Because Thomas is paying close attention, meticulous attention even, it is one of those morning sessions when he will hardly say anything, when he will only ask Anna Stein to repeat a few sentences so that she realizes later that those were the exact sentences she spoke. He jots them down, classifies them, organizes them. If she were to forget them, he would make a point of sending them back to her, like a good baseline player on the tennis court. Years of experience have convinced him of the key role language plays, but he is wary of interpreting things too literally.
Thomas is interested in Yves: surely he himself is this older man who becomes infatuated with a younger woman? Maybe he will read one of his books, why not the very one that seduced Anna Stein? An attentive reader will always learn more, and more quickly, from good authors than from life. Perhaps because there is a strong analogy between psychoanalysis and writing. Like the analyst, the writer wants to be heard, recognized, and is afraid of being swallowed up in thought and words. Most likely Thomas also sees Yves as his own double. Perhaps Anna Stein is aware of this possible reading, of this turning point in her analysis. He is suddenly worried that his own situation might insinuate itself between them. In all the momentum drawing him toward Louise Blum, Anna Stein’s words have particular resonance. He must be sure to keep his distance.
THOMAS AND LOUISE
• •
THE SESSION ENDS when the screen of his Mac flashes discreetly. The name and surname appear in dark blue: Louise Blum. She has replied, already. Thomas feels his breathing quicken, finds this irritating. He sees Anna to the door, says goodbye with measured poise, better than that, slow-motion poise. He watches her walk away, thinks her buttocks really are pleasingly defined. To the individual in treatment, the psychoanalyst may never be completely a person, but then Thomas has always had trouble seeing Anna Stein as an invisible woman.
Then he closes the door and goes back to the computer. His feigned composure is in proportion to his impatience. He waits a few moments, as if delaying reading the e-mail could influence its contents. He is annoyed with himself for this relic of magical thinking, but has long been resigned to the fact that he will never shake it off altogether. He clicks at last. The message is warm, very, and yet does not quite satisfy his hopes. Louise mentions the “very friendly” party and envisions having dinner “really soon” with their mutual friends. Thomas is suddenly afraid he misread her, that she will introduce him to her husband and children, that he will be relegated to the status of a friend or, worse, a friend of theirs. He replies, politely, cautiously, saying he would be delighted to see her again, but for lunch instead, perhaps. Lunch always keeps partners out of the equation. He hopes she gets it. Her answer comes back almost immediately: “Lunch, yes. I’m free tomorrow. Otherwise, not till next week,” the message says. Thomas smiles, writes “Where tomorrow?” He clicks. Gust of wind. Barely a minute and the reply comes: “Tomorrow, 1 pm, Café Zimmer at Châtelet.”
Then he risks one last e-mail.
“Okay for tomorrow. Do you know, I watched Truffaut’s Stolen Kisses again yesterday. I’d forgotten the last scene: Claude Jade and Jean-Pierre Léaud are having breakfast after a night spent in each other’s arms. They’re buttering toast and drinking coffee. He asks for a notebook and a pencil, she gives them to him: he writes a couple of words, tears the page out, folds it and hands it to her. She reads it, takes the notebook, writes something herself, tears the page out like him, folds it and hands it to him. They exchange five or six pages like this, no more, and the audience has no idea what they say. Léaud suddenly takes a bottle opener from the drawer in the table and slips the girl’s finger into the circle you fit over the bottle top, as if putting a ring on her. It’s one of the loveliest marriage proposals on film. Do you remember that scene? Don’t you think it anticipates the miracle of e-mail?”
Gust of wind. The dormant shy guy within him rapidly regrets what he has done. A few minutes later, Louise’s reply arrives: “Yes, I do remember that scene from Truffaut. But no relationship with me, I’m already married.”
No relationship with me, I’m already married … Thomas rereads the sentence, intrigued. All at once the double meaning jumps out at him. The psychoanalyst laughs out loud.
LOUISE
• •
JACQUES CHIRAC HAS JUST TAKEN OVER from François Mitterrand as president of France, the UN Security Council has adopted Resolution 986, known as “Oil for Food,” on Iraq, and Louise Blum, attorney at law, has turned twenty-five. A tall young woman who is afraid of nothing and certainly not of having to defend in front of her peers the case which goes by the absurd title “So What’s with the Concierge, Why Is She on the Stairs?”
The Berryer Conference is a test of eloquence set up by the Paris bar. In front of a caricature of a chairman and guest of honor (a writer on this occasion), and confronted with implacably fierce examiners, young lawyers have to come up with something injected with humor and virtuosity. It is a feat of mental agility. Places in the competition are highly sought after and only a rare few are selected: Louise is one of them. She was given her subject — by drawing lots — half an hour earlier; she quickly devised a plan, traced her own logic, made a note of some expressions to slip into her improvisation. The twelve examiners are only too ready to call her out, she has to make it hard for them: Louise wants to conclude on a more serious note (which is traditional), by evoking the vast tower block that is life itself. Because the guest is a writer by profession, she will quote from Georges Perec; mention the tower block in Life: A User’s Manual; construct an elegant parallel between the stairs, which link the various floors, and law, a house that all men share; establish the connection between domestic and civic order, between the concierge who is the caretaker of a building and the caretaker of the nation’s laws.
But first she must get them to laugh. She knows how to do it.
“Mr. Chairman, members of the jury, I know it’s something of a national pastime joking about concierges, how surly, lazy, and pathologically inquisitive they are, but I don’t want to fall down the elevator shaft of cheap humor at their expense, I mean my father, mother, and sister are in the room. I’m afraid so, Mr. Chairman, as the concierge — her again — would say, I’m still tied to my mother’s apron strings. No, I’ll be caretaker of my jokes or this concierge will be putting me out with the trash and so will you. What’s her name, anyway, Janet or something?”
She makes use of bad puns and a succession of verbal pirouettes, the audience applauds, they drum their feet and whistle. Louise’s friends nudge each other: she is off to a good start, at the top of her game.