Delicacy (17 page)

Sixty-eight

At the end of the next day, Chloé celebrated her birthday in the office. She couldn’t stand people forgetting it. In a few years, obviously, the opposite would be true. You could appreciate her energy, her way of making a gloomy environment exuberant, her way of pushing the employees who were there into feigned good humor. Practically everyone who worked on the floor was there, and Chloé, who was surrounded by them, was drinking a glass of champagne. Waiting for her gifts. There was something touching, almost charming, in her ridiculously exaggerated display of narcissism.

The room wasn’t very big; even so, Markus and Natalie did their best to stay as far away from each other as possible. She’d finally given in to his demand and was trying her best not to appear in his field of vision. Chloé, who was following their little game, wasn’t duped. They have a way of not speaking to each other that speaks volumes, is what she thought. Quite perceptive. Well, fine, but she didn’t want to become too preoccupied by this affair; making her birthday toast a success, that was obviously the important thing. All the employees, the Benoîts and
Bénédictes, standing there listlessly in suits with glasses in hand and that controlled art of conviviality. Markus studied the small enthusiasms of each and found them grotesque. But for him, the grotesque had a profoundly human aspect. He, too, wanted to be a part of this collective rhythm. He’d felt the need to do things right. Late in the afternoon, he’d ordered white roses by telephone. It was an immense bouquet that was way out of proportion to his relationship with Chloé. Like a need to cling to white. To the immensity of white. A white that made amends for red. Markus had come down when the young woman who was delivering the flowers arrived at reception. An astonishing image: Markus taking hold of a gigantic bouquet in that functional, soulless lobby.

Holding the bouquet, he walked toward Chloé, preceded by a sublime mass of white. She saw him coming and asked, “Is that for me?”

“Yes. Happy birthday, Chloé.”

She was embarrassed. Instinctively, she turned her head toward Natalie. Chloé didn’t know what to say to Markus. There was a white space between them: their own white on white. Everybody was looking at them. Or rather, what could be seen of their faces, those particles that escaped from the white. Chloé sensed that she had to say something, but what? Finally, “You shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

“Yes, I know. But I felt like having some white.”

Another coworker came up holding a present, and Markus took advantage of this by backing away.

Natalie had watched what happened from a distance. She’d wanted to respect Markus’s rules, but since she was deeply upset by what she’d seen, she decided to come up to him and speak.

“Why did you give her that kind of bouquet?”

“I don’t know.”

“Listen … I’m starting to get fed up with your autistic puton … you don’t want to look at me … you don’t want to explain things to me.”

“I promise you that I don’t know. I’m the one who’s the most upset. I realize that it’s all out of proportion. But that’s the way it is. When I ordered flowers, I asked for an immense bouquet of white roses.”

“So you’re in love with her?”

“Are you jealous or what?”

“I’m not jealous. But I’m beginning to wonder whether there might be a womanizer hiding under your depressive-drops-in-from-Sweden routine.”

“And you’re … an expert in male psyches, no doubt.”

“That’s completely ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is that I also have a present for you … and that I haven’t given it to you.”

They studied each other. And Markus said to himself, How could I have thought that I couldn’t see her anymore? He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Time again for the waltz of smiles. Amazing how you sometimes make resolutions, tell yourself everything will be a certain way from now on, and then all it takes is a tiny movement of the lips to shatter your confidence in a certainty that seemed eternal. All of Markus’s will power had
just crumbled when faced with the evidence of Natalie’s face. It was a tired face, clouded by incomprehension, but still Natalie’s face. Without a word they discreetly left the party and met in Markus’s office.

Sixty-nine

It was a narrow space. The relief they both felt was enough to fill the room. They were happy to be alone together. Markus studied Natalie, and the hesitation that he read in her eyes went to the depths of him.

“What about this present?” she asked.

“I’ll give it to you, but you have to promise me not to open it before you get home.”

“All right.”

Markus held out a small package, and Natalie put it in her bag. They stayed that way for a moment, the kind of moment that Albert Cohen called
a moment that is still going on
. Markus didn’t feel he had to speak, to fill the void. They were relaxed, happy to be together again. After a moment, Natalie said, “Maybe we should go back. It will look strange if we don’t.”

“You’re right.”

They left the office and made their way down the hall. Once they got back to where the party was, they had a surprise. No one was there anymore. The party was over, and everything had been put back in place. They began to wonder how much time they’d spent in the office.

Sitting on her couch after she got home, Natalie opened the package. Inside it was a Pez dispenser. She couldn’t get over it; you can’t find them in France. She was deeply touched by the gesture. She put her coat back on and went out again. With a movement of her arm (a gesture that suddenly seemed simple), she flagged down a taxi.

Seventy

Wikipedia Article About Pez

The name
Pez
was derived from … the German word for peppermint, Pfefferminz, the first Pez flavor. Pez was originally introduced in Austria … and eventually became available worldwide. The Pez dispenser is one of the characteristics of the brand. Its great variety makes it an object that is highly collectible.

Seventy-one

Once she got to the door, she hesitated for a moment. It was so late. But she’d already come this far; it would be ridiculous to turn around and go back. She rang once, then a second time. Nothing. She began knocking. After a minute, she heard footsteps.

“Who’s there?” asked an anxious voice.

“It’s me,” she answered.

The door opened, and Natalie was disconcerted by what she saw. Her father’s hair was disheveled, his eyes haggard. He seemed stunned, a little as if he’d been robbed. Actually, it was probably because he’d had his sleep stolen.

“What are you doing here? Is there a problem?”

“No … I’m okay … I wanted to see you.”

“At this hour?”

“Yes, it was urgent.”

Natalie walked into her parents’ home.

“Your mother’s sleeping, you know. The world could end, and she’d still be sleeping.”

“I knew it was you I was waking up.”

“You want something to drink? Herbal tea?”

Natalie accepted, and her father went into the kitchen. There was something comforting about the way they related. Now that the surprise was over, her father had recovered his attitude of calm. It felt like he was going to take things in hand. However, at that time of night, Natalie thought to herself that he’d aged. She’d seen it just in his way of walking with slippers. She’d told herself, This is a man who’s been awoken in the middle of the night, but he takes the time to put on his slippers to go see what’s going on. Such caution about his feet was touching. He came back into the living room.

“So what’s happening? What is it that can’t wait?”

“I wanted to show you this.”

She took the Pez dispenser out of her pocket, and immediately, father experienced the same emotion as daughter. The little object sent them back to the same summer. All of a sudden, his daughter was eight. So she came up to her father and gently put her head on his shoulder. All the affection of the past was in the Pez, everything that had been squandered with the passage of time, too, not suddenly, but here and then there. The Pez held the time before unhappiness, when fragility amounted to a fall, a scratch. The idea of her father was in the Pez, the man she loved to run toward as a child, leaping into his arms; and once she felt him against her, she could think about the future with an extraordinary assurance. The two of them remained in a state of wonder, contemplating the toy, an insignificant, silly little object that was nevertheless so moving, containing as it did all the gradations of life.

Then Natalie began to weep. Deeply. The tears of that suffering she’d held back in her father’s presence. She didn’t know why, but she’d never let go in front of him. Was it because she was an only child? Was it maybe because she’d had to play the role of a boy, too? The one who doesn’t weep. But she was a little girl, a child who’d lost her husband. So, after all this time, in the playful aura of the Pez, she began to weep in the arms of her father. To let herself drift into the hope of consolation.

Seventy-two