He’s on the threshold of the apartment. He called up on the intercom and you buzzed him in. Standing perfectly still behind the door while he climbed up the three flights of stairs, you waited for him to ring and here he is in front of you. With locks of hair falling over his forehead. You could brush them back — after all, this man still belongs to you in the eyes of the law. You restrain your fingers just in time.
How are you he says while walking around you because you still haven’t moved, and he goes into the living room to sit in the deepest armchair, the leather one. Hands crossed on your lap, you sit in a rather uncomfortable chair with a seat upholstered in a navy blue plaid. Julien gives a quick look around and exclaims these plants, good lord, it’s monstrous, they’re going to invade us all. You notice that he said us. But then he adds what are those marks on your arms, Viviane, they’re awful. You roll your sleeves back down over your wrists now that you’ve finished cleaning and repeat meaningfully: invade us all, Julien? At first he doesn’t understand. Then he does. Invade the hall, Viviane, I said invade the hall. You shrug as you announce I’m going to make some tea, you’ll have some? Thanks he replies, which means yes or no, another habit of his.
While the kettle heats up in the kitchen, as you prepare a tray with two cups and watch the snow falling in the interior courtyard, you listen to the creaking of the parquet that tells you where your husband is. He seems to be roaming the living room, then advancing cautiously into the hall, gradually approaching the middle room. At last you hear the tiny squeak when he ventures a look inside at the sleeping child who is also his — it takes some effort to remember this but you concede the point.
The kettle whistles. Carrying in the tray you can see, through the now wide-open door, Julien bending over the baby. A wispy babbling reaches your ears. You study the teapot where the leaves are steeping. Not a very interesting sight but you often contemplate motionless things, waiting for them to reveal their secrets.
She seems to recognize me, he says in self-congratulation, plopping back into the armchair. Then he tries to talk about material arrangements, administrative procedures, rights and duties. What’s going on outside the windows suddenly absorbs all your attention. You consider the movements on the square, the crowd at the tables under the heated outdoor umbrellas at the brasserie, the snow covering the central flower bed, pocked with footprints and the depredations of children.
Are you listening to me, Viviane?
Not really, Julien.
You have to be reasonable, Viviane.
I don’t think so, Julien.
Then he invokes various responsibilities, and the welfare of the child. He knows you are a woman of good sense, you have always shown that despite differences of opinion, slight disagreements, and a few misunderstandings. For example, he goes on, it astonished me, that phone call from the police. I hadn’t known you were seeing a doctor. That sort of thing, isn’t it rather for people who are totally self-centered, don’t you think?
I don’t need you, you reply. What you take, you take away from me and I’m not going to make it any easier for you.
Julien murmurs God knows what in the direction of his lap but you would swear he said bitch. You exult in having managed so well to make him hate you now that love is gone. More tea? you ask, all smiles.
He shifts forward in the chair, sets his cup down on the tray, watches you pour the tea like a perfect hostess.
This isn’t the right way, Viviane. The law is on my side. And anyway you can’t manage all by yourself, you need help.
You stop serving the tea. The teapot tips toward the carpet and pours all the rest of its contents on the floor. When it’s empty, you let go of it with a loud laugh. The carpet softens the fall but the china is fragile and shatters into pointed shards that fly into every corner of the room. On the other side of the wall, the child has begun to cry.
You have no idea, you say now, what I’m capable of.
Viviane, he tries, it’s the stress, the emotional situation. You’ll recover, you’ll see things differently.
You reply fuck you and gather up everything on the tray, the cups, the saucers, the silver spoons, the sugar bowl, the milk jug, to throw it all at his face. He protects himself with his hands as he retreats, and you harry him all the way back to the front door. You expect him to beat it but he turns around one last time, looks you right in the eye and says it’s not going to be this way, you’ll see, I’m going to move into a new apartment with my new wife, we’ll gain custody of the child, and you’ll be left eating your heart out, then he clatters down the stairs while you stand paralyzed on the threshold.
14
Above the cradle, the lions and giraffes slow down and take off again, set in motion by a cord tied to the child’s foot so that the slightest movement will bring the menagerie to life. For a good fifteen minutes now the baby has been trying to solve the mystery of causes and consequences. Left to yourself, you adjust the pleats in the curtains, wipe away some imaginary dust with the flat of your hand, pick up an object only to set it right down in the same place. Nightfall has finished blanketing the railway tracks, and the trains cutting across the window are stippled in white by the snow sweeping across the panes.
Your arms feel a little itchy. You roll up your sleeves, interrogating the long wounds running from the delta of veins at your wrists to vanish in the fold of the elbow and reappear at your neck. You try to recall how you got them but in truth you are seeking a more ancient element that has fallen into a deep well, leaving you with only a pale reflection.
You still retain a rather precise memory of your marriage. Back then every moment was a delight, and the doctor’s wincing expression seemed to say poor thing, you’re twenty years behind. Yes, you had almost forty years under your belt and the feeling of walking on water. You were unbearable. The slightest occurrence was a pretext for rhapsodizing about how loved you were, and how loving. The doctor was chafing in agony but you didn’t give a hoot. He was paid to listen to you and was going to hear every detail. He was biding his time.
The problems began, in your opinion, three months after the wedding. That’s an approximation; Julien would doubtless have a different idea. Today he would say from the beginning, from the beginning things were going wrong, I don’t know how I ever let myself get involved in this business. So let’s say — after three months. It started with your cat. Which wasn’t strictly speaking yours, it belonged to your mother. You inherited it. You hadn’t made a mystery of that last point. Neither had you made a big deal out of it. Raised in the Protestant ethic and the spirit of capitalism, you have a considerably reduced emotional range that you don’t find at all inconvenient.
But Julien showed no interest in family affairs. It was enough for him to know that everyone was dead and he asked no questions, because they were all dead on his side as well, or just about. On the other hand, he was interested in the cat. From the kitchen to the bathroom, he found it constantly in his way and wanted to know when a new home might be found for it. He hadn’t mentioned putting it down, he was still in love and there are things one leaves unsaid during those times when one fears ruffling another’s feelings. He did mention dumping it in the woods, though. You plugged your ears and continued walking on water.
He kept at it. He said by the way, is that all you inherited? You replied no, there’s also the apartment. He repeated the apartment? Real estate? What neighborhood? The 5th arrondissement you said. He smiled. (You might have told me sooner.) Then he wanted to see for himself and you agreed, to have some peace. Leaving your mother’s apartment he’d estimated its market value and announced that the furniture wouldn’t bring much but every little bit helps. You’d suggested a walk in the Jardin des Plantes.