with the goal of telling readers about some complex realities concerning humankind. Instead, I would say that her characters are increasingly simplified in the course of the action, until they resemble just anybody.”
“Interesting. Over the years, did your wife start to resemble just anybody?”
The young woman’s question rattles Antoine. He scratches his head, realizes it’s a gesture that will not escape the journalist’s eye. He takes a slow sip of coffee.
“In her eyes,” he thinks, “I’m less than just anybody. The husband of the famous woman, tragically dead.”
“What can I tell you? A character in a novel will never have the complexity of any living being. Life is mystery in the pure state. You can’t go further. The rest, you understand, is a little like dust in the wind.”
“You teach philosophy, I believe?”
“Yes. In a college.”
“Interesting. Your wife once created a philosophy professor, in The Great Upheaval, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are.”
“It wasn’t in The Great Upheaval?”
“Yes. But that was a literature prof.”
“Ah … I imagine that your wife’s work, like any great work, is largely autobiographical.”
“You can imagine that.”
“There’s a lot of interest in her last novel, A Pure Heart. Her publisher, Louis-Martin Vallières, talks about a significant change in her approach. He talks about a book that’s more personal, more intimate. Instead of the usual five-hundred-page doorstop, Alice Livingston is offering readers a brief story, punctuated by numerous dialogues. Can you talk to me about it?”
“I haven’t read it.”
“No? That’s rather surprising.”
“I’ve always read my wife’s novels once they were published. Often, only months later. I didn’t even know the title of her last one; I’ve just learned it from you.”
“Did she ever talk about any creative anxieties?”
“Alice didn’t have anxieties.”
“Did she have a foreboding about her death?”
“Not at all.”
“I sense that you’re on the defensive. I realize that it’s still very hard for you to talk about your wife.”
Antoine says nothing. He wishes that he knew what he has genuinely felt since Alice’s death. He can’t.
“Would you allow me to come back with a photographer? He was supposed to be here today but something came up. I’d like to illustrate my article with some photos.”
“Photos of what?”
“I thought about her office, the chair where she wrote. And I’d like to have a photo of you as well. I’m positive that our readers would like to know something more about the man who shared the life of Alice Livingston.”
“No, no photos. And I can guarantee that Alice would be totally against using a photo of her husband to advertise her last novel!”
Irritated, he gets up. He has on shorts and an old short-sleeved shirt. He’d gone to the trouble of tidying the house, but it hadn’t occurred to him to dress more suitably. Standing across from Claire Langlois, his bare legs seem out of place. She smiles at him.
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