“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll understand if you say no.”
Good Lord! Is that how a Japanese woman asks a man to honor her?
“I would like you to talk to me about François. I would like to love him, but through your voice. I want your voice to flow into my body and enter my heart. My heart can belong only to François.”
“I see.”
“All François talks about is you, ever since I’ve known him. Everything he does has a link to you. The other day when you were at our house, I thought his heart would burst. I’ve never seen him that way. Normally he’s so taciturn. I know he’s different with his colleagues. At the house, sometimes I think he’s following the manual for the perfect Japanese husband. He can say what he wants — my Spanish side doesn’t interest him at all. When I become passionate, it shocks him.”
“You hardly know me.”
Her voice nearly broke.
“But I eat with you, I listen to music with you, I’m sad with you, I’m happy with you, I sleep with you, and when my husband makes love to me, I feel you’re there too. . What am I saying? I know you’re there. Maybe even more than he is. . You can’t imagine the life I live.”
Softly, she began to cry.
“As soon as I met François, I knew this would be a triangle.”
“But you stayed.”
“It was a challenge. But how can you compete with memories from the teenage years? He doesn’t have a single unhappy memory with you. Even the dark days grow bright in his mind. You are his sun. I can’t take that away from him. Memories help him survive the winters. When it’s twenty below, he climbs into a tub of hot water with his little suitcase full of memories. And that’s enough for three days’ happiness for him.”
“You love him very much.”
She looked me in the eye, the first time she’d done that.
“Do I love him? As much as he loves you. I think only of him, I breathe only for him, I dream of him alone, I love only him… and to understand what he feels, I’m ready to love the man he loves.”
She laughed, then pressed against me.
“Talk to me about him,” she whispered. “I want to know him a little.”
“The only thing I know is that half of what he gives me credit for belongs to him. When he talks about me, he’s talking about himself.”
“I don’t want to hear logical things. . I know all the stories by heart. I want to hear his name, because François never says François. He always says your name, never his. Sometimes, when I want him to listen to what I have to say, I slip your name into the conversation.”
I glanced out the window, long enough to see a bird fly past. I turned and looked at her. She was at the end of her rope: running up against a wall for so many years.
“I’ve forgotten it all, you know.”
“How could you forget? No one can forget everything. Memory goes on working without our help.”
“I’m sure you know more about me than I know myself.”
“Just tell me one little story that’s about him, and him only. . Do it for me. Some little detail, some insignificant thing. Something he could never remember.”
Silence. More silence. We listened to the birds in the garden.
“There was something… We were supposed to meet on the main square. I was late, very late. He was sleeping on a bench.
There were four or five birds perched on his chest, as if they were watching over him. I stood there for a long time and watched him. I didn’t want to disturb him. I waited for the birds to fly away on their own before going to his side.”
“There,” said Shônagon softly. “A story he couldn’t know. And you were watching him, instead of him studying you. Thank you, my love. . I have to go now, but you can stay as long as you like. If you’re hungry, order something from downstairs. I’ll tell the front desk.”
THE MAN WITH THE SNAKE TATTOOS
JUST DOWNSTAIRS, BENEATH the hoteclass="underline" the underground city. Stores crowded with old ladies in flowered hats making themselves useful by watching out for shoplifters. Restaurants where you can get something quick before going back to work. I sit down at a free table. A newspaper is lying there. A half-naked girl on page 7. That’s how you attract readers. For thirty-five cents, you get your money’s worth. The coffee costs twice as much. Since I didn’t pay for the paper, I come out all right. On page 36 is the picture of one of my old neighbors from back when I lived next to the deaf and blind school (it took me a while before I realized the girls couldn’t hear me). I read the story and learn that my neighbor has changed his address: he’s been transferred to a maximum security prison. He’s a star in the world behind the walls. It’s rare that someone looks exactly like what he is: a killer. It’s a form of honesty. His body is entirely covered in tattoos of snakes, tigers and dragons. And plenty of girls’ names inside big red hearts — tough guys are so sentimental. A few men’s names too — guys unfortunate enough to have crossed his path. What happened? His face is closed. I insist. Mute reaction. He used to spend hours just sitting there, without a word. At first that intimidated me. As time went by, I learned to tolerate his presence and not try to drag any information out of him. I did it out of curiosity, without moral judgment. As far as I was concerned, he could have killed them all. Or he might have just been a Sunday killer: what did I know? We all want to meet someone exceptional. Sometimes he would come upstairs to see me and tell me how his day went, down to the smallest detail. At times like that, he couldn’t stop talking. In the middle of a sentence, he’d get up and walk away. He’d keep his mouth shut for a month afterwards. I liked to watch him. Always on the alert. He missed nothing: not a sound, not a movement. Once in a while he’d go to the window to see what was happening in the street. He’d call me over.
“You know him?”
“No.”
He couldn’t understand how someone could live this way. In his opinion, I just didn’t realize we were living in a jungle. Such insouciance impressed him in the end. We met by chance, but he distrusted chance and fled it like the plague. For mystics, God is manipulating the whole show. For him, Inspector Tremblay of the rcmp is behind it all — the one who ended up busting him. If you ask me, there’s nothing unusual about neighbors meeting each other. I had just rented an apartment in this rotting building. I had occupied room 7 on the second floor for exactly three days. I was still greeting people in the stairway, even if they ignored me. Him, most of all. I didn’t know that the word hello could embarrass people to such a point. One evening he came knocking at my door. I opened up, and there I was, face to face with a killer. Someone had paid him off to eliminate me. Suddenly he put out his hand. I backed off: I was sure he was going to stick a knife into my gut. His malevolent laughter — and total lack of humor — did nothing for the atmosphere. He stepped into my place without an invitation. Right away he began going over the apartment with a fine-toothed comb. I kept an eye on his powerful forearms. I was caught in a cage with a starving tiger. Who had paid for my death? A jealous writer? I thought the competition was content with destroying their enemies at the literary cocktail parties that infested the city. He moved through the apartment, paying no attention to me. I was not his center of interest. He went and opened a window, looked suspiciously down on the street, then came back and sat down next to me on the couch. He finally turned and gave me a long look.