of expectation—swam next to each other like two planets tied together by an unbreakable law of attraction.
“Why hurry?” thought the man. And so did she.
What was this? Was it love? . . . He was pretty sure that it was not. But now that he leaned over the girl’s face and felt the warm breath of her young mouth on his skin, now that the attraction, which was gradual and irresistible, forced him to move closer to her lips, advancing very slowly, with an almost religious reverence, his whole body bending, like a fugitive dying of thirst and worshipping at the fount of water he leans over, he did consider the question. “Could this be the One? . . .” But he already knew that she wasn’t, or, more precisely, that she was only one among many others who were also not the One, or, even more precisely, that she, too, was the One. He would have recognized the girl among a thousand other female faces—his powers of recollection worked with a remarkable, almost supernatural power when it came to remembering women’s faces, employing precisely the same instincts as a beast of prey does when he picks up traces and scents in the jungle—but he also knew that this relationship would be as inconclusive as the rest, for no relationship was ever conclusive: whatever the power of the mysterious, dumb, yet harshly insistent voice emanating from certain women, the signal never said anything more than, “Here I am: we have something in common that we could explore, you and I.” There was never any other signal but this. He always heard the voice and heeded the call, like an animal in the jungle. His ears would prick up, his eyes begin to shine and he would straighten his back. And so he would set off in the direction of the sound, following the scent, sniffing, listening, constantly on the alert, his instincts always reliable. This was the way they called to him, the young, the beautiful, the ragged, the mature, and the aging, serving maids and princesses, nuns and traveling actresses, seamstresses and serving girls, women who could be paid in gold and more discriminating women who lived in palazzos (who also, eventually, had to be paid, and more plentifully, in gold). So it had been with the baker’s widow, with the canny daughter of the Jewish horse trader, with M.M. the French ambassador’s favorite, with C.C. the ruined child bride in the convent, and with the dirty, lecherous creature who only recently had been swept away to be deposited in his harem at Versailles by His Most Christian Highness Louis of the Bourbons. So it had also been with the young wife of the French captain, with the lady mayoress of Cologne, and with the princess d’Urfé who was as old as the hills and so skinny that a man was likely to prick his finger on one of her bones when embracing her. . . . Each time he heard the voice and at every call he set out, never once lacking the feral excitement of sniffing the air or failing to experience the erotic trembling and the thrill of concentration when the mysterious question once again presented itself. “Could this be the One? . . .” But no sooner did he face the question than he knew that it wasn’t, that not one of them was. And so he moved on.
And everywhere there were inns, and theaters with nightly performances, and every day miraculously produced someone, something, provided one wasn’t afraid. No, I have never been afraid, he reflected with satisfaction, and drew the girl’s unresisting body still closer to him. “But it would be good if this were finally she, the One I have been looking for,” he thought. “It would be good to rest. It would be good to know that there was no more need for quick thinking and elaborate strategies, that someday the plot might be reduced to something perfectly simple, that one might live one’s life with a woman who loved one back, and so desire nothing more. It would be very good,” he ruefully thought. But it was as if the plot had become
“Why hurry?” thought the man. And so did she.
What was this? Was it love? . . . He was pretty sure that it was not. But now that he leaned over the girl’s face and felt the warm breath of her young mouth on his skin, now that the attraction, which was gradual and irresistible, forced him to move closer to her lips, advancing very slowly, with an almost religious reverence, his whole body bending, like a fugitive dying of thirst and worshipping at the fount of water he leans over, he did consider the question. “Could this be the One? . . .” But he already knew that she wasn’t, or, more precisely, that she was only one among many others who were also not the One, or, even more precisely, that she, too, was the One. He would have recognized the girl among a thousand other female faces—his powers of recollection worked with a remarkable, almost supernatural power when it came to remembering women’s faces, employing precisely the same instincts as a beast of prey does when he picks up traces and scents in the jungle—but he also knew that this relationship would be as inconclusive as the rest, for no relationship was ever conclusive: whatever the power of the mysterious, dumb, yet harshly insistent voice emanating from certain women, the signal never said anything more than, “Here I am: we have something in common that we could explore, you and I.” There was never any other signal but this. He always heard the voice and heeded the call, like an animal in the jungle. His ears would prick up, his eyes begin to shine and he would straighten his back. And so he would set off in the direction of the sound, following the scent, sniffing, listening, constantly on the alert, his instincts always reliable. This was the way they called to him, the young, the beautiful, the ragged, the mature, and the aging, serving maids and princesses, nuns and traveling actresses, seamstresses and serving girls, women who could be paid in gold and more discriminating women who lived in palazzos (who also, eventually, had to be paid, and more plentifully, in gold). So it had been with the baker’s widow, with the canny daughter of the Jewish horse trader, with M.M. the French ambassador’s favorite, with C.C. the ruined child bride in the convent, and with the dirty, lecherous creature who only recently had been swept away to be deposited in his harem at Versailles by His Most Christian Highness Louis of the Bourbons. So it had also been with the young wife of the French captain, with the lady mayoress of Cologne, and with the princess d’Urfé who was as old as the hills and so skinny that a man was likely to prick his finger on one of her bones when embracing her. . . . Each time he heard the voice and at every call he set out, never once lacking the feral excitement of sniffing the air or failing to experience the erotic trembling and the thrill of concentration when the mysterious question once again presented itself. “Could this be the One? . . .” But no sooner did he face the question than he knew that it wasn’t, that not one of them was. And so he moved on.
And everywhere there were inns, and theaters with nightly performances, and every day miraculously produced someone, something, provided one wasn’t afraid. No, I have never been afraid, he reflected with satisfaction, and drew the girl’s unresisting body still closer to him. “But it would be good if this were finally she, the One I have been looking for,” he thought. “It would be good to rest. It would be good to know that there was no more need for quick thinking and elaborate strategies, that someday the plot might be reduced to something perfectly simple, that one might live one’s life with a woman who loved one back, and so desire nothing more. It would be very good,” he ruefully thought. But it was as if the plot had become
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