Herve Le Tellier - The Intervention of a Good Man

He finds himself wondering whether it is this denial of love that he is drawn to, captivated by, luring him to the abyss. Isn’t the word “attraction” a synonym for gravitation, he muses, and isn’t a black hole which gives out no light at all far more attractive than all the stars? Rather taken with his cosmological musings, he tries every now and then — though always in vain — to kiss her, injecting as much humor as possible into his advances.

The castle has come into view, with its drawbridge, its moat, and its crenellations. They have come across plenty of carts trundling tourists — some of them in kilts — toward the site, and drawn by horses that expel droppings with impressive regularity. They exchange a considerable number of comments about these droppings, their smell, and the magpies and crows that come and peck at them, and eventually reach the edge of the loch. A dead tree, smothered in moss and ivy, enjoys a second, parasitic life. Our heroine is talking about a swallow that has nested near her window, and asks him whether he thinks there are any eggs in the nest, and how long they will take to hatch. She asks him if swallows build nests as late as July. Hell, he doesn’t have a clue. Out of courtesy, he gives some vague reply about global warming, the greenhouse effect, and the shifts that have been noticed in bird migrations. She gives the impression of being satisfied with that. She points to the swans, so white, on the far bank of Loch Fannich, and wants to sit on a rock by the water’s edge. There is plenty of green grass, neatly mown, but she opts for the hard contours of this rock, and he takes this to mean they will not be here forever. He sits down beside her.

At their feet the water makes a listless lapping sound. In the distance swans move the way swans do, tiny dots of white on the loch’s emerald surface. Nature does nothing for him. What he likes best about swans, if he really had to choose something, is the mimetic elegance of the word itself.

Our hero now wants to leave. His desire for her remains intact, as does his affection, he wants to go home before feeling dirty. He does not want a struggle. He has neither the will to be tyrannical nor the energy to be angry. If he has learned one thing, just one, it is that feelings, affection, and desire have to make or break themselves. And also that love — let’s call it that for convention’s sake — that love, then, is not a stone by the side of the road that never moves, that came from nowhere and appeared out of nothing. Love disappears and comes back, it changes, it shifts, it falls, and picks itself back up even when we think it has died.

But for now, he needs to go.

He wants to help her get rid of him. And he wants to do it fast.

He presses her. A few questions and he gets her to say she no longer cares for him. And, more important, that she no longer wants him. He doubts this is altogether true, but it is still what he wants to hear at the moment, to give him the strength to leave. He pushes the point so much that she pronounces the fateful words. He can tell she is relieved, and immediately knows he is at least freeing her from feelings of guilt toward the Other, who will be joining her in three days’ time. He smiles. Says, It doesn’t matter. Adds, I’m going to go home to Paris, this afternoon if I can. If not, tomorrow.

She says, Scotland’s beautiful, stay, you could explore. He replies, No, it’s you I came to see, not Scotland. He adds, I’d have gone to Jackson if you’d been in Jackson. Not that he actually has anything against Jackson.

And he stands up.

I’ll take you back if you like, our hero concludes. Hero is the very word at this point.

The beauty of Glen Carron Park, still .

A surprise .

A longer conversation .

On the way back our hero and heroine walk side by side. They take it more slowly. The sheep are still there, peaceful and woolly. The tension has gone.

He is sure he will go now, completely. Because he is not going in order to leave her. Quite the opposite, he is going because this is where the risk of losing her is at its greatest. The sheep, the broom, the moor, the blue of the sky, everything feels like a personal enemy to him. Scotland in its entirety wants him to fail. Our heroine may be keeping him at a distance, but it is not because she no longer wants him, it is because she cannot do anything with him here. There is too much weight, too much guilt, too much lying. That is what he would like to think, but it is also what he senses. He is going, he knows he must, so that somewhere else, perhaps, later, it may be possible to be with her again.

So, in order to be sure, he subjects our heroine to the question again. She dithers, dangles, he does not insist on any tender gestures, only words. And she lets those anticipated words slip, they reiterate her rejection, but the color of them is smoother, she no longer denies her desire. He asks, Do you want me? You don’t ask the right questions, she replies. That is enough for him.

Our hero suddenly stops walking. He smiles as he points out a caterpillar crossing the path. It is brown with glints of gold, gleaming, covered in hairs, and crawling over the asphalt. It looks like a processionary caterpillar, minus the procession. They both stop to look at it. It is a quiet moment together, a necessary moment. He advises her not to touch it because its fine hairs could well be urticant. Now that’s a word he rather likes, urticant, it seems a while since he has used it. Then they set off again, abandoning it to its perilous fate as an urticant caterpillar.

Our hero now wants to reassure her, soothe her. He knows how to: he finds the right words, makes her laugh, thinks she seems more cheerful. They are walking through a strenuously landscaped wood, she is making fun of upwardly mobile Scots in the brand-new twenty-first century. She talks about her neighbors, of all the nouveaux riches created by the housing boom. He listens, is amused, makes occasional comments. The fact that the conversation is artificial does not bother him.

This newfound calm in her, this peacefulness, rekindles the desire and affection in him that he had almost driven out. She is walking within reach, so serene, and he wants to take her in his arms more than ever. Images of her fragile nudity come back to him, and echoes of the extreme words uttered in the half-light. A great wave of memories. He does not know how to fight this off. He never has.

So, when they finally reach the pub, when she suggests they have lunch (or was he the one who planted the idea?), he is surprised to find his hopes renewed. When she asks if he would like to sit next to her, he puts his hand on hers and she plays briefly with his fingers. He kisses her, tenderly, on the lips. She accepts the kiss, then pushes him away, gently. They order some mineral water, Sparkling, please (him), and a beer, A glass of stout (her), and One panini (just one for both of them). It comes served with thick greasy chips and a salad of raw onion rings that she devours eagerly. Her breath is like Claudette Colbert’s in Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife when she rejects Gregory Peck’s advances by gobbling white onions. Our hero cannot be sure of either the film or the male lead, but he would have no trouble triumphing over the smell of onions if our heroine decided to kiss him.

He may never have learned anything about women but he now knows that the panini is the Scottish national dish, way ahead of the haggis.

She finishes her beer, down in one.

Please take me back, she says.