Herve Le Tellier - Electrico W

She looked at her watch. “I have to go, I’m sorry. I’m already late.”

“Can I call you? I’d like to.”

“Sorry, Vincent, but I don’t give out my number that easily. But we’ll see each other again. Why don’t you tell me how I can get hold of you. Do you have a business card?”

I started laughing and, slightly surprised by my reaction, Manuela laughed too.

The Ilbassan civilization on the high plateau of Holtepo has more gods than all other civilizations combined. Where some peoples might believe in a rain goddess and would dance to secure her favor, the Ilbassanians think there is a goddess for each raindrop. So they don’t exhaust themselves jigging about over something so small.

I was translating this tale of Montestrela’s when Irene called me. She was flying out in a few hours and just wanted to say goodbye. I initially thought of saying I was busy but didn’t want to run away from the situation.

“I can come by your studio if you’re working. I won’t disturb you for long.”

I hardly had time to tidy the place before Irene knocked on the door. She came in and with her came that heady, candy-smelling perfume. She was wearing her red dress and coral necklace.

“So this is where you live. It’s not bad for someone who wants to write. It’s light, not too out of the way. What a wonderful view …”

She walked over to the window and leaned on the top rail of the little balcony to look at the Tagus. I moved closer, slowly, until I was right behind her, I breathed in the smell of her, the sensual acidity of her sweat. Irene stood motionless, so did I.

I need only have taken one step and our bodies would have touched. Hers wouldn’t have avoided mine, she would have leaned forward very slightly, and her buttocks would have moved back, pushing against my penis. I would have wanted her but wouldn’t have done anything. Just pushed my body against hers until she felt me against her. She would have moved, gently, spread her legs, slowly. Her right hand would have touched my thigh, moved up toward my erection, she would have squeezed it through the fabric. She would have unbuttoned my jeans, they would have dropped to my ankles. I too would have slid my hand over her legs, touching her silky, milky skin, realizing with amazement she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. She would have bent over even further, offering herself, and, in that position, I would have taken her soft, moist cleft, my stomach smacking against her ass, my penis going back and forth inside her, harder and harder, without a single word spoken, looking at her buttocks but also, to avoid coming too quickly, the ferries on the Tagus. All at once she would have moved away, turned around, and knelt down. She would barely have licked the tip of my penis and cupped my balls before I ejaculated on her cheek and in her hair.

“You’re right, it’s a lovely view. If you lean out a bit, look, you can see the big statue of Christ the King. Can you see it?”

Irene left almost immediately. Her goodbye kiss landed on the corner of my mouth.

Her plane took off at eight o’clock and flew over Lisbon. I think I saw it.

Cátia Moniz called me at about ten o’clock in the morning. The book was already done, the glue had dried, and even my cards were ready. Cátia Moniz. I really couldn’t get used to it.

I stopped off at the hotel early. Antonio’s bags were already in the lobby. He had found a seat on an afternoon flight to Mexico City. I had very little time left. I wanted him to come to the printers with me to pick up Contos aquosos . We agreed to meet for lunch near my studio and it was only as we were having coffee that I said: “By the way, I had Montestrela’s book rebound at the printers on the rua da Barroca. It’s weird: the girl who works there looks very much like Duck.”

Antonio looked at me intently, took a deep breath.

“Okay, what are you playing at, Vincent? What have you been playing at this last week?”

“Nothing. It’s the nearest place where you can have a book bound, I go there yesterday and I come across this woman—”

“Stop.”

I thought he was going to punch me.

“Vincent … the day before yesterday, a picture. Today, book-binding. That’s a lot of coincidences and a lot of chance occurrences.”

“I promise you—”

“Why would you go stirring up shit like that? Isn’t your own shit enough for you, that you have to go meddling in other people’s? Do you really think that in the last ten years I haven’t had time to track her and my son down? I’ll tell you the whole story, because you’re obviously dying to hear it, and then, then, listen to this, Vincent, you’re going to pick up your fucking book from your fucking printers and you’re going to leave her the hell in peace, and me too. Do you get it? Once and for all. Otherwise I’ll break your legs, okay?”

“But—”

“Shut up.”

WE’RE AT 42 rue Saint-Maur in Paris. It’s the summer of 1974. A young woman has just come through the gate and under the porch. On her chest, in a baby carrier, she has a one-year-old boy, maybe a little older. When the concierge, who’s cleaning the courtyard, asks who she wants to see, the woman says Flores, Antonio Flores, with a strong Portuguese accent. Second floor on the left.

Antonio knows nothing about what happened in Pragal, the birth, the hidden baby, the shame. In the chaos following Salazar’s downfall, Duck must have run away to a distant relation in Paris. How she found his address, Antonio doesn’t know either. It doesn’t matter. She was never given the letters he’d written. He’d moved so many times that not all of those she’d written to him could have reached him. Duck climbs the stairs. She climbs quickly, she’s in a hurry, she’s carrying the child in her arms. There is no name on the left-hand door, just a Rolling Stones sticker shaped liked a mouth. The doormat is a hedgehog. She shows it to her baby, saying, “ Olha, Vitor, ouriço, ouriço . Look, a hedgehog.”

“Riço,” Vitor mimics.

Duck rings the bell but it’s not working. She hesitates, then knocks on the door. It isn’t Antonio who answers the door but a tall, flat-chested young woman with long blond hair, wearing a man’s white shirt and jeans. She’s pretty, she smiles kindly to the attractive girl on her doorstep and her tiny little boy. Duck starts to have her doubts. Was this really the second floor, do they count floors differently in France? She’s not sure.

“Antonio Flores?” she asks.

Antonio? No, he’s not here. This evening, yes. Come back. At about eight o’clock? Duck can’t help seeing what the place looks like. It’s a very small one-bedroom apartment, you can see the double bed from the door. She takes a step back. She feels cold. She shivers. Would she like to leave a message? No, she wouldn’t. She doesn’t want to write a single word that this girl could read. She goes back down the stairs, looks for the letterbox. Both names appear in the window: Antonio Flores — Agnès Mangin. Idiota. Idiota . She’s put the baby back in his carrier, Vitor’s so heavy already, she kisses his fine hair. Duck goes out onto the street, walks toward the blinding sun, almost running, still intoning Idiota Idiota Idiota in a hissing voice Vitor doesn’t recognize.

When Antonio comes home and Agnès tells him that a pretty dark-haired girl came by with a baby, he gets it. Agnès gets it too. She leaves him. She doesn’t leave him because he hid this woman and child from her, she leaves him because he abandoned them.