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give her any worries. She has only the ordinary student girlfriends to
contend with, a new one every year, Jacques’ boring collection, while
she reigns over the rest of his life... —How do you know that the bloke
still goes girl-chasing? One would swear that it all happened yesterday,
that you are expecting to see him appear any minute in this room with
a bunch of flowers in one hand, a romantic love poem in the other, and
his ridiculous wide pants and short socks that you were so fond of. He
has been overseas for ten years, hasn’t he? Doesn’t write, doesn’t show
the slightest interest in you. Who knows whether he’s alive or dead?”
Robert is going too far, thought Matilda, there are sensitive topics he
should not touch; if he does, it’s because he’s sick and tired of me. No
illusions, no expectations, no future. Maybe it’s better this way. The day
I want to get rid of him, I’ll know what to say, I’ll know what to make
him say. And he’ll believe I am protecting Jacques’ memory. It needs no
protection, it’s not a memory any more. What is it then, if this memory
is not a memory? Robert had finished buttoning up his Hawaian shirt
and combing his shiny hair with that stupid untangling comb of his that
he always carried in the inside pocket of his jacket, as if he were some
kind of pimp, or just the cheap assistant planner he is. A kiss on both
cheeks, no sensation, the unpleasant sensation of the skin dumb to his
mechanical lips: “See you next week, darling, or tell me when?” —I don’t
know yet, dear, I’ll ring you this weekend. —Great! And I am sorry for
what I’ve just said about your old boyfriend. Sometimes I get jealous,
why shouldn’t I after all!” “You’re an idiot or a liar, or both things at
once,” she said with a prefab wide smile for which she would also hate
herself later. “I’ll ring you. You’re going to be late.”
He was visibly going to be late. Where and for what, she had no
idea —was he married to some old hag, or was he a mason, or a golfer?
Perhaps he had no idea himself of what he was going to be late for. But
anyway he was. That was an absolute fact, not subject to interpretation.
And he left. The dark brown door with a screwed on number on it was
opened and closed. The porch lights were already on. They projected an
awkward triangle on the mottled brown wall-to-wall carpet of the hall
for a few seconds. She would have some very light dinner, raw vegies,
a glass of milk. No time, this one, to get fat. She wasn’t hungry, even
after making love. She had no use for her good health, no use for her
pleasure, as the air on the narrow balcony became cooler.
Jane, the neighbour, was watching some lobotomised American
series on TV, with canned laughter; “Cheers”, it had to be, or something
of the kind. The leaves of the monstera were being ruffled by a slight
breeze. A yellow car came to a standstill and parked underneath. A
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