frontal reflection in the big mirror. A Degas painting. He takes a second drag, holds the smoke in for a long time, and slowly exhales. The image of the young woman shimmers and dissolves. Another face fleetingly appears, that of a very young girl. He creases his eyes to capture it. Too late, it disperses with a metallic sound. He stubs out his cigarette.
Her blonde hair is piled up in a sophisticated chignon, showing off the nape of her neck and the outline of her shoulders. He is utterly absorbed in watching each of her slow, accomplished movements. First of all, she applies foundation, almost lazily, like a sort of slow preliminary, then the tension increases, a few dabs to touch up under the eyes, around the cheekbones. She surveys the overall effect, and her gaze is drawn towards the mirror, intense, her torso slightly inclined, her arms raised, her breasts swell, lolling forward too, her back elongates, her hips spread. She outlines her eyes with precise strokes, paints her mouth (he loves the way she pinches her lipstogether), highlights her cheekbones, hollows out her cheeks, makes a correction here and there. A refined, artificial world that exists only for him. He gently caresses his half-erection.
The application of the mask is complete.
‘We’re going to be late,’ she says without turning round, glancing at the reflection of the man in black in the corner of the mirror.
‘It doesn’t matter. Take your time.’
‘I don’t feel like going out this evening.’
He looks away. She sighs, rises, slips on ivory silk stockings, a magic moment when her living flesh is transformed into a smooth, perfect shimmering shape. He closes his eyes. Good, very good. Then the long dress, crimson like her lips, fluid over her body, flared at the hem, long sleeves covering her shoulders and a V-neck that plunges to her waist, her breasts unfettered beneath the fabric. Matching high-heeled shoes, the superb arch of her feet, sophisticated balance. She leans over her dressing table, takes a pair of gold earrings from the drawer and puts them on, then a necklace. ‘No need,’ he says and she turns around. He gets up and from his pocket produces a velvet box. He opens it and takes out a round object made of gold. Françoise accepts it, running her finger over the chasing: a geometric design depicting a curled-up panther in unpolished beaten gold. There’s something strange and savage about it.
‘Exquisite. Where does it come from?’
‘From the wilds of the steppes, from the depths of time. The minute I saw it, I wanted it for you. I had it mounted.’ He goes over to her and fastens the necklace around her neck. ‘I could picture you wearing it just like this, with this dress.’
He kisses her hair, moves his lips down to her ear whichhe brushes with his moustache, takes the earring between his teeth, tastes the coolness of the metal, and pulls gently. She moves away, smiles at him and winks: ‘Very fragile, this work of art, don’t touch,’ then urges:
‘Let’s stay here this evening, I don’t feel like going out.’
He holds out her coat, envelops her in it, keeps his arms around her and caresses her face with the fur collar.
‘What you feel like is of little importance, my beauty.’
Saturday 30 November
There is something sinister about the parking lot at La Villette at eight o’clock in the morning, in the middle of winter, bathed in the orange glow of the big city. The gleaming wet black tarmac, divided into long strips by granite pavements and marked off with white lines and puny saplings forms a desolate geometric universe a stone’s throw from the construction sites of La Villette. Two cop cars are parked in a corner, blue lights flashing and headlights glaring. The cops, four in uniform, two in plain clothes, are huddled by a row of shrubs. A Caribbean-looking man wearing a woollen hat and scarf and a leather bomber jacket is holding his wolfhound on a leash and pointing to a human form lying
Her blonde hair is piled up in a sophisticated chignon, showing off the nape of her neck and the outline of her shoulders. He is utterly absorbed in watching each of her slow, accomplished movements. First of all, she applies foundation, almost lazily, like a sort of slow preliminary, then the tension increases, a few dabs to touch up under the eyes, around the cheekbones. She surveys the overall effect, and her gaze is drawn towards the mirror, intense, her torso slightly inclined, her arms raised, her breasts swell, lolling forward too, her back elongates, her hips spread. She outlines her eyes with precise strokes, paints her mouth (he loves the way she pinches her lipstogether), highlights her cheekbones, hollows out her cheeks, makes a correction here and there. A refined, artificial world that exists only for him. He gently caresses his half-erection.
The application of the mask is complete.
‘We’re going to be late,’ she says without turning round, glancing at the reflection of the man in black in the corner of the mirror.
‘It doesn’t matter. Take your time.’
‘I don’t feel like going out this evening.’
He looks away. She sighs, rises, slips on ivory silk stockings, a magic moment when her living flesh is transformed into a smooth, perfect shimmering shape. He closes his eyes. Good, very good. Then the long dress, crimson like her lips, fluid over her body, flared at the hem, long sleeves covering her shoulders and a V-neck that plunges to her waist, her breasts unfettered beneath the fabric. Matching high-heeled shoes, the superb arch of her feet, sophisticated balance. She leans over her dressing table, takes a pair of gold earrings from the drawer and puts them on, then a necklace. ‘No need,’ he says and she turns around. He gets up and from his pocket produces a velvet box. He opens it and takes out a round object made of gold. Françoise accepts it, running her finger over the chasing: a geometric design depicting a curled-up panther in unpolished beaten gold. There’s something strange and savage about it.
‘Exquisite. Where does it come from?’
‘From the wilds of the steppes, from the depths of time. The minute I saw it, I wanted it for you. I had it mounted.’ He goes over to her and fastens the necklace around her neck. ‘I could picture you wearing it just like this, with this dress.’
He kisses her hair, moves his lips down to her ear whichhe brushes with his moustache, takes the earring between his teeth, tastes the coolness of the metal, and pulls gently. She moves away, smiles at him and winks: ‘Very fragile, this work of art, don’t touch,’ then urges:
‘Let’s stay here this evening, I don’t feel like going out.’
He holds out her coat, envelops her in it, keeps his arms around her and caresses her face with the fur collar.
‘What you feel like is of little importance, my beauty.’
Saturday 30 November
There is something sinister about the parking lot at La Villette at eight o’clock in the morning, in the middle of winter, bathed in the orange glow of the big city. The gleaming wet black tarmac, divided into long strips by granite pavements and marked off with white lines and puny saplings forms a desolate geometric universe a stone’s throw from the construction sites of La Villette. Two cop cars are parked in a corner, blue lights flashing and headlights glaring. The cops, four in uniform, two in plain clothes, are huddled by a row of shrubs. A Caribbean-looking man wearing a woollen hat and scarf and a leather bomber jacket is holding his wolfhound on a leash and pointing to a human form lying
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