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her mother had not taken away on that infamous day, she had destroyed
herself, burnt them in the backyard. No trace, no clue, no track. There
was no trace of Matilda the painter, no witness but Robert, whose real
first name was Youssef, and he was going to leave her soon, she could
feel it. And her niece. This girl was a problem; the last link, hard to
severe. She was so very gifted, but natural and unpretentious, and so
awfully pretty, tall and willowy, elegant in her girlish ways. Jacques, she
thought, for the second time today: if we had had a daughter, she would be
eighteen now, barely a year younger than Kathy. She had asked Jacques
whether he would want children by her, or rather, no, she had told him
she wanted four children, if they were to live together. Eventually he had
accepted, he who required so much freedom and was scared of bringing
up more than one or two at best. But she could not make a decision, she
went on taking the pill. Then, later on, after the “great divide”, when
they met again a few times in her small unfurnished rented flat in Mona
Vale, she never consented to penetration. They made fierce French love.
She knew that he wanted a child and wanted to bind her. But she also
thought that he wanted to get even with Sylvie, doing to her, Matilda,
what Sylvie had done to him, Jacques. How clumsy we all were. But I
am sure he is happy now, he was faithful to an idea, or to himself, not
to me. It couldn’t be. “It’s better this way,” she repeated, with a bitter
laugh. “It’s better this way, this is what people would say, who am I to
contradict them?”
Under the shower, her body was still good-looking, strong and
firm, the round breasts, the almost flat tummy of a woman who had
not given birth, the hard thighs, the broad asset of the feet, like the
roots of a Moreton Bay fig. A well-balanced tree that would go on
walking in the wind for a good while, that would drop seeds on the road
for years, and commuters would crush them under their fast tyres. It
was warm here, but she should get dressed; it was not good for her to
stay too long in the company of her own body. Because she had lost
the original so long ago. This striking imitation of herself, this clever
look-alike should not make her bear the burden of resemblance. Even
if it was her fault, this body had not been given permission to speak for
itself, let alone against her, claiming the other body, the one left behind,
whose parody it represented so accurately. Who could blame her for the
unforgivable? Who could trespass the territory of the unforgivable? It
was public property.
She was still wrapped in the wet towel when Jane rang the door
bell, because the door, for once, was closed. “No, not her again!”: “Oh,
dear, I am sorry, I must get dressed. I wasn’t expecting anybody right
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