People are talking in groups around a chair or a sofa. There’s laughter, joking, merriment; everyone’s loosening up without too much trouble. The wash of conversations follows her from room to room, the voices modulating, bursting like giant bubbles against her ears. Already, her head is spinning. Someone asks if she’s seen the corkscrew. She shrugs her shoulders; the muscles in her jaw are a bit stiff. Drinks are handed to her; she’s made to clink glasses, to take sips. There are more and more unfamiliar faces, and she hates being the one to make the first move. An overexcited girl with dyed-blonde hair knocks into her coming out of the toilet. She tries to catch her aggressor’s eye to let her know that the gesture has not been well received, but the girl ignores her, heads straight for the living room. She bolts the door, gathers up her dress, and sits down clumsily on the seat. She yawns; her head weighs a ton and a half, and it’s not yet even midnight. When she emerges from her hiding place, he is in the hall. A woman has just arrived and has her hands around his waist. Her name is Ange. The woman is almost as she remembers her, but slightly more friendly than at their first meeting in the doorway. They exchange a smile. Yes, she tells herself, they do make a nice couple. He has won his bet: the rebellious angel has been conquered, and here she is at his big annual party. It is only now that she sees the white wings sprouting from Ange’s back. A harmless pair of little wings, of a down soft enough to cure the worst insomnia. He has touched those wings, and that is what has drawn him to her. Who could resist a pair of wings? She, too, would like to be able to touch them, to find out the sensation they leave. But she isn’t the type who could interest angels — even one with crumpled wings. How’s it going? She gives a nod. That’s when she remembers the reason for her presence. Happy birthday. She says the words in a tone that makes them sound more like an excuse than a wish. He comes up to her, takes her in his arms. She stiffens, unwilling for him to hold her in that way. She wants to tell him that certain gestures are not to be granted so lightly, especially not in such mundane circumstances. You have to take precautions, wait for the right moment. The grip of his arms is firm, his hands are spread out like stars and press into her back. For one brief moment she manages to let herself go, then, very quickly, the arms release her, but the mark is already made.
She has a drink on the sofa, next to a man she doesn’t know. She remembers vaguely the song and the clapping; it was Ange who’d remembered the candles. The man beside her is not moving a muscle. She presses gently against the arm that is flung out along her thigh. The man’s eyes blink — as for the rest of him, not a twitch. He’s beginning to worry her, staying frozen like that. I can tell I’ve made a big impression on you! The words slipped out. His face remains impassive. Aren’t you feeling well? Her question provokes no response. The man seems to have abandoned his body, a hollow shell of flaccid flesh, as if he had catapulted his spirit to a place where no one can dislodge it. His eyes see nothing, not even the spot on the wall in front of him, which he appears to be staring at. Only his nostrils continue to shudder. She notices that he is freshly shaven. A few hours earlier, he passed the blade of a razor over his cheeks, sketched out bands of smooth skin in the foamy whiteness. His skin is unlined, his lips are dark and chapped. Something to drink, you’ll feel better, no need to get so worked up, we can talk it over, there’s always an answer. . She casts about for the words to shake him out of his lethargy, but all that comes are phrases warped by alcohol. How to guess the cause of the state he is in? Even depressed people don’t do that. She doesn’t do that, not that — imitating a dead body in that way, it’s enough to give you the creeps. She takes a sip of wine. No one else has noticed the lifeless body on the sofa. A man is wrestling open a bottle, a couple are kissing by the window, a woman patiently cadges a cigarette, a trio burst into laughter. No one is aware of anything other than the person he or she is speaking to. And so she wraps her fingers around the man’s unresisting fingers. She lifts his heavy hand and places it on her belly. For an indeterminate length of time, she keeps it there, its warm weight upon her.
From the far end of the room someone has spotted how she has borrowed her neighbour’s hand. When she pushes it away, the man still doesn’t react. She remains seated on the edge of the sofa, drinking from someone else’s plastic cup. Inside her, things begin to clash and shift, to become confused and, before long, unbearable. She can no longer fight back the need to cry. Preferring that no one find her in that state, she takes refuge in the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, talking to someone who is rinsing glasses at the sink. On seeing her come in, he says something that she doesn’t catch. She sees his mouth articulate the words, but the buzzing in her ears blocks out the sound. Don’t tell me you let the angel fly away? He looks baffled. She feels her eyes cloud over. Why did you let her go? The man by the sink leaves, clutching the wet glasses awkwardly between his fingers, saying, flying high, I’d say. Have you been crying? There’s a dead man on your sofa, and I’m making no impression on him. She wants to meet his gaze, but she can’t quite bring his eyes into focus. Here. He holds out a glass of water, and she wets her lips. And it is then that she loses control and glues her mouth to his. For a brief moment, she feels their tongues collide. She barely has time to realize they are having their first kiss when she catches sight of the angel and has to back away.
There isn’t a sound in the apartment. She is on the couch, the apathetic man has gone, it’s early afternoon. Around her are littered empty glasses and gorged ashtrays. In the toilet, she finds a Heineken bottle standing in a corner. The mess is even worse in the kitchen: ripped-open bags of chips, knocked-over plastic cups, a nauseating stink of beer; stains of every kind on the grey, tiled floor. Her head in a fog, she surveys the remains of the party: it looks as if people had a good time here but rushed off before she got a chance to join in. Clearing up would be a good idea, no doubt he’d thank her for it. She gathers the empty, discarded items and puts them into a large plastic bag, which she seals as tightly as possible. Crouching over the tiled floor, sponge in hand, she scrubs away at the stains, attacking the smallest ones with excessive vigor. And while trying to restore the tiles to their original color, it comes back to her: the kiss. She giggles, like a child delighted at a piece of mischief that has gone unpunished. She closes her eyes. She wants to remember details — the texture, the temperature, the thickness of his lips — but all that remains is the sensation: that of something warm and nourishing, solid almost, passing from the depths of her throat down into her chest. She wishes she could tell him how good that kiss had felt. Behind the closed door to the bedroom he is with Ange, asleep, his body wrapped around hers. Is the sensation of a kiss the same for Ange, the same for him with her? Whatever he makes of this impromptu coming together of lips, she had better not be there when the couple gets up. She breaks off her frantic scrubbing, puts on her coat and leaves.
The rue Charlot leads to the Boulevard du Temple. Music is floating down from a tinny portable radio set four or five yards above the pavement, on the edge of a construction scaffolding where three workmen — three Frenchmen of North African origin, as she has learnt to call them — are rhythmically striking the façade of a building with their tools. One of them spots her. He whistles, and she smiles. Hey, wait a second, he yells, during a pause in the song. She walks on, but her mind lags behind. She is waiting at the foot of the scaffolding, watching as the agile man lets himself down the metal poles. Straightening up before her, he pulls off his gloves, tells her his name. They go to a café or perhaps straight to a hotel. Make love like in that American film she had seen at the cinema, where the lead actress, throat bared, tugs down her singlet and murmurs, do me good. Her partner helps her off with her clothes, removes his own, positions himself behind her, penetrates her, and their two bodies start to pitch and toss violently. Several times they change position; she, moaning with pleasure, he, intent on his mission, not uttering the slightest sound, dignified male that he is. The film was called Monster’s Ball, and not Monster Balls as she’d called it when buying the tickets. Balls, the ticket clerk had pointed out, means testicles in English. She had felt ridiculous.