The alarm clock reads 1:26. Rémi watches for the beam of light to change. 7. There is no ticking; the electronic pulse lies beyond perception. He may never see daylight, so thoroughly has the night devoured his eyes. Too many things worry him, though he cannot locate their source. Words arise, senseless stories, then more immediate concerns. His mind manipulates these wanderings as though they were a simple deck of cards shuffled out of boredom. Just as he might fall asleep, his legs jerk, reminding him that his thoughts have not been put in order, that dreams are boiling out of the pot. Dreams and reality, shadows and reality again. Anxieties and never reality.
There is no point resisting. Better to get up. He puts on Victor’s bathrobe, the sole concession he makes to memory, and goes down to the living room, sits, rises again; the silence is no calmer.
Lucienne has left her bedroom door open and the light on. He approaches and sees her snoring, fully dressed. He turns off the light, closes the door and goes out onto the patio. He immediately recognizes the familiar sounds: nocturnal insects, the distant hum of downtown and, from time to time, bursts of noise, often the hormonal cries of teenagers on the loose.
And Émile’s laughter. He greets Rémi, then points towards Irène’s house. What has that man discovered now? Rémi immediately notices a ladder leaning against the wall and leading to the roof. He goes down and steps back for a better view.
“Good God, what the hell is she doing up there?”
Irène is humming, seated at the top of the roof in a translucent negligee. He runs through the hedge and climbs the ladder dangerously. Behind him, Émile’s laughter grows louder.
“Rémi! You ain’t dressed for climbing a ladder. Take that off, it’ll be more exciting!”
“Shut up, Émile!”
The burly trucker becomes hysterical with laughter.
“Irène! What has gotten into you?”
She stops singing and tries to rise.
“Why, it’s my Prince Charming! Good heavens! And I haven’t even done my hair!”
“No, don’t do that! Wait, I’m coming.”
The roof has a gentle slope, and Rémi quickly makes his way towards her.
“You’re mad…”
He sits beside her. She giggles.
“You hadn’t figured that out yet?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not at all, dear Romeo, merely drugged. I have new medication, and the doses haven’t been adjusted. Besides, they forbade me to drink alcohol with it. As if that mattered! It made me want to turn myself into Juliet!”
“You could have killed yourself.”
She laughs again.
“Of course…”
“How did you do it? This ladder…”
“A workman who is supposed to repaint the dormers and cornices brought his equipment this afternoon. Setting up a ladder doesn’t take a genius, you know. You only need to know where the wall is and, for the rest, move slowly… guided by my good friend Émile! It’s nice up here, don’t you think?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Guess.”
“I don’t feel like it. It’s late.”
“Then what are you doing outside? Hunting ghosts? Come, relax… I happen to be alive…”
“How were you going to get down, Irène?”
“You underestimate a blind woman’s abilities.”
“You could have…”
“Will you stop? Relax, I tell you! There, you already feel better. Isn’t the view magnificent?”
“You can’t see anything…”
She laughs.
“Close your eyes. You’ll see what I mean.”
He obeys. He feels himself swept into the sky.
“Was the film good?”
“I didn’t much care for the cinematography.”
“You’re mad…”
“And you’re fond of me.”
“Yes, Irène, I love you.”
“I nearly saw that film, you know. It was a little too predictable. I didn’t tell Lucienne because she cried often.”
She thrusts out her chest, then lets the pose fall.
“I would like to make love on this roof, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the city. But it’s true! I am perpetually in the middle of the night and the city; I could do it in broad daylight and, for me, it would be exactly the same. I don’t know what is stopping me after all.”
“Why did you come onto this roof?”
“Why not? Don’t you like living intensely? How to make every hour a special moment… Step one: close your eyes and climb onto a roof…”
“Step two: make sure a neighbour is close by to rescue you.”
She laughs.
“Step three: wave to Émile.”
They wave to the man.
“He’s waving back,” Rémi says.
“He can’t understand much of what’s happening. Step four: ask Émile whether he is happy.”
She rises too quickly for Rémi to stop her. She waves.
“Monsieur Émile! Yoo-hoo!”
Rémi stands in turn, imitated by Émile on his flat roof. Émile sways.
“Can you hear me? Are you happy, Monsieur Émile?”
“What?”
“Are you happy?”
The trucker shrugs and signals that he cannot hear.
“He’s deaf, I swear,” Rémi says.
“You mean he’s drunk.”
“No doubt… Come, let’s sit down again.”
“Let’s take a walk instead.”
She turns to her left and advances slowly. Rémi follows, ready to rescue her. She maintains her balance very well, placing her feet on either side of the roof ridge.
“Please, Irène…”
She does not listen. He tries to imitate her but feels far less brave. They reach the end of the roof.
“I can feel the void there,” she whispers happily.
“Yes, don’t go any farther.”
“Do you think I’m mad enough to let myself fall?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Neither do I, to tell the truth…”
She turns swiftly towards him.
“You’re blocking my way.”
“Give me your hand.”
She obeys. He turns slowly, using her for support. He leads her back to the centre of the roof while she hums.
“Shall we go down?” he asks calmly.
“Wait. Let’s sit; that was too brief.”
Reluctantly, he sits. She does the same and leans against him.
“What are you wearing? Tell me. That isn’t your scent.”
“Victor’s bathrobe.”
“He’s gone, isn’t he?”
“Nothing gets past you.”
“You have Stéphane now.”
“Are people so easily interchangeable?”
“No, of course not. I say that to give myself courage.”
She feels his arm.
“You’re terribly tense. I should give you a massage, but perhaps you’d prefer a man’s hands…”
“I have quite an imagination too, you know.”
She laughs with the small joy people experience when subjected to the impossible.
“What can you see from here, Rémi? Tell me…”
“The suburbs, two metres higher than I’m accustomed to seeing them. What do you want to know, Irène? What can I tell a blind woman about the darkness she already knows?”
“You’re mistaken. For me, it isn’t darkness; let’s say it is opaque. The nuances lie more in smells and sounds.”
He calms down and tries to pierce the mystery of silhouettes cut against the lamplight: houses, trees, nocturnal birds. At last, he murmurs.
“The suburbs stretch for several kilometres. They look like a field of motionless fireflies, tiny, feverish points of light. Sometimes you see something cross the air, some bird, perhaps a bat. You can also see the trees swaying slowly. The rest is black, with flashes of light from certain windows. People are watching television. And you? How do you perceive the suburbs?”
She takes time to think.
“I feel as though I’m at the top of a high mountain. I don’t have my usual bearings; the wind strikes me directly, and there is all this emptiness drawing me towards it. I feel as though I can breathe! Down below, I suffocate. That huge house exhausts me with its silence. I’m tired of being alone, Rémi. If I didn’t restrain myself, I would hire an escort every night.”
She presses against him.
“I’m afraid, Rémi.”
“Of falling?”
“If dying is falling, yes. They changed my medication because things are going badly. I’m moving in the opposite direction from scientific progress. I don’t take care of myself, and I’m beginning to pay the price. And I’m sick of these pill cocktails. I know where all this leads. If you only knew… I once volunteered with people whose illness had manifested itself. They end up force-feeding you pills as though you were a laboratory goose. The red tablets taken with milk, the blue ones without it; don’t mix the green pills with the orange ones. As dramatic as it is pointless. And what am I supposed to do with colours?”
“But people do take those pills.”
“I know… Allow me, tonight, on this roof, to lose heart completely. It will last a few more seconds, then I’ll faint.”
“Really? You don’t feel well?”
“On the contrary, I feel very, very well. You make a wonderful pillow. I do love metaphors, hadn’t you noticed? What time is it after all this?” she asks, yawning.
“Nearly two.”
“You couldn’t sleep?”
“No… That’s nothing new for me.”
“Your mind is not at peace.”
“It never has been, in that case. When I’m dead, I’ll make a good sleepwalking ghost.”
“Is Émile still there?”
“I think he’s just fallen asleep in his chair.”
“Wake up, Émile!”
Émile does not hear her.
“You’re going to wake Lucienne instead.”
“Ah! Dear Lucienne. A soul as good as your bread.”
“She’s had her share of madness.”
“That’s what makes her a good soul.”
“Then you’re very good too.”
She laughs.
“I’m lost and bitter instead. Let’s be quiet for a moment.”
“It’s getting late.”
“Shh…”
Rémi falls silent and begins to love this place. Irène is right: the air is clearer, the sounds almost luminous.
“How do you make love, Rémi?”
“Captain James Kirk’s log, commander of the Enterprise. I’m sitting on a suburban roof, naked under my bathrobe, and a drugged blind woman is asking how I make love.”
Irène bursts out laughing. Émile starts, then falls asleep again.
“I make love like everyone else, I imagine.”
“Tut, tut.”
“You’d have to ask Stéphane…”
“I’m not asking you to give yourself a mark… You’re more macho than the real thing! Then tell me what you like about making love.”
“All right. I’m very visual, but at first I have to close my eyes and taste my partner’s lips. It’s almost a test for me. From the play that begins, I know whether what follows will be good or merely mechanical.”
“You open your eyes afterwards.”
“Yes, and I don’t close them again. I like to take my time, but by then it is no longer lovemaking, since I surrender myself. So I don’t know how I do it. It becomes a dream. Would you like me to invent details?”
“No, I understand the rest.”
“And you?”
She straightens and makes a face poorly lit by the night, so Rémi cannot tell whether it expresses discomfort or pleasure.
“I have the sexuality of a dying person. Don’t tell me you’re going to die too; I won’t believe you! I will probably die sooner than you, and even if my death means nothing in the life of humanity, it is far too much for me. I regret my existence, what it has become; so I gobble up every crumb that falls from the table of happiness. And when nothing falls, I shake the table… In love, I am cautious. Should I add: like most women? Because I’m blind, men are more careful, which is good for me because they concentrate less on their cocks. A friend once confided that she could not communicate her desires to her husband. I replied, ‘Put your eyes out.’ Horrified, she practically ran away. A woman’s skin possesses the nervous sensitivity of a jellyfish. Lovemaking, for me, is a labyrinth. My lovers must find the many keys that will allow them to open the temple of temples. I guide them, certainly, while I try to understand the geometry of their bodies, pressing here to surprise them, there to excite them. They rarely protest when reassured beforehand. Such children.”
“And it works.”
“Yes, if they know how to be patient.”
“I’m no different from you. Of all the lovers I’ve had, I remember those who opened like oysters and did not close their shells again until ecstasy was satisfied.”
“And that moment is rare.”
“Very.”
“And your escorts?”
“The sexual ones? It’s an agency specializing in that. Clans form among the outcasts. But you have to be careful. Some men come inside you merely to convince themselves they are courting danger. Eventually, you learn to recognize them. I’ve been through that…”
“And sometimes you hire more distant escorts.”
“That’s well put. It’s true, more distant ones, like that Stéphane you love so much.”
“I don’t know whether I truly love him.”
“Oh yes, you love each other. I believe you’re both returning from a long journey.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he didn’t know whether he loved you.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“There you are.”
She rises.
“Shall we go down?”
Rémi helps her reach the ladder. He is not very comfortable, vertigo threatening to unbalance him.
“Relax,” she says, seeming to understand what he is feeling.
“Come here, turn around, I’m holding your hands. The ladder is here. Take it with both hands, then you can step over.”
“I know how to do it, my friend.”
After locating the ladder, Irène frees herself from Rémi’s grasp and lifts her nightgown so it will not interfere with the manoeuvre.
“Fat Émile is going to get his money’s worth,” she says, chuckling.
“He’s asleep…”
She settles nimbly onto the ladder, then stops.
“See, it isn’t so difficult. All you have to do is imitate me!”
She bursts out laughing and climbs down quickly. When she reaches the ground, she begins to shout.
“Go on, Rémi, we’re here to help you!”
“Be quiet!” he replies, laughing.