Saturday was chores day: bills, social security forms, telephone calls… The pace set on those days was that of a treasure hunt. Checkbook in hand, Amélie followed an itinerary whose logic she alone could fathom, including the stops along the way in the paper-cluttered zones of her apartment.
She walked over to the fireplace, where still-unpaid bills were resting in a prominent position, retrieved her mail between the kitchen toaster and the breakfast baguette, and, crouching under the living room table, went through papers piled helter-skelter in an attempt to convey to her husband the illusory impression of orderliness.
The telephone answering machine was her journey s important port of call, with its memory joggers, and intrusive messages accompanied by incomprehensible names and telephone numbers. She found her notes, cockled and wet, at the bottom of a puddle, utterly illegible. Her ceiling, with its humid corona, dripped like a nose afflicted by a winter catarrh. It was the kind of bothersome occurrence, devoid of panache and significance, that nevertheless inflicts its pressures, much as a bureau chief coerces his personnel into submitting to his pettiness.
Annoyed, she made a mental list of the round of cares awaiting her attention. The floor above her apartment was made up of fifteen maids' rooms. With her paltry sense of direction, and complete ignorance of plumbing, she felt incapable of locating the source of this leakage.
Ten in the morning on a Saturday. The tenants must have gone out. She couldn't count on the concierge, busy with house-cleaning jobs in the neighborhood to make ends meet.
Driven to some kind of action, she stepped out on the landing. The back stairs, reflecting the style of the service quarters of a previous era, were putty-colored and egg-shell white. Amélie climbed the narrow staircase, hemmed in by heavily painted walls.
Judging by the presence of a toilet on the landing, the dimly lit hallway could lead only to makeshift hovels. She felt sorry for those living there but preferred these simple maids' rooms to the fake renovations made by professional decorators: stucco moldings, mausoleum-like marble, the wooden panels inspired by Swedish saunas.
Nor did she rejoice in the so-called improvements in her neighborhood: modest cafés turned overnight into garishly neon-lighted, bay-windowed Tex-Mex establishments; the new bakeries' displays of breakfast rolls, jelly doughnuts, and chocolate Danish presented on tablets framed by gilded brass fixtures, as though this daily fare were rare pieces of jewelry.
Lured by gospel music, so out of place in such a French corridor, she set out on her inspection tour. She had to knock on the door repeatedly before getting a response.
-Just a minute! shouted an angry male voice.
The man who opened the door had a telephone propped by his head in the hollow of his shoulder. He had hastily girded his loins with a bath sheet.
Disconcerted, Amélie feared the badly secured towel might fall, putting her in an even more embarrassing situation than the present one. Definitely ungracious, he raised his eyes and chin in a mute address signifying "What's it about?"
Amélie stammered:
-Am I disturbing you? I'm your neighbor from below. There's a leak in my apartment…
-I'll call you back, he growled into the phone, with a curtness clearly directed at Amélie.
She was always thrown by aggressiveness. She remained speechless. After hanging up, he merely tossed out in her direction:
-Yes?
She could feel herself blush. She didn't know where to begin, how to explain her problem to this man who didn't seem inclined to help her, particularly since he most probably had nothing to do with the flood in her place. Bewildered, she stared at him: tall, slender, beardless, he looked like a movie romantic lead.
The cad was interrupted by the light-switch timer, which plunged the corridor in darkness. Seeing her standing at his doorstep, looking lost in the dark, he softened his tone:
-Please come in.
His studio was a good size, obviously carved from two or three maids' rooms. He introduced himself:
-Serge Munz. I'm an oaf. Sorry.
Amélie introduced herself. She resumed her tale of woe calmly. He was examining her offhandedly, but his look made her self-conscious. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, encumbered by her arms like a gawky adolescent. The music stopped. They were both taken aback by the sudden silence that threaded its way between them, revealing their separateness. They had nothing in common, except the music. It had held them briefly, as though caught in gelatin.
All of a sudden Serge desired this distant stranger. She froze. It happened in a fraction of a second. Serge fantasized about holding her in his arms. Amélie thought of running from this indecent tête-à-tête.
From the next room one could hear running water. Serge turned his head in that direction, on the lookout, as though hearing with his eyes.
-Merde! my bath!
He dashed, flinging a door open:
-Oh, no! Merde!
Amélie heard him sloshing through water, turning off creaky, rusty faucets. A mean, triumphant smile appeared on her face. She was pleased that the situation had reversed itself, even more than in having solved the enigma of the water damage. Embarrassment and unease were about to shift camp. Her presence in this man's apartment had become legitimate. Thanks to this discovery, she felt confident, on top of the situation. She drew closer.
Moving on all fours, Serge Munz was busy mopping the floor with a piece of sacking. Dripping with perspiration, he didn't cut a fine figure. She took in this scene, feasting on it like a boa ingesting its prey. Then sated, she inquired magnanimously:
-Can I help?
-You don't think that on top of it all I'll ask you to mop my bathroom! Sit down and I'll be right there…
Amélie surveyed the whole room. This was the right moment to satisfy her curiosity, awakened by this peculiar man in his forties, a kind of eternal student, eternally broke, elegant in demeanor but with unpleasant manners.
She saw he was a kind of collector. The walls of his room were covered with shelves crowded with brightly colored plastic figurines, giveaway toys from McDonald's meals. The ubiquitous Mickey Mouse came in all sizes and forms: watches, telephones, alarm clocks. There were lead cartoon characters from Tintin, Spirou, and Blake and Mortimer. Obviously he had not grown into adulthood. His rumpled bed, covered with a feather comforter rolled up in a ball, suggested fitful sleep or messy habits. A couple of books, dramatic texts, were scattered on the night table.
Serge materialized by Amélie's side:
-Well, one thing is certain. I'm the guilty party. What are we going to do now?
-I have no idea, answered Amélie.
They burst out laughing. Serge suggested:
-What if I were to make amends by taking you out? It's close to lunch time… I'm starving.
-Me too, Amélie answered, realizing she hadn't had anything to eat all day. She added: It's only eleven-thirty…
-We don't give a damn, do we?
The weather was cold and dry. The oblique rays of the sun fashioned in the asphalt a dazzling anthracite trail, like a mountain slope. Amélie smiled, fascinated by this mirage of altitude created by the reverberation.
A fatalist and a shirker, she welcomed an unexpected holiday from responsibility. Since she couldn't contact her insurance company before the weekend ran out, why not forget the tedious chores of Saturday and leave the rest to destiny?
Serge was watching her from the corner of his eye. He liked tall, cold, haughty women. She wasn't his type. But she was pert, attractive despite her shortness and transparent skin, which revealed an alluring network of veins.
She winced when, going up rue de Tournon, Serge stopped in front of the Chinese restaurant where David frequently took her. The door was open, the place empty: not a single waiter. All the tables were available, none seemed desirable. They shilly-shallied before deciding to call on someone. The echo of their hesitation rebounded off the bistro's walls, like a bat's sonar, returning to their ears without having been stopped by the obstacle of any company.
They finally sat down for fear of showing a ludicrous irresolution. No sooner done than they regretted their choice, as though, yielding to a headwaiter's impatience, they had ordered an unwanted special of the day. Pretending to be satisfied, they started an innocuous conversation to avoid losing face, as the Chinese would say.
Timidly, they applied themselves to becoming acquainted. The restaurant owner, a fat Chinese matron, stepped out of the kitchen to greet with deference the day's first clients. Her reserved attitude in regard to Amélie was unusual. Surprised to see her with a man other than David, she pretended not to recognize her.
Usually, after shaking hands, she would launch into a description of how hard it was for her to stick to a diet, since she'd yield in the middle of the night to irresistible desires for vanilla ice cream. Imitating her accent, Amélie gave Serge a sample of the discourse he wouldn't hear now that he was with her. He laughed.
"Here I go again!" she thought. "First I make him laugh, and in five minutes I'll be flirting!"
Subject to fits of despondency, Amélie tried hard to introduce gaiety into her life. She methodically cultivated her joie de vivre so as not to sink into despair. She joked with shopkeepers, smiled at strangers who whistled as she passed, held conversations with train-conductors, waiters, and old ladies sitting on public benches. The world then became as safe as a village square where one can mollify a cop to avoid paying a ticket, or elicit a smile from the postal clerk.
Seduction was a reflex she couldn't drop. Bitter experience taught her that most of her interlocutors would prove disappointing. She never derived as much fun from their company as from her pleasure in charming them.
A curious mixture of vanity and lack of self-confidence propelled her to act this way. Far from underrating the people she met, she conferred upon them qualities she'd been seeking for a long time before giving up hope of finding them. But she had doubts about her own worth, taking the initiative of gaiety to avoid facing the indifference she assumed she would arouse.
"There are limits to everything," she thought. After all, she wasn't doomed to seducing a neighbor responsible for flooding her apartment. He might possibly be able to engineer a fun lunch without doing the work for him. "Too bad if he turns out to be a bore," she reflected. She could always cut the lunch short.
So when he said: Tell me about yourself, it was the perfect opportunity to drop her flirtatious attitude. Like giving up smoking, it had to be cut short at once. With him she'd practice being insignificant. At least, she wouldn't waste her time. She had the impression of granting an interview to a reporter of the yellow press.
She weighed every word, delivered the official version of her life, keeping a strict watch over herself so as to avoid sallies or any witty remarks. She pretended all was divulged in the strictest confidence, as she piled one platitude upon the next. At last, pleased with her performance, she fell silent, careful not to restart the conversation and see what would happen next.
There was an embarrassing silence broken by the entrance of the waiter bearing imperial pâtés and a plate of steamed dim sum. Amélie had to bite her lips to stop herself from laughing. Ceremoniously, she applied herself to steady the mint and fried egg roll resting upon the ridge of a lettuce leaf. A perplexed Serge Munz gave the void a searching look. She was having a wonderful time.
-It's good, isn't it? he ventured as a last resort.
-Yes, was her answer.
She was delighted at the spareness of their exchange.
The restaurant was filling up. Most of the tables were taken. Serge Munz was silently chewing his food. Amélie realized that, in his company, she didn't fret over running into an acquaintance. They were too obviously bored with one another for their tête-à-tête to be compromising.
They were like those couples who, when eating out, never open their mouths except to ingest food. She always watched them from the corner of her eye, certain they took advantage of a heedless moment to secretly exchange a sentence on the sly, like naughty schoolchildren awaiting their chance to indulge in a bit of clowning.
Serge was about to say something when Amélie caught sight of David coming in. He was in the company of a young man, undoubtedly his son. He didn't seem to notice her presence.
-What's the matter? Serge inquired, seeing her grow pale.
-I've got a problem, she said in a whisper.
-What problem?
Amélie thought it over. She was supposed to be spending the weekend in Paris with Paul…. Had David ever seen her husband? No… Their paths had not crossed, and when David asked to see photographs of her daughters, she carefully removed those with Paul in them. So, this Serge Munz would do fine…. So far, so good… Of course, when David would catch sight of her, he'd realize how disturbed she was…. A normal reaction when you are peacefully ensconced in a restaurant with your husband, and your lover makes an unexpected appearance. Whew! All that was left to do was to transform into a husband the clod sitting before her.
Serge was furious. Not only was Amélie a self-satisfied bore, but she expected him to show interest in her little problems. And when, to be polite, he feigned concern, she couldn't even be bothered to answer him.
Amélie looked at Serge. He looked like a man at the end of his rope: jutting jaw, flaring nostrils, eyes shining with a metallic glow. He was about to raise his voice. She had to cajole him at once so as to avoid a scandal she couldn't pass off as a family quarrel. No time to finesse.
-My lover has just come in. I told him that there was no way I could see him, since I was with my husband.
-Well! That's some mix-up!
-Let me explain… Amélie went on. What I'm asking you is simple. I'd like you to behave as though you were my husband.
-A while back you certainly produced an expurgated version of your love life! Serge was enjoying his irony.
-A while back I had no reason to tell you about my romantic complications. I hardly know you. Beside, "a while back" I was playing the dope.
-What do you mean?
-I was trying to be as dim-witted and boring as possible.
She gave Serge, overcome with a fit of uncontrollable laughter, a sharp dressing-down, explaining how indelicate it would be to convey the impression of conjugal closeness.
-Amélie, you're delightful! Fine, make use of me as a husband.
David noticed them. He was surprised to feel an intense annoyance. Hadn't he come to this restaurant sniffing Amélie's trail, hoping to find her odor between these walls? He hadn't expected to discover her in an intimate tête-à-tête with her husband. Up to now, relegated to a parenthetical existence in Amélie's stories, that man had no definition beyond that of his function: a father role, the title of spouse, in short an abstract, variable, slightly bothersome presence. There he was in the flesh, inexplicably familiar-looking, endowed with substance like the jinni of Aladdin's lamp, but, unlike that supernatural being, unpleasantly menacing. Moreover, he was handsome. Looking him over, he wanted to bash his head in.
Amélie had an odd look. His arrival in the restaurant must have shaken her up. However, he wasn't up to empathizing with her. She was having lunch with her husband within the sanctuary of their illicit meetings, shamelessly undermining the magic of this place. Her unconcern offended him, filled him with doubt: Were Amélie and her husband having fun before his arrival?
Serge asked for the bill. Amélie was pondering the kind of look she ought to throw in David's direction before exiting. It had to be discreet, without seeming furtive, tender yet not saturated with love, since she was contemplating breaking off.
-Don't worry, Serge told her, noticing how tense she looked. You're merely leaving a bistro with your husband.
-All right, she sighed.
They got up to leave. David looked at them with a defiant air, and a shade of irony that made her uncomfortable. She returned his look, her eyes conveying contradictory emotions. Her only hope was that he'd select the one he needed.
Serge and Amélie walked off in the direction of their apartment building. Bothered by David's hostility, she kept silent.
Serge observed her closely. Her confusion aroused him, awakening fantasies of caresses stolen with impunity, as though from a defenseless sot. He envisioned a tactical movement whereby he'd seduce her by keeping her off guard. Then he pulled himself together, ashamed of this questionable thrill, not unlike that of a pervert taking advantage of the rush hour to feel up a subway passenger. Taking leave of her, he tried to be unambiguously affable.
-Don't hesitate to call on me. I can play your husband anytime. After all, I'm an actor.
-Really? Thank you. I'll call you next week about the leak… , she answered absentmindedly with a worried look.
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