open its contents of socks with holes and flowered boxer shorts to passers-by.
“In business, the hero is fair and pitiless,” I say.
“In life, he is fearless,” she adds.
“If he feels betrayed, he may go to a whorehouse or a sordid bar and drink himself into a stupor. He is a strong man with weaknesses.”
“It’s those weaknesses that make him so appealing,” she concludes.
Each reader feels the instinct to train or reform awakening inside her, and each imagines that she will be the one to tame the beast. And at the same time, she nests, a dove at the throat of an eagle, desiring him while at the same time refusing him, pushing him away with frail arms; she wants him to force her, she wants to feel his strength, the brutal embrace. She wants the violence of waves crashing upon the shore, the fury of a hurricane uprooting trees. Every female reader is this woman. Women have the innate ability to train, convert. Their weapons: the sweetness and nobility of their feelings. Potentially, they are doves in love with predators. The same inescapable clichès have been repeated for centuries. The same seductions, the same balms on the same wounds.
“We were speaking of Florent,” I say.
“Oh! Florent… well, to tell the truth, Florent has a flabby stomach, prudently drives a metallic grey Honda Civic and belongs to a bowling league. I also have a flabby stomach, cellulite, don’t have a car, and go bowling with Florent on Saturday nights. Our lives are not spectacular, but I do love him, have learned to love him. We’ve been together six years. I read romance novels when I’m alone and sad. I enter contests to win trips. And when, for the first time in my life, I win one, I have to go away alone… I hope at least the weather will be good.”
“The weather’s always good. Almost always.”
“At least if I can get some sun, it won’t be a total loss. This is my only vacation this year. At the same time, it’s funny, but I have the feeling that if I have a good time, I’ll feel guilty.”
“We always feel guilty, right? The next question?”
“First you have to talk about your own fantasies.”
“The same ones, probably.”
“Translating them, don’t they become banal?”
“They’re always banal.”
I close my eyes for a moment.
“Sometimes the images are violent,” I say.
“Violent?”
“I see myself dominated, bound, chained, subjugated.”
“We’re not responsible for images that come into our heads.”
“They come, in spite of us. Although according to the survey, 7 percent of women admit indulging in this kind of fantasy.”
“I wonder what percentage of men would admit to it… But personally, bound and defenceless, I’d be scared.”
“I’d be scared too, in reality.”
“Florent and I are very traditional when we make love.”
“Men have a singular lack of initiative.” “In bed.”
“Of course, in bed. With them it always has to happen in a bed.”
“Yes, very comfortable,” she concedes. “Afterwards they start snoring.”
“Or else quickly get dressed to go home to their legitimate wife.”
“Who’s waiting in their bed.”
“Personally,” I say, “I like it outdoors. If I close my eyes I see a dark alley, a moon above.”
“When you said outside, it wasn’t an alley I’d imagined. My concept of a romantic fantasy is different. I’d choose a beach at sunset. Alone in the world. Lost in the universe.”
“A beach, okay, but not alone in the world. I’d need people looking on.”
“Oh, really – an exhibitionist?” “We’re talking about fantasy.” She fills our glasses.
“So let’s drink to fantasy. Let’s drink to phantoms.”
“I’ll continue,” I say. “The beach at twilight. Our shapes are blurred, but our gestures defined. We undress each other standing up, face to face.”
“Yes.”
“No. The image isn’t exciting enough. Too realistic.”
“It was a good start, though.”
“It’s only a start.”
Not long ago I lived with a man, but I wasn’t in love. Philippe. I mean that our lives drifted apart, with no feeling of togetherness, in a quiet apartment, prettily decorated. I close my eyes to remember. Here’s what comes to me: a tiny kitchen and his angular, bony body, his white chef’s hat, his large apron. At the same time, aromas fill my memory: poached fish, white butter sauce. I remember chilly mornings, curled up in the big bed, him leaving for work, a tie, never the same, around his neck. Ties, his weakness. I made fun of his outdated elegance. Distinguished apparel, he corrected. When he came home, his briefcase would be overflowing with files. Urgent, as he’d say. Urgent, darling, my love. Swamped. Completely insane this week. And you, my love, did you have a good day? Me?
He was one of those people who mutter Israeli-Arab conflict, or inflation, price wars, corruption, sighing heavily, sadly nodding their heads. The weight of the world lay on his shoulders, immensely heavy. Sometimes he stooped. “Everything is political,” he stated, “we can’t do anything about it.” “I don’t want everything to be political.” Seeing me burst into tears rendered him helpless. “Why cry?” he asked. How to know why? “We are comfortable,” he continued. “We have everything to be happy for. Why are you crying?” “I have too many tears.” “Too many tears? Come on!” “My novel is too sad.” “They always finish happily, your novels.” “That’s what’s so sad.” “I don’t understand you,” he sighed. “Me neither.”
“I would like to have been a Carmelite nun,” I say. “You, a Carmelite nun? Hard to imagine…” “I would have sung hymns in a pure voice, carried candles, worn a cowl, with only my soul for beauty. I would have loved Jesus to madness. Or I’d have liked to be a courtesan.” “Maria Magdalena, now.” “Covered with men and jewels. Jesus loved her. She will be greatly forgiven because she loved a great deal.” “His last temptation.” “Lost in the world or outside it. A lost woman. Burned, burning, to the very end of my flame.” “You’re talking nonsense. Aren’t you happy?” “And you?”
I lived in limbo, mechanically translating insipid novels. Nothing resembled life, yet it was life. Nothing resembled love in the least. Love, it seemed to me, should be a generous feeling. As so often happens, we failed to give enough. Yet sometimes there were tender words, considerate gestures, flowers on the table. Books lying about on the arms of chairs, music playing in the house.
Days go by, hair whitens, hands
