It was precisely the suspense that got me thinking and made me reread it from another point of view, that of my profession as an editor this time. There was something literary about it, and now that I had noticed it, the same was true about the earlier letters. What an idiot I was not to have realised sooner! My mother’s death must have really made me lose my grip. Those letters were meant for me, all right: it was simply an author sending me his manuscript through the letters. I received too many manuscripts to read all of them, they piled up on my desk, and authors were aware of this, particularly the unpublished ones. That was why these letters didn’t really follow a traditional format; they were instalments of a book that I’d be receiving week after week. A crazy idea, but not stupid. The proof: I was reading them.
I started observing my authors closely, trying to trap them by insinuating this or that, hoping one of them would betray himself; they must have thought I was going mad. I would study their handwriting, searching for that capital ‘R’ in the middle of all the lowercase letters. I would take a close sniff, ever on the lookout for that woody perfume that came from the letters. I entertained every possibility. Could it be So-and-so? That would be just like him to write a thing about his childhood. It was becoming increasingly common to write about oneself, so if that was it, I would give it to him, straight to his face: that I was expecting a novel from him, a real one. I would aim for his glasses: it would be great if they fell off, I’ve always wondered what he’d look like without his glasses.
I was convinced the sender of the letters would show up at my desk one day. A stranger would ask to see me, and bring me the rest of his manuscript, apologising for having duped me, but hey, for fifty years he’d never duped a soul and for fifty years no one had paid him the slightest attention, so he’d decided to change tack.
And what if it were the little Mélanie? ‘Have any of your interns ever become one of your authors?’ If she thought I didn’t notice what she was driving at with all her questions…But no, it was impossible, she was too young, these letters were the work of someone older, you could tell, and besides she was too pretty to write like that.
It was Mélanie, in fact, who roused me from my thoughts, one hand on the microphone of the receiver to keep Nicolas, on the other end of the line, from hearing her:
‘Your friend insists on speaking to you.’
‘Tell him I’m in a meeting.’
‘I did, but he’s already called five times this morning, he said he knows you’re not in a meeting.’
‘If he doesn’t want me to be in a meeting, then tell him I don’t want to talk to him. People won’t let go if you lie to them, but they will if you tell them the truth.’
And if I told him the whole truth, I’ll bet you anything the guy would let go in no time; he’d probably run for his life.
At any rate I could not go on like that, it was too risky. I decided to go home early, especially as I was sure of finding something in my letter box. It was Tuesday, and I’d noticed the letters always arrived on a Tuesday; my correspondent had the idiosyncrasies of a serial killer.
In those days I still found the letters entertaining, almost friendly – a touch of mystery, in a world that was completely devoid of it, was hardly unpleasant. And besides, I wanted to find out what happened, what was this terrible tragedy involving Monsieur and Madame M.?
Not for one second could I imagine what was coming. The unthinkable does exist: I’m proof of it.
I went to their house nearly every day. I would paint while Madame M. read to me out loud. It was pleasant; she played all the characters. I enjoyed her company. I didn’t even feel obliged to speak, something that had never happened to me with anyone. She was so generous with me.
She had put an entire room at my disposal. ‘The room without walls.’ That was what she called it because the walls disappeared behind a huge mirror and some heavy red drapes. It was too beautiful to be converted into a studio, but she would not have it any other way. ‘My dear Annie, since I have already told you how much pleasure it gives me…’ And it was the same with all the rest. I asked for nothing, she gave me whatever I needed. When I had finished a canvas, a new one would appear as if by magic. She thought of everything. She even asked a friend of hers to give me lessons: Alberto, a marvellous painter and sculptor. He came from Paris, every Thursday. She was so kind.
I had certainly noticed that she wasn’t happy, but I had not managed to find out why. As far as I could tell she had all the best things life has to offer.
In the beginning I thought she must be ill. It was Sophie, their maid, who put this idea into my head. One morning I had not dared go into L’Escalier, there was a car parked in the drive and I thought this might be ‘her new infatuation’. My papa was forever telling me I must not have any illusions, that Madame M. and I did not belong in the same world, that she would replace me soon enough, just you wait. I retraced my steps and went home again. But two hours later Sophie was knocking on our door to ask for news; Madame M. was concerned I might be ill. I told Sophie about the car, and she replied that I was being silly, that I was always welcome at L’Escalier, that since she had met me Madame was improving by the day. Her words worried me. So I asked her if Madame M. was ill. She helped me on with my coat; No, what she meant was that Madame was happy to have me there with her, whether there was a car parked in the drive or not. I could sense she wasn’t telling the truth.
Roughly two weeks later I had further proof that something was not quite right. This time it was her husband’s car that was parked in the drive. As a rule he had already left for his newspaper office by the time I arrived. I didn’t really feel like meeting him, but I couldn’t just turn around, Madame M. would have thought I was being ridiculous with my scrupulous politeness. She had made me promise I would never again hesitate to come in. So in I went, but I soon regretted it, for they were in the midst of an argument.
‘This cannot go on! If I agreed to come and live here, it was so you would feel better, not so you would go on feeling sorry for yourself.’
‘I am not feeling sorry for myself.’
‘I no longer recognise you. It is not by shutting yourself off from the rest of the world that you are going to solve your problem.’
‘May I point out that it is also your problem.’
‘No. My only problem is that I come back here every night and find my wife no longer has a care in the world other than to make sure that I have bought canvases or charcoal or acrylic for her…I cannot believe you have no idea what is going on in the world, honestly! You are worse than the women you are avoiding.’
‘I’m not avoiding anyone.’
‘What’s the use of trying to talk to you, and anyway, now I’m late…’
‘That’s it! Leave! Go back to your wonderful world where everyone knows everything that’s going on…Go and tell your beloved readers what makes the world go round, and above all don’t bother to explain anything to me, to explain how our world is supposed to go on working with everything that’s happened to us.’
Her husband left the drawing room without replying. He looked upset, he even walked right past me, thinking I was Sophie: ‘Don’t you have anything to do in this house?’ Madame M. had rushed out behind him. She watched him leave, murmuring something I did not manage to hear. When she turned round, we were face to face. ‘What are you doing here, eavesdropping like that?’ She had never spoken to me in this way. I did not try to defend myself, and I left. But she ran after me. She was so sorry, she should not have allowed herself to get carried away, it was not my fault, she did not want me to leave. She had hurt me, and I accepted her apology. I shouldn’t have.
As is sometimes the case with arguments, this one brought us closer together. We began to speak more often after that. Madame M. stopped reading her novels, no doubt because of her husband’s reproaches. ‘There is no place for fiction in these turbulent times, to have your nose in a book is to have your back to the enemy,’