“Let's go in,” says Marie-Thérèse.
He follows her. As she walks she jingles her keys. They make their way into the white apartment block. They make their way into the elevator. He sees himself in the mirror, holding the package from the pharmacy.
Marie-Thérèse opens the door to her apartment. She switches on the light. She hangs up her coat and scarf and says, Make yourself comfortable. She switches on a lamp on a low table that has an Oriental look. There's a sofa and an armchair, the floor is linoleum, Adam notes. At the end of the room a French door opens onto a balcony, beyond it the lake. Marie — Thérèse says, should I turn up the heat?
“If you like.”
She goes into the kitchen and switches on the lights— it's a long, narrow room with a window at the far end. She turns on the boiler, tears off a paper towel, and blows her nose. Adam is still standing in the living room in his coat. We'll have a pick-me-up she says, opening a cupboard, a Pernod, a drop of cherry liqueur?
“OK. A drop of cherry liqueur.”
Adam sits down in the armchair. Do I drink my Veinamitol before the cherry liqueur? he thinks. I'd have got it out of the way then, he thinks, but on the other hand, wouldn't the immediate intake of alcohol risk vitiating the effects of the Veinamitol? Shouldn't I leave a space between the Veinamitol and the alcohol, the way you're supposed to do with aspirin and antibiotics? Drink the cherry liqueur, he thinks, warm yourself up with the cherry liqueur and swallow your Veinamitol later, in a neutral context. Marie-Thérèse comes in with a tray on which there are glasses and a saucer of Tue savory crackers. Take your coat off, she says, I've just turned up the heat! Unless, thinks Adam, I were to drink the Veinamitol right away and then eat a handful of crackers as filling before the cherry liqueur. Would you have a glass of water, Marie-Thérèse?
“Yes, if you take your coat off. It's all wet anyway.” Adam removes his coat. Marie-Thérèse goes to hang it up and returns with a glass of water. What's that? she says, watching him empty the packet into the glass.
“A thing for the circulation.”
“You have a circulation problem?”
“It's not serious.”
“Five drops of essential oil of garlic, plus two drops of lemon essence, three times a day.”
“Really?”
“You can mix it with anything you like, honey, soft bread, or water.”
“What does it do?”
“It regulates the circulation. It stabilizes hypertension.”
“It acts on the blood vessels?”
“Of course.”
“It strengthens them?”
“It strengthens everything.”
Adam drinks the Veinamitol and takes a Tue. Marie-Thérèse has gone off into the kitchen. She returns with a colander, some newspaper, and some potatoes. Adam eats the Tue and she peels the potatoes, while taking sips of cherry liqueur. She's got no neck, he thinks, is it because she's all hunched over to do the peeling? Oh, my glasses! she exclaims, I'm forgetting my glasses. She laughs, getting up and rummaging in her bag. How do I look? Awful? A hundred years old?
“Not at all. Fine. They suit you fine.”
“Goodness, I look a bit like Madame Demonpion!” she says, looking at herself in the hall mirror.
“Who's that?”
“Demonpion, our history and geography teacher.”
“I don't remember her.”
“Oh yes, you know, Demonpion: plus ça change et plus c'est la même chose.”
“I don't remember.”
“Have you seen anyone again? Have you seen Tristan?” she asks, getting back to her peeling.
“I've not seen anyone.”
“Neither have I, apart from Alice. And Tristan at the time of Alice's death. Since then I don't know what's become of him. At one time he had a kind of graphics outfit or something like that. Do you remember Gros-Dujarric? He did the Twingo campaign.”
“I don't remember.”
“He lived in the same building as Alice in the Hocquettes apartment complex. There were three of us in the class from the Hocquettes. I can see better with these glasses, it's a shame to admit it but I can see better with these glasses. Do you want onions, would you like me to add onions? I can make it with or without onions.”
“Whatever you like.”
“No, you tell me what you prefer.”
“Add an onion.”
“It improves it but there are people who don't like onions. Do you cook?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do that's good?” she says from a long way off, peeling the onion under the tap at the sink.
“Pasta.”
“What kind of pasta?”
“All kinds.”
“Italian style?”
“Yes. I do risotto as well.”
“I adore risotto. You must make me a risotto one
day.”
“Yes.”
She slices the potatoes, tosses the onion into a frying pan, and returns to sit down facing him. And your wife, does she cook? she says. “Not a lot. She doesn't have time.” “What does she do?” “She's an engineer.”
“In what specialty?”
“Telecommunications.”