‘I don’t read you stories…that’s true…but that has nothing to do with love…Love is…it’s more mysterious than that…Where love is concerned, my darling, you mustn’t ask, mustn’t beg. Don’t ever try to make people love you the way you want them to love you, that’s not it, that’s not true love. You have to let people love you their own way, and my way, it isn’t about reading you stories, but it might be about sewing you all the dresses I can, and all the coats, skirts and scarves that you love so much. Aren’t we happy like that? You don’t want another maman, do you? Tell me, Annie, you don’t want another maman?’
After that day Annie had never reproached her again. Eugénie thought that was one worry she’d got rid of for good. Even when Annie had told them she wanted to go away with Madame M. for a few months, Eugénie wasn’t particularly worried. No matter how often her husband told her he wanted nothing to do with a daughter who would abandon them for some bourgeoise, Eugénie knew that he would read her letters, and that he would write to her. He loved Annie too deeply to carry out any of his threats. But when the first card arrived, Eugénie was trapped; her husband had just been arrested, and she had no one to turn to. It had taken several cards before she got up the nerve to confess to me that she didn’t know how to read. Had she found her resolve by telling herself again and again that I was as worthy of her trust as the hundreds of metres of fabric that she had bought from my mother?
And it would seem she was right. I never betrayed her secret.
I have always thought that secrets must die with those who have harboured them. You must surely be thinking that I am betraying my own convictions since I am sharing them with you, but to you, I must tell everything.
‘I have always thought that secrets must die with those who have harboured them. You must surely be thinking that I am betraying my own convictions since I am sharing them with you, but to you, I must tell everything.’
I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. The author of these letters really was writing to someone. In a burst of anger that surprised me I tossed the sheets of paper across the room.
I stood livid before the mirror. I saw myself closing my eyes and heard myself say, ‘Don’t worry, come on, it’s all just fiction.’ But once I had calmed down, I realised that I was afraid.
Why had I tried to change the course of events? I was pacing back and forth in Annie’s room, I felt terribly guilty. It was all my fault. Why hadn’t I read the letter to Eugénie? But in that room that was too small for my remorse I had not been able to confess as much to Annie. I had only just found her, I could not bear the idea of losing her again, or of making her angry with me. Three years without seeing her.
Even her absence for a few hours over the business with the keys made me feel sick.
And besides, I would have been forced to betray her mother’s secret; Annie would surely ask me why I was the one reading her letters.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was desperate for Annie to come back.
I remember I washed the tray and our cups, looked at the handful of books on the shelf, and straightened the crucifix over her bed. I leafed distractedly through the calendar to see what the coming days had in store. ‘Thunder in October, plentiful grape harvest’: so went the saying for that 4 October 1943.
All that fiddling with an aim to avoid doing what, in the end, I did anyway: open her dresser. Men’s clothing, belonging to her husband. And her own. Three dresses, two cardigans that were too light for the season, stockings rolled up in a ball and ugly underwear. I needed so badly to imbibe her scent that I hunted for her dirty laundry. Obscene. But because in the beginning my love for Annie had been chaste, I had no difficulty in loving her lustfully, my back against the door so I would not be caught out. Her full breasts hanging down: I had been obsessed by that image ever since the day when she had asked me to help her move a bench to prepare the theatre performance. She had leaned forward first, and her bodice had opened. She hadn’t noticed a thing, not the movement of the cloth, or the movement of my eyes. For a long time I dreamed of her breasts at that angle, hanging down, round and hanging, her breasts where I would have liked to…I came.
‘“Let’s wait until tomorrow.” I didn’t want it to happen under these conditions. Not with a man I did not know. Not for the first time.’
I suddenly understood what Annie had been referring to in her story, and I choked on the memory of it.
I had indeed always been the first.
For several months already the fact that she was seeing Madame M. had distanced Annie from me. I was hardly expecting her to come by the house for me. She dragged me to the lake, bypassing the towpath; I had the impression she wanted to tell me something. After a while she stopped.
‘Come on, in you go.’
I stayed on the shore, motionless, speechless. ‘In you go…’ I had already heard those words somewhere. Another woman, in another place. That place had been as damp as could be; there was a smell of mildew, which was hardly surprising, all the windows were boarded up and the door to that ‘house’ was the one that was opened and closed again faster than any door in town. Violette came up to me, never taking her eyes from me.
‘Come on, in you go…’
In spite of my fear I smiled. Once we were in, the rooms were actually downstairs. But you don’t chicken out after a password like that one…Violette went down and I followed her, feeling that, with this virile endeavour, I was going one step further in my story with Annie. There are not many women who enjoy being taken by a man for whom it’s the first time.
‘Come on, in you go…’
This time, the expression was in keeping with the layout of the place. Once I had regained my self-control I grabbed hold of the rope to pull the boat closer to the bank.
Annie climbed into the boat and I followed.
The boat was wider than it was deep. We lay on our backs to avoid being seen. Annie seemed preoccupied. I had the impression she wanted to tell me something, but she didn’t say anything. The sky must often serve as an excuse for awkward lovers, but we were not so lucky; it was too early for stars. And with my eyes riveted on the empty sky I felt lost. This time I was all alone. There was no Violette to guide me. I searched my memories in vain, I could not recall how it had started with her. I did not know which gesture, which caress to choose. Violette had undressed herself, displaying no particular fervour, no particular boldness, simply her slow, migraine-sufferer gestures, and the detachment that comes with habit. Clumsily I unbuttoned Annie’s shirt, one tiny fastener after the other. She was wearing sensible spring clothes, for that notorious month of ‘April showers’. Violette had the type of skin of women who do not look after their bodies, knowing it will be put to good use no matter what. Annie’s skin was smooth and soft. If she had kept her eyes open – like Violette – she would have seen that I was looking at her ample breasts against her slender chest. No, she wouldn’t have, because if her eyes had been open I would not have dared to look at her breasts. Her fists were clenched, too. Violette and I had been naked. Annie and I kept as many clothes on as possible. Violette had made me stroke her with my hand. Beneath my fingers I had discovered those rough patches, when in fact I had always thought it would be smooth. ‘It’s good when it’s wet like that,’ she said quietly, like a comment, a lesson. She had let go of my hand and I felt hers come gently to rest on my sex, where my entire body was concentrated, and then her body had replaced her hand. It’s good when it’s wet like that, I tried to reassure myself, my hand between Annie’s thighs.
Nothing in Violette’s body had distracted my attention. Everything in Annie’s troubled me. Violette’s face had suddenly relaxed, whereas Annie’s grew tense. I could not stand it, still less the sight of her body arching, lifting her chest in an upward movement that overwhelmed me.
Everything had gone well with Violette. But