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— Je suis là ; tu ne m’as pas entendu entrer ? dit Sylvie. Il n’y
avait plus l’ombre d’un soupçon dans sa voix. Depuis tant d’années qu’ils
avaient fait leur paix, qu’ils avaient trouvé un mode de vie, elle pouvait
en effet se croire seule présente au point de l’espace où elle se trouvait
quand Jacques la regardait, l’écoutait. Il aurait pu en être autrement.
Mais elle se sentait d’autant plus maîtresse de cet espace de sa vie avec
Jacques, où elle était regardée, écoutée, parfois caressée par lui, qu’elle
se savait vaguement entourée d’absences, de l’absence des autres. Elle
ignorait tout, la pauvre, du visage unique du paysage, et donc qu’il
avait pu la pénétrer, à son insu et presque à l’insu de Jacques, d’autant
d’absence que son être poreux, maintenant creusé, effiloché, avait été
inconsciemment capable d’en accueillir.
“MAYBE SHE BELIEVES, like myself ”, says Matilda in a
rare bout of confidence to Robert, her long time
occasional companion, “maybe she too believes
that there are several faces around, none of them very powerful, none
of them intense enough to stand for the landscape, the sun in the sky,
everything...” Robert is not really interested, although he has noticed
the outburst as one more indication that Matilda could never heal. She
was fast approaching forty, the terseness of her skin was gone, there was
an ever deeper furrow right in the middle of her wide forehead ; small
wrinkles about her eyes, a few white threads in her still vigorous mane,
now cut short. In spite of her growing melancholy, Matilda remained a
comfortable sexual solution for him, but the marks of age, however slight,
could become repulsive, when there was no sentimental acceptation or
demand on the part of this woman, his partner in bed for the past twelve
years. If he developed a sense of duty, even in this respect (not to leave
her alone, without a lover to fulfil her sexual appetite), then he would
certainly be bound to leave her and seek his fortune with somebody else:
there were plenty of youngish available divorcees at the Waterboard
Office, where he worked as an assistant planner for the North Shore
area. “Who are you talking about?” he pretended he had not guessed.
“Sylvie, Jacques’ wife”. “Actually, I am sure she likes me a lot. I don’t
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