Marie by Madeleine Bourdouxhe

place the bag on her lap but immediately took hold of her glass and raised it to her lips, concealing her smile and protecting her mouth at the same time. He stayed where he was, silent, his hand on her knee.
    She no longer felt a sense of unease, nor did she want to laugh; she was now profoundly annoyed by the whole scene. She said drily: ‘Well now, Denis, what about this magazine?’
    He explained that he had launched it for commercial reasons, with a view to being able to spend time on more important work without having to worry so much about money. But now that the new magazine had ‘taken off’ he thought that he could try to make it appeal to a more intellectual readership whilst preserving its popular nature. He would write some pieces of literary criticism, and Marie a column on philosophy.
    ‘That would be it,’ he said. ‘You’d be the one who’d give the magazine a bit of class. But remember, I want your articles to make an impression but they must also be accessible to the people who buy it.’
    The whole chaotic atmosphere had reduced Marie to a state of extreme irritation; she was in no mood to be compliant. The silent anger that had been rising up in her ever since she had come into the apartment suddenly exploded.
    ‘Listen, Denis, if what you want from me is ten pages on the Critique of Pure Reason , that’s fine. And if you want me to help you draft recipes for Veal Marengo, Kromesky Chicken or whatever, that’s fine, too, even if I have to make them up. But if you want me to take two spoonfuls of Spinoza, one of Plato, three grams of Bergson, and bind the mixture with a digestive sauce that will suit these ladies’ stomachs, that’s not on at all. I am quite simply not cut out for that kind of work …’
    Marie carried on in the same vein. He had never heard her talk for so long, in such a strong, furious voice. So taken was he by her animated gestures, her nervous hands and her eyes, which had finally come to life – albeit accusingly – for a full few minutes, that he quite forgot to answer back.
    When she had finished Denis was in a state of shock, not knowing what to say but wanting to be friendly. He went up to the table and filled her glass. ‘What do you think of this drink?’
    ‘It’s a little sweet. You ought to have put in less port and more gin,’ she said, in a voice still loaded with anger.
    Obediently, he poured half the contents away and added more gin. ‘You haven’t said anything about the apartment,’ he said, after a few moments of silence. ‘It’s just been redesigned, I’d like to know what you think.’
    ‘It’s probably very nice, but you can’t see the colours with that useless little lamp,’ she replied.
    And looking at the closed curtains she asked: ‘Is that a false window?’
    He turned out the lamp and opened the curtains. The room was flooded with light, so sudden and so strong that they blinked.
    She got up and stood in the middle of the room. ‘If it had been like this when I arrived, things might have turned out differently, in every respect,’ she said, giving him a hard look.
    After the attitude she had just shown, and the sentence she had just uttered, Denis had only two possible options: to take her by the shoulders and throw her out, or to makelove to her. Realising this, Marie felt responsible for the situation, and waited with some concern to see what he would do. Instead of being cross he looked at her and said: ‘Do you always reveal yourself like this, Marie, so dramatically?’
    She felt sad, her anger suddenly deflated. ‘Reveal myself … reveal myself?’ she repeated softly, as though to herself.
    ‘You ought to speak out more often, Marie, to open up a bit. You should speak to other people more often, you’d do them good.’
    His voice was guarded, and had taken on an imploring note. Marie looked at him with a tenderness touched with pity – at his hands and his hair, at his weak forehead and his sad, shallow eyes. This