“You have a very pretty dress.”
She offers him her arm so he can help her down the steps.
“Thank you. A linen-and-cotton blend, from Paris. Marie brought it back from her recent trip. She actually bought it in Bangkok… in a Parisian boutique. Anyway, as she so cheerfully puts it: we don’t give a suck.”
“Fine language for a flight attendant,” he says, amused. “Where are we going?”
“You’re the guide.”
“We could head downtown. At a leisurely pace, we can be there in an hour. Does that suit you?”
“I’m at your feet! And I have good walking sandals.”
“Then let’s go!”
She squeezes his arm in approval.
“You never use a cane?”
“Rarely. I prefer men’s arms.”
She leans on him without slowing their pace.
“I still want to thank you for yesterday. You now have as complete a portrait of my personality as anyone could possibly have.”
“The pleasure was all mine.”
She laughs.
“I’m not like that all the time, you know.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Probably nothing. The damage is done anyway, isn’t it? No, don’t answer. I woke up magically cheerful this morning. The more time passes, the more permissive I feel. Do you understand any of that?”
“You have nothing left to lose.”
“Touché.”
“But you probably still lack the manner, the style.”
“Touché again. You’re good.”
“Yes. Feel this, right here.”
“You’re amusing too,” she says, appraising his biceps.
“I’m told I’m irresistible, fair lady.”
“Oh, gallant sir, the gentle lady cannot see, so gather up your plumes and keep them away from her delicate, allergy-prone face!”
“I haven’t said my last word.”
“You enjoy seducing people, don’t you?”
“I do what everyone does. I use the weapons nature gave me.”
She does not answer. A slightly fixed smile and a few melodious sighs tell Rémi that she is lost in thought. She asks him to describe the streets they cross while adding the impressions she draws from her own senses. The food at one place is dreadful, she says; at another, the air seems neither to pass through the property nor to find its way in through the windows. Each time, Rémi completes the portrait with visual details. They amuse themselves with this game for a while. In this way, they cut through two neighbourhoods before walking on in silence for some time. Then she squeezes his arm again.
“Tell me about your life, Rémi.”
“The encyclopedic version or the short one?”
“You choose!”
“My mother died when I was very young. I remember very little, in fact, as though my life began with puberty, when the bell rang for recess. I lived in the country. A happy adolescence, all in all. Some fooling around with a handsome local boy, nothing transcendent. It wasn’t until I came to the city that I realized an entirely different world was waiting for me, that I had suddenly become the centre of attention in the bars. The jaded are quick to pounce on fresh meat. I became very proud and delicious. More than anything, I was lucky.”
“Are you one of the jaded now?”
“Possibly. I went far, you know—drugs, pleasure. That’s where beauty can lead too.”
“There’s no need to justify yourself.”
“I’m not… but yes, you’re right.”
“And then?”
“You mean in the meantime? A scattering of courses, mostly psychology. I became a waiter. But I’m leaving parts out. One day, the painter’s first wife came to see me at my restaurant. She and Arcand were no longer living together by then. He was already in Spain. She asked me to keep an old gay friend company while he was dying of cancer. Later, when Armand died, Marthe took me under her wing, so to speak. We travelled, went around the world.”
He then tells her about his time in France and his return.
“Are you bored?”
“In a way, although I keep busy.”
“An emptiness, then.”
“A hollow place. A hunger.”
“You’re beginning to count the years.”
“Probably… A slightly weary sailor.”
“That is a very poetic answer.”
“Will it do?”
“For now, yes!” she says brightly. “Ah, I can tell we’re approaching a park. So this is where the children hide in this neighbourhood!”
Rémi leads them onto a path beneath the trees. Irène sighs with contentment. When they reach the artificial lake, Rémi describes the surroundings: the many children to their left playing blind man’s bluff; the lovers strolling slowly around the lake, kissing from time to time and sometimes stretching out on the grass to remind each other of the power of their desire. And old people, of course, in abundance, seeming to dry out and die in the sun.
“Can we sit down?” she asks.
“Right there, straight ahead. It’s very close to the lake and the people walking by.”
“Perfect.”
A couple passes near them.
“Too much lavender on her, not enough deodorant on him,” Irène murmurs.
“And what do I smell like?”
“Bread.”
“Isn’t that a little obvious?”
“Chlorinated bread, actually.”
“Not much of a selling point.”
“I’m teasing you.”
“It’s your turn now to tell me about your life.”
“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m blind.”
“It doesn’t show.”
She bursts out laughing, then falls silent while some people walk past them.
“I lost my sight when I was five. A high fever triggered an infection of the optic nerve, followed by gradual blindness. So it wasn’t sudden, but rather a long agony of sight. I cried constantly. I thought someone had tied a blindfold around my head to force me not to see. The shock must have been terrible, because I don’t truly remember that period anymore; I blotted it out, if you’ll pardon the expression, by falling into a coma that lasted six months. Our mother often told us, with considerable emotion, that my dear little sister Marie could sit silently beside me for hours, holding my hand and smiling at me, as though she expected me to look at her again so we could go back to playing. One day, according to our mother, she heard us laughing. She began to cry. In a way, Marie had brought me back. We’ve been inseparable ever since. I know what red, yellow, green and blue mean. I retain the memory of them, but I’ve probably confused everything, because green, to me, is a smell—vegetation, for example; white is ice, snow, something you touch; red is skin when it is aroused or angry.”
“Does Marie live with you? Doesn’t she have someone?”
“Yes, her husband. She lives in Zurich, but since she travels all the time, she is often around here. After adolescence, we each went our own way to some extent. I retreated peacefully into my imagination, already writing novels—and no one will ever read those; I burned them! Private boarding schools, town houses, escorts even then. As for Marie, she was quickly swept up in society life and the habit of jet lag. We’ve remained strangely fused. Not a week goes by without our speaking on the phone or seeing each other. She watches over me, so to speak, and I sometimes give her a hard time.”
“Where did you live before coming here?”
“A convalescent retreat in Switzerland. A place where people pretend to be ill so their whims will be better indulged. Before that, as I’ve already told you, Africa, Barcelona… Ten years ago, our parents died in a bombing that wasn’t meant for them. They left us a considerable sum and a taste for temporary homes.”
“Have you ever tried to regain your sight?”
“Yes, five years ago. I had put my name down for a pilot experiment.”
“And?”
“I developed the infection.”
“Ah… and you began drinking?”
She lets out a little laugh.
“It was inevitable, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know…”
She gets up. He follows suit and guides her hand to his arm.
“You would make a good guide dog.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They continue their walk until late afternoon. Office workers flee their workplaces at a run, while motorists escape towards their well-earned television or their saving swimming pools.
Irène says her feet hurt but wants to keep going. Rémi submits to her wishes. Sometimes they stop for coffee, sometimes they plunge into air-conditioned shops, but Irène buys nothing; she merely comments on the atmosphere, the smell of the people, their often trivial words. Now and then, between two unkind remarks about the sweat surrounding them, she lets slip a sentence as close to cliché as it is to mystery.
After this labyrinthine walk, they arrive near Rémi’s bakery. The neighbourhood, he explains to Irène, is fairly quiet, bordering on a busier commercial street. Several service businesses, including his, supply those on the main street. Bakery, delicatessen, sweet shop, hardware store and so on. A few restaurants have recently opened their doors, an early sign that the business district is expanding into streets that had until then remained more residential. These new businesses thus benefit from a more discreet and loyal clientele.
“In five years,” he concludes, “it will almost be time to close up and look elsewhere, because the area will have become too touristy.”
Shopkeepers greet and tease him: “Can’t manage to take a rest, can you?” He thinks the window of his bakery looks very sad, abandoned like this by its loaves. Customers spot him and call out: “So, how’s the holiday? Missing work already?”
“You seem to be loved,” Irène observes.
“Have you ever seen a baker people threw stones at?”
“Yes. The ones in supermarkets.”
“Shall we go in?”
“I’d like that!”
Rémi unlocks the door. He lets Irène enter first, then closes it behind him. He turns on a small lamp on the counter. Irène stands motionless, smiling broadly, her nostrils flared.
“It smells so good in here!”
Rémi gently takes her arm and gives her a tour.
“Behind you, near the window, are the tables where customers can eat their sandwiches.”
“Let me touch them, Rémi.”
She feels her way forward and stops when her hands reach the first chair.
“Small cotton tablecloths, wrought-iron chairs—it’s all very French. Very European.”
“Yes. On the other side is the counter, wooden, of course. This place has always been a bakery; some of the furniture dates back to the beginning of the century. I was very lucky to come across this shop, a genuine historical treasure. A lot of bread has been made here!”
Seeing the light, people crowd against the window and try to come in. Rémi smiles and points to the sign on the door. They leave, disappointed. Rémi turns off the light; the dimness is enough for him. He leads Irène into the back and shows her the mixers, racks and oven.
“It seems small to me.”
“To make bread, you need an oven, a good mixer and somewhere to set down the loaves. It’s very simple. A refrigerator, a freezer, and there you have it. And, of course, impeccable cleanliness and a vermin-proof building.”
“Brrrrr.”
“What is it?”
“Just the thought that there might be rats in here.”
“When that happens, I make a special kind of bread.”
“Don’t make fun of me. I hate those creatures!”
“And I have a basement where the flour is stored in a cool place. There’s a small spare bedroom down there too.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve sometimes spent the night here—or at least the evening.”
“I see. Late customers who liked being kneaded?”
“You’ve understood perfectly.”
“You’re charming.”
“So I’m always told.”
“How many lovers have you had in your life?”
“Not that many.”
“Are you a liar or merely humble?”
“Many, yes, but fewer than before.”
“Naturally. You’re getting older.”
“I’m married.”
“Then why do you keep cheating on your husband?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Of course,” she says with a snicker. “Complexity is the lazy person’s prerogative.”
“Dixit Irenea Flems.”
“You’re the one who dixit it! You don’t do most of the baking?”
“Not anymore. I found an excellent baker. That suits me. But every now and then, I have to get back to it when Claudine is off. This is the first time I’ve closed for so long. A combination of circumstances. It feels good.”
“Are you happy here?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He takes in his bakery as though to make sure. He repeats:
“Yes, I think so.”
“I’ll certainly come back.”
“You’ll be most welcome.”
“Shall we eat? My treat. Are there any good restaurants in the neighbourhood?”
“I know a little French place nearby.”
“Is the owner gay?”
“The owner is a woman, yes.”
“Oh, forgive me. I put a capital letter on the word ‘French.’”
“Some of the waiters there have very good taste, you know.”
She bursts out laughing as she leaves the bakery. Her laughter rings out among the quiet pedestrians on the street. They smile at her as though to thank her for that little seed of optimism scattered into the surrounding air. Rémi locks the door, makes sure nothing has been left open, then takes Irène’s arm again to lead her to the restaurant.
“Let’s go feel up a waiter!” she declares brightly.