Marie Ndiaye - Three Strong Women

“I think that Madame Menotti is hopping mad, Rudy,” Cathie said, rather regretfully, in a low voice.

“Oh? Why?”

The old vague impression that he’d fallen down on the job for Madame Menotti, not deliberately but through a negligent failure to pay close attention to his work, made his mouth suddenly feel dry.

So what had he done, or failed to do?

Madame Menotti, a lowly bank employee, didn’t have much money. She’d taken out a loan of some twenty thousand euros to finance the purchase of this kitchen, and Rudy had had to juggle with different pieces of equipment taken from several models, some of them sale items, to meet the requirements, which were hardly modest, of this hard-nosed woman who, though well versed in money matters, suddenly affected inability to grasp why her itemized wish list added up to a lot more than she’d borrowed.

In many ways he’d shown himself to be receptive, committed, on the ball.

And yet, once the whole order had been placed, a sort of unpleasant aftertaste and a threatening premonition had stayed with him … and circles about so that he finds the way through and goes inside, and trysts that he is in pleasaunce and delyte, as he trysts the others also to be, and once within he cannot go back …

Oh God, what had he done now?

Since the start of his employment at Manille’s four years ago (four years of his life!) he’d no recollection of ever having done anything exactly as it should have been done.

Either through boredom or resentment he’d piled up mistakes and peccadilloes. Some customers, when they came back for an additional purchase, recalled these lapses sufficiently well to tell Manille that this time they wanted nothing to do with Rudy Descas.

But in Madame Menotti’s case he’d gone to a lot of trouble.

“How’s your wife?” Cathie asked.

Startled, he blinked, and wriggled helplessly.

“Fine, fine.”

“And the little boy?”

“Djibril? Fine, yes, I think.”

Now she seemed to be gazing at him with the same taunting, rather distant smile as the man with the beret shortly before.

He was seized with panic.

What was she smiling about in her reddish halo?

And once within he cannot go back .

“You’ve really got no idea what Menotti wants from me?” he asked in an offhand way, knowing perfectly well that it was useless to pursue the matter but unable to make up his mind to leave without trying to get some clarification on Madame Menotti’s concerns but also on the incomprehensible trials of his own life, of his whole existence.

He cannot go back .

Cathie stared at her screen, conspicuously ignoring him.

It then struck him that once he’d left the room he wouldn’t get back in, that he wouldn’t be allowed back in, and that people preferred, for a reason he couldn’t discern, not to tell him so just yet — because they were afraid of him, perhaps?

“I did everything I could for Menotti, you know? Since I began working here I’ve never gone to so much trouble as I have over that blasted kitchen. I put in hours of uncounted overtime.”

He was calm and he could feel his face radiating the warmth of his calm, light smile.

The sharp pain in his anus was also subsiding.

Since Cathie went on stubbornly pretending not to notice his presence, and because he suddenly thought that if he didn’t come back to the office he would perhaps never see her again, he leaned down toward the tiny pink lobe of her almost translucent ear, and whispered, softly, calmly (as softly and calmly, he thought, as the young man he’d once been):

“I ought to bump off Manille, don’t you think?”

She moved her head sharply away from his.

“Rudy, just back off!”

He raised his eyes and, through the picture window, looked once again at Manille’s sunlit villa with its imposing, disproportionately large entrance bay, at this big low house very similar to those that rich businesspeople built for themselves in the part of town known as Les Almadies, and indeed very comparable, he said to himself, his heart missing a beat, yes indeed, very comparable, to the villa built by his father Abel Descas, who’d chosen to have his shutters painted not in the Provençal blue now popular everywhere but in a dark red that reminded him of his Basque origins, not suspecting, how could he—

but he cannot go back

— a red hardly less dark than the blood of his friend and partner would stain forever the very white, porous stone he’d chosen for the terrace.

Yes, Rudy thought, ambitious men like Manille or Abel Descas (whose strong legs were never obliged to graciously bend at the knee, were firmly planted on the ground) built houses that looked alike because they were the same sort of men, even though Rudy’s father would have laughed at, or rather taken umbrage at, being compared to the owner of a kitchen dealership, he — Abel Descas — who early on had left his province, crossed Spain and a bit of the Mediterranean, then Morocco and Mauritania, before pulling up in his valiant old Ford on the banks of the Senegal River, where — he straightaway said to himself, as he strove already to fashion his little family legend — he would found a vacation resort the likes of which the world had never seen.

Oh yes, Rudy thought, men of that sort, whose aims were practical but just as ardent as any aspiration of the spirit, never felt themselves struggling day after day against the icy blast of some endless, monotonous, subtly degrading dream.

Since he felt that Cathie was rigid with fear, her tiny immobile eyes striving desperately to avoid his own, he couldn’t stop himself adding, before moving away from her desk, in a slightly trembling voice:

“If you had any idea all the tenderness I’ve got stored up inside me!”

She gave an involuntary throaty gurgle.

His father and Manille, although formidable in their different ways, weren’t the sort of men to make women afraid, whereas he, good God, how had it come to that?

He picked up from his own desk Mummy’s brochures, rolled them up, and stuffed them in a trouser pocket.

He crossed the large sunlit room, aware that his colleagues were probably watching him go with relief, or contempt, or something else he could only guess at.

And yet, as he was approaching the glass door, his movements still affected by the sharp pain in his rectum, his thighs separated even though no excess of muscle pushed them away from each other (for he had slender, almost thin legs, and yet he was walking a bit like his father or Manille, men whose massive thighs forced their knees apart), he was amused at the thought that his colleagues had perhaps found in him their angel.

He moved forward, haloed in shimmering blondness, just as in the past when he left his little apartment in Le Plateau and walked calmly down the hot avenue, serenely conscious of the solid decency of his heart and the unalloyed plenitude of his honor.

He would like to have shouted to his colleagues in a nice, kindly, charming, unaffectedly cheerful way, “I am the Minister my mother talked to you about!”

Hadn’t there been a time, he remembered uneasily, when Mummy used to bleach the pale flaxen hair of her little Rudy so that it looked even blonder, almost white?

He remembered the unpleasant odor of the peroxide, which ended up making him dazed and sleepy, sitting on a stool in the kitchen of the house where Manille had just informed him he’d spent so many Wednesdays, so Rudy must have been quite young when Mummy got it into her head to inflict on him that most conventional feature of the angelic aspect, because these sessions had been interrupted when they’d left to join Rudy’s father in Africa.

Perhaps, he said to himself, Mummy had thought that the natural blondness of his hair would more than suffice over there to establish him as a seraph, or else she’d not dared to carry on with the practice in the presence of her husband, who, with incredulous, derisive bluntness, had dumped his own guardian angel and galloped off even farther into the shadows of his cynical calculations, of his more or less secret, more or less lawful, schemes and dodges.