Love that does not lay waste is not love.
Omar Khayyâm
Two months, already. Two months since she had left. Two months since Jean had last opened the shutters of his apartment. Two months since Jean had been cursing the world and life itself...
At work, he found it extremely difficult to concentrate. Like jailers making their rounds, dark thoughts circled endlessly in his mind. The slightest thing set him off. Usually of an affable and rather sociable nature, he had now become irritable and reclusive. Once always dressed to the nines, he now neglected himself, showing up to work in sweatpants with a three-day stubble—much to the dismay of the secretaries, who had made his appearance, and especially his ties, one of their favorite daily topics of conversation.
He was unrecognizable. In just two months, he had lost a considerable amount of weight. His eyes seemed to consume his face.
“Jean, are you coming out with us tonight? Thierry and I are going to stuff our faces at Brasserie Georges... For starters, super sauerkraut, and for dessert, their world-famous... Baked Alaska!”
“No, I don't feel like it.”
“Come on man, stop playing the brooding teddy bear, get out of your—”
“And you, stop playing Sigmund Freud... I like you, Cédric, but sometimes you're really annoying.”
God knows he appreciated his colleague like a brother, but today, he rejected that caring side that usually touched him.
The weekends were all built on the exact same routine: on Friday evening, he would buy two bottles of whiskey, and once back in his apartment, he would put Eric Clapton’s Old Love on his CD player on repeat, then start drinking until a floating sensation washed over him. Then, he would grab his Stratocaster and improvise solos throughout the song, much to the chagrin of the neighbors, who beat time with broomsticks against the ceiling. On the narrow neck, his nimble fingers slid and chased each other, living a life of their own. The melancholy of the blue notes, the pentatonic minor phrasing, and the alcohol triggered his tears. Staggering, drunk with grief and liquor, he would collapse onto the couch.
The newly installed answering machine had discouraged many of his friends. It had allowed him to realize the true nature of friendship: most of his acquaintances were fair-weather friends, companions only for drinking and dining; Cédric alone had successfully passed the test...
She had left, overnight, without a word. Of her, all that remained on the bathroom shelf was a bottle of perfume: Magie Noire. And so, for two months, to keep her near him always, he sprayed the bewitching essence onto a handkerchief.
What did he really know about her?... Ultimately, not much. Céline had arrived to do her end-of-studies internship at the company during the year 1991. He still remembered the shock he felt when he discovered her one fine morning in Hervé’s office. Good God, how hard it had been to hide his emotion! It was the first time in twenty-eight years he had experienced such a feeling. He felt every particle of his being tingling, coming alive, as if telling him: “It’s her. Don't you see it’s her?!” She was breathtakingly beautiful; her eyes, an iridescent gold-flecked gray-blue, lit up an oval face framed by long black hair cascading in waves. Her way of dressing showed a true sense of harmony and taste, and her gestures, filled with the grace of a ballerina, completed his undoing.
Not believing in love at first sight, he had tried at the very beginning to avoid her, as if sensing a great danger, but the attraction proved far too strong. Gradually, taking their coffee breaks at the same times, he realized that in addition to her extraordinary appearance, Céline shared many interests with him, including an unconditional love for the works of the Impressionists, particularly Claude Monet.
“I really like that painter, too... In my bedroom, I have a poster of The Magpie, do you know it?” she had asked him.
“A little, yes. It's one of my favorites... Have you looked at it closely?”
“Well, yes. Why do you ask?” she replied.
“Look at it carefully tonight... Especially the shadow of the magpie on the snow.”
“What about it?... Come on, tell me,” she grew impatient, tapping him playfully on the shoulder.
“The shadow is backward.”
“No way! Are you kidding me?!”
With her, he had finally found someone to talk to about things other than the eternal subjects—clothes, kids, cars, sports, politics, gossip, vacations, and the weather—favored by the vast majority of employees. It was not uncommon to see the two of them alone, chatting passionately near the coffee machine; several times, in fact, the assistant manager had gently called them to order, but to no avail. Day by day, the distance separating their bodies narrowed, signaling to any discerning eye the existence of true intimacy, and gossip was beginning to spread among the secretaries.
Of course, what followed was as classic as could be: first, they went out as friends under the pretext of catching a movie, then Jean invited Céline to dinner at Le Tire-Bouchon, and a little later, to come see not his collection of Japanese prints, but the canvases he had painted since arriving in Lyon.
Jean had changed. His life was bathed in color and joy. Everything seemed so delightfully easy; the software he was developing advanced at lightning speed, despite the countlessly long coffee breaks where he reconnected with Céline.
Often, she invited herself over to his place. She loved this canut apartment, its old-fashioned atmosphere, its decor, and the superb light pouring in through the high windows.
He introduced her to Old Lyon, the traboules, the Saint-Jean district, the banks of the Saône, and all the delightful little bouchons.
You never saw one without the other anymore...
One Monday morning, after a weekend when she had gone back home to Tours, he did not see her. Worried, he questioned his coworkers, but none had seen her. On the second day, he asked Mr. Guibert, his direct supervisor, who told him, looking somewhat uneasy:
“Céline finished her internship report early... and she asked to leave.”
“Leave?! Just like that?! Overnight?!”
“She cited a serious reason.”
“Ah! What reason?”
“Look, Mr. Borrel, I don't know anything more... And even if I did, I couldn't tell you.”
He was devastated. Why had she fled like that, without the slightest explanation?
On the Minitel, he searched for her in Tours and its region, but the only person sharing her last name was unlisted.
*
The days drifted by, tasteless, long, and identical, and madness was taking hold of him.
One night, he suddenly felt the warmth of her body against his, the sensual feeling of her hair brushing his cheeks, then the moist softness of her lips meeting his. Instantly, he woke up. The window was rattling in the wind, the curtains dancing in the room populated by ghostlike silhouettes created by the lightning, and amid it all, her perfume reigned in the room.
Dreaming of her was both the best and worst thing for him; he found her, only to lose her again.
That afternoon, while testing his software on the prototype Cédric had designed, the phone rang. Cédric picked up:
“Yes?! Ah, hi there. How are you?... Yeah, yeah, he's here. I'll pass him over. Jean, it's for you.”
“Hello?” Jean said, taking the receiver with a sigh.
He couldn't believe his ears; it was her voice...
“Are you doing okay?” she asked him.
“Is that you?! Where are you?... Why did you leave? Did I say or do something that—”
“Jean! Jean, calm down. I can't tell you anything over the phone. I'll be coming back down to Lyon soon... I'll tell you everything.”
“Do you still love me?”
“I love only you,” she replied in a whisper.
Beyond the sincerity, Jean sensed anguish in her voice.
“I miss you,” he told her. He held back his tears, not wanting to cry in front of Cédric, who, pretending to be busy, was not missing a single word of the conversation.
The conversation went on a bit longer, but despite his eagerness, Jean couldn't learn anything more. When he hung up, he had to sit down for a moment to recover. Unable to understand, his mind conjured up the most wild hypotheses, but knowing he was going to see her again, joy surged within him.
*
Jean's apartment had never been so clean and beautiful. Sunlight flooded the white walls, enhancing the vivid colors of his paintings in the process. The hardwood floor gleamed, and an exquisite scent of wax filled every room.
Freshly shaved, leaning on the balcony railing, he listened with closed eyes to Armstrong's raspy voice repeating, "What a wonderful world," when the doorbell rang... Overcome with joy, he ran to open the door, nearly slipping on the parquet floor along the way.
She was finally there, right in front of him. He lifted her off the ground, spun her around, kissing her neck, laughing out loud, overwhelmed with the joy of having her back. But she, with a certain restraint and a sad smile, said to him:
“Stop, Jean... Stop, you're suffocating me.”
Finally setting her down, he couldn't help but think as he looked at her face: Good God, she has lost so much weight.
As he stared at her, she burst into tears. Wanting to comfort her, he wrapped his arms around her, and between two sobs, she whispered to him:
“Jean... Jean, I'm... I'm HIV positive...”
THE END
JEAN-LOUIS BOUZOU
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