He has taken no chances. He showered again. Even at full pressure and almost cold, the water failed to calm him. He dressed lightly. The evening promises to be as hot as the day. He goes out the front and walks to Irène’s door. He rings the bell.
After a few moments, locks are disengaged, the door opens, and Irène appears behind the screen.
“If it’s about chocolate, I’ve already given, thank you.”
“It’s me, Rémi.”
She bursts out laughing.
“As if I didn’t know! Come in and close the door, will you? I had air conditioning installed this weekend.”
“I see…”
“You see?” she asks, turning towards him. “You sighted people, sometimes…”
“I felt it, actually.”
“Don’t mind me. I’m already a little drunk. Sit over there.”
She moves easily among the various objects in the living room.
“All your boxes are unpacked already?”
“Yes, of course.”
She settles opposite him.
“How foolish of me! You must want something to drink. These decanters contain all the liquid gold in the world. Wait…”
She runs her hand over several of them.
“This pear-shaped one is whisky. That one is port, but I don’t recommend it.”
She continues her description, commenting without hesitation on both the artistic merit of the bottles and the rarity of their contents: a Parisian decanter and fine Scotch, a Venetian flask and a green liqueur macerated by monks, another bottle given by a friend, the next by a brute who nonetheless had a nose for beautiful textures and good crèmes de menthe. At the same time, Rémi glances at the room’s other objects. As with the bottles, their diversity offers as many invitations to travel, with a marked preference for African statuettes and pagan sculptures. Nothing on the walls, only objects one can touch.
“I’d be happy with a simple Campari.”
She seems disappointed.
“Then simplicity it is. Would you fetch the ice? I knew I was forgetting something.”
She picks up a metal bucket.
“The refrigerator has a dispenser in the left-hand door.”
He goes to the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and activates the dispenser. The refrigerator is full. Refined foods and a few prepared dishes, probably from a caterer.
“I’d gladly serve you the canapés, but they’re for my next visitor.”
He smiles. He returns to the living room. She has set the glasses on the table beside the bottle of Campari and a bottle of soda water.
“On the rocks? Classic? Lady? Ah, I don’t know whether I have what I need for a Lady.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“You’re not missing much. It’s very sweet. On the rocks, then? Soda?”
“Yes, please.”
“I tried a Lady once. I wanted something original for one of my novels. The story of a young suburban woman who, trying to be sophisticated, would make herself one, alone in her living room. That story did well.”
“Do you write a lot?”
“One a year. I have nothing else to do!”
“All published?”
“Of course. Look!”
She points to the books on her right. He gets up.
“Irenea Flems?”
“A lovely pen name, don’t you think? In the business, they adore slightly complicated names.”
“Are you a celebrity?”
She laughs.
“It depends whom you ask. But yes, in my field, I’ve made my mark.”
“Then why live here?”
She laughs again.
“Material, my friend, material! I write only what’s true!”
“You mean these stories really happened?”
She hands him his glass.
“No, of course not, but if you want to write what appeals to people, you have to go to the source of fantasy! I don’t trust the publisher’s bogus sociological studies! I can afford to live elsewhere; in fact, my sister and I share a small apartment in Spain. It’s in Barcelona, in a former hippie neighbourhood that has become a dormitory for artists who’ve made it.”
“I know someone from here, someone famous, who lives there.”
“Léo Arcand, the painter?”
“You know him!”
“Of course… The city’s Canadian set frequents his salon, naturally!”
“Well, I’ll be…”
“I knew him, at any rate.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, we saw each other casually for a few months.”
“Now you’ve surprised me!”
She raises her glass.
“Chance is like the lottery: it doesn’t happen often. Well, it does. It’s a curious mixture of circumstances.”
“Isn’t he married?”
“Does that prevent him from speaking to pretty, blind, defenceless women?”
“But you know him better than that.”
She leans back in her chair and raises the glass to her mouth.
“We didn’t sleep together, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I wasn’t—”
She laughs as she empties her glass.
“Do you know how to make Campari on the rocks?”
He takes the glass from her hands and prepares another.
“Seriously, did you choose this house by chance? You’re truly rich, yet you’re willing to live here?”
Her smile briefly disappears. Rémi knows he has crossed the boundary of good manners. She composes a dignified smile.
“‘Here,’ as you call it, still cost me a pretty penny. I’m not quite that rich…”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t say anything. Until today, I didn’t know you knew Léo Arcand. I’m surprised myself, but should I really be? This city isn’t so large, after all. And when you travel even a little, you end up going round in circles…”
“I know…”
“In any case, Léo spoke to me at length about this city. He told me he missed it. I wanted to discover it, because it remains famous despite its small size. I needed a change of scene and some rest. I’m a Canadian citizen, but I’ve set foot in this country only three times in the past twenty years. My father was a diplomat. I’ve spent more time in drawing rooms than in my own bathroom.”
“And do you plan to stay here long?”
She pauses, tries to paste some joy onto her frozen smile.
“Who knows? Until I die?” she says, raising the glass he has just returned to her.
“To your death, then.”
Rémi lightly wets his lips with his drink while she empties hers.
“May I ask you an indiscreet question?”
“How did I contract the disease?”
“I’m not very original, am I?”
“Your originality doesn’t matter. It happened five years ago. A love affair with a young man. You can laugh now—Dalida and I sing the same song.”
She drains her glass.
“I had the absurd idea of writing a novel set in Africa. A young embassy employee falling in love with a handsome Black man—you know the sort of thing. That one sold well too. In the end, they all sell well. It’s suspicious…”
She holds out her glass for another.
“I never would have believed I could fall in love with such a bumpkin. He smelled wonderful! Ah, his scent!”
She sighs.
“I can be such a lecherous woman when I want to… The young stallion in question, and probably his entire family back to his most distant ancestors, were infected. But is that the right word? Infested would be more accurate. I wanted a child by him. The mad idea of an idle woman. Some evenings, I swear. I was in heat like a cat startled by what was happening to her. And he was wild! Young! His cock straight and oiled by youth alone, a perfect cliché. My God, it was good. And then, bingo!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Can’t you think of anything more intelligent to say? Do you think I tell this to every stranger who comes along?”
“I’m sincerely saddened. You are, indeed, very beautiful.”
“And if I’d been ugly, would I merely have been pathetic, blind, and HIV-positive?”
Rémi silently accepts her reproaches.
“Why not write one day about what you’re going through?”
“That’s what I’m doing. Don’t worry.”
“Will I be able to read it?”
“Well, choose one!” she says, pointing her chin towards the bookcase.
“I mean—”
“…my real novel?”
She rises, laughing. The doorbell rings.
“Already!”
“Your suitor?”
“You mean my escort?”
“I’ll leave you.”
“No, no! You’ll like him, I’m sure. Besides, I’d like your opinion. He’s probably homosexual.”
“I don’t know—”
“Please!”
She heads towards the entrance, calling, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” in response to a second ring. He faintly hears the customary courtesies. She asks the visitor to follow her.
“I have a friend to introduce to you.”
They enter the living room together. Rémi leaps to his feet, his eyes fixed on the man.
“This is Rémi, my neighbour. Your first name?”
“Stéphane,” Rémi answers for him.