* * *
The hours pass in Juliette’s room and, little by little, the white labyrinth opens up a passage to that day in September, that first day, the material of the air gradually structuring itself so that, at last, they are walking together, side by side, as if invisible particles were joining together around them under the influence of a sudden acceleration, their bodies having signaled to each other as soon as she walked through the open school gates in that ancient, voiceless language of desire. And so, letting her friends go on ahead of her, she had slowed down until she was alone on the sidewalk with Simon, who had sensed her in the rearview mirror of his mind, standing on his bicycle, right foot on the left pedal, then sliding to the ground so he could escort her, pushing his bike with one hand on the handlebars — all this to talk to her, all this so they can talk to each other. Do you live far? I live up there, what about you? Really close, just around that corner. The light is insanely clear after the storm and the sidewalk is scattered with yellow leaves, torn from the trees by the rain. Simon risks a sideways glance: Juliette’s skin is very close, finely grained beneath the blush she wears, her skin is alive, her hair is alive, her mouth is alive and so is her earlobe, pierced with cheap earrings; she has drawn a line in eyeliner level with her lashes, a fawn. Do you know François Villon, the Ballade des pendus? He shakes his head, I don’t think so, she is wearing raspberry lip gloss, “Brothers and men that shall after us be, / Let not your hearts be hard to us,” you see what I mean or not? Yeah, I see, but he doesn’t see anything, he is blinded, thousands of mirrors have formed in the quivering drops of water, they lean their foreheads toward the ground and slalom between the puddles, the bike jingling in unison with the rest, each word and each gesture weighted with boldness and reserve, like two sides of the same event. They are blooming, held in a hothouse light. They walk up the avenue like princes, nervily excited but moving as slowly as possible, pianissimo, pianissimo, pianissimo, allargando, engulfed in the astonishment of what they are for each other. Their sensitivity is amazing, almost molecular, and whatever circulates between them pulses and swirls, leaving them breathless at the foot of the funicular railway, blood beating in the veins of their temples and their palms clammy, because everything is on the verge of disintegration now, and at the moment when the alarm rings, signaling the train’s departure, she kisses him on the mouth — the briefest of kisses, over in the blink of an eye — and then she is on the train, where she turns to face him, leaning against the window, forehead suckered to the dirty glass. He sees her smile and then kiss the window, pressing her lips against it, eyes closed, hands flattened against the glass, he can see the purplish lines that code her palms, then she turns around and he is left paralyzed, his heart incredibly dilated — what happened? — and the funicular moves off, up the slope, sluggish but unrelenting, and Simon decides to do exactly the same thing, only better, so he gets on his bike and begins riding up the hill. A wide bend in the road takes him away from her, but he pedals hard, crouched forward like a Tour de France rider, his schoolbag making him look like a hunchback, then the sky grows darker, the shadows on the ground vanish, and it rains again — a heavy, coastal rain — and in a few minutes the asphalt is streaming, slippery, so Simon changes gear and stands on his pedals, blinded by the drops of liquid hanging from the arch of his eyebrows, but so happy that he could, in that moment, lift his face to the sky, open his mouth, and drink everything that is pouring from above. The muscles of his thighs and calves are tensed with the effort, his forearms ache, he spits and gasps, but finds within himself the necessary momentum to follow the right line through the final curve, angled so exactly that he is able to speed up and he is freewheeling when he reaches the plateau at the top, and he charges into the funicular station just as the train brakes with a loud screech, skidding in front of the doors, soaked to the bone, jumps off his bike, and his legs buckle. Hands on his knees, head facing the ground, his lips foamed with spit, hair stuck to the edges of his face like a young marshal of the Empire, he parks his bike next to a bench and gets his breath back, opening his jacket and the top buttons of his shirt, his heart rate gradually slowing beneath the exposed tattoo — it is the heart of a swimmer in the high seas, an athlete’s heart with a resting pulse of less than forty beats per minute, a superhuman bradycardia, but barely has Juliette gone through the turnstile at the exit than it accelerates again — a wave, a surge — and he walks toward her, hands in his pockets, head withdrawn into his shoulders. She smiles, and lifts her oilskin as high into the air as she can: it’s an awning, an umbrella, a canopy over a bed, a solar panel capable of harnessing all the colors of the rainbow, and once he is standing next to her, she stands on tiptoes to cover him with it — and herself too, the two of them contained inside the sweetish odor of the plastic, their faces reddened by the waxed fabric, their lashes dark blue, their lips purple, their mouths deep, and their tongues infinitely curious. They stand under the tarpaulin as in an echoing tent, the rattling rain above them forming the soundscape against which can be heard the breaths and hissings of saliva; they stand under the tarpaulin as if under the surface of the earth, submerged in a damp, humid space where toads croak, where snails crawl, where magnolias, brown leaves, linden blossoms, and pine needles rot into humus, where old bits of chewing gum and rain-soaked cigarette butts slowly molder, they are there as under a stained-glass window that recreates an earthly day, and the kiss doesn’t end.
* * *
Juliette looks up, breathless. The light has dimmed; she switches on the lamp, and shivers. Before her eyes, the labyrinth has grown. She glances at her watch — nearly five p.m. Simon should be calling soon.
15
When they step outside, they are dazzled by the defiantly pale, gray-milk sky, and look down at their shoes, walking side by side to the car, hands in their pockets, noses, mouths, and chins covered by scarfs, collars turned up. The car is freezing. Sean is in the driver’s seat and they slowly exit the parking lot — how many times will they have to go past this stupid barrier today? They take minor roads, not wanting to go far from the hospital, just remove themselves from the world for a while, sink below the waterline of this unimaginable day, disappear into an undefined, fibrous space, into a translucent infrageography that matches their despair.
* * *
The city stretches out, becomes looser, the last suburbs fraying its edges, the sidewalks emptying; there are no more picket fences, only high chain-links, a few warehouses and the remains of old, blackened urban settlements under the freeway exchanges. After that, it is the contours of the land that steer their trajectory, guiding their drifting progress like lines of force; they drive on the road under towering cliffs, along the hillside covered with caves where isolated hobos and gangs of teenagers hang out — smoking grass, spraying graffiti — they pass houses at the foot of the hill, the Gonfreville-l’Orcher refinery, then finally turn off toward the river, as if snatched up by the sudden opening of space, and now they reach the estuary.