“Hello, dear angel.”
He smiles. With his hand, he symbolically blows a kiss toward the screen.
“I’m growing fonder and fonder of Ireland, you know. It’s one of the places you haven’t experienced; I hope you’ll come for a visit.
“Hélène and I are doing very well. Hélène is writing the sequel to The Casimir Effect. The ocean inspires her. On the beach, bundled in her blanket (she is always cold), she barely moves and stares at the sea. As for me, I roam the countryside, getting to know the inhabitants. With my red hair, people take me for an Irishwoman and are always surprised first by my accent, then by my origins. It interests the old men, who have certainly tried their luck, as you can imagine, though they spend more time ogling Hélène’s large breasts. They must think we’re lesbians, and it excites them.
“I know you’re smiling at what I’ve just written…”
He is indeed smiling, and has been from the beginning, happy to be with her, if only a little, through this letter.
“Our village has exactly thirty inhabitants. The houses withstand the wind as steadfastly as they withstand time, and their occupants have hearts as soft as sea foam. They are all slowly dying, buried beneath neglect and the city encroaching nearby. Our house is not large, but it is probably the sturdiest of them all. It overlooks a rocky beach that the vegetation takes wicked pleasure in conquering. Everything bears a strange resemblance to my old manor. I am well here. I am at peace. And I want to remain so.
“Speaking of peace… we have chosen where we want to be buried…
“You read that correctly: the pretend lesbians want to lie beside each other in death as in life. The idea came to us a week ago while we were walking through the village cemetery. Nothing official, mind you. Although Canada is part of the Commonwealth, I’m not sure a Canadian subject may deposit her flesh wherever she pleases… I’m not being morbid; we laugh about it a great deal. In a way, we love each other enough to throw wide open the floodgates of life before they are forced shut for good. This is where we find ourselves, preparing for death, glimpsing that mountain, as François Mitterrand called it, upon which our flight will end (that president had a sense of the airport).
“You should have seen us, hand in hand on a rise at one end of the cemetery overlooking the ocean. It’s just like something in a book. The place is perfect: the gulls, the tourists searching for some impossible ancestor or merely indulging an anecdotal curiosity. And the many boats in the distance.
“We read the nearby epitaphs to find out who among the living had reserved a place. We spoke with a widower patiently waiting to rejoin his wife, who died in the early years of their marriage. He never remarried, he told us. It was touching and a little foolish of him, but then, he must have loved her, or else he was too shy to look elsewhere (I know, I know, I’m wicked). I hope he doesn’t snore; his grave is near the one I have my eye on.
“I’ll tell you more about it. Don’t say anything to the others for now. I will probably come see all of you soon.
“M. A.”
Rémi stares at the screen, at the email program’s icons, at a tiny insect walking from pixel to pixel in search of invisible sugar. It flies off, lands a little farther away, and goes in circles. Rémi blows on it; the insect flees, only to return and land again.
He moves the message into the folder reserved for Marthe. He will answer her later.
He rises, goes to the window, and leans his torso out into the open air. From this height, the neighbouring properties are clearly visible. No one is fooled by the false privacy provided by the hedges. He studies the windows of the couple across the way. Nothing on that side tonight. This is not their day; they never make love on Fridays. They are creatures of habit: Tuesdays, Thursdays, and sometimes Sundays. At such times, it is not unusual for one of them to display himself at the window when Rémi is at his. Online, this neighbour calls himself Cobra, and they have already had cybersex together. Cobra would have liked to cross the hedge, but Rémi refuses. Never sample the local fare, especially a neighbour, and honour remains intact. Cobra eventually understood, though this does nothing to keep him from hoping and, through his neighbourly exhibitionism, inviting Rémi to change his mind.
Rémi does not care, though he feasts his eyes all the same. And Cobra gets his treat when Rémi, alias Night, is feeling hot and, by way of the camera, undresses for his neighbour before coming later, alone.
Rémi returns to the computer and opens the video-chat application. His contacts appear on the left; above them, a window displays the image captured by the camera. He removes his shirt, adjusts the camera, corrects the lighting. Again he studies his image. It will do. The light sculpts what it needs to. His torso is well defined, his collarbones conveying the force of both beauty and age. He has lost a little weight. His muscles are growing leaner. He mutes his microphone; he would not want to wake Victor.