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  And Clorinde jumps to her feet and rushes to the kitchen, I hear her rummaging about, moving things, probably a set of steps, opening a cupboard, and then she comes back triumphantly, holding a pot of marmalade. I tell her to put it away quickly and come back and listen to the story. She does as she’s told, comes back, drops on to her little chair, where she sits with her arms crossed and seems to be listening, but when I embark on the bit about Dinah the cat chomping on bats, she leaps up again and from I have no idea where, the storeroom perhaps, produces a tiny bluish-coloured cat asleep in a basket. It’s a cat! she cries, putting the basket right under my nose. She was born a week ago. I look at the kitten, say how sweet it is, even stroke it rather reluctantly, without waking it, then ask Clorinde to put it back where she found it. I start reading again. This is when we come to the passage about the golden key:

  Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice’s first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them…

  No point reading on! Hearing these words, Clorinde gets up for the third time and goes to the front door to fetch the key to the house. She brings it over, shows it to me, and this is when the ill-fated weather comes into play. What if we went out? she says. It’s such a beautiful day! I never go out and Mummy won’t be home till late… She looks so adorable all of a sudden, with her pink cheeks and her eyes like a mechanical doll’s – I can’t resist. I say yes. Unthinking. Irresponsible. Yet again. But it’s true that it’s a glorious day, the sky’s really blue through that window, and it seems to be calling us, beckoning us insistently. There’s the key, dangling from a key ring in Clorinde’s hand, and – like some magic object – it makes the decision: we’re going out. Apparently there’s a giddying funfair at the park, with rides and games and stalls and stands. Clorinde is madly excited. As for me, I’m clearly plain mad. While I put on my fur-lined jacket and tie my scarf, the child goes off into her mother’s bedroom and I can hear her opening drawers. I call her rather anxiously and she says she needs to fetch her scarf too, and a hat that her mother often lends her. She’s taking her time, seems to be scurrying around a great deal, riffling through drawers, but eventually she comes back, pretty as a picture in her little coat, wearing the woollen hat which comes right down to her eyes and a scarf wound around her neck at least three times, and carrying a pair of gloves she’s about to put on. She’s ready. And I’m ready too. We look to see we haven’t left anything untidy in the house, no light left on unnecessarily, no tap running. And we leave. We won’t say anything to Mummy, Clorinde whispers, it’s our secret! My only answer, as I close the door, is to ask her for the key because we absolutely mustn’t lose it.

  Now we’re out in the chilly, sun-drenched street. We take a bus to get to the park more quickly. Clorinde seems enchanted by every little detail – passers-by, advertising posters on the bus, the bus driver, the shop windows all ready for Christmas, fir trees decked out with stars and tinsel. Then, all of a sudden, the fair! She wants a go on every ride. On a glossy horse, a chrome motorbike, a spacecraft bristling with antennae, a multicoloured rocket. I’m so worried she’ll do something silly I end up getting in with her, so there we both are, two mad things together, to the astonishment of onlookers (well, in my case, at least), carried away, caught up in the excitement of it. I’ve already paid for a good many rides, so Clorinde, behaving like a proper little lady, says she’d like to pay for some too, that she’s got lots of coins in the pockets of her coat; she made a point of taking them out of her money box before we left. We set off again, on a giant caterpillar this time, then on swings that lurch through the air. It doesn’t seem to unsettle Clorinde’s stomach, and she also wants to do justice to the stalls selling delicious treats, gorging on caramel and lollipops, daubing herself in candyfloss, sipping a Coca-Cola and crunching on sugared almonds. I’m starting to get seriously worried, but reassure myself with the thought that, in order to be running amok like this, the child must usually be deprived of these things that other children so enjoy. And that her developer-mother would do well to give her a bit more of her time and attention.

  I couldn’t have guessed that at the exact moment I have this thought, by an extraordinary twist of fate, this busy woman is coming home early, having had three of her afternoon meetings cancelled. And she’s coming home all thrilled and enthusiastic at the thought of finding her little girl with her reader, because it’s the day of their first session. So – horror of horrors – this is what’s happening while we’re spinning round on rides. She rings the bell. No one opens the door, no one answers. She lets herself in with her own key. Finds the house deserted. She goes into Clorinde’s bedroom, sees the little chair turned to face the small bench seat, but empty of course and looking oddly abandoned, and the book of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland thrown to the floor, open. She goes into every room, opens every door. Nothing. No one. Not a sign. No message. Terror rises through her stomach, up to her throat, then to her head, instantly turning into all-out panic, surprising in a professional woman accustomed to keeping a cool head. But, there’s no denying it, she’s gripped with panic and has just one outlandish, appalling, haunting sentence ringing in her ears: My daughter’s been abducted! A hypothesis confirmed, when she checks in the drawer and cupboard, by the absence of Clorinde’s clothes: coat, scarf, hat and gloves. Not a shred of doubt: that dangerous woman dressed her up all warm and snugly the better to abduct her. To take her away, drag her off, steal her. That’s what comes of letting yourself be lured in by some pathetic ad and, with the best intentions in the world, entrusting your child to a stranger. To the first-comer. A specialist in abductions and kidnappings. Perhaps one of those miserable lost souls obsessed with their monstrous fixations who, never having had any children of their own, steal other people’s without a second thought. Or a consummately experienced crook who’s now preparing to ask for a vast ransom. Madame Property Developer is horrified, despairing, outraged, furious with herself for her inconceivable irresponsibility. She can feel tears surging to her eyes at the thought of what her little Clorinde might be suffering, wonders whether she should call the police, but, when she’s about to reach for the telephone, goes back into her bedroom, on one final straight-thinking business-woman’s reflex, to see whether anything’s been taken from the top drawer of her chest of drawers, where she keeps a few pieces of jewellery and precious things… and sees that her jewellery has indeed vanished.

  At this point, in order to keep up with events, you have to picture Clorinde, cheeks ablaze, between two funfair rides, suddenly opening her coat, unwinding her scarf and beaming with delight as she reveals two strings of pearls around her neck, along with an emerald pendant and a gold ring set with a diamond, then taking from her pockets all sorts of glittery things, explaining that she didn’t only bring a stock of coins but also rings, brooches, earrings, cameos, expensive gems, and these are all things, she says, her mother lends her from time to time and she felt like bringing with her today, because they were having a little party, and girls should always be as beautiful and dressed up as possible for parties. The reader is thunderstruck, rooted to the spot by the sight of her wearing all this jewellery, its twinkling lighting up her neck, her little chest, her ear (where she’s just attached a golden earring) and her hands.

  Meanwhile the mother has discovered that the drawer is, of course, empty. In a flash it all becomes clear. Not only abduction, but organized robbery. Well, that’ll teach her! She picks up the telephone, calls the police and in a quivering, shaking, halting voice summarizes the whole situation. The officer can’t interject a single word into her trembling stream of pain and anger. He asks her to keep her cool and to come to see him as soon as she can. He also asks for descriptions of Clorinde and me.

  Luckily, less than an hour after this Clorinde i
s back and so am I. The explanation process is difficult, but it does take place. I plead guilty, but I also plead that I was intoxicated by the beautiful winter weather, it went to my head, and I was so happy to be with such a lively little girl, who was almost magically persuasive, and so kind and dazzlingly intelligent. I lay it on as thick as I can in an attempt to disarm the mother. But she won’t be disarmed. She’s beside herself, screaming, increasingly hysterical, calling me every name that comes into her head. I tell her her jewellery is here, not a single item missing, I offer to spread it out on the table so she can count every piece. A suggestion that makes her all the more furious, makes her shout even louder. She does, however, manage to interrupt her own vocal outbursts sufficiently to tell me that when she found the apartment empty and the drawers broken open (in her words), she was struck by such powerful emotions she nearly had a heart attack, which isn’t just a men’s problem as people so often believe, but something that can strike down active, responsible women like herself, not lazy useless idiots like me – I should know that, I should consider myself informed. She sits down, struggling to breathe and mopping her brow. If she dies it will be my fault. Her face has fallen apart, her perm has collapsed over her forehead, her splendid high-flying woman’s composure has cracked. Clorinde, realizing the extent of her misdemeanour, starts crying too, then screaming and rolling on the ground. I can’t think how to contain this disaster now.

  Days go by. We’re into the new year. I hope the Christmas celebrations were fun for Clorinde and that her mother has forgiven her everything. But I’m unlikely to see either of them again any time soon. Unless they call back. Unless they come looking for me. In the meantime, I mustn’t lose the few ‘regulars’ I’ve managed to hook. In fact, I’m on my way to my managing director today. He’s more hooked than anyone else, we’ve all grasped that, but by something other than reading. I’ve made my decision and I’m ready. But I must still try to bring him round to literature. If Claude Simon is a bit too much for him, I could try to reel him in with Perec. That’s what I’ve decided to try. I’ve chosen a few pages of W. I’ve read the passage over and over. It’s perfectly accessible and he should like it. I even recorded it in the echo chamber and, at this very moment, I’m walking along with a Walkman so I can listen to my text. It makes the busy street look wonderfully animated and I can cut out the noise of cars. The well-padded earphones also give my ears much-appreciated protection from the cold. It’s still dry and bright.

  I can tell straight away that dear Michel is not disposed to listen. But he really will have to go through with it. He’s never heard of Perec, but I sing the author’s praises. We sit ourselves down and, having assured him that with a book like this he’ll be truly impressive at his dinners, I begin:

  I have no childhood memories. Up until the age of about twelve, my story could be told in a couple of sentences: I lost my father when I was four, and my mother when I was six; I spent the war in various boarding houses in Villard-de-Lans. In 1945 my father’s sister and her husband adopted me.

  For a long time I found this lack of a personal story reassuring: it had a dry objectivity, was transparently self-evident, but what was it protecting me from, if not the very story of my life, from my true story, my own story…

  He interrupts me abruptly and I can tell immediately that it will be difficult to get any further. My own story… my own story… he says, almost tripping over the words. I don’t know what this man’s talking about… but my story, my one, as I’ve already told you and I’ll tell you again, is terrible, desperate… This woman I gave everything to, sacrificed everything for… and who left me… in a way I don’t even want to, can’t even describe… and now this emptiness… and this dreadful work life, this world of business meetings and meals and journeys which just make the emptiness even more cavernous… I can’t go on… I don’t want to listen to any more or hear any more… Come! I ask him where. To my bedroom, he replies. He’s already by my side and, grabbing my arm, starts to tug it not altogether discreetly. It’s obvious that today he’s planning to get on with it. To be quick and efficient.

  As I’ve already made up my mind to agree to this, he doesn’t have to fight too hard. So here we are in the bedroom and very soon in bed. I’ve undressed quickly, perhaps that was wrong, but at this time of year I like to slip between the sheets and blankets as quickly as possible. He’s clearly taken aback and doesn’t have the nerve to take off his clothes in the same way. He must be finding the silence unbearable, because he gives a couple of little coughs, then comes to sit on the edge of the bed and takes my hand. I’m so overcome, he says, so overcome… I would never have believed it! He’s holding my hand as you would an invalid’s, a feverish child’s, as if taking my pulse, but it’s perfectly clear that his pulse is the one racing. When I eventually speak, I simply say: Come.

  He finally makes up his mind to get to his feet, not without a lot of hesitation, and heads for the bathroom. I can hear running water, a lot of water. Clothes falling. Then the sound of a bottle being moved, set down on the basin or the side of the bath, the patting sound of a hand presumably applying some alcohol or lavender water to stubbly cheeks or chubby flanks. He comes back with a large white towel secured around his waist. He goes over to the window, draws the curtain. He’s still hesitating, not yet decided to come over and join me. And yet he does. He’s barely in bed before I, in turn, slip to the bathroom, with his permission. He watches me walk across the room with something like astonishment, making his eyes grow wider and wider. I run some water too. And I too come back clad in a white towel that I’ve knotted firmly on my hip. I make a detour via the living room to fetch the book, two books even. Getting back into bed, I say: We’re going to go back to a bit of Perec, and why not some Claude Simon too. I’m sitting between the sheets, leaning against a pillow, leafing through one of the books, with my glasses on my nose. He’s lying beside me. For pity’s sake, he says plaintively, don’t be sadistic! Still, I read a few lines. Oh, your voice! he interrupts me. It’s all down to your voice! It gets right into my bone marrow. I’ve never heard a voice like yours, Marie-Constance. It gives me shivers all over! You have no idea. He takes my hand and puts it authoritatively on to his chest: a handsome, well-thatched torso. When I draw back my hand he looks put out, disappointed. He jumps up, announcing that he’s going to get his cigarettes. He doesn’t seem embarrassed to be walking across the room naked. He’s rather fine: well put together, solidly built. He comes back with his packet of Marlboros and puts it on the bedside table, along with a lighter and an ashtray. I’ve picked up the book again, so he sits down on the bed next to me, takes a cigarette and lights it, probably to demonstrate his irritation.

  Then, all of a sudden, that’s it! He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray, snatches my book and my glasses from me, and throws himself on me with no warning. He clasps me, crushes me. What was bound to happen inevitably happens. Try as he might to hug me, squeeze me and kiss me all over, on the mouth, in the ear, on my neck, my breasts, all with terrifying, avid urgency, he achieves only lucklustre results. He realizes this, turns away abruptly and moves back to his side of the bed with a pathetic expression on his face. I knew it, he says, I could have guessed… and yet you’re so beautiful, so gorgeous, so exceptional… It’s precisely because I want you so badly… why I’m so manically impatient… so desperately impatient it’s sick… You have to understand I’m in the same situation as someone who hasn’t eaten for three months and is suddenly presented with a sumptuous display, a royal feast… He can’t eat a thing… He’s dying of hunger… but his stomach won’t take it, his throat won’t accept it… What sort of reply could I give except: Am I a sumptuous display? A royal feast?

  Rather than pursuing this conversation, he’s opted to sit up in bed and return to his cigarette. I warn him not to burn the sheets and I commit the spectacular blunder of telling him that his wife should have taught him not to smoke in bed. Not only does he look exasperated, but he gets up ye
t again, as if operated by a spring, goes over to a set of shelves facing the bed and turns a photograph of a woman – a rather spruce specimen, I think – towards the wall. I forgot! he says with something close to anger, she’s got no business being here any more… specially today! Then he heads back to bed all miserable and sad and tragic with a: But do I have any business with anything any more? Do I have any business with life any more?

  I say yes, of course he has, I try to comfort him, to persuade him to come back beside me. He does, but with despondency written all over his face. I don’t know why I get the feeling this despondency could turn into violence at any moment. So I reassure him, telling him that what’s happened to him is completely normal and not at all serious. He just needs to calm down, to relax, to let his body and mind unwind, and a bit of reading can’t fail to be beneficial with that. I’m sitting, naked once more. I’ve picked up my glasses and Perec. He listens:

  Once again the traps of writing were set. Once again I felt like a child playing hide-and-seek who does not know what he fears and wants more: staying hidden, being found…

  Shyly, but actually quite firmly, he puts a hand on one of my breasts. But rather remotely. With no verve or ardour, with no flourish of conquest. Because it’s the procedure: deliberately. I surmise that he needs to feel both bold and calm. I abandon the book, take a deep breath and look all around the room through my clear lenses. A lovely room with a light-pink tint to the walls overlaid with striking black appliqué designs. Simple, geometric furniture. A lozenge-shaped mirror in which I can see myself, and can see his hand on me. A painting on the wall, reminiscent of a Mondrian. A beautiful touch-tone telephone in a gleaming mauve, within reach of the bed. An extremely elegant single-stem crystal vase next to the back-to-front photograph. I didn’t take the time to notice all these things. I now identify them one by one. The room is large, comfortable, orderly. The cleaning lady must be diligent. It feels good, us being here in this bed. But we need to do something. He must be thinking that too, because the pressure from his hand is increasing noticeably. At the same time he tells me in a deep, husky, slightly strangulated voice that I have beautiful, very beautiful breasts.