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  Is this going to be a replay of Eric’s mother? I ask myself, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Granted, this woman is completely different, she’s actually more like my managing director. But that’s exactly what’s bothering me: a sudden juxtaposition, a mixing of the two situations. Managing-director-lady and mummy-lady. As it happens, Clorinde is indisputably sweet. When she comes in with her mother, I’m instantly charmed by her fresh little face framed by curly hair. A pointy nose. A dusting of freckles on her cheeks. A mischievous, intelligent expression. But I immediately find myself wondering what on earth I can do for a child like her. I certainly hadn’t anticipated dealing with eight-year-olds. What should I read to her? Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?

  I must have thought out loud. That’s right, the mother says, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, exactly right. She’s never read it and I think it’s just the book she needs, a book that will give her imagination free rein and introduce her to poetry… because I want her to be introduced to poetry… Business is like a drug to me, you see… I’m always buzzing around, travelling, having lunches left, right and centre… For her, something different, the essentials, poetry… You’ve got it just right and you’ve chosen just right… Clorinde doesn’t say a word. She must be intimidated, but every now and then she looks up at me with her clear eyes, as if checking what she’s got to deal with. The smallest of smiles is developing on her lips. She must like me. And I like her too. You see, I really do come up against the most unpredictable situations. But this one certainly isn’t the most unpleasant. Or the most difficult, come to think of it. It’s a deal. I agree to it. I’m not sure, I tell the mummy-businesswoman, that I’m best equipped to look after a child Clorinde’s age – I certainly don’t have the necessary qualifications or any special training – but if this is what she wants, and if Clorinde wants it too, if we’re all in agreement, if it’s clear no one’s expecting me to do more than read, I’m happy to give it a try. Clorinde looks up again and this time she gives a nod of approval. Yes, she wants this.

  At home that evening I dig out an old copy of Alice, and while I wait for Philippe, who usually gets home late, I set about reading a few lines at random in the echo chamber. It’s the part where the White Rabbit has lost his fan and kid gloves, and asks Alice to fetch them for him. She looks all around the great hall, under the glass table, and realizes he’s taken her for his housemaid. I say the sentence again in the cocoon-like silence of the room: He took me for his housemaid. I think Clorinde’s mother might also have taken me for her housemaid. Like La Générale. Like all of them. Perhaps. Can’t be sure. I have to accept the constraints of the job, and its risks. In any event, I have a proper clientele now. I even have a little girl, me who’s never had a little girl or a little boy. On the left-hand page of the book, where I’ve left it open, there’s a beautiful cross-hatched pen and ink illustration of the Rabbit with his fan and his gloves, and Alice in a strange diaphanous dress. And on the right-hand page a photograph of the Reverend Charles Dodgson, who so liked photographing little girls himself.

  Having decided to pursue the experiment with Michel Dautrand, I’m heading for his apartment with a Claude Simon book. I’ve kept the glasses, but abandoned the tailored jacket. The preppy look is over. I’ve gone all out for velvet trousers. It has to be said, I might as well choose clothes that are going to protect me. I hope this customer won’t be as disappointed as Eric. I’ll know from the look on his face.

  It’s funny, because he’s been through more or less the same thought process as me. He’s abandoned the jacket and tie. He’s wearing a big shapeless sweater and looks very relaxed, a lot more than last time at any rate. He tells me straight away that he only has an hour to spare and not two as planned. So I’ll have to do some ‘intensive reading’ (that’s the expression he uses). This is probably why he drops down into a large armchair, crosses his hands behind his neck, closes his eyes and waits. I’m invited to take another armchair. But I choose the pouffe. I explain briefly that Claude Simon should provide ‘intensive reading’ because his work is very dense. But I add that he shouldn’t hope for a story, for events and anecdotes: just beautiful writing where every word in the text has its own weight. I’ve chosen a passage from Lesson in Things which describes a painting or engraving:

  Three women who probably have delicate complexions, because they are protecting them from the sun with parasols, are walking downhill through a sloping orchard. They wear light-coloured dresses in an old-fashioned cut, nipped in at the waist, with leg-of-mutton sleeves. One of them waves a leafy branch about her hat and upper body to keep horseflies away. Crinkled hazelnut leaves give off a heady fragrance, made all the richer by the heat of the afternoon. The horseflies have long, greyish wings freckled with black. Walking ahead of the women is a little girl in a pale dress and wearing a boater made of wide, flattened stalks of gleaming straw woven in a chevron pattern. She is holding a bouquet of wild flowers…

  I let myself get carried away with the reading. But when I look up I notice that Monsieur Dautrand’s eyes are closed not because of the ‘intensity’ of his concentration, but because he’s well and truly asleep. His hands are still behind his neck, but his elbows have sagged noticeably. A soft snoring sound coming from his mouth leaves no room for doubt. And it’s not just the snoring: there are also a couple of iridescent bubbles, the sort you’d get from playing with soapy water, and a tiny thread of saliva. A busy and powerful man he may be, but he’s now reduced to his most basic state, unmasked. And actually why not? I sympathize, in a way. His life must be really testing, overwhelming and exhausting. And perhaps joyless. Of course he needs to let go completely from time to time. And that’s what this is, the ‘mask’ has fallen away. But without losing any of his good looks. Because I’m going to say it again: this is a good-looking man. I don’t know what life may have thrown at him, but attractiveness won’t have been a problem. It really must be his restlessness that’s ruined everything, the excessive importance he gives himself. But, thank God, here, like this, asleep and with his saliva bubbles, everything falls away, comes undone. All that’s left is his childish and slightly slumped handsomeness.

  I give a little cough. He wakes up. Lifts his eyelids wearily. I think he’ll show signs of embarrassment or awkwardness, make some comment about Claude Simon, but no, he leaps to his feet, almost jumps on me, makes me drop the book. Close it, he says, put it down, there, on the side. Let’s forget about that. There’s no question that it’s admirable writing, perfectly admirable… but, how can you expect?… Can’t you see that it’s you that I want, not that book?… And I can indeed see. He’s up against me, squeezing me, pressed to me, trying to take me in his arms, reaching for my lips. Meanwhile his mouth is spouting half-formed, half-jumbled words. Since you were last here, he’s saying, I can’t stop thinking about you… Do you hear me? I’m not just saying that, it’s the absolute truth… I can’t help it… It’s not my fault, it’s yours. You should just stop looking so deceptively innocent and so fantastically seductive… Do you understand?… Who could resist you?… Certainly not me… Look at you… He drags me rather brutally over to the large mirror at the end of the room and makes me look at myself. You’re sensationally alluring – I hope you don’t mind my saying so – and you should be aware that I’ve no intention of leaving it at that… Don’t you think we go well together?… (He leans his head on my shoulder, there’s something endearing about the ridiculous image in the mirror.) Look, we could make a handsome couple… Marry me, that would be the thing to do, because I’m free… I obviously have to give him an answer: But, alas, I’m not.

  He looks devastated. He lets me go, runs his hand through his hair, mussing it up, moving his hand in a way that I can now see is a habit. You’re not free, he says, that’s terrible! Are you married? Yes, I am. I hadn’t thought of that, he says. I never think of anything, I’m thoughtless, I must be mad. It’s this life of mine that does it to me. I can’t go on like this. The balance sheets a
nd trading accounts, I’m in over my head! It’s got to change. But you’re not wearing a wedding ring? I don’t wear one, but I am married. He adopts a devastated, miserable expression: If you’re not free, could you still be a little bit free? I ask him what he means by that. Speedy reply: A few moments of your life for me… It would be so wonderful, so exceptional… to hold you in my arms… What a dream… how intoxicating… He’s back on the attack now, pressing against me, squeezing me again. He seems very piqued, completely put out: Surely you’re not just a reader, though?… I look him right in the eye and say: Yes, I am actually a reader. He releases his grip: OK, then, read.

  He goes back to his armchair. I go back to Lesson in Things.

  Self-seeded oats and grasses swished by their long skirts make an abrasive sound. This little group walking in single file across the hillside leaves behind it an irregular wake in whose depths the grass eases only slowly back upright…

  He interrupts me and says, almost as an order: Read the first sentence again. Rather pleased, thinking he’s starting to take an interest in what I’m reading, I do as I’m told:

  Self-seeded oats and grasses swished by their long skirts make an abrasive sound…

  Another interruption. And a change of tone. He gets up from his armchair again. You see, he says, a sentence like that just kills me! Those long skirts, with their abrasive sound, they’re killing me! That’s how bad things are for me! I’ve got a shiver running from my head down to my feet, a quiver of longing washing over me (he actually said that: ‘a quiver of longing washing over me’ – he’s not such a stranger to literature as I might have thought)… Beautiful, isn’t it?… But it’s sad too, fantastically sad… That’s how bad things are for me… Two little snippets of a sentence and I’m in pieces… It’s just, dear Madame, believe it or not, I haven’t made love for six months… (His expression’s now so heartbreaking that I think he’s really going to cry this time.) As I told you, I’m totally alone… in a complete emotional and sexual desert… He’s come closer to me again, has made me put down the book, but has settled for taking my hand. He’s kneeling at my feet on the carpet, holding my hand. He brushes his lips over the tips of my fingers: If you wanted to help me, to do something for me… I remember how you looked the other day… that skirt, your legs… You could save me, he says, please save me!… I’m beginning to feel open to compassion. I take off my glasses, lean forward and offer him my mouth.

  That may well have been unwise. Once again I gave in to what Philippe calls my ‘good nature’. I’ll have to have a talk with him. I’ve already said he’s an open-minded husband, and is far too busy with his aerological engineering to worry much about me; but I do still need to talk to him.

  I talk to him. I choose my moment during a rather dull programme about volcanoes – a subject he adores – but this evening, despite the spectacular eruptions, despite the narrator Haroun Tazieff’s rough-hewn eloquence, he’s snoozing, having come home late after a busy day. I switch off the TV and ask him to listen to me. He grudgingly cooperates. I explain the situation. He very quickly gets the gist and gives the reaction I expected. This man, he says, you can do him (forgive me, but that’s his word) if you want to, I think he’s bound to be delighted (that’s his word too), but I advise you to be very wary and really think it over first. Now, if you’re happy to, let’s get some sleep. I’m furious. No, I say, we’re not going to get some sleep. I’m not tired and I want to talk! Philippe never wants to talk. He gazes wistfully at the television screen. He doesn’t like seeing it all grey and empty. I suspect it gives him a genuinely painful panicky feeling. But he’ll have to put up with it this evening. The problem I’ve just described to him warrants more than a few words and a couple of cobbled-together sentences. He doesn’t seem to think so, and I can tell his eyelids are heavy. His eyelashes are fluttering. Wonderful eyelashes. He’s absurdly attractive, but sadly makes absolutely no use of the fact. Which leaves me standing in front of him, between his chair and the TV, completely lost for words. Still, I do need to get out of this stalemate before he goes to sleep in front of me – he’s yawning dangerously – so I go all out with: Right, so that’s OK, I can go for it?

  You do what you like, he says. But watch yourself, don’t lose control and, more importantly, don’t forget I love you. He’s on his feet and already heading for the bedroom. But he changes his mind, probably because he has something to add. After a moment’s hesitation he says: You know, you were starting to have a proper job, it really seemed to be taking shape and making you happy. Don’t go and ruin it all for this boloney. Boloney is his word too. But what on earth can it mean here? Anyway, I can tell he’s not going to add to that. He’s already pulled his sweater off over his head and is going to bed.

  It’s a bit more complicated with Sora. Because I consult him too. You can’t say I’m taking this lightly. I’m garnering opinions. My ‘old master’, as was to be expected, is dismayed. But I’ve long known that where I’m concerned and on this sort of subject, he doesn’t think objectively. You’re going to ruin everything! He’s saying exactly the same as Philippe, but in a different way and not in the same voice. And definitely with very different concerns and ulterior motives. But, once over the initial shock, he affects complete detachment, perfect neutrality. You do what you want, however you want! Again, the same as Philippe. I ask you. They’re all the same. They all respect my freedom. I don’t think I’ll ever find a father again: since mine slipped away quietly I haven’t had the least opportunity to replace him. Well, Marie-Constance, you be a big girl, be a grown-up, and decide for yourself how you behave! That’s me talking now, I hope you get that – it’s not Sora. He’s sitting there quiet as a mouse. He’s far too put out by what I’ve told him to say anything. But I push him. I need him to play his part. I need him to give me his opinion. Yes, Monsieur Sora, you have to. Go on, speak, say something.

  Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, he speaks. A scalding stream of Sartre-style logic in which I can make out: Dear girl, we’re always free in life and we’re always alone. Do what you like, do whatever tickles you, but in that case don’t ask for advice… If it tickles you to sleep with this man, go ahead… It’s clearly all he wants… I did warn you… It’s your problem, not mine… It’s just some tickles can cost you dear… can have all sorts of incalculable consequences. You know that as well as I do… so weigh it all up properly… From the moment you decided to run that ad, I told you anything could happen. It was bound to attract lunatics, maniacs, perverts… especially a managing director with too much time on his hands, whatever he may tell you, and probably going into liquidation or bankrupt… separated, divorced even, and the most unbelievable crybaby… If I’ve understood this right, if I’ve followed what you’ve said… maybe you’re attracted to him, maybe he looks like a matinee idol. That’s your business… Take your chances… You’ve only ever done what you wanted anyway, haven’t you?… But if you really want an opinion, I’ll give you one: look carefully at what you’re getting into… and don’t forget that you ran that ad to read to people – in other words, to have an interesting, respectable job… It was attempting the impossible but it was beginning to look as if it might succeed… at least, from what you said… so, in my opinion, you’d do better to stick to reading!

  He’s finally come out of his shell. He’s said what he meant. Stirred himself. I’m really, truly happy. I look at him with a sort of impassioned admiration. His face is flushed with emotion. This is much better than with Philippe. He’s making a commitment. I think that, quite apart from the years binding us together, I still have very strong feelings for him. But why do I always want to do the opposite of what he says? I think I’ve made up my mind.

  The first session with Clorinde goes very well. If I can venture to say that, because we’ll have to see how it develops. When I arrive, the child is waiting for me alone at home and greets me like a grown-up. She explains that her mother won’t be home until the evening, late, but everything�
��s organized, that we can use this room, if I’m happy to sit in here, and then have some tea later. It is in fact her own little bedroom that she shows me into, and the view from the window confirms what I noticed on the way here: it’s a beautiful day. A magnificent winter’s day. Cold but luminously blue.

  And it’s this weather that plays a trick on me. Indeed, I’ve only just begun reading Alice before Clorinde starts to show peculiar signs of agitation. For example, I finish the following passage:

  Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well.

  Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE’, but to her great disappointment it was empty…