Men by Marie Darrieussecq Page A

wonderful shots (mourning dress, her hair in an ash-blonde bun, ‘not veryyoung’: in Hollywood terms, exactly her age). ‘Her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in a glimmer of gold.’ You could even imagine inserting scenes where Kurtz dreamed about her, scenes where she appeared, diaphanous in the jungle—after all, it was a novel teeming with visions, a hallucinatory novel, miasmic, mystical. ‘I am proud to know I understand him better than anyone on earth…’ Yes, it was a role for her. Yes, Kurtz dreamed about the Intended and she, Solange, would go into the jungle. Or into the studio, but with Kouhouesso.

    On Skype, Rose told her that it was a bad sign when a man never invited you to his place. What was he hiding? Another woman? Several other women? Seven women with their throats cut? Dirty socks? A mess? Solange still hadn’t mentioned the colour of Kouhouesso’s skin, or his name, but it seemed as if the telepathic waves were being transmitted through the network.
    He shared his place with another tenant, Jessie. Who was never there. And who paid most of the rent. A villa that was almost as beautiful as George’s. Kouhouesso was on the top floor, with a terrace that overlooked the canyon. The first time he took her there, she couldn’t stop walking around. A huge light-filled loft, books everywhere, as well as a few accent pieces of furniture. A big bed, a large beige rug. Computers resting directly on the floor, lots of technology.
    She wandered around barefoot on the wooden floor, euphoric. She wore a simple white cotton dress, with thin crocheted straps. On the wall there was a—what was it?—giant painted skin, parchment, a sort of frieze with angels and swords, a weird alphabet. And lying casually on the ground was a huge head with a serene expression, a black female torso made out of yellow material. She was so beautiful, this woman whose face was lined with stripes, that it made her feel weary, perhaps from jealousy. ‘Where did you buy it?’ She imagined him negotiating the price of this prodigious object in some village market. He had bought it in the British Museum gift shop. A copy, of course. ‘Who is it?’ He burst out laughing. Do you ask ‘who is it?’ about the Venus de Milo? It was the King of Ife. Not a woman but a king. The most famous head in African art, along with the Fang masks, perhaps. As for the scroll on the wall, it was an Ethiopian magic scroll, to conjure the devil in Amharic.
    She thought he said America and took on a knowing look.
    The sun was setting over the canyon; they were listening to Leonard Cohen. He opened a bottle that she’d brought, his Chinese eyes became two slits and a trace of something tender was hovering around his face, near his eyelids, near his mouth, an apparition, like a hummingbird, something swift and nebulous. Perhaps that was what held her back, what she couldn’t quite…the fleeting gentleness in a mask. She wanted to kiss him where the soft folds opened up,here, there, and him hidden beneath. ‘Terrified by love,’ Rose would say.
    He was going to see Leonard Cohen in concert soon. Did she know that the famous singer’s main adversary was not the Vietnam war or the American right wing, but his own depression? He wondered what role the holocaust of the Jews (he didn’t say ‘the Shoah’) played in this lifelong depression.
    As for her, she wondered when the concert was and why he didn’t invite her.

    When she woke, the loft was empty. ‘Kouhouesso?’ She had only ever said his name in a hushed voice, in his arms. She had never said it to anyone else. She hadn’t even spoken to George about him. It was strange saying his name, Kouhouesso , out loud, in the silence. Like blasphemy. Sounds that she didn’t know how to say in any language, intonations into empty space, of an imaginary Africa, magic and formidable.
    Jessie was there. They were both smoking by the pool. They had opened some beers and were talking