The Woman With the Bouquet (5 page)

I rushed to open drawers and cupboards, and as I did so I ruminated over the scene. What had happened to me? I had behaved like an adventurer, I had flattered him, provoked him, excited him, yes, I had obliged him to court me . . . A desire to please had crept into me, spilling over into my words, making my gestures more fluid, my gaze heavier; in short, it had compelled me to transform all our conversation into flirtatiousness. In spite of myself, I had allowed an erotic tension to come between us. I had given the impression I was an easy woman, and I would have induced him to behave in too enterprising a way, had he not reacted at the last moment by reverting to his good education.

I despaired of the contents of my wardrobe. Not only could I find nothing that might be suitable for a man, there was nothing that was his size. Suddenly, the thought occurred to me to go upstairs to the maid’s floor: Margit was tall, wide, podgy. I could take advantage of her absence to borrow something.

Bathed in sweat, I hurried away with the largest outfit in her trunk, and went back downstairs, shouting outside the door, “I’m ashamed, it’s a disaster. All I can offer you is a bathrobe borrowed from my maid.”

“It will be fine.”

“You’re just saying that because you haven’t seen it. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

When he came hurtling down the stairs dressed in this huge white cotton robe—collar and sleeves decorated with lace, if you please—we burst out laughing. He was scoffing at his own ridiculousness, I was giggling with embarrassment because this female garment made him seem all the more virile, in contrast, all the more powerful. I was daunted by the size of his feet and his hands.

“May I make a phone call?”

“Yes. The telephone is there.”

“What should I tell the chauffeur?”

I was astonished that he was calling a chauffeur rather than a member of his family, and did not have time to understand his question, so my answer was completely off the mark: “Tell him that he is very welcome and there’s also some tea for him.”

Guillaume had to sit down on the stairs because my answer was making him shake with laughter. I was delighted to have this effect on him, although I didn’t know why. When he had recovered, he explained, “No, what I meant was, what address should I give to the chauffeur so that he can find me?”

“Villa Circé, at 2 Rhododendron Street, Ostend.”

In order to compensate for my ridiculousness and show him that I was well brought up, I left him alone with the telephone and went into the kitchen where I noisily moved things around, the better to convince him that I wasn’t spying on his conversation; I even added some humming as I banged the kettle, the spoons and the cups.

“You sound like the percussion section of a symphony orchestra when you make tea.”

Startled, I found him on the threshold, looking at me.

“Were you able to get hold of your family? Are they reassured?”

“They weren’t worried.”

We went back to the living room with the teapot and some more cookies.

“Do you write, Emma?”

“Why do you ask? Everybody asks me that!”

“You’re such a great reader.”

“I’ve committed some dreadful poems to paper but I will go no further. Reading and writing have nothing to do with each other. Would I ask you if you are going to turn into a woman, just because you like women? Well, your question is just as absurd.”

“That’s true, but how do you know that I love women?”

I was silent. Trapped! Once again, in spite of myself, I had allowed my words to take a suggestive turn. Whenever this man stood less than ten feet from me, I could not help but try to charm him.

“I can just tell,” I whispered, lowering my eyelids.

“Because I really don’t have a reputation for it,” he added in a low voice. “My brothers and cousins are far more the skirt-chasing type than I am. They reproach me for being well-behaved, far too well-behaved.”

“Oh, really? Why are you so well-behaved?”

“No doubt because I’m saving myself for a woman. The right one. The true one.”

Foolishly, at first I thought that this sentence was addressed to me. When I realized my mistake, my reaction was to try to head off in another direction.

“You aren’t about to tell me that at your age, you haven’t . . . you still . . .”

I did not finish my sentence, so dismayed was I with myself. Here I was, grilling an unbearably handsome man whom I had dressed up as a woman, to try to find out whether he was a virgin!

His jaw dropped, between stupefaction and amusement.

“No, to ease your mind . . . I have . . . had that experience. And a great pleasure it is, too. You must realize, in my circle there were many women older than myself, still superb, who delighted in initiating me at a fairly young age.”

“You have reassured me,” I sighed, as if he were talking about his prowess at golf.

“I do however prefer a good hike in nature, or a long ride, or swimming for several hours like this morning. I’ve prioritized my pleasures.”

“I’m the same,” I lied.

I used the excuse of a log that was about to go out to rush over to the fireplace.

“Why are you telling me this?” I grumbled haughtily.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why are you talking to me about such personal things when we don’t even know each other?”

He turned away, took time to think, then focused his eyes upon me, gravely.

“It seems obvious to me . . .”

“Not to me.”

“We fancy each other, do we not?”

It was my turn to look away, to pretend to be thinking before training my gaze on him.

“Yes, you’re right: it’s obvious.”

I think that at that moment—and for all the years that remained—the air around us changed for good.

The doorbell disturbed this harmony with its shrill ring. He winced: “My chauffeur . . .”

“Already?”

Life holds so many surprises in store: at noon I did not know this man, at twilight the idea of parting from him seemed intolerable.

“No, Guillaume, you can’t leave like this.”

“In a robe?”

“In a robe or in anything, you can’t leave.”

“I’ll come back.”

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

He kissed my hand for an instant that was as rich as all my twenty-three years gone by.

As he was going out the door, I added, “I’m counting on you to find me again, because I don’t even know who you are.”

He screwed up his eyes.

“That’s what is so marvelous: you didn’t recognize me.”

Then he closed the door.

I did not want to watch as he left; I was devastated, and stayed at the back of the dark hallway.

In a state of shock, I paid no attention to his last sentence; at night, however, as I went back over—more than once—every moment of our encounter, I wondered about these words: “You didn’t recognize me.” Had I already met him somewhere? No, a man with such a physique, I would have remembered. Had we been together somewhere as children? I wouldn’t have recognized the child in the adult. Yes, that must be it, we must have known each other a long time ago, and then we grew up, he had recognized me, but I hadn’t recognized him, and that is what his sentence meant.

Who was he?

I searched through my memories and could find no trace of Guillaume . . . this made me want him to come back all the sooner.

The next morning, he preceded his visit with a phone call asking for permission to come for tea.

When he appeared, he so impressed me with his elegant blazer, fine shirt, and classy shoes—a multitude of details that transformed the wild man into a man of the world. It was as if I was greeting a stranger.

He sensed that I felt awkward.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re sorry I’m wearing my own clothes. Otherwise, I’ll put your maid’s robe back on, I’ve brought it back.”

He handed me a package wrapped in tissue paper.

“There is no point in threatening me,” I answered, “I shall try to get used to you like that.”

I led him into the living room where the tea and cookies had been set out. He seemed glad to be back in this décor.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he confessed, as he sat down.

“You’ve stolen the words from my mouth, that’s exactly the first thing I wanted to say to you.”

He placed a finger before his lips and said again in a quieter voice, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you . . .”

“My love,” I exclaimed, and began to sob.

I could not understand my reaction the moment this man was anywhere near me. Why had I burst into tears? To seek refuge in his arms—which was what happened the very next instant? No doubt . . . Visibly, another woman, far more feminine and clever than I, and who had been dormant inside my body, was aroused whenever he came near, and seemed to manage quite well: I let her continue.

After he had consoled me, he forced me to let go of him, and we sat down in separate armchairs. He asked me to serve the tea. He was acting rationally. Too much emotion can kill. This return to an everyday activity allowed me to regain my composure, and my strength.

“Guillaume, yesterday you recognized me, but I didn’t recognize you.”

His gaze was questioning, and he knitted his brow.

“Excuse me? I said I recognized you?”

“Yes, we used to play together when we were children, no?”

“Did we?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then why did you reproach me for not recognizing you?”

He suddenly became very cheerful.

“You are truly adorable.”

“What? What did I say?”

“You are the only woman who could become infatuated with a man who walks out of the sea. If I find it amusing that you didn’t recognize me, it’s because I am well-known.”

“But do I know you?”

“No. But a lot of people do. Newspapers talk about me, and publish photographs.”

“Why? What do you do?”

“What do I do?”

“Do you play some sport, or write, or win competitions? Car racing? Tennis? Sailing? That’s the sort of talent that makes you famous. What do you do?”

“I don’t do anything. I exist.”

“You exist?”

“I exist.”

“As what?”

“A prince.”

This was so far from what I expected that I sat there dumbfounded.

He eventually grew concerned.

“Does this shock your beliefs?”

“Me?”

“You have every right to be of the opinion that the monarchy is a ludicrous and outdated system.”

“Oh, no, no, no, it’s not that. It’s just that . . . I feel like a little girl . . . You know, the little girl infatuated with the prince. It’s absurd! I feel ridiculous. Ridiculous that I didn’t know who you were, ridiculous to have feelings for you. Ridiculous!”

“You are not ridiculous.”

“If I were some shepherdess,” I said, in an effort to act the clown, “that at least would make sense! The Prince and the shepherdess, no? However, I’m very sorry, I have no sheep, I have never kept any sheep, I fear I cannot even stand to be around them, they smell so dreadful! I’m a lost cause.”

At least I seemed to be amusing him. He grabbed my hands to calm my feverishness.

“Don’t ever change. If you had any idea how your ignorance delights me . . . Ordinarily, young girls swoon in my presence.”

“Do be careful, I too am apt to swoon. I am sorely tempted, I confess.”

The conversation continued pleasantly. He wanted to know everything about me, and I wanted to know everything about him, however, we were well aware that the purpose of our meeting was not to tell each other our past histories, but to invent a present for ourselves.

He came to see me every afternoon.

I must admit that it was thanks to him, and not to me, that we did not sleep together right away. I—or rather that very feminine woman inside me—would have offered myself already by the second visit. He insisted however that it should not happen too quickly. No doubt he wanted the moment to have its true value.

We went on meeting like this for several weeks, exchanging words and kisses. Until the day that it became unbearable for our lips to part.

Then I understood that, having proven his respect for me by preventing me from giving myself right away, he was now counting on me to give him a signal.

Which I did.

Emma Van A. interrupted her story. She cleared her throat and grew thoughtful.

“There is nothing uglier than a ragged old bag of bones talking about sensuality. I do not want to subject you to that. From the time one reaches a certain level of decrepitude, one ought not bring up certain topics, on pain of provoking disgust, despite one’s belief it is concupiscence. Therefore, I shall go about it differently. May we leave the table?”

We went into the living room, among the books.

Adroitly, she maneuvered her armchair in front of the antique secretary, activated a mechanism that unlocked a secret drawer, and removed a delicate notebook of peach colored leather.

“Here. When I decided to become his lover, I put it down in writing.”

“I feel terribly indiscreet . . .”

“No, no, please take it. Sit over there under the lamp, read it. That’s the best way for me to continue my confession.”

I opened the little book.

To my lord and future master

THE ALBUM OF LOVE

by Emma Van A.

As I find there is nothing more degrading in love than improvised, banal, or rough embraces, I am offering this menu to the man I fancy. As with any menu, he will use it, night after night, by pointing to what he would like.

1—The ordeal of Ulysses and the Sirens

Ulysses, you may recall, had himself bound to the mast of his ship to resist the hypnotic chanting of the sirens. My lord will be bound in like manner to a column, wearing as little clothing as possible, a blindfold to keep him from seeing, and a gag to keep him from speaking. The siren will walk around him, grazing him without touching him, and will murmur in his ear everything she wishes to inflict upon him. If the siren is gifted with imagination and my Lord is too, the scenes evoked will produce as great—or greater—an effect as if they had actually been performed.