élodi was young enough to be his granddaughter and probably had no interest in him at all. He hoped he had misinterpreted her tone and her words. He didn’t want, like Fran?ois, to tilt against aging and death but rather only to spar with them, striking here and there, evading their blows as much as possible, but always aware that they would win. In that dance they would take the lead and he would accept it if only because courage was worth more than trying to hold on to youth.
Although at first his astounding infatuation had had no sexual component, now he felt such immense heat in imagining her that he quivered. He was possibly fit and capable enough to keep up with her for a while, but how long would that last? It simply could not be, so he tried just to concentrate upon the rhythm of his strokes as he strained at the oars. But straining at the oars was like making love to her, and in a parallel he didn’t particularly like, he couldn’t strain for as long as he wanted against the new volumes of water flowing inexhaustively from the foothills of the Alps.
Remembering the calming scent of smoke rising up from the slopes of Saint-Germain-en-Laye was not enough to distract him. Nor were the prospects of his song in America. All he could think of was this élodi, in whose presence he had been for only twenty minutes, whom he had hardly touched, and with whom he had spoken only a few uncertain words. Then, at Bir-Hakeim, he made the difficult turn while he was distracted, and was almost swept sideways downriver. But because there had been so many turns over so many years and he was not quite ready to fail, he recovered and was soon speeding back to the dock, fast and straight, liberated for a moment from everything except his rapid progress on the water.
TEN YEARS BEFORE, after sprinting without pause for half an hour he would have been awakened as if by caffeine, but now after rowing or running he had to rest. A twenty-minute nap usually would suffice, or just sitting quietly on a bench. No one else was in the boathouse, as often was the case when he rowed. The few people left in the club almost always came only in the morning or on weekends. He paid ever-increasing dues keyed to the ever-declining membership, kept his boat and oars in good order, cleaned up the dock, and tidied the desk where the logbook rested. Though he was the most senior member of the club, if not the oldest, many of the newer ones, never having seen him, thought he was fictitious.
He took a long, hot shower, and dressed. A cot wedged between the boat bays was covered in a white towel. Someone may have used the towel to wipe down a boat, and it was filthy. He seized it, threw it into a hamper, took a freshly laundered terrycloth from the top of the dryer, and laid it out. Then he sat on the cot and looked over the dock and across the water.
Though the fast-flowing Seine was the color of gunmetal, the sky was Parisian blue and early autumn wind made trees across the water glitter in continuous palsy. Because of the wind, the velocity of the current, and the surge of barge traffic in mid-afternoon, no one would be rowing. Also, participation fell off at the end of summer, when people were busy once again, and who could blame them? Streets, gardens, and colors were at their most beautiful in the cool air, dimming light, and the shadow of a weakening sun. The club was neither incorporated nor allowed in Paris itself, but the barge had been moored against the Quai du Point du Jour since before the war, and during the war was used by the Resistance. Every mayor of Paris since had told them that if they kept quiet, didn’t expand, publicize, or make a fuss, they could stay.
Jules swung his feet onto the cot, lay back, and turned his head to see barges as they raced by. The wind coursing through the leaves sounded like a river running through a weir. He breathed deeply, intending to sleep for twenty minutes or so but no longer. As he thought of one thing after another, all took flight and he was released into sleep.
WHEN HE AWOKE it was dark except for lights on the opposite bank. He had slept so deeply he knew neither where he was nor when it was – not merely the time but the decade. After a few seconds, he got his bearings. The boathouse didn’t have a clock, his watch didn’t have a luminous dial, and because he was never there at night he didn’t remember where the light switch was.
As he sat up he felt the cell phone in his pocket, pulled it out, and flipped it open. It illuminated his face in such a deathly way that it was fortunate he didn’t see himself. Nonetheless he was shocked to see that it was after eight and he had slept for more than five hours. Then he remembered élodi, and a wave of pleasure and pain coursed through his body. Without even thinking, he used the phone to call Ehrenshtamm.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who? Who else?”
“I’m about to go out. I gave a speech, got home late, and they had already eaten – with nothing left for me, thank you very much. I think that’s a message, but anyway I was going to go to Renée. Why? Where are you?”
“Rowing.”
“At night?”
“No. I slept. See you in half an hour.” Jules disconnected.
They still frequented the undistinguished Boul-Miche bistros in which they had practically lived when they were students, but now when Fran?ois finished a speech in which he was adored by the audience – especially the attractive women – and pocketed a fat check, he liked to go to Chez Renée on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Not only was it excellent, it was the kind of place where if Fran?ois were recognized he would be ignored, because many of its patrons were, or thought themselves, of equal or superior status. He was an intellectual, and they were intellectuals, but because he was famous and could be seen on television, they looked down on him as much as they deeply envied him. Also the restaurant served Purée Crécy, for which Fran?ois had had a weakness since childhood. He had been going there for a long time, it was doing badly enough to suggest that it might close, and he wanted to help.
“You slept for five hours? Are you sick?”
“Tired.”
“Usually a good reason to sleep. Shouldn’t you have gone home first? You’re not a narcoleptic.”
“Perhaps not, but when I nap in the afternoon I find it hard to wake up. I’m still not fully awake. What was your speech like?”
“It went well, filled the hall, lots of beautiful women, especially one in the front row. I couldn’t stop looking at her.”
“What was the subject?”
“Accident and design.”
“I may not have the heart for controversies anymore. There have been too many, and I’m too old.”