Emmanuel Bove - Henri Duchemin and His Shadows

Such joy in being alive! And to imagine that we struggle to push away everything that could prevent us from moving along like this, gently, slowly, toward some intangible goal, almost unconsciously, happy to listen to the sounds, smell the aromas, see the light, touch a few objects.

A clock chimed. I did not count the chimes, but I sensed from the duration of the ringing that it was four o’clock.

And at that moment, dear sir, something horrible occurred. Have the kindness to read what follows attentively. I must tell you yet again that my happiness is in your hands. You know what a great responsibility it is for someone’s happiness to depend on you. Think of a person in your life who made you suffer. Think that, in his shoes, you would not have acted as he did. I am not asking you to do for a stranger what you would have done for a loved one. I’m simply asking you to attempt to understand and advise me.

I looked at a storefront. I looked at it distractedly, like people do when they have no one with whom to share what they notice. Then I turned around. Now you will find out what happened.

For merely a second, I saw a taxi pass close to me and in the taxi, my girlfriend was kissing a man.

You’ve grasped what I just said. I saw a taxi and, in this taxi, my girlfriend was kissing a man. She was blocking my view of him, but not entirely; I could see that he was hatless.

I swear on everything that is most sacred in the world that I saw my girlfriend kissing a man in a taxi. I swear. I saw them. He was letting himself be kissed. It was she who was leaning toward him. The taxi passed a few feet in front of me. I saw them. I’m sure of it, absolutely sure. Why would I say that if I had not seen them? I even remember today, two months later, all the details with extraordinary precision. She was to the left of this man. And her left knee was higher than the right and hid the man’s legs. I did not have the time to see her hands. I don’t know where they were. But, on reflection, I really have the impression that her right hand was behind her companion’s back, while her left hand must have been holding him around the neck. There is no possible doubt. She was kissing a man. I saw the bright color of the hat she had put on before going out. I saw her, my girlfriend in this taxi and I also saw a bit of the man she was kissing. Yes, it was her. But, then, I just don’t understand. If she doesn’t love me, why doesn’t she leave me? It was her. I saw her. I was not thinking about her when I saw her. Otherwise it would be easy to imagine that, since I was thinking of her so vividly, I gave her features to the first woman I saw.

And now, since I have offered you all my certainty, let me tell you again that it is true: I saw her in this taxi; it was her.

I went back home, completely demoralized. Before my eyes I continually saw the inside of this taxi that in my mind—a bit dark, lit from the front, with its cushions—resembled a small bedroom. I even imagined flowers in this taxi, flowers I had not seen. It is impossible to describe what I was feeling. I would have to choose among a thousand fleeting thoughts. I need to present you, dear sir, with a few of these inconsistent thoughts that, in my head, followed one another with dizzying speed. And if I could manage to sort some of them out, to see them separately from the others, it would seem, by their insignificance, that my pain was not as great as I claim. So I shall not describe my pain. Can one really portray suffering with words? In this account, I don’t think so. I am too removed from what happened. Any perfect description of pain presupposes an effort I can no longer make. I can only write as I am writing, just clearly enough for you to understand me.

I went home and lay down on a bed. Remaining motionless seemed odious to me, but by forcing myself to lie down, I wanted to prove I was still in control of myself.

Until my girlfriend returned, I never ceased thinking about her. No, I had not been mistaken. If I’d had even the slightest doubt, I would have done everything I could to fuel it until it became a certainty. But there was not even the shadow of a doubt. It is dreadful to find yourself confronting reality in this way. No matter what line of reasoning you come up with to forget it, it reappears quickly, more real than ever.

I spent two interminable hours like this, thinking, all the while waiting for the one I love.

Suddenly the door opened. She was there.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, darling. Why are you here? Do you feel ill? You should have undressed and gone under the blankets.”

I did not answer. I was torn between the desire to tell her everything I had seen, immediately, and the desire to remain silent in order to hold onto a reason to be sad, in order to take an incomprehensible pleasure in hearing my girlfriend lie. I hid my confusion behind an imaginary headache.

“Get under the blankets, my love. If I had known you were so sick, I would not have gone out. I would have taken care of you. Lie down now. I’ll make you something warm. And I’ll sit next to you and read you the papers. I have never seen you so ill. What’s wrong? Do you want me to go get a doctor?”

“He wouldn’t be able to cure me.”

My voice was filled with sadness as I pronounced this sentence. In my mind, it had a different meaning than the one my girlfriend heard and, like all such sentences, it required a disabused tone. I like those sentences, and you will see what I did with them.

“Go lie down now.”

“What’s the point?”

“Come now, don’t be so discouraged. The minute you are a tiny bit ill you think you’re going to die.”

“I wish it were true.”

My girlfriend, despite all my efforts, did not notice that my pain was entirely emotional. I would have wanted her to see it for herself so I could deny it feebly, and in the end explain to her why, so that she could reassure me. But she did not notice.

She undressed me by force, as badly as I would have undressed her.

“Now lie down. Close your eyes, my darling. I’ll bring you something warm.”

I obeyed. I felt I would not be able to keep what I had seen to myself. In spite of how sure I was of my girlfriend’s unfaithfulness, I still wanted to believe that a word from her would dispel my certainty.

“Henriette, what did you do this afternoon?”

“Errands of no interest to you, my little lamb. I brought you the papers. You see, I thought of you.”

“But what kind of errands?”

“How jealous you are, Jean.”

“I’m not jealous, my darling. I’m interested in everything you do.”

“Well, in that case: I went to the milliner’s. Then to Anne’s. We went for a walk together. Then she felt ill. We went into a café. And you know, when I was at the milliner’s, there was some old man who waited for me for at least an hour at the door. If you had seen him! He was looking at hats, but how he looked at me! In the café, it was the same thing. Two young men wanted to sit down at our table. You can imagine how Anne, who wasn’t feeling well, sent them packing!”

“And if she had been feeling well?”

“Oh! You are mad! You see everything in a distorted way. You know I would never talk to a man I didn’t know.”

“And you didn’t go down rue Saint-Lazare?”

As I said these words, I stared at my girlfriend, as much as one can when one is lying down. She answered me without hesitating at all:

“No, why?”

“Because I saw you.”

“You saw me?’

“Yes.”

“So you went out? That was not wise, sick as you are. You should have told me you wanted to go out. We would have gone out together.”

“I saw you.”

“You’re mistaken. What would I have been doing on rue Saint-Lazare? I was not even in that neighborhood. You dreamed it, and it doesn’t surprise me, my adorable little lamb.”