Herve Le Tellier - Enough About Love

“It’s incredible. Almost a thousand euros between them.”

“A thou-sand! A thou-sand! A thou-sand!”

“Quiet!” Louise barks furiously. “Come on, we’re going home.”

“But, mommy, can’t we bet again?” Judith asks.

“No, I said we’re going home. Do you hear me?”

“Please, mommy,” Maud wheedles. “Thomas said we could bet again on the fourth race.”

“I said no. And it’s me who decides, not Thomas. Okay?”

Louise snatches her daughters by the hand and drags them down from the grandstand in spite of their protestations. Thomas does not argue. He goes to collect the winnings and meets them back at the car, where they are already sitting in their seats. Louise is at the wheel, silent; the engine is running and the girls are chirping away in the back. Thomas produces a roll of bills.

“What shall we do with this honestly won money?”

Louise does not reply. She drives off and slips onto the beltway, staring at the road ahead, stony-faced.

“Can you explain, Louise? What’s going on? I thought the whole thing was funny.”

“You don’t understand anything. No, Thomas, it’s not funny. The girls are so overexcited, you might as well have given them cocaine.”

“Cocaine?”

“That’s exactly right. Gambling’s addictive, didn’t you know that? And I don’t even recognize my own daughters. I’m angry with you.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Sorry … Well, it’s too late. I know plenty of people who blow everything in casinos, even their pension. Do you really want to know? My own mother, that’s who. My mother. In Enghien. And even now she goes whenever she can. I can’t tell you the memories this brings back.”

“You should have told me …”

“I didn’t want to go to Vincennes, but you insisted. There. You won.”

They sit in silence. For a long time. The traffic moves sluggishly. In the back, the girls have stopped talking. Thomas turns around: they are asleep, exhausted. The dashboard gives off a long beeping sound.

“Damn. I’ve run out of gas,” Louise says irritably. “And I don’t have my credit card.”

“I have some cash,” Thomas whispers. “Quite a lot, even.”

She does not answer. He looks sideways at her. Louise’s lips sketch a smile, which grows wider. Gradually they succumb to hysterical laughter, the car zigzags slightly. The girls do not wake.

• •

L OOKING OUT OF A HOTEL ROOM WINDOW, Stan watches the wintry night fall over Lisbon.

A long line of waiting taxis coils around Rossio Square, sheltered by plane trees. The evening shower has stopped, the pedestrians are no longer a ballet of black umbrellas. The next fare is a hefty woman weighed down with bags. She huffs and puffs, railing against the wind and the rain, everything is making her life difficult, her shopping, her soaked raincoat, her own weight. She is bound to go by some respectable name, Senhora Costa perhaps, yes, that’s it, Senhora Manuela Costa. She is in a hurry to get home so she can put it all away in closets before Senhor Costa comes home, and she is probably persuading herself that, as she has so much to carry, a taxi isn’t an unreasonable expense after all. She smiles and tells herself life is sometimes as beautiful as a large department store.

Behind Stan, under the sheets, a woman lies sleeping, her cheek crushed on the pillow. In this unconscious state, the vague resemblance to Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring that Stan managed to grant her evaporates altogether. The sleeper’s name is Marianne Laurent, she is married, admits to being thirty-five, laughs for no reason, and works in Lyon, at the Edouard Herriot Hospital, in Bongrand’s department, where she operates on corneas, which explains why she was at the sixth congress of the European Association for Vision and Eye Research. Stan now also knows that she has had work on her lips and breasts, has a pronounced predisposition to oral sex and a tendency to give short squealing sounds. They drank port together, too much of it, at the hotel bar. She was the one who dragged him to her room, her mind made up; he let her take the initiative before inverting the roles with a physical fury he did not know he was capable of.

Stan rests his forehead against the windowpane, his skin hoping to feel a bite of cold. Each taxi completes the same slow revolution around the fountain and Dom Pedro IV’s column. Stan has time to look at each driver’s face, to pick out the one who wears an ugly gray wool cardigan whatever the weather, the one who prefers a short-sleeved shirt to a polo shirt. They each have their own way of getting the customer inside. One turns around with a genuine smile, another waits for instructions, grumbling and keeping his eyes pinned on the steering wheel. If a driver has to put bags in the trunk, the routine procedure reveals everything about him, his sciatica, his filthy mood, his habits. Stan can give him a whole life, a wife, a mistress, one, two, or three children, he pictures the dog, a poodle or a bulldog, snoozing on the passenger seat.

Marianne Laurent snores artlessly, her mouth open. Anna used to say that for men, and sometimes for women, the sexual act could be — and this was her word—“vacuous.” Stan has to face the facts. He gave in to this woman’s moves, to the point of succumbing to his own body’s voracious appetites, and he took her without tenderness or love, striving for annihilation in a state of appalling loneliness. He closes his eyes. He would like to forget himself again in the passionate eagerness of those unfamiliar lips, lose himself one last time in that pliant, yearning flesh.

But the taxis keep circling the square and Stan is drawn into their slow spiral, which suddenly takes his thoughts back to Anna, to the grim thought of Anna’s naked body beneath someone else’s, and the image that looms in his mind pulverizes him.

• •

I remember when rock was young ,

Me and Suzie had so much fun ,

Holding hands and skimming stones ,

Had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own ,

But the biggest kick I ever got

Was doing a thing called the Crocodile Rock

Elton John and Bernie Taupin’s song dates back to the sixties, but the Farfisa organ and its honky-tonk have not aged that much. Louise has danced to “Crocodile Rock” so many times that it reminds her of being thirteen as readily as it does of being thirty. Later, she does not yet know this, it will remind her of being forty. After a Radiohead song, Thomas was out of breath and he abandoned Louise for a stool by the bar. She is spinning in some tall blond guy’s arms, her skirt twirling up. Louise has had a bit to drink.

The tall blond man is called Boris, and Thomas has gathered the fact — because the guy was going to great lengths to make it known — that he has a talk show on a cable channel. He is a pretty good-looking boy, the sporty type, with a very newscaster haircut, probably the best catch at this party. He is taking a very close interest in Louise. Earlier, when they were chatting, Boris stood facing her, his shoulders turned toward her, his head bent slightly forward, blinking his eyes rapidly and looking away a couple of times. Thomas had no trouble recognizing these instinctive codes of seduction that behaviorists have identified. Louise herself is not entirely indifferent to his efforts. She did that thing, brushing aside a lock of hair, which with her is a sign of tension.

They are dancing and Boris is holding her to him, caressingly. With every move, Louise’s top rides up, baring her skin, and Boris puts his hand on her hip to turn her. Thomas discovers a feeling of almost physical jealousy that he did not know he had in him. When “Crocodile Rock” comes to an end and Boris suggests they continue dancing to a less feverish number, Thomas intervenes.