Tertre. Besides, there was something disturbing about watching her tremble with apprehension, overwhelmed by a physical malaise. It was more than inelegant, it was downright insulting! “It’s her problem, after all!” he said to himself.
Amélie was clenching her fists, searching for the commonsense thing to do. She couldn’t think straight, and this doubled her anxiety. She begged David to help her:
—David what am I going to do? What the hell can I do now?
—There are two possibilities: Either you pretend you haven’t seen him, and he’ll understand; or you greet him nicely, and he’ll understand also.
Realizing the curtness of his suggestions, he added:
—Listen, your friend doesn’t strike me as a fool. He’s old enough to have found himself in such a situation before; he won’t tell.
—You may be right, Amélie nodded dolefully. In fact, you’re quite right. It’s about time I regained some dignity. That’s what you’re hinting at, isn’t it? So I’m going to say hello.
She lighted a cigarette and, taking advantage of the lack of an ashtray on the table, swept the room with her eyes in search of a busboy. Such an ostentatious move could only require social effusiveness:
—Oh, Jacques! Hello, how are you?
Jacques G. feigned surprise.
—Amélie, how wonderful to run into you!
Amélie noted that Jacques avoided looking at David. He proved himself circumspect, delicate, tactful; perhaps a bit tense. Their chat ended with a smile. She turned to David:
—Tell me, am I beet red?
—No, you handled it perfectly. I’m proud of you.
—All right! Shall we order our food now? He interrupted, forcing cheerfulness as he called the maître d’ to their table.
She approved his suggestions without listening to them: salad, pigeon pastilla, couscous. The waiter took their order. Suddenly Amélie froze, as if some tiresome individual had covered her eyes with his hands, trumpeting: Guess who’s here?
Martine L., her cousin, was coming out of the ladies’ room heading straight for their table. Passing before them without seeing them, she was smiling across the room at someone on the left. She had just passed their table when her step grew hesitant.
Amélie saw her own image reflected in Martine’s growing awareness. Resigned to a family scandal, she readied herself to put up a good front. Martine looked back all of a sudden, her face death-pale. Just as married as Amélie, she was having dinner with Jacques G. Amélie smiled at her with all the compassion she would have enjoyed finding a few moments ago in Jacques G. Martine returned her smile, relieved by this reaction in which she had failed just yet to detect the obligation of reciprocity.
Both couples isolated themselves in their respective bubbles of illegitimacy, circumscribed by the perimeter of their table. David questioned Amélie. She livened up, explained who Martine was, what Jacques G. did for a living. Together they appreciated the piquancy of the situation, commented on the toppling down of the probabilities of Jacques’s indiscretions since their original analysis of the situation.
By dint of speaking of Paul, her husband, conjuring up memories, Amélie no longer felt at home at this table, with David. She was far from Paris, her center of gravity, and the disasters she was unleashing at this moment. She couldn’t wait to get back home, avoid, circumvent, and snub these dire circumstances.
Amélie’s terror was palpable, as was her desire to flee. Frustrated, hurt, deprived by the fugitive nature of her love, David attempted to hold her back, captivate her attention. But he did not possess a gift for conversation. He was a man of action, unskilled in playful repartee. “Might as well ask a skeptic to lead the séance table,” he said to himself, disheartened. Drained by these one-way efforts, he was growing weary.
He alternated stories and silences. She listened vacantly to the first, unable to overcome the second. Both
Amélie was clenching her fists, searching for the commonsense thing to do. She couldn’t think straight, and this doubled her anxiety. She begged David to help her:
—David what am I going to do? What the hell can I do now?
—There are two possibilities: Either you pretend you haven’t seen him, and he’ll understand; or you greet him nicely, and he’ll understand also.
Realizing the curtness of his suggestions, he added:
—Listen, your friend doesn’t strike me as a fool. He’s old enough to have found himself in such a situation before; he won’t tell.
—You may be right, Amélie nodded dolefully. In fact, you’re quite right. It’s about time I regained some dignity. That’s what you’re hinting at, isn’t it? So I’m going to say hello.
She lighted a cigarette and, taking advantage of the lack of an ashtray on the table, swept the room with her eyes in search of a busboy. Such an ostentatious move could only require social effusiveness:
—Oh, Jacques! Hello, how are you?
Jacques G. feigned surprise.
—Amélie, how wonderful to run into you!
Amélie noted that Jacques avoided looking at David. He proved himself circumspect, delicate, tactful; perhaps a bit tense. Their chat ended with a smile. She turned to David:
—Tell me, am I beet red?
—No, you handled it perfectly. I’m proud of you.
—All right! Shall we order our food now? He interrupted, forcing cheerfulness as he called the maître d’ to their table.
She approved his suggestions without listening to them: salad, pigeon pastilla, couscous. The waiter took their order. Suddenly Amélie froze, as if some tiresome individual had covered her eyes with his hands, trumpeting: Guess who’s here?
Martine L., her cousin, was coming out of the ladies’ room heading straight for their table. Passing before them without seeing them, she was smiling across the room at someone on the left. She had just passed their table when her step grew hesitant.
Amélie saw her own image reflected in Martine’s growing awareness. Resigned to a family scandal, she readied herself to put up a good front. Martine looked back all of a sudden, her face death-pale. Just as married as Amélie, she was having dinner with Jacques G. Amélie smiled at her with all the compassion she would have enjoyed finding a few moments ago in Jacques G. Martine returned her smile, relieved by this reaction in which she had failed just yet to detect the obligation of reciprocity.
Both couples isolated themselves in their respective bubbles of illegitimacy, circumscribed by the perimeter of their table. David questioned Amélie. She livened up, explained who Martine was, what Jacques G. did for a living. Together they appreciated the piquancy of the situation, commented on the toppling down of the probabilities of Jacques’s indiscretions since their original analysis of the situation.
By dint of speaking of Paul, her husband, conjuring up memories, Amélie no longer felt at home at this table, with David. She was far from Paris, her center of gravity, and the disasters she was unleashing at this moment. She couldn’t wait to get back home, avoid, circumvent, and snub these dire circumstances.
Amélie’s terror was palpable, as was her desire to flee. Frustrated, hurt, deprived by the fugitive nature of her love, David attempted to hold her back, captivate her attention. But he did not possess a gift for conversation. He was a man of action, unskilled in playful repartee. “Might as well ask a skeptic to lead the séance table,” he said to himself, disheartened. Drained by these one-way efforts, he was growing weary.
He alternated stories and silences. She listened vacantly to the first, unable to overcome the second. Both
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