She wonders if he is going to call. The question punctuates her days, crops up at any moment, at work, during meals, while she’s asleep, and as soon as it starts to slip her mind, returns with even greater urgency. Each time, the question seems to overpower yet another portion of her brain. No longer is it just one question, but ten, a hundred, a thousand identical questions, which wind up occupying nearly all the space available. Leaving her with just enough for what is strictly necessary. In the meantime, she functions. And so it goes, until Thursday evening.
On the news, she is watching images of an enormous blackout in New York. People are sleeping outdoors on pavements and in parks, unable to get home, the correspondent explains. She’s not sure that one should feel sorry for them. Sleeping outdoors is a hundred times better than being locked in! Have millions been affected by the absence of electricity? asks the presenter, who already knows the answer. She has never been to New York; it’s a city she views with some suspicion. Every accident, incident, attack seems to happen on a scale not comparable to events in Paris. As she is nevertheless trying to take an interest in the displaced New Yorkers, who have been plunged into darkness, the telephone rings. One hand pounces on the remote control as the other swoops down on the handset. No doubt about it, the call is from him. She doesn’t feel ready for the verdict. Waiting at least had the benefit of prolonging the yes or the no. She picks up. He begins with his usual “how’s it going?” as if they had seen each other the day before; as if, for the two of them, time passed at a different rate. She makes herself repeat OK with the same apparent detachment. Then, for several seconds, all that stirs on the line is the sound of their breathing. He says, about tomorrow, she feels her heart tighten, it won’t be possible; she stops listening. The rest, the reason, the excuse, the pretext, whatever can be called what he is now setting forth to her in detail, no longer matters. Once again, it has to do with Ange. She is relieved and disappointed; something between the two, shuttling from one to the other, so rapidly that the two merge. She attempts to console herself, at least she tried. Except now she is certain she would have preferred him to say yes; she won’t dare ask him for anything again. Leaving aside the invitation to the theater, being alone with her is what he has wanted to avoid. She realizes that he is still speaking. She holds the receiver away from her ear, then hangs up.
She doesn’t want him to reassure her about what he no doubt intended to refer to as their bonds of friendship. She detests these empty words, which people apply like so many sticking plasters wherever they detect emotional leakage. She doesn’t want to witness the perverse transformation in him brought on by guilt. Had she stayed on the other end of the line, he would have levelled the highpoints of their story armed with his premeditated good intentions, would have opened up an area of common ground between them through which he could circulate without suffering any emotional shocks. He would have taken the opportunity to put his own house in order as well; he would have confidently declared what he doesn’t really believe but would hope, by trying to convince her, he would hope to convince himself. And she would have been forced to take this pummelling without flinching. If he had given her a blunt no, the message would have been unambiguous, clear, precise, clinical. Bye, thanks, we’ll forget it ever happened. The opportunity was there, we didn’t take it, too bad. The story would come to an end; she would have battened down the hatches and would at last have been able to act as if this man didn’t exist. But he spoke at length, more talkative than ever before, justifying his decision with all sorts of clauses and sub-clauses. He’s thought about it, hesitated, and refused. She understands that his words had only one aim: to make sure that he wasn’t losing her despite his refusal.
She lets the phone ring. Five rings, and the answering machine picks up the call. Listen, I don’t know why you’re taking it like this. Then he stops talking. The miniature cassette records his silence. Her eyes are riveted on the phone. She is not taking it like this. It’s not easy to explain, but he ought to be able to understand. A long beep marks the end of the call. He has hung up.
Sometimes in the métro she has the impression that she is disintegrating. She’s sitting in the company of other silent passengers, not thinking about anything in particular, swayed by the motion of the carriage progressing through the tunnels. She isn’t asleep, but it is only at the final brake that she realizes the train has entered a station. It then takes her several long seconds before she knows if she has to get out at that stop or not. She has to review the preceding hours in her mind, follow the trail of cause and effect to work out why she is there at that precise moment, sitting in that métro, and decide to stay. The métro sets off again. And in the course of the journey to the next station, she again loses all notion of time and space. As the train comes to a halt once more, she has to perform the same mental calculation so that this time she can struggle to her feet and slip through the doors, which are about to close.
She retrieves a bottle of whisky from the disarray of a kitchen cupboard. Six inches of golden liquid. She swallows the first gulp with a slight wince. The taste gives her goose bumps. Alcohol dissolves most troubles, penetrates the mucous membranes, slows the nerve impulses, relaxes obsessive thoughts — the fragile, drunk heroine is condemned to eternal sadness. A fairy tale in reverse. Total flop. No one cares any more about the ravages of passion; our age has stopped believing in them. And yet people cry out for drama more than ever, ready to pay a high price in exchange for it. There has to be action, upheaval, constant change. Thrills are required to distract and impress the customer. The abrupt halt of their telephone conversation appears to signify a rupture, but not one she can take seriously. Whisky number two. She feels as if they have set out to explore a region where the climate is harsher. Heavy showers, bundle up, bursts of sunlight early in the morning. She pictures the two of them in long oilskins by a stormy sea, hunched over to shield themselves from the gusting wind. How to talk in such conditions? The first thing to do is to seek shelter. She feels certain that each of them knows where to find the other. She knows the place where he has gone to hide. She actually should be congratulating herself: she’s rescued them from one hell of a tight corner. Raising her glass, she toasts the empty room. For now, it’s bound to be a bit painful. There are moments, she explains to her green plant, when radical measures are required if the worst is to be avoided. If their conversation had got out of hand, they would have ended up throwing their raw feelings in each other’s faces. Full-blown carnage and no one to wipe up the mess afterwards. She now has to wait for calm to return. It will take time. She can’t imagine what he might be doing now, still less what might be going through his mind. Chances are he is with Ange. In which case, he’s having a beer in the living room or eating with her in the kitchen. If she were a fly, better still an ant, stationed on the edge of the sink with antennae out, she would listen until Ange chased her away with a swipe of her sponge. What a revelation it would be! In her human form, she has never overheard even a snippet of private conversation between them. The odd words required for the smooth functioning of their life together — shall we go, can you take my bag, yes I’ll have some — but nothing resembling a discussion or a row. She therefore lacks the material with which to reconstruct their conversations. Perhaps they are watching a film on TV, he very intent, Ange distracted, announcing the solution to the mystery in advance, he complaining, she apologizing. It’s not my fault, it just slipped out; anyway, you guessed as much. Or else they are making love. The image of a dark room filled with sighs, then more sighs. Mustn’t switch on the light: what his naked body is plotting against Ange’s would appear in full view. She doesn’t want to know, which is understandable. She finishes the bottle. Is he upset? Angry? Offended? Riddled with remorse? Or perhaps pleased? Glad to be rid of her? Can he see her, a blot of yellow oilskin in the midst of a damp fog, hidden in some far corner of his mind? She juggles the various options but can’t manage to sort them out. She lacks key data. Even for herself, the storm had brought down a number of certainties she felt were solidly anchored. Such as there could never be any misunderstandings between them. How does one define a misunderstanding, though? The magazines on the shelf don’t deign to reply. Between them there had previously been an understanding, which has mutated into a misunderstanding. What is the difference? She has had too much to drink; she is unsure about the next steps. Good and evil are both an arbitrary distinction and an infernal dichotomy. The main thing is to understand each another. She doesn’t have the strength to carry on talking to the furniture. She dozes off.