Herve Le Tellier - Electrico W

Antonio shook his head with a scornful laugh: “I don’t know what you found so astonishing. You’re lucky to think the woman you love is pretty.”

“I don’t know how to explain it, I really don’t. She didn’t even have to be pretty …”

Even though I had created my Lena, I didn’t feel like sharing any intimate details with Antonio, who didn’t understand. I didn’t mean physical attraction, or that possessive vanity that takes hold of some men who are proud of their partner’s good looks. I wanted to pinpoint the moment just after that instant, unfounded attraction, the fraction of time when anonymous desire gives way to specific tenderness, when the attraction of a face is replaced by the sweet pleasure of memories.

I paused for a while, pretended to drink my beer, but the glass was empty.

“And then nearly two months ago, I fell in love with someone else, so …”

“Do you want another Sagres?” Antonio asked.

Don’t interrupt me, Antonio, please, because this is where the real lie begins. I’m going to tell you about Irene, about her and me. Hiding feelings is so much harder than inventing new ones. I smiled and shook my head.

“No thanks, no more beer. The woman I was in love with, you’ll never guess … it was Irene.”

Just saying her name was painful.

“Irene?”

Antonio looked genuinely amazed. I had guessed right, Irene hadn’t said a thing.

“Yes … Oh, it wasn’t very serious. Anyway, there’s nothing between us now.”

“I don’t understand …”

“We had dinner together, quite often, we even went away together, but she was always distant. Seriously distant in fact.”

I laughed. A bright, cheerful laugh, truly.

“I don’t think she knew what she wanted. And I must have been really, really heavy. An analyst would have said I was developing a fixation. I should probably have gone out and got myself a goldfish or a cat.”

I burst out laughing stupidly, and thought to myself that Irene most likely cared more for her cat than for me. What was his name again? More of a dog’s name, I think. Pluto, Plato?

“Is she the reason you left Paris?”

“No. This trip was planned a long time ago … Three or four months.”

Antonio looked concerned, far more than I would have suspected. I panicked slightly. My confession was meant to protect me, and I suddenly realized that my desire for Irene might rekindle his own feelings for her. Worse, it could fan the flames of those feelings, give them a whole new meaning.

“And do you still think about her?”

There was a pressing, almost anxious note in his voice. I needed to reassure him, take a step back, stop being a threat.

“No. Sometimes, a bit. But it doesn’t hurt, I’m just amazed to have misread things so badly. And anyway, there’s Lena …”

I looked at my watch, a quasi-instinctive gesture, discreet but almost impatient, to make Antonio assume I was supposed to be meeting Lena. I said a bit more about this woman, the amber of her eyes, such a rare color, the smell of her. I think I was plausible.

Antonio let me talk, and when I ran out of empty sentences, a sad-looking smile flitted across his face.

“You and Irene … I didn’t know, I would never have imagined …”

He gave a small private laugh, little more than a breath, and it hurt me.

Why would you never have imagined, Antonio? Was there something absurd, ridiculous about her and me? Yes, of course, you’re right. What with her being so young next to my forty years, my thinning hair, my deepening wrinkles, my body which wants to pass itself off as smooth and firm but isn’t very convincing anymore. What was it Irene once said? Oh yes, it was a young man’s body that hadn’t aged well. It was a cruel turn of phrase, and a pointless one too, because surely she knew no one ever ages well.

“Do you know why I’m laughing?” he asked. “I wanted to ask you to help me. To help me write to her.”

“Write to her? About what?”

“I don’t know, to say I love her, or I don’t love her yet … to tell her … about how confused my feelings are. I write so badly, I’m so awkward. I don’t want to hurt her. You’d have been better at finding the words than me. I honestly thought you didn’t know her. Well, not like that. I read a short story you once wrote for the paper. For you it would have been …”

I put down my glass, afraid Antonio would notice my hand shaking. And I finished his sentence: “… just an exercise in style … a little Cyrano de Bergerac moment. Minus the nose, I might say.”

“Yes, if you like … Let’s drop the subject.”

I had the seeds of an idea which made me smile. A bitter smile, but in the darkness Antonio could have read it as friendly.

“No, it’s okay, Antonio, I understand. It doesn’t bother me, not at all …” My eyes didn’t betray a thing, I’m sure they didn’t betray a thing. “Let’s write this letter.”

I laughed and asked for another Sagres. Antonio would be reassured seeing me pouring it carefully into the glass, eyeing the froth in eager anticipation, then bringing it to my lips. I performed this little beer-lover routine, nicely underplaying it. A man so focused on slaking his thirst is not one who’s suffering. And in spite of myself, I appreciated that beer, it was nice and cool, with a tangible, noticeable bitterness. I felt freer, more alive.

“Does Irene know I’m in Lisbon?” I asked. “That I’m working with you?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t think so.”

“You need to tell her. She’ll find out sooner or later. And then …” I tried to find the words as I stroked the rough stone of the balcony.

“Also, tell her you know about her and me. That I mentioned it. You see, let’s be honest, we parted in difficult circumstances. I was quite … nasty — a bit of an asshole to be frank. That’s ancient history, but I don’t want her thinking I would try to keep you two apart, out of jealousy or revenge. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes … of course.”

I drank some more beer, tried to think of other lines of argument.

“She cares about you, that’s obvious. And when you care about someone, you worry about everything …”

Antonio nodded in silence. I moved my last pawn into position: “No more hesitating … I think we should even admit to her about Lena and me.”

I was very pleased with myself for finding that “we,” making us accomplices. I mustn’t abuse that complicity, whatever happened. Men struggle with the notion of “we,” or rather when they have a “we” it often ends badly, in dubious conniving. I finished my beer and put the glass down resolutely: “I’m sure she’ll find it reassuring knowing I’m in love with someone else …”

I looked at my watch again, automatically. It was one o’clock in the morning. I got ready to leave even though it was far from plausible to be meeting anyone so late.

Antonio smiled. “Is this Lena of yours a night owl?”

“She sometimes paints right through the night, using artificial light. If the light’s on in her window, I’ll know.”

He opened the fridge and took out another bottle.

“I’m going to stay here for a bit, Vincent, it’ll give me a chance to think … so, how about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? What tomorrow?”

“The letter … can we write it tomorrow?”

He took the top off the bottle, some froth spilled over his fingers, obscenely.

“Yes, that’s right,” I replied, “we’ll write it tomorrow.”

I LEFT THE HOTEL and tried to find a taxi. At exactly the same time, Antonio was calling Irene, she was talking to him tenderly. I walked a few paces, if that, my head spinning. I leaned against the wall and slid down onto my heels, my legs buckling beneath me. I stayed there for many minutes before going home to my studio. I put an album on the deck, Sting’s The Dream of the Blue Turtles , which I had bought the day I broke up with Irene, and I lay down on the bed to listen to “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free” on a loop.