on, he had disgusted her by devoting himself to the dog shit and bird shit he was picking up. He was so glad he had kept himself for Patricia! Climbing on top of that generous queen, he had felt both a man and a child, at once powerful and frail. Had he caught a fleeting glimpse of his mother, who had died when he was five? Had he felt an old sensation, so small on such a large body of flesh? He was certain he had found his place—a place of protection provided by his lover, which he, in turn, had to protect, a sanctuary of peace and tenderness.
“You’re worse than in love,” Germain muttered.
“Maybe . . . ”
Germain shook his head, convinced his diagnosis was correct.
Hippolyte looked through his collection for music appropriate to the moment, found the songs of Billie Holiday, and abandoned himself to the languid, drawling voice, as fresh and sharp as an oboe.
When Germain announced that dinner was ready, Isis reappeared.
“Will you introduce me?” she asked as she sat down at her place.
“Who to?”
“Patricia.”
It felt surreal to Hippolyte to hear the child utter that name. He looked at Germain and guessed that he hadn’t held his tongue. By way of self-justification, Germain shrugged.
“Well?” Isis insisted. “Will you introduce me?”
Hippolyte bit his lip. It hadn’t occurred to him; in his eyes, Patricia and Isis belonged to two separate worlds.
“Are you afraid?”
He leaned toward his daughter. “Afraid?”
“Afraid I won’t like her.”
He shook his head, anxiously. “Now that you mention it: yes.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be lenient.”
As usual, Hippolyte was surprised: how could a ten-year-old say, “I’ll be lenient”? Even he, at the age of forty, would have spent a while searching for the right word; this child was beyond him.
“What will you do if I don’t like her?” she went on.
Hippolyte considered this for a while, then replied honestly, “I’ll . . . I’ll see her without you.”
Isis pursed her lips. “Then I’d better like her.”
Hippolyte and Germain nodded.
“I know what I have to do,” Isis co
ncluded.
Hippolyte hung his head. He often had the impression that the roles in this apartment were reversed, that Isis was the parent and he the child.
Germain decided to break the silence. “So, Isis, you don’t talk about your boyfriend César anymore.”
“He’s no longer my boyfriend,” Isis said in a sharp tone.
“Why not?”
“I dumped him.”
She said this so sternly that both Hippolyte and Germain had to suppress their laughter, sensing it would hurt her.
“I dumped him because I was bored with him. He’s not interested in anything, doesn’t read anything, he doesn’t learn poems or songs, in other words, he has nothing to say.”
Someday, Hippolyte thought, she’ll do the same to me, she’ll leave me because I disappoint her; it’ll break my heart, but I’ll have to agree that she’s right.
Their dinner concluded with an apricot tart baked by Germain. Although he lived a hundred yards away, he had gotten into the habit of coming to join the father and daughter without asking if his presence bothered them, subtly imposing himself, replacing Hippolyte in the kitchen, taking care of the laundry and the ironing, checking that Isis did her homework, tidying the tiny apartment. Only the shopping remained the privilege of Hippolyte. All three were now like a family in which Germain played the role of the mother, except that every night at ten he would go back to his own place to sleep, not reappearing until seven the following morning, complete with freshly baked bread.
“It’s Sunday, Hippolyte, shall we go bowling?”
Germain was itching to go out. Hippolyte realized he had forced his friend to spend his two days off with a child.
Half an hour later, Germain and Hippolyte were drinking beer on the edge of the long lanes of varnished wood.
Hippolyte’s body language continued to express the happiness he owed to Patricia. Fascinated, Germain watched this dumb show without jealousy or resentment, even though he would probably never experience anything like it himself.
They started a game.
Hippolyte took time out to go to the toilet.
When he returned, Germain was being bullied by a group of youngsters who had just arrived.
“I’m going to use him as a ball,” the sturdiest one was saying.
“Midget throwing!”
“My favorite game.”
“Mustn’t damage him too quickly. We should all get a chance to use him.”
“Why doesn’t he call his family? You don’t have a wife we can have some fun with, do you, midget? Brothers, sisters, children? We want the game to last!”
Hippolyte appeared. When he saw him coming, Germain made a negative gesture, begging him not to interfere.
But that only made Hippolyte see red: he leaped into the middle of the group. “Which one’s the biggest asshole here, so I can smash his face in?” He grabbed the one who looked like the leader by the shirt collar. “Is it you?”
Without waiting for a reply, he head-butted him. The kid staggered back, stunned.
“Who’s next?” Hippolyte asked, grabbing hold of another one.
“We were just having a laugh.”
“Oh, really? Were you laughing, Germain?”
A slap sent the second one to the floor. He collared the third one, who tried to justify himself. “What’s the big deal? It’s normal to poke fun at midgets.”
“A midget? Where’s the midget? I don’t see a midget, I just see my friend Germain.”
He slapped the boy. Before he could turn to the others, they had all run off. Hippolyte rubbed his hands and turned to Germain.
“Shall we play, then?”
“Let’s play.”
Germain was overjoyed. Accustomed to verbal abuse since childhood, he paid little heed to it, because he knew that only cowards picked on a dwarf; still, he was overjoyed that his friend had stood up for him with such rage. What moved him was not getting revenge but Hippolyte’s friendship.
They played a long, satisfying, very close game, which Germain narrowly won, then went to the bar for a beer.
“I have the itch,” Germain confessed.
“You have the itch? Now? Tonight?”
“Yes. Will you come with me?”
They left the bowling alley and walked to the Gare du Nord. There, they turned off onto streets that were packed with people in spite of the late hour.
Here there were men, just men, strolling past red shop windows where prostitutes in revealing underwear were on display. Acting as if they didn’t know that anyone could see them through the glass, they combed their hair, applied make-up, smoothed their thighs, listened to the radio, even danced a little.
“Let’s see if my favorite is there,” Germain said, sounding like a child on his way to a funfair.
Halfway along the street, Germain stamped his feet and indicated a West Indian woman with huge eyes, wearing pink gingham underwear.
“She’s free!”
“I’ll wait for you.”
Germain rushed to the window and motioned to the woman, who smiled and encouraged him to come in. She closed the door and pulled down the blind.
As was their custom, Hippolyte waited for Germain in the café next door. He had never gone with a prostitute, and had no desire to do so, but didn’t stand in judgement on those who did. On the contrary, he thought the world was rather well designed: if these women didn’t sell their bodies, how would Germain satisfy his desires? He hated himself so much that, if he had not been able to pay for the services of a consenting woman, he would have lived with his complex until the pain of it became unbearable.
Sitting at a marble table, having another beer, Hippolyte looked sympathetically at the constant coming and going of the clientele. He tried to guess what brought them here: in some cases—old, ugly, or disabled men—their bodies provided the answer; in others, he had to use his imagination. Were they widowers? Single men in a rush? Husbands burdened with wives who hated sex? Individuals who loved to do things their wives found repulsive?
He was studying these people when, just across the street from the café, one of the women pulled up her blind as her client was leaving the booth. That client was Victor, the handsome young man from Place d’Arezzo.
Hippolyte couldn’t believe his eyes. He nearly called out to Victor, but stopped himself, assuming he would be embarrassed.
Victor crossed the street, came into the café, and ordered a drink. “Hippolyte!” he cried, equally surprised.
The young man hesitated, then shrugged and came and sat down opposite the gardener. “I can’t believe it,” he said.
“Neither can I,” Hippolyte replied.
There was a moment’s pause. Curiosity aroused, Victor cocked his head. “Is it for the same reason?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you come here for the same reason I do? To avoid . . . ”
“To avoid what?”
“I mean so you can be sure that . . . ”
Unsure what Victor was talking about, Hippolyte decided to tell him the truth. “I’m here with my friend Germain.”
Victor clammed up, and Hippolyte realized too late that now the young man wouldn’t reveal the secret of why he was here.
13
Yes, it’s a very pretty town house, rather in the French style.”
Ève pushed open the double doors and went from room to room, trying not to make the old oak parquet creak, praising the details—the door handles, the molding—caressing the marble mantelpieces with feigned nonchalance.
Rose Bidermann followed her, dressed in a Chanel suit that seemed to have been sewed straight onto her. She liked the space and the light. “I’ll put this address on my list. I’m sure that after ten years in London my friend will like this place. May I contact you next time she’s here?”
&n
bsp; “Of course. But she shouldn’t wait too long. Although it’s expensive, this kind of property quickly finds a buyer.”
“She mentioned she’s coming in two weeks’ time.”
“Well, if I have another client who’s interested, I’ll let you know immediately.”
Rose Bidermann smiled in gratitude.
Ève had been impressed when Madame Zachary Bidermann had contacted her, but even more impressed when she met her: she had the self-assurance of people who have never wanted for anything, are pleasant through upbringing rather than self-interest, and have been dressed by couturiers since they were children. Ève, who had paid with her body and her feelings for every step she had climbed in society, was fascinated by this upper-middle-class matron, a woman in late middle age but still sexy. Rose’s classic tweed suit made her look like a Lady Bountiful, but at the same time, this packaging made her curvaceous body seem even more attractive, even slightly obscene. At one point, as they walked past a free-standing mirror, Ève compared their figures and was upset by what she saw: the buxom Rose was both provocative and engaging, steeped in the mystery of femininity, whereas her own aggressive sexuality made her seem closer to a whore. She was suddenly angry with herself for sporting an indecently low neckline, wearing high heels and thigh boots instead of ordinary ones. For a moment, she questioned the wisdom of having such tanned skin, such platinum hair. In Rose, there was no effort to please, and this very modesty made her adorable. Her skin had a natural glow, as did the color of her hair, and her elegance wasn’t distracting. With a sigh, Ève realized that she was discovering all this too late.
“Have you been working in real estate long?” Rose asked.
“Six years now, ever since I arrived in Brussels.”
Six years earlier, when Philippe—her Roudoudou—had moved to Brussels with his wife and children after three years in Lyons, he had brought her along with his baggage and had found her an apartment and a real estate agency.
“I work in Uccle and Ixelles, specializing in town houses . . . I think I’ve been inside all the buildings between Avenue Molière and our lovely Place d’Arezzo.”