And with this realisation his shame knew no boundaries.
He saw her before him in the hours and hours of the weeks following the letter, waiting for a car to pull up outside her house and for Jean to knock on her door.
Summer passed, autumn painted frost on the fallen leaves, winter swept the trees bare. Still he hadn’t come.
He slapped his hands to his face, but would rather have slapped himself in the face.
And now it’s too late.
Fingers shaking uncontrollably, Monsieur Perdu folded up the fragile letter, which miraculously preserved her scent, and pushed it back into the envelope. Then he buttoned up his shirt with grim concentration and groped for his shoes. He tidied his hair in the mirror formed by the darkened windowpane.
Jump out, you vile idiot. That would solve things.
When he looked up, he saw Catherine leaning against the door frame.
‘I was her … ,’ he began, indicating the letter. ‘She was my …’ He couldn’t find the words. ‘But things turned out completely differently.’
What was the word for it?
‘Love?’ asked Catherine after a while.
He nodded.
That’s right. That was the word.
‘That’s good.’
‘It’s too late,’ he said.
It’s destroying everything. It’s destroying me.
‘It seems that she …’
Say it.
‘… . left me for love’s sake. Yes, for love’s sake. Left me.’
‘Will you see each other again?’ asked Catherine.
‘No. She’s dead. Manon has been dead a long time. But all these years I refused to accept it.’
He shut his eyes so as not to see Catherine, not to see how he was hurting her.
‘And I loved her. So much that I stopped living when she went away. She died, but all I could think of was how mean she’d been to me. I was a stupid man. And forgive me, Catherine, for I still am. I can’t even talk about it properly. I should go before I hurt you any more, right?’
‘Of course you can go. And you’re not hurting me. That’s life, and we’re not fourteen any more. We turn peculiar when we don’t have anyone left to love. And old emotions always linger for a while among the new ones. That’s just how humans are,’ whispered Catherine, calm and collected.
She stared at the kitchen table, which had set everything off.
‘I wish my husband had left me for love’s sake. That’s the best way to be left.’
Perdu walked stiffly over to Catherine and awkwardly embraced her, even though it felt incredibly strange.
13
He did one hundred press-ups while the coffee pot spluttered away. After a first sip of coffee he forced himself to do two hundred sit-ups until his muscles sang.
He took a cold and hot shower, and shaved, cutting himself often and deeply. He waited until the blood ceased to flow, ironed a white shirt and put on a tie. He shoved a few banknotes into his trouser pocket and draped his jacket over his arm.
He didn’t look at Catherine’s door as he went out. His body was yearning desperately for her embrace.
And then? I console myself, she consoles herself, and in the end we’re like two used towels.
He took out the book orders his neighbours had stuck in his letterbox, stepped out of the building and greeted Thierry, who was wiping the dew from the café tables.
He ate his cheese omelette without really noticing or even tasting it, because he was concentrating hard on the morning paper.
‘What’s up?’ asked Thierry, laying a hand on Perdu’s shoulder.
His gesture was so playful and so friendly that Monsieur Perdu had to force himself not to grab Thierry and shake him.
How did she die? What from? Did it hurt? Did she call out for me? Did she watch the door every day? Why was I so proud?
Why did things turn out like this? What punishment do I deserve? Would it be best to kill myself, to do the right thing for once?
Perdu stared at the book reviews and read them with effortful, frantic concentration, willing himself not to miss a single word, opinion or snippet of information. He underlined things, jotted down comments and forgot what he was reading.
He started again.
He didn’t even look up when Thierry said, ‘That car, it’s been there half the night. Is someone asleep in it? More people looking for that writer?’
‘For Max Jordan?’ asked Perdu.
May that boy not act so stupidly.
He slipped hurriedly away from his table as Thierry walked over to the car.
When death came knocking, she was scared. And she wanted me to protect her. But I wasn’t there. I was too busy pitying myself.
Perdu felt sick.
Manon. Her hands. There was something so alive about her letter, her scent and her handwriting. I miss her so much.
I hate myself. I hate her!
Why did she let herself die? There has to be some misunderstanding. She must still be alive somewhere.
He ran to the toilet and threw up.