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Kathy, without really expecting it, would have found it almost natural<br />
to stumb<strong>le</strong> over a man with dark sunglasses sitting behind the wheel of a<br />
blue BMW at the corner of the street, presumably spying on her. There<br />
was litt<strong>le</strong> lighting in the café, obsessive well-tempered, soft disco music<br />
flowing uninterruptedly from the beige ceiling, not the best environment<br />
to read. A quarter to e<strong>le</strong>ven: Matilda was already fifteen minutes late.<br />
Had she forgotten their appointment, or was she sick? Kathy went to the<br />
nearest coin phone and dial<strong>le</strong>d her aunt’s number. One, two, three, four,<br />
five rings, no answer. She had to be on her way. But anything could have<br />
happened to her. She had no answering machine. Why was she so scared<br />
of having dinner with her neighbours? Where had she been last night? So<br />
many questions, so few answers. Peop<strong>le</strong> think that Mattie is nuts, they<br />
would suspect that I am crazy to care for her, to take her seriously. But<br />
she’s my best friend, I love her more than my own mother. I hope... But<br />
no, there she was, right in front of her, looking a bit rest<strong>le</strong>ss but smiling.<br />
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting in this horrib<strong>le</strong> place.The bus broke<br />
down just before the bridge. My luck... You reading Mare<strong>le</strong> Day’s novel?<br />
How do you like it?”<br />
She had not wanted to see Kathy to discuss a novel, she has a<br />
yellow car on her mind, and a blue dress that wanted to be worn for a<br />
dance last night. She who had never believed in signs or prophecies, not<br />
even her own, was she going to begin now, at her age, after all this pain,<br />
all this failure? But anyone would swear that the outside world was<br />
trying to tell her something. “What is it?” That “Pierre” was back in<br />
Sydney. After so many years. She knew it was impossib<strong>le</strong>, he had his life<br />
overseas, his country house, a striking exotic wife he had married here,<br />
and his Belgian daughter, his intel<strong>le</strong>ctual world in Paris; he never wrote<br />
to her anymore. Even if he was back, he had certainly forgotten her, he<br />
would not even care to talk to her. What for? What about? It was all<br />
so remote for him. Kathy asked: “What’s his last name? —Why do you<br />
want to know? It would be no use. The past is past, Kathy. “Pierre” is<br />
not his real name anyway. —No? What’s his name, then? —Darling, I<br />
prefer not to say it, because... it’s too personal. I’m sorry I lied to you.<br />
It’s not out of distrust, you understand. I call him Pierre when I mention<br />
him to you because he wanted to call his son Pierre. But eventually he<br />
cal<strong>le</strong>d him Joël, I believe. —I understand, but won’t you tell me his real<br />
name this once, p<strong>le</strong>ase, just for my sake? Let’s say I am curious, Mattie.<br />
You can trust me, I wish you the best. —I know, you are a wonderful<br />
friend, Kathy. (She took Kathy’s long fine hand in hers, that she found<br />
thick and dull by contrast.) Well, his real name is Jacques Voisin, he was<br />
a Lecturer in French. —Jacques Voisin!” Kathy was petrified, it should<br />
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