Marianne felt as if she had been retracing her own footsteps since the train had pulled out of Brest, where she and Lothar had boarded it, left Quimper behind, and was now racing past Auray on its way to Paris.
She was someone else, and yet she was not. She was the same little Annie who had happened to have a great adventure. Her journey into a different world had at least convinced her of that: that her place was where it had always been. She had no right to a new life: that had been a misconception.
“That’s Brocéliande over there,” she started to say, pointing to a patch of forest on the horizon. “That’s the forest of our dreams. It’s where Merlin the magician is buried.”
“He didn’t exist,” mumbled Lothar as he flicked through a copy of Motor Sport magazine.
“Who says so?”
“Common sense.”
Marianne said nothing. She thought of the spring near Merlin’s grave, and how she had stood alongside the stones that enclosed his prison of love. From the cracks in the stone poked countless slips of paper that people, having obviously lost all common sense, had left there to express their wishes. One of those people was Marianne, who had written, “Let me love and be loved.”
“Do you actually want to hear what I got up to in Kerdruc?” she asked Lothar.
He shrugged.
“I drove a Jaguar and rode a Vespa, I cooked lobster, fed cats and dogs on Ming Dynasty plates, rescued a nun, posed as a model, and played the accordion on the beach.”
Lothar looked at her in bewilderment. “How come you of all people can do all those things?”
“Don’t you believe me?”
He stared at her, then looked down at his magazine again.
“Sure. Yes. Of course.”
“Lothar.”
“What?”
“Do you know what a clitoris is?”
His face turned a deep shade of red. “Please!”
“So you do?”
He nodded hastily and glanced around to see if anyone was listening.
“Well why have you never taken an interest in mine?”
“Your lover must have been better at it.”
“Would this be the right time to bring up Sybille?”
“We’ve talked about Sybille. It’s over.”
“Our conversation lasted less than five minutes, and afterward you never wanted me to mention her again.”
“Because it was over! I wanted no one but you!”
“We have to start talking to each other, Lothar. Properly.”
“It’s possible to overanalyze things! Time heals every wound—that’s still the best solution.”
“We don’t have much time. Maybe twenty years if all goes well.”
“You’re always so dramatic!”
Marianne took several deep breaths. “Forget it. I’ll tell you what I want. I want to go to work, I want my own room and I want to play the accordion.”
“What’s the problem? Do as you like!”
“All those things were always a problem for you.”
“Oh come on. Only in your imagination.”
Marianne faltered. Could that be true? Were her memories of her husband worse than he had actually been? Had she only dreamed it all up in order to hate him better? She looked out of the window, suddenly unsure. They had left Rennes behind an hour ago, and they would soon be arriving at Paris Montparnasse.
“Say something nice to me,” she begged.
Reluctantly he slapped his magazine shut. “Marianne! I traveled to France to ask you to come home and marry me again! Isn’t it nice enough that I want to live with you? What else am I supposed to do?”
Be romantic, loving, tender, interested and happy to see me! Look at me as if I were the most important person in the world for you. Desire me. Respect me. Be willing, just for once, to believe me. Be on my side. Stop reading your stupid magazine and talk to me!
“I love you,” said Lothar. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Marianne had a dialogue in her head with herself.
Is that what you wanted to say?
That’s why I said it!
Yes, but do you really mean it?
Marianne, I’m going to get off the train. If every woman did this, asking her husband what he meant, then—
But not all women do.
That’s just as well! How would society survive? One has to consider the whole, not just oneself! It’s called being grown up!
One always has to consider the individual. For every person is an individual, and everyone has individual, unique reasons. And every individual counts. That’s what I call being grown up.
Marianne was sure that her memories of Lothar hadn’t tricked her. But maybe she ought to start doing all the things for him that she wished for herself. Maybe she ought to be more feminine, more seductive, more self-assured, more interesting…
OH GOD, STOP IT. I FEEL SICK, roared the voice inside her head. It sounded like Colette.
“Yes, that’s what I wanted to hear,” replied Marianne after a while.
She felt Lothar’s hand rest on hers. “We should buy new rings,” he whispered, stroking her bare ring finger. “Otherwise, what would people think?”
She pulled her hand out from under his.
—
Paris, Montparnasse station. People were pressing between the shops as usual, and as Marianne passed a shoe stall, the salesman looked up and called, “Ma chère Madame, you look ravishing!”
“Thank you. Do you also sell shoes a woman can wear to the places where she belongs?”
“Of course!” He pulled out a pair of red pumps with white polka dots. “Do you want to find love there?” He winked at Lothar, who was watching the two of them suspiciously.
Yes, I do.
Marianne strode toward the nearest taxi.
“We can take the bus into the center. It’s cheaper,” Lothar suggested.
“And I’m sixty and I don’t feel like taking the bus,” answered Marianne, getting in. Lothar scrambled into the backseat on the other side. As the taxi pulled away, he reached for her hand.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. He pressed her fingers, stiff with shock, to his meticulously shaven cheek, snuggled up to her and shut his eyes. Marianne didn’t know what to do. Lothar kissed her palm. “Forgive me,” he pleaded more ardently. “Forgive me, Marianne, for not having loved you as you needed to be loved.” He ran Marianne’s hand over his cheek, as if he were desperate for her finally to caress him of her own free will.
That was when it struck her that she hadn’t hugged or kissed Lothar once since they had met again, nor had she wanted to.
“Couldn’t we learn to love each other as we should?” he now implored her. He tried to pull her to him and stroke her hair, but she pushed him away.
“I lived your life, Lothar, not mine. For that I give you half the blame and myself the other half. I was too complacent, and so were you. That has nothing to do with love.”
He bowed his head. “And if I…if from now on I live your life, as you want to live it?”
He hasn’t understood. No one ought to live another person’s life. Not me. Not him.
“With your own room. Your accordion. And things will be completely different as soon as I take early retirement. We can go on holiday to Kerdruc from time to time, if you wish.”