THE KITCHEN WAS TIDY. The mother wondered whether she should open the door for her son, or take the initiative first. She decided on the latter. The night was still young. She took off her dress and her panties and tied on her apron, the one she’d bought one lovely spring day in Milan, back when her ex-husband was still alive. Then she went looking for the right shoes; it took her five minutes, but she finally found a nice pair. She let her hair down. It wasn’t like when she was younger — it had grown thinner in places, a bit straggly in others; these days she had it dyed regularly at one of the best hairdressers’ in Basel — but it was still worth looking at, that hair of hers.
She went into the living room. Marc was sitting in a leather easy chair with his headphones on, his eyes closed.
She really had left her imagination unused for too long. A pity, that, but no use crying over spilled milk.
Marc opened his eyes for a moment, then closed them again.
Out on the street, a man and wife walked by, arm in arm. Xavier didn’t try to catch their attention. It wouldn’t help anyway, he just had to wait.
The mother walked over and stood in front of Marc, took his hand, and laid it on her stomach. Marc pulled his hand back and tapped on his headphones.
Music stands at the pinnacle of the hierarchy of the arts, they say.
Slowly, the mother began lifting her apron. Her thighs became visible, then the rest. She took the headphones off of Marc’s head as elegantly as she could while holding the apron up with one hand.
“Look,” she said.
Marc looked.
It wasn’t good to think about life too long; otherwise it stopped making any sense at all.
“I’m hot,” the mother said. “I’m awfully hot.”
She pulled the apron up even farther.
Her legs weren’t what they’d been. When she was a teenager, her legs had been pillars, but for a woman her age, her legs still got a lot of looks.
She was wearing a pink bra. Nothing obtrusive, rather modest.
“I’m so damned hot,” the mother said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hot.”
Marc nodded, as though he understood completely, as though he was feeling awfully hot himself, then asked, “Shall I pour you a little apple juice, then, love?”
“I’m on fire,” the mother went on, ignoring his question. “Can’t you see it? I’m on fire inside. I’ve been on fire for years, but no one ever noticed, because I’m so good at soaking raisins.”
“Is there something you’d like to talk about?” Marc asked, after running the back of his hand thoughtfully over his cheek a few times.
She had tried to mourn for her late husband, but it hadn’t worked. Where other people had sadness, she had nothing. A hole.
She took Marc’s hand again and pressed it against her stomach, still holding up her Italian apron with one hand.
She loved ironing; she even ironed handkerchiefs and underpants. It made her feel calm and contented. But that was behind her now, all that ironing. Time left its mark without mercy, but if you used your fantasy you could forget about it; if you used your fantasy you could forget about everything. She had read that somewhere; she wouldn’t forget that anymore; she would think about that as she lay on her stomach and the man-beast reared over her.
“I was the woman who soaked raisins,” she said, “but look who I am now.” And she moved Marc’s hand down slowly.
He tried to yank it away, but she held on. She felt a strange kind of strength, unlike anything she’d felt for a long time. A little struggle was going on between her and her boyfriend. He was trying to get away, but she wouldn’t let him.
“Don’t you know how I’m burning up inside?” the mother asked. “Don’t you know that? No one knows that.”
“I ate something that didn’t agree with me,” Marc said.
She turned around and bent over, still holding up her apron. “I’m open all the way for you,” she said, bending over like that. “Can’t you see? I’m open for you.” Her voice sounded like it was coming from a tomb.
Marc thought about what to do. He felt compassion for this woman, who had, through circumstances he could no longer clearly recall, become his girlfriend. He put his hand on her back and caressed her absentmindedly, while she went on spreading herself wide open for him. After she had given birth to Xavier, they’d had to sew her wound shut — the baby had torn her open. Now Xavier was lying out on the street. At last the mother was able to forget him for a time — the childbirth, the sewing shut, the worries, the pressure, the shrieking. A child was like an intruder. The third person who makes a crowd.
How had she lived all those years without using her fantasy? Whole decades suddenly seemed fruitless to her, as though she had gone through a long hibernation. Her marriage had been nothing but hibernation. Her pregnancy, more hibernation. Her sex life, hibernation again. Holidays, hibernation on the beach. Christmas Eve, hibernation under the tree.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” Marc said.
“No, here,” she said. “Here. I’m on fire.” She was still bent over in front of him, her voice still sounding like it was coming from the tomb.
The book had given her an idea, and more than just an idea. A longing had been awakened in her, so huge that it was almost frightening. But when you used your imagination, there was nothing to be afraid of. That’s what the book said: “The imagination establishes its own limits; don’t be afraid to surrender to them.”
She stood up, turned around, shook her head so that her hair, or so she thought, flew out in all directions. She took Marc’s face in both hands and bit him passionately on the lip. Marc submitted to the kiss as docilely as he could.
She took off her apron and threw it on the floor. There she stood, in only shoes and a bra. High heels and a white buckle. No panties. No more panties, never again. She was breathing heavily.
Somewhere, Marc felt affection for this woman. He couldn’t deny that. An affection that disturbed him. But it was no more than the echo of affection, and a distorted echo at that. Not much more than a buzzing.
She licked her lips demonstratively, for her fantasy said she should. “Here,” she said, “you can do whatever you want with me. I’m good for more than soaking raisins, I’m good at other things, too. Extinguish me, because I’m on fire. Tear me apart.”
He took a good look at her face. Her legs, with the veins running down them; her stomach, not too wrinkled yet, but already a little wrinkled. It didn’t matter. He felt affection for this woman. That was what mattered. They had found each other, even though the consequences of that finding left him disappointed. He didn’t want a woman on fire. Putting out fires was too much work for him. He wanted to be left alone.
“Do it,” she said.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” he replied calmly. “My stomach hurts a little, but we can lie in each other’s arms. Wouldn’t you like that? Just cuddle a little bit?” He was no monster.
She took off her bra. After a few weeks of breastfeeding, she hadn’t been able to stand it and had switched to the bottle. She ran her hands over her breasts.
Marc was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He was willing to do things for others, certainly for the woman he lived with, but there were limits. You couldn’t force a person.