Victor was already in the office. They had returned from the manor very quickly, saying no more than necessary. Rémi had dozed off during the trip and, upon waking, had wondered if that weekend had been nothing but a dream amplified by his own fantasies.
“Where were you last night? I woke up twice and you weren’t there.” “I went for a walk outside; I wasn’t sleepy.” “Marie-Claire told me Luc hadn’t been sleepy either.” “Yes, we were together. We took a walk.”
Rémi had maintained his composure and his smile. He hadn’t lied to Victor. He and Luc had walked both along the river and through the landscape of an intimate dream. Victor hadn’t pursued the matter. Luc had come out from his hiding place to say goodbye to them; Lucienne was more cheerful than usual, Marie-Claire wasn’t smiling.
Could they have guessed what had happened? Lucienne pretended nothing was wrong, promising to visit him the following week. Everyone had kissed goodbye; Luc had shaken Rémi’s hand without looking at him. Victor had pulled away, the tyres screeching. Turning back to wave one last time, Rémi had seen Lucienne give him an adolescent kiss, Marie-Claire shoot a furious look at Luc, and the latter wear a mocking smile. And the children swirling around them, dazed and blissful.
Rémi looks up at the sky. Its blue has been washed out by the heat and smog. The only hint of a storm is among the humans.
He has nothing else to do but linger over each of the plants surrounding the pool on his property. He doesn’t know all their names. Many are in bloom and emit a honeyed scent. Jean-Robert, the gardener, hadn’t stinted on colours, marrying greens with purples, oranges with blues, while, in pots too large for them, dwarf trees offer shade to carpets of yellow and violet flowers. In mid-spring, two lindens were planted at the back of the lot. They will provide welcome shade in a few years. The former owners had cut down the trees, probably out of laziness, or too tired from fighting the leaves falling incessantly into the pool.
A door opens to his left. Irène steps out onto her patio, a cigarette in hand. Wearing a diaphanous white dress, she walks briskly to the porch railing.
“Hello!” he says, a little too cheerfully.
She doesn’t seem surprised by his presence at all.
“The country has done you good?”
“Yes and no.”
She strikes a worldly pose, her face turned towards the sun. They have to speak a notch louder than usual because a neighbour a few houses away is mowing his lawn.
“I like that kind of answer, but yes and nos never make for good novels.”
Rémi climbs the steps leading to his own patio to better chat with her.
“And in your rosewater romances?”
“There’s nothing but rosewater in those, believe me. That or lubricant…”
“You have a high opinion of what you write.”
“What I write is like my life: chocolate that gives pleasure but makes you gain weight.”
“Are you still alone?”
“Is that a proposition?”
“Do you never give clear answers?”
“That looks like your yes and no.”
“All right,” Rémi replies, amused. “My weekend was pleasant because I reconnected with a friend, and it was my birthday. But it was dreadful because life is too complicated.”
“Happy birthday. But your answer is still too vague.”
“We aren’t intimate enough for that.”
She laughs.
“I don’t think we ever will.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t seem like the type to give yourself over completely, or maybe just to your lovers.”
“I’m married.”
She snickers.
“To your husband, then.”
Rémi feels uneasy. He wants to tell her everything, just to regain the upper hand. The little wind blowing through the town has died down. Time seems even more immobile, the afternoon too heavy to bear, the lawnmower too loud to allow for confidences in a modest tone. Fortunately, she changes the subject:
“Your garden smells wonderful. Who is your gardener?”
“I can introduce you to him. It’s true that your property needs a rejuvenation treatment.”
“Isn’t that right? Everything seems so dull to me. Nothing blooms there, except there, to the left, some poor roses.”
“Exactly.”
“Is your gardener handsome?”
“Yes, he’s a good-looking young fellow.”
“Does he play for your team?”
Rémi smiles.
“No, he has three children.”
“That means nothing.”
“Indeed,” he replies, more to himself, Luc’s caresses still lingering on his skin.
Irène snickers.
“Did I say something funny?” he asks.
“No, no.”
She raises the cigarette to her lips, consumes a third of it in one drag, and exhales a thick cloud that vanishes instantly into the air.
“No, no,” she repeats.
“Are you alone tonight? Victor, my husband, has to work late. I’d like to invite you to dinner.”
“That’s kind, but I’m waiting for someone.”
She emphasized the word “someone” as if wanting to entrust him with a secret.
“You’re probably expecting this ‘someone’ a little later tonight. May I offer you an aperitif, then?”
“Ah! an alcoholic never says no to an aperitif! I accept with pleasure.”
“Well then!”
“You wouldn’t mind coming to my place instead, would you?”
“No, not at all.”
“Very well. It’s just that I don’t want to miss my appointment. By the way, your bread was delicious. Is your bakery nearby?”
“A little, yes, but I’ll bring you some if you like.”
“I’m delighted! Go on! It’s time for me to get dressed up. My housekeeper is waiting for me to make me as seductive as possible.”
“But you already are.”
“Save that for your men, will you? A woman can never be seductive enough.”
She goes inside, leaving Rémi puzzled. She has alluded twice to Rémi’s lovers. He reflexively raises an arm to his nostrils. His skin smells of nothing but himself. He finds himself ridiculous again. And then, he catches another scent. Luc’s sweat. Rémi grows sad. Victor has the keen nose of a blind man. Rémi has never known how to lie.