Back home, she wolfs down a bowl of pasta garnished with bits of onion and tomato. Dinner over, she takes the sweater out of her bag. The security disc is tightly affixed to the wool. She fails to see how she might get it off. Giving up, she folds the sweater and puts it away with the rest of her things. Later, she dozes off in front of a TV serial in which the heroine, a woman in her forties who looks ten years younger on screen, can’t make up her mind between her taciturn husband on the one hand and her childish lover on the other, because she loves them both equally but not in the same way. Love. There is something about that word that makes her sick to the core. She prefers to go it alone, without someone to make her believe he can raise her above reality. Love bears the mark of whoever gives birth to it. You only truly recognize it once, the first time, whether it’s tender or painful. Hers, her first love — it has taken her years to admit — was hardly very enviable.
One day a man had told her to go see a shrink because when she’d felt his penis inside her, she couldn’t go on. In a calm voice she had simply said, pull out. No shriek of panic, no pleading. Blushing, the man had pulled out. For a while they lay there, side by side. It was then that he told her she ought to go see a shrink. After that he got dressed: would she mind telling him when she changed her mind? And off he went. It didn’t occur to her that he could be upset; she believed him.
He calls on Thursday. She realizes that she has been waiting for him to phone. How are things? He never presents himself as if he were sure he is the only man who calls her. She likes that proof of familiarity. Fine, and Ange? Fine. She confirms that she will be going to the dinner party. Several of his friends will be there, he informs her. One of them is really nice, you’ll see. His voice modulates to that of a travelling salesman: a tacit way to let her know he thinks the man in question ought to be to her liking. Soon he’ll be listing this person’s qualities to her. She feels like asking if he also offers home delivery. But instead she says nothing. As does he. The mood has changed; she senses his embarrassment at the other end of the line. About what happened the other night, I’d had a bit to drink. There, he’s mentioned it. Not to tell her that he enjoyed it, but for her to rid him of his guilt at desiring another woman. A few banal words, and his heart slots back into place. The message seems straight-forward: what happened was just one of those things. By making it clear from the outset that the kiss could only have bothered her, he’s denying her the right to have the least feeling in his regard. For him, the situation is clear; their brief moment of intimacy had simply been a consequence of his drunkenness. She takes a breath. No offence taken; I was the one who kissed you. See you tomorrow. Then she hangs up.
The following afternoon, on her way back from the gare du Nord, she drops by a stationer’s. She chooses a sheet of wrapping paper. Multicolored lines on a grey background. The paper is smooth and has a satin finish. The man behind the counter rolls it into a slender tube, over which he slips an elastic band. Leaving the shop, she wonders how she should hold it. It could be a sword or a walking stick, or a magic wand. She ends up tucking it under her arm. Because, obviously, what she is carrying is a baguette.
Ange is in mid-conversation as she opens the door. She seems pleased to see her and gives her a kiss on both cheeks before ushering her into the hallway. The fragrance of boeuf bourguignon fills the apartment. Her arms are still in the sleeves of her jacket as Ange takes hold of the collar to hang it up. She says, I’m late, but gets no answer from Ange. She keeps her handbag with her. The zip wouldn’t work after she put the package inside, trying not to crumple the wrapping paper, which was already damaged at the corners. Ange is about to charge into the living room, majestic in her high heels, when she holds her back by the arm. I have something for you. As best she can, she extracts the package from her bag. Ange’s eyes fix on the multicolored lines as her fingers eagerly press the wrapping paper. Seconds later, the paper is on the floor and in Ange’s large hands the sweater suddenly resembles a small furry black animal. Ange likes it — she hasn’t seen the Promod label yet, not to mention the magnetic security disc. Ange puts the sweater down on a chair. I’ll introduce you. He has appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. He smiles at her, but Ange is already leading her off to present her to the other guests.
There are four men and two women. Some are standing, some are sitting, as if they were posing for a photograph. When she follows Ange into the room they freeze, look her over, size her up and she finds this collective evaluation irksome. She kisses the women, shakes hands with the men, which they always find a bit surprising. But that’s how she prefers it; she doesn’t have to explain. It’s always the same: whenever she touches a person for the first time, her eyes have a tendency to look off to the side. But now she makes an effort, she wouldn’t want them to assume immediately that she is shy. Ange enunciates first names. She recognizes her own but doesn’t remember any of the others. She doesn’t do it on purpose: her memory refuses to register that kind of thing the first time round. Ange invites her to sit down. Somewhat laboriously, the conversations get going again. The two women perched on the sofa offer her embarrassed smiles. No excess emotion, no sudden effusions: they’re figuring out how to interact under the circumstances. She looks at third fingers and counts two wedding rings. Which leaves only two possibilities as to who the guy she is supposed to like might be. Ange presses a glass of white into her hand, then, just as quickly, beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen, where he is busy stirring solids and liquids in a large pot. As for her, she has no right to see him until he is good and ready. His hair must smell of onion and bay leaf, his forehead of the salt from his sweat. In the meantime, she turns her attention to the two bachelors. Neither one pays her any attention, engaged as they are in a discussion that requires all the seriousness they can muster. One has a slight stoop, gesticulates a lot; the other has metal-framed glasses and from time to time runs the tip of his tongue over his lips. The couple sitting on the other couch have stopped talking in low voices. They are inspecting the contents of the room, he from the right, she from the left, to be sure they won’t miss a thing. A real bit of teamwork. They’ll compare notes when they go to bed: what they liked, what they might eventually buy for themselves. Even so, she detects a hint of boredom stirring in her neighbors. Her silent presence is beginning to be embarrassing. It won’t be long, she senses, before someone tries to draw her out. She takes a sip of white wine so as to seem busy. The husband sits up and leans slightly towards her, about to ask a question. At which point Ange sweeps into the living room, barks out, dinner’s ready, and makes everyone jump. She suddenly feels like saying to Ange, who is increasingly agitated, that they’re not deaf, but instead she just sketches a faint smile in the direction of the husband and wife to show that she has noted their intention to enter into oral communication with her.