The Woman With the Bouquet (18 page)

She walked more slowly, batted her eyelids, opened her mouth, hunted for a sentence that didn’t come, began to doubt, thought she must be wrong after all, then hurried and rushed away.

However, she ran into Raphaël again in the company of his colleagues; every time, she felt she was burning up as they looked at each other.

What could she do? How should she behave? Stéphanie had even less of an idea how to react because she wasn’t expecting anything from this boy: he was a nuisance. Could she go up to him and say, “Thanks, but stop now”?

Marie-Thérèse offered her opinion while they were at the cafeteria.

“That stretcher-bearer Raphaël, I think he’s devouring you with his eyes, Stéphanie.”

“Oh, really? He’s not bad . . .”

“Are you joking? He’s the cutest guy in the hospital. He has long eyelashes like an Egyptian princess. We’re all crazy about him. We’ll be green with envy if you hook up with him.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Those flowers! Everyone knows about it, girl. He is just crazy about you.”

“Don’t you think he’s too young?”

“Too young for who? He’s the same age as you.”

Marie-Thérèse was right. Spontaneously, since she’d realized she could be attractive around Karl, a man of forty, Stéphanie had been considering herself to be older, classifying herself along with the fortysomethings, and initially she thought it was too bold, or even indecent, to respond to the advances of a mere youth.

The week was hectic. Stéphanie did not spend too much time with Karl; he had undergone a new operation and was easily tired; also, by chance she happened to witness his behavior with other nurses, and understood that with her he was making himself tired trying to be funny, deep, and disconcerting, and that he often made an excessive and costly effort. In addition, she dreaded walking through the floors and running into Raphaël.

The following Saturday and Sunday, although she didn’t have to go to work, she did go to the hospital. She dressed up, convinced that Karl would be sensitive to how she looked, and she even went so far as to inaugurate the lace lingerie that she had just bought. However, when she saw a few of the former mistresses waiting in the lobby, she turned around and headed back the way she’d come, swapped her Indian silk blouse and jersey skirt for her regulation scrubs, then went back upstairs as a nurse.

Her colleagues were astonished to see her there, so she explained that she was doing overtime in ophthalmology, in the ward across the way, and then she seized a moment when they weren’t paying attention to slip into room 221. The last mistress had just left, and Karl gave her some time.

“Have you noticed? I have fewer visitors as the weeks go by. They only appreciated me when I was in good health—strong, funny, somebody who made them feel good.”

“Are you angry with them?”

“No. It’s probably because that’s the way they are—voracious, eager to charm, to conquer, to live—that I liked them to begin with.”

“How many came back?”

“Two. There’ll only be one left next week. They have finally managed to get along, these women who hate each other; they’ve arranged to take turns getting news about me by coming here as little as possible. It’s funny, no? Basically, they’re impatient, in a hurry to weep for me, they’ll be dazzling at my funeral. And sincere. Yes, I mean it, really.”

“Don’t say that, you’ll get better! We’re going to fight together to get you back on your feet.”

“My mistresses don’t believe that . . .”

“I don’t even want to make fun of them. It must not have been hard to fall in love with you: you’re so handsome.”

“Male beauty is useless. What makes for a man’s attraction is not his beauty, but the way he convinces a woman that she is beautiful in his presence.”

“Blah blah blah!”

“Useless, I assure you. Physical perfection gets in the way, it’s a handicap.”

“Go on!”

“Okay, listen: the fact you think I’m decorative—what does that inspire in you? Trust or wariness?”

“It inspires desire.”

“Thank you. Now, be honest: trust or wariness?”

“Wariness.”

“You see! The first thing people are wary of—they assume that handsome men are not sincere. The second thing: handsome men inspire jealousy. I’ve only ever known jealous women.”

“Were they wrong?”

“The first time they threw a jealous fit, yes. After that, no. Since their suspicion preceded my acts, I felt obliged to prove them right.”

They laughed, relaxed.

“Let me explain, Stéphanie, why one must never be jealous. Because if you create a unique relationship with someone, it will not be reproduced. For example, in this very moment, do you think I could have this discussion with another woman?”

“No.”

“So you must consider, Stéphanie, that with me you have no rivals.”

She smiled and then brought her lips closer to his to whisper, “Yes I do.”

He shivered.

“Who?”

“Death. One day death can take away this unique thing I am living with you.”

“And so you hate death?”

“Why am I a nurse? Why do you think I am looking after you so well? I will help you to get better.”

They stayed in silence for a long while, very close to each other, sharing the same emotion. Then Stéphanie kissed him furtively and rushed out.

On Monday morning in the changing room, it wasn’t a bouquet waiting for Stéphanie, but Raphaël.

Intimidated, with the burning boldness of shy people in his eyes, he quickly handed her a spray of roses.

“Hi, I’m Raphaël.”

“I know.”

“I’m the one who . . . since . . . well . . . you understand . . .”

“Yes, I know that, too.”

She suggested they sit down on the bench next to the long sink.

The stretcher bearer murmured, as if he were in ecstasy, “You are beautiful.”

On hearing him, Stéphanie realized that she had left the world of the blind behind; this was a sighted man who was saying this, a sighted man with his eyes wide open.

“Raphaël, I’m not free.”

The young man’s face fell, instantly devastated by pain.

“That can’t be,” he murmured.

“I’m afraid so, I’m not free.”

“Are you going to get married?”

Amazed by the concrete nature of the question, Stéphanie replied in a toneless voice.

“Perhaps. Nothing is planned. I . . . I love him. It’s . . . it’s like a disease.”

Stéphanie almost confessed that Karl was sick then, at the last minute, out of caution, she turned the phrase around on herself, so her colleague would not suspect anything. She insisted, “You see, my feelings . . . it’s like a sickness. I don’t know when I’ll get better, or even if I will get better.”

He reflected. Then he looked into her eyes.

“Stéphanie, I realize that I’m not the only man who’s interested in you, I realize that I have rivals, and I realize that the world is full of men who would like to live with you. However, with my flowers, I was coming to ask you if I was in with a chance, even a tiny chance.”

Stéphanie thought about the doctors’ cautious diagnoses, and the anxiety she felt every morning going into the room where Karl lay, so weak . . . Unable to continue the conversation, she burst into tears.

Disconcerted, Raphaël wriggled from one buttock to the other, muttering Stéphanie’s name, hunting around to see what he could come up with to check the deluge of tears. Awkwardly, he put his arm around her shoulders, and encouraged her to lean against him. As she was sobbing, he smiled, because for the first time he got a whiff of her scent, and it made him giddy. Stéphanie, slumped against his chest, discovered that, while most stretcher-bearers smelled of stale tobacco, this boy had incredibly soft skin that gave off a heady perfume of hazelnut. Confused, she sat up. Trying to get a hold of herself, she remembered the operations Dr. Belfort had talked about, and she pictured herself helping Karl to sit up, to take his first steps . . . She shook her head, looked her admirer in the eye, and said, “Forget about me.”

“You don’t fancy me?”

“Never, do you hear me, Raphaël: never!”

When she went through the door of room 221, she unbuttoned the top of her blouse and saw Karl looking even paler, emaciated. As usual, he did not let his worries show through. With a brisk movement she slid the bedpan under the sheets, and hardly recognized his legs: his thighs and calves had melted away. She was eager for Dr. Belfort to begin these vital operations.

“What’s up, Stéphanie, you don’t talk about Ralf anymore.”

“It’s over.”

“So much the better, he was a jerk. So who’s your new boyfriend?”

Stéphanie felt like shouting, “You, you idiot, I love only you, there is no one as important as you,” but she knew that would not be in keeping with their relationship, for he thought that she was independent, fulfilled, happy. And so she answered, “Raphaël.”

“He’s a lucky guy, that Raphaël! Does he know it?”

Stéphanie thought back on the episode she had just experienced and declared, “Yes. He does.”

Karl registered the information at face value.

“So much the better. I want you to promise me one thing, Stéphanie, will you?”

“Yes.”

“Lend me your ear: I can only whisper this kind of request, and that way I can enjoy the way you smell better.”

Stéphanie put her ear up against Karl’s well-defined lips, listened attentively to his murmur. As soon as he had finished, she protested, “No! I won’t! Don’t even talk like that!”

He insisted. She put her ear back against his lips, then with tears flowing from her eyes, she agreed.

The medical team performed the decisive operation. Going round in circles outside the security door, Stéphanie, who was not religious, implored the heavens to make it a success. Dr. Belfort came out of the operating room rubbing his hands, looking pleased. Stéphanie clung to this detail to keep her faith.

Then, in the space of four days Karl’s condition deteriorated. He went into a coma during the night and, on the morning of the fifth day, the doctors began to doubt whether they’d be able to revive him. Stéphanie clenched her teeth, trying to hide how distraught she felt, battling with her colleagues to chase death away from where it was lurking in room 221.

At the end of the afternoon, she had to go to the distant infirmary at the other end of the compound.

The sky was a springtime blue, sharp and cloudless. The brisk air filled her lungs. Birds were chirping as if to announce a joyful event.

A bell rang out on the half hour.

Stéphanie found herself hoping: she hurried her steps to return to reanimation.

When she went through the security doors, she sensed that something was going on.

At the end of the corridor, banging the door to his room, the nurses’ aides were busily moving about.

She broke into a run and went through the door.

Karl had just died.

She leaned her back against the wall and slid slowly to the ground. There she stayed, her legs spread, without saying a word, without a cry, her eyes overflowing with tears.

Her colleagues looked at her disapprovingly: a professional must never give in to emotion, otherwise it becomes impossible to do one’s job.

Overwhelmed, she suddenly remembered Karl’s whispered words: her promise.

She jumped to her feet, ran down the corridor, drying her eyes, down to the ground floor, on to the emergency unit, then straight up to where Raphaël was standing smoking with the other stretcher-bearers.

“Have you finished your shift?”

“In ten minutes.”

“Then let’s leave together. Let’s go to your place.”

Dumbfounded, he hesitated. She misunderstood his hesitation and insisted: “It’s now or never!”

“Then it’s now!” exclaimed Raphaël, tossing his cigarette away.

He took her by the hand and led her back to the changing room. On the way, she felt the need to explain herself: “You see, I’m coming with you because . . . because . . .”

“I get it. You’re all better?”

“That’s it. I’m all better.”

One hour after Karl’s death, Stéphanie, loyal to her promise, gave herself to Raphaël. She made love with passion and rage. Not for a moment did Raphaël suspect she was a virgin. But when she let the young man embrace her, although it was to Raphaël that she parted her legs, it was for Karl that she said, “I love you.”

M
e, read novels? Never!”

Although he lived surrounded by thousands of books, boards sagging wearily from floor to ceiling along the walls of his gloomy apartment, he became indignant at the mere suggestion that he might possibly waste his time with fiction.

“The facts, nothing but the facts! Facts, and ideas. Until the day I run out of reality, I will not grant a single second to unreality.”

Very few people entered Maurice Plisson’s apartment, because he didn’t like having people around; however, from time to time, when one of his students showed a real spark of interest for his discipline, he would gratify him at the end of the school year with a reward, a privileged moment: an hour with his teacher over a mug of beer, served with a handful of peanuts on the coffee table of his living room. Every time, the student—shoulders sloping, knees close together, intimidated by the premises—would gaze at all the shelves and see that filling all that space were essays, studies, biographies, and encyclopedias, but not a single book of literature.

“Do you not like novels, Monsieur Plisson?”

“You might as well ask me if I like lying.”

“To that degree?”

“Look, my young friend, from the moment I first realized my passion for history, geography, and law, despite forty-five years of assiduous reading at the rate of several books a week, I am still learning. What could I possibly discover in a novel, a work of mere fantasy? No, tell me: what? If they tell a true story, I already know it; and if they make something up, I couldn’t care less.”

“But literature . . .”

“I don’t want to belittle my colleagues, or dampen your energy, particularly as you are a brilliant student and quite capable of admission to the école normale supérieure, but, if I am to be perfectly frank, I will say: stop boring us with literature! Stuff and nonsense! Reading novels is an occupation for a woman on her own—although knitting or embroidery would be more useful. Those who write novels are writing for a population of idle women, no one else, and they’re seeking votes. Wasn’t it Paul Valéry, a respectable intellectual, who refused to write a text which began with ‘The marquise went out at five o’clock?’ He was absolutely right! If he refused to write it, I refuse to read it: ‘The Marquise went out at five o’clock!’ First of all, the marquise of what? Where does she live? In what era? Who can prove to me that it was truly five o’clock, not five ten or five thirty? And besides, what would that change, if it was ten o’clock in the morning or ten o’clock at night, since it’s all made up? You see, novels reflect the reign of the arbitrary, complete vagueness. I’m a serious man. I don’t have the place, or the time, or the energy to devote to such nonsense.”

He felt that his arguments were irrefutable, and this year as in all other years, they produced an identical effect: the student did not reply. Maurice Plisson had won.

If he had been able to hear his student’s thoughts, he would have found out that silence did not mean victory. Disturbed by his peremptory tone, considering his theory to be too cut and dried for an intelligent man, the young man wondered why his professor kept such a distance from the imaginary, and why he was so wary of art and emotion; and what surprised him most of all was his professor’s scorn regarding “women on their own,” since it came from a man on his own. For it was public knowledge at the Lycée du Parc that Monsieur Plisson was a “confirmed old bachelor,” and had never been seen in the company of a woman.

Maurice Plisson offered his student another bottle of beer, as a way of signaling the end of the interview. The student understood, mumbled some thanks, and followed his professor to the door.

“Have a good vacation, young man. And just remember that it would be a very good idea if you were to begin revising your ancient history already in August, because in the course of the coming year, you won’t really have time before the entrance exams.”

“I’ll do that, sir. Greek and Latin history as of August 1st, I’ll follow your advice. My parents will have to agree to take a trunk full of books with us on vacation.”

“Where will you be?”

“In Provence, where my family has an estate. And you?”

While the student may have asked his question simply to be polite, it nevertheless surprised Maurice Plisson. He squinted his eyelids and looked for help in the distance.

“Well . . . we . . . in the Ardèche, this year.”

“I love the Ardèche. Whereabouts?”

“But . . . but . . . listen, I don’t know, it’s . . . a friend who is renting a house. Ordinarily, we go on package tours, but this summer, we will have a real stay in the Ardèche. She decided for us, she took care of everything and . . . I don’t remember the name of the village.”

The student maintained a kindly attitude toward his professor’s embarrassment, shook his hand, and went down the steps four at a time, impatient to meet up with his friends and spread the news of the day: Plisson had a girlfriend! All the gossipmongers had been wrong about him, those who thought he was a homosexual, or those who said he visited prostitutes, or the ones who believed he was still a virgin . . . In truth, Plisson, although he was ugly, had had a woman in his life for years, a woman with whom he traveled around the world, whom he met up with during the breaks, and, who knows, maybe even every Friday evening. Why didn’t they live together? Two possible explanations. Either she lived far away . . . or she was married. Good old Plisson, he would be the main topic of conversation that summer, among the students in the final year.

When he had closed the door behind his student, the professor could have kicked himself. Why had he spoken? Never, in the thirty years of his career, had he given away the slightest clue about his private life. How could he have yielded? It was because of that question, “Where, in Ardèche?” and he realized that he had forgotten . . . With his memory like an elephant, he usually remembered everything . . . It was so distressing that, consequently, wanting to make up for his slip, he had mentioned Sylvie . . .

What had he said? Oh, it hardly mattered . . . Dreaded ailments usually started like this, with confusion, or a lapse, a memory that escaped you . . . Now his brain was boiling. He must have a fever! Was that the second symptom? Could your brain degenerate that quickly?

He dialed Sylvie’s number, and while it was ringing, because she didn’t usually take so long to answer, he suddenly became afraid he’d dialed the wrong number without realizing . . .

“It’s even worse than I thought. If I mixed up the numbers, and if someone else starts talking to me, I’ll hang up and head straight to the hospital.”

After the tenth ring, a voice answered, sounding very surprised: “Yes?”

“Sylvie?” he asked, breathless, in a dull voice.

“Yes.”

He took a breath: it wasn’t so bad, at least he had dialed the correct number.

“It’s Maurice.”

“Oh, forgive me, Maurice, I didn’t recognize you. I was at the back of the apartment . . . what’s going on? You don’t usually call me at this time?”

“Sylvie, where is it we are going this summer, in the Ardèche?”

“To a friend’s house . . . well, a friend of friends . . .”

“What’s the place called?”

“I have no idea.”

Appalled, Maurice fluttered his eyelids, tensed his fingers on the receiver: Sylvie, too! We are both suffering from it.

“Would you believe that I couldn’t remember the name you had given me either,” squealed Maurice, “when a student asked me.”

“Maurice, I don’t see how you could have repeated something I never told you. This friend . . . or rather, friend of friends . . . in short, the landlady drew me a map to get there because the property is in an isolated rural area, far from any village.”

“Really? You didn’t tell me anything?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“So I didn’t forget anything? So everything is okay?” exclaimed Maurice.

“Hang on a second,” she said, without suspecting how greatly she had relieved his anxiety, “I’ll go get the paper and answer your question.”

Maurice Plisson collapsed in the Voltaire armchair he had inherited from a great-aunt, and smiled to his apartment, which suddenly seemed to him as beautiful as the château of Versailles. Saved! Rescued! Safe and sound! No, he was not about to depart from his beloved books just yet, his brain was still functioning, Alzheimer’s disease was camped outside, well beyond the fortress wall of his meninges. Begone, threats and fantasies!

From the crackling sound in the headset, he guessed that Sylvie was going through her papers; finally, he heard a victory cry.

“Here, I’ve got it. Are you still there, Maurice?”

“Yes.”

“We will be in the gorges of the Ardèche, in a house built at the end of a road that has no name. Let me explain: after the village of Saint-Martin-des-Fossés, you take the road to Châtaigniers; there, on the third road after the crossroads with a statue of the Virgin Mary, you drive for two kilometers. Is that a good enough answer?”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you want to have your mail forwarded?”

“For two weeks it’s not worth it.”

“Me neither. Especially with such an address.”

“Okay, Sylvie, I don’t want to keep you any longer. As you know, the telephone and I . . . See you on Saturday, then?”

“Saturday, ten o’clock.”

In the days that followed, Maurice dined out on the cheerfulness which had closed this conversation: not only was he in fine form, but he was also about to leave on vacation!

Like many single people who have no sexual life, he worried a great deal about his health. The moment anyone mentioned an illness in his presence, Maurice imagined he would catch it and from that very moment he lay in wait for it to show up. The more the illness revealed itself through vague, uncharacteristic symptoms, such as fatigue, headaches, sweating, and gastric discomfort, the more he dreaded he was infected. His doctor, just as he was about to close his office, would see Plisson show up, looking feverish, hands trembling, mouth dry, desperate to obtain confirmation of his imminent demise. Every time, the physician conducted an in-depth examination—or at least gave his patient that impression—before going on to reassure him and send him home as delighted as if he had been cured of a real ailment.

On those evenings, when he felt he had been set free, as if he had been granted clemency on death row, Maurice Plisson would get undressed and look with satisfaction at his reflection in the full-length mirror in his bedroom—a relic from his grandmother, a solid burr walnut wardrobe with an inside mirror. To be sure, he was not handsome, and no more handsome than before, but he was healthy. Entirely healthy. And this body that nobody wanted—it was purer than many attractive bodies, and would live even longer. On those evenings, Maurice Plisson liked himself. Without the intense fears with which he periodically inoculated himself, he might have been incapable of displaying such affection toward himself. Besides, who else would have shown it to him?

On Saturday at ten o’clock he blew his horn outside the building where they had arranged to meet.

Sylvie came out on the balcony, fat, giggling, badly dressed.

“Hey there, cousin!”

“Hey, cousin!”

Sylvie and Maurice had been friends since childhood. When they were young, and he was an only son, and she was an only daughter, they had adored each other so much that they had promised to marry when they grew up. Alas, an uncle who had been let in on their secret explained to them that first cousins were not allowed to get married, which put an end to their matrimonial projects, but not their friendship. Was it the shadow of their doomed nuptials that prevented them from creating lasting ties with others? Did they never resolve to envisage any other relationship, after that original one? And now they were both fifty years of age, with doomed love affairs behind them, and they were resigned to their single status. They spent time together the way they used to, during vacation, with as much if not more pleasure, because each time they met it was as if they were annihilating time and the hardship of life. Every year, they gave each other two weeks, and they had been together to Egypt, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, and Russia, for Maurice appreciated cultural trips. And Sylvie liked traveling of any kind.

In a whirlwind of veils and shawls that floated around her enormous body, she came out the front door of her building, glanced over at Maurice, and strode across the sidewalk to the garage to load another suitcase into her tiny car. Maurice wondered why this obese woman systematically bought tiny cars. Not only did they make her seem more voluminous, they could not be very practical in the long run.

“Well, Maurice, what are you thinking?”

She went up to him and gave him a resounding kiss.

Crushed against her monumental bosom, trying on the tip of his toes to reach a cheek where he could leave a kiss, he suddenly saw himself as if he were Sylvie’s car. Puny, hollow-chested, short, with slender joints, on a photo next to Sylvie and her Mini he would have looked as if he belonged to her collection.

“I was looking around the parking lot and I remembered that on my street there are two blacks who have white limousines. Black. White. The opposite. Have you noticed?”

She burst out laughing.

“No, but you reminded me that one of my colleagues at the town hall, Madame N’Da, has a bichon, a cream colored dog, that she’s crazy about.”

Maurice was going to smile when he noticed to his horror that his car—long, high, solid, with a body of American proportions—confirmed the law of opposites. He would never have suspected that he too was trying to compensate for his own complexes through the choice of his automobile.

“Maurice, you seem somewhat tired . . .”

“No, everything is fine. We’ve been talking on the phone for months without seeing each other, so how are you?”

“Just great! I’m always just great, Maurice!”