o, of slipping a little pretentious irony into those two syllables. I repeated the name, stupidly, and scrutinized his face in my turn. I’m a woman who doesn’t like photographs (I never take any), who doesn’t like any image, whether cheerful or sad, that’s capable of rousing the emotions. Emotions are frightening. I wish that life, as it advances, would gradually erase everything behind it. I couldn’t connect the new Igor to the one in the past, neither his physical consistency nor any of the attributes of his magic. But I remembered the period of time that had borne his name. When I met Igor Lorrain, I was twenty-six and he was hardly older. I was already married to Raoul, and I was working as a secretary at the Caisse des Dépôts. Igor was a medical student. At the time, Raoul spent his nights playing cards in the cafés. A friend of his named Yorgos would bring Igor along to the Darcey, a café in Place Clichy. I was there almost every night, but I’d leave early and go home to bed. Igor would offer to give me a ride. He had a little blue Citroën 2CV that had to be started with a crank by opening the hood because the radiator was dented. He was tall and thin. He was hesitating between bridge and psychiatry. And above all, he was crazy. It was hard to resist him. One evening when we were stopped at a red light, he leaned toward me and said, poor Hélène, you’re so neglected. And he kissed me. It wasn’t true, I didn’t feel neglected, but in the time it took me to ask myself whether I was or not I was already in his arms. Neither of us had eaten, so he took me to a bistro near Porte de Saint-Cloud. It didn’t take long for me to understand what I was dealing with. He ordered two plates of chicken and green beans. When we were served, he tasted his and said, hold on, put some salt on it. I said, no, I think it’s good the way it is. He said, no it’s not, it’s not salted enough, add some salt. I said, it’s fine like this, Igor. He said, I’m telling you, put some salt on it. I put some salt on it. Igor Lorrain came from the North, like me. He was from Béthune. His father worked in river transport. At my house, we never laughed, but his was even worse. In our families, the slaps came hard and fast, when they weren’t punches or objects thrown at your head. For a long time I used to get in fights for a yes or a no. I hit my girlfriends, I hit my boyfriends. In the beginning I used to hit Raoul, but he just laughed. I didn’t know what else to do when he annoyed me. So I’d whack him one. He’d bend over extravagantly, as though stricken by one of the plagues of Egypt, or else grab both my wrists with one hand and laugh. I never hit Damien. After I had him, I never hit anyone anymore. On bus 95, which goes from Place Clichy to Porte de Vanves, I remembered what had bound me to Igor Lorrain. Not love, not any of the other names for feelings, but savagery. He leaned toward me and said, do you recognize me? Yes and no, I said. He smiled. I remembered that I’d never been able to answer him clearly in the old days either. — Is your name still Hélène Barnèche? — Yes. — Are you still married to Raoul Barnèche? — Yes. I would have liked to answer at greater length, but I couldn’t say tu to him. He had a fat neck and long, salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a strange way. In his eyes I could still see the potential for dark madness that had captivated me in the past. I gave myself a mental once-over. My hair, my dress and cardigan sweater, my hands. He leaned forward again and said, are you happy? I said yes and I thought, what a nerve. He nodded, putting on a little affectation of tenderness, and said, you’re happy, good for you. I felt like smacking him. Thirty years of tranquillity swept aside in ten seconds. I said, and you, Igor? He settled against the back of his seat and answered, me, no. — Are you a psychiatrist? — Psychiatrist and psychoanalyst. I made a face to indicate that I wasn’t acquainted with those subtleties. He made a gesture to indicate that they weren’t important. He said, where are you going? Those four words knocked me sideways. Where are you going, as if we’d seen each other yesterday. And spoken in the same tone as in the old days, as if we’d done nothing in life but go round in circles. Where are you going pierced me through and through. A confusion of feelings clouded my thoughts. There’s an abandoned region inside me that craves tyranny. Raoul has never actually had me. My Rouli has always thought about gambling and enjoying himself. It’s never occurred to him to keep an eye on his little woman. Igor Lorrain wanted to tie me to him. He wanted to know in detail where I was going, what I was doing, and with whom I was doing it. He used to say, you belong to me. I’d say, no I don’t. He’d say, tell me you belong to me. I’d say, no. He’d squeeze my throat, squeeze it hard until I said, I belong to you. On other occasions, he’d hit me. I’d have to repeat the words because he hadn’t been able to hear them. I’d struggle, I’d trade blows with him, but he always overcame me in the end. We’d wind up in bed, comforting each other. Then I’d run away. He lived in a tiny one-room top-floor apartment on Boulevard Exelmans. I’d run away down the stairs. He’d lean over the banister and shout, say you belong to me, and as I raced on down I’d say, no, no, no. He’d catch up with me and jam me against a wall or the elevator cage (sometimes neighbors would pass), and he’d say, where are you going, you little bitch, you know you belong to me. We’d make love again on the stairs. A woman wants to be dominated. A woman wants to be enslaved. You can’t explain that to everyone. I tried to restore the man sitting across from me on the bus. An old, worn-out beau. I didn’t recognize the rhythm of his body. But his eyes, yes. And his voice. — Where are you going? — Institut Pasteur. — What are you going to do there? — You’re asking too much. — Do you have any children? — A son. — How old? — Twenty-two. And how about you? Do you have children? — What’s his name? — My son? Damien. And do you have children? Igor Lorrain nodded. He looked out the window at a billboard for heating systems. Could he have children? Obviously. Anyone can have children. I would have liked to know what kind of woman he had children with. I wanted to ask him if he was married, but I didn’t. I felt sorry for him, and for me. Two people, practically oldsters, lurching around Paris, bearing their lives. On the seat beside him he’d put a threadbare leather case, a sort of briefcase. Its handle was faded. He seemed very much alone. His way of holding himself, his clothes. People can tell when no one looks after you. Maybe he has someone, but not someone who looks after him. Me, I pamper my Rouli. One might even say that I bother him. I choose his clothes, I dye his eyebrows, I stop him from drinking and eating the entire bowl of salted nuts. In my way, I’m alone too. Raoul is sweet and affectionate (except when we’re bridge partners, then he undergoes a metamorphosis), but I know he gets bored with me (except when we go to the movies). He’s happy with his pals, he’s invented an existence for himself outside of ordinary reality and exempt from the duties everyone else has. My friend Chantal says that Raoul’s like a politician. Politicians are always absent even when they’re there. Damien has moved out. I even forced myself to encourage his exit. While cleaning up his room, I came across remnants from every stage of his life. When I opened a box full of painted chestnuts one evening, I sat on his bed and cried. Children go away, it has to happen, it’s normal. Igor Lorrain said, I’m getting off here, come with me. I looked at the name of the stop, which was Rennes-Saint-Placide. I said, I’m getting off at Pasteur-Docteur-Roux. He shrugged his shoulders as if that was the least conceivable destination. He stood up. He said, come, Hélène. Come, Hélène. And he reached out his hand. I thought, he’s nuts. I thought, we’re still alive. I put my hand on his. He drew me through the other passengers to the exit door, and we climbed down off the bus. It was a fine day. Men were working on the roadway. We had to slip through a labyrinth of cinder blocks and particleboards to cross Rue de Rennes. People were rushing in both directions, jostling one another. Everything was very loud. Igor held my hand tight. We ended up on Boulevard Raspail. I was infinitely grateful to him for not letting go of me. The sunlight was blinding. I made out, as if for the first time, the rows of trees lining the boulevard, the plant beds with their blue-green wrought iron fences. I had no idea where we were going. Did he know? One day Igor Lorrain had told me, it was a mistake to put me in a human society. God should have put me in a savanna and made me a tiger. I would have ruled over my territory without mercy. We walked toward Place Denfert-Rochereau. He said, you’re still so little. He was as tall as before, but thicker. I had to run a bit to keep up with him.