tempted to reply.
M., 66, well-preserved, large appetite, small pension, would like to meet F., not too ugly, small appetite, large pension, to keep each other company on the last stretch of the road .
Well, at least that was frank. And the next one was pretty irresistible:
Successful Medium and Clairvoyant with Gift inherited from Father The whole truth from first meeting whether for protection lasting affection tracing lost husband or wife attraction happiness consultation by correspondence send photo and SAE for entire satisfaction in every domain .
What have I got to lose? said Clémence to herself.
The Sawback Angelshark flat had pleased Charles Reyer. He had already made up his mind, in fact, when Mathilde had told him about it in the hotel, and he had merely concealed his haste to accept. Because Charles knew that he was getting worse, month by month. And he was afraid. He sensed that Mathilde, without even realising it, would be able to distract his mind from the dark and morbid sentiments into which it was sinking. At the same time, he could see no other solution than to keep hating everybody, since the idea of becoming a sort of Pollyanna blind man revolted him. He had gone round the walls of the apartment, feeling with his hands, and Mathilde had shown him where the doors, taps and light switches were.
‘Why bother showing me the light switches?’ said Charles. ‘No need to put the light on. You’re not as clever as you think, Queen Mathilde.’
Mathilde shrugged. She realised that Charles Reyer turned nasty about every ten minutes.
‘What about other people?’ she replied. ‘If someone comes to see you, you won’t put the light on, will you, just let them sit in the dark?’
‘Hate other people, feel like killing them,’ said Charles through clenched teeth, as if to excuse himself.
He cast about for a chair, bumped into the unfamiliar furniture and Mathilde did not help him. So he remained standing and turned towards her.
‘Am I more or less facing you?’
‘More or less.’
‘Put the light on, Mathilde.’
‘It is on.’
Charles took off his glasses and Mathilde looked at his eyes.
‘Well, obviously,’ she said after a moment. ‘Don’t expect me to tell you your eyes look fine, because they don’t, they’re horrible. Against your pale skin, frankly they make you look like the living dead. With your glasses on, you’re terrific. But when you take them off, you look like a scorpion-fish. If I was a surgeon, my dear Charles, I’d try and fix them for you, clean them up. There’s no reason why you should carry on looking like a scorpion-fish if there’s a way out. I know someone, a surgeon. He did a great job on a friend who’d had an accident that left him with a face like a John Dory. The John Dory’s not a pretty fish either.’
‘What if I like looking like a scorpion-fish?’ asked Charles.
‘Dear God,’ said Mathilde. ‘Are you going to plague me for the rest of my days moaning about being blind? You want to look terrible? OK, go ahead, look terrible. You want to go on being mean and nasty, making cutting remarks that reduce other people to shreds? All right, go ahead, my dear Charles, see if it bothers me. You won’t know about this yet, but you’re out of luck, because it’s Thursday today. So we’re at the start of a section two of the week, and until Sunday, inclusive, I will have absolutely no moral sense. You want compassion, a sympathetic ear, insight, encouragement, or any other humanitarian sentiments, sorry, that’s all over for this week. We get born, we die, and in between we destroy ourselves wasting time while we pretend to be spending it productively, and that’s all I want to say just now about the human race. Next Monday, I shall find humanity perfectly splendid with all its foibles and procrastinations, as it slouches towards the millennium. But today, nothing doing, the office is closed. Today’s a day for cynicism, laissez-aller , futility,
M., 66, well-preserved, large appetite, small pension, would like to meet F., not too ugly, small appetite, large pension, to keep each other company on the last stretch of the road .
Well, at least that was frank. And the next one was pretty irresistible:
Successful Medium and Clairvoyant with Gift inherited from Father The whole truth from first meeting whether for protection lasting affection tracing lost husband or wife attraction happiness consultation by correspondence send photo and SAE for entire satisfaction in every domain .
What have I got to lose? said Clémence to herself.
The Sawback Angelshark flat had pleased Charles Reyer. He had already made up his mind, in fact, when Mathilde had told him about it in the hotel, and he had merely concealed his haste to accept. Because Charles knew that he was getting worse, month by month. And he was afraid. He sensed that Mathilde, without even realising it, would be able to distract his mind from the dark and morbid sentiments into which it was sinking. At the same time, he could see no other solution than to keep hating everybody, since the idea of becoming a sort of Pollyanna blind man revolted him. He had gone round the walls of the apartment, feeling with his hands, and Mathilde had shown him where the doors, taps and light switches were.
‘Why bother showing me the light switches?’ said Charles. ‘No need to put the light on. You’re not as clever as you think, Queen Mathilde.’
Mathilde shrugged. She realised that Charles Reyer turned nasty about every ten minutes.
‘What about other people?’ she replied. ‘If someone comes to see you, you won’t put the light on, will you, just let them sit in the dark?’
‘Hate other people, feel like killing them,’ said Charles through clenched teeth, as if to excuse himself.
He cast about for a chair, bumped into the unfamiliar furniture and Mathilde did not help him. So he remained standing and turned towards her.
‘Am I more or less facing you?’
‘More or less.’
‘Put the light on, Mathilde.’
‘It is on.’
Charles took off his glasses and Mathilde looked at his eyes.
‘Well, obviously,’ she said after a moment. ‘Don’t expect me to tell you your eyes look fine, because they don’t, they’re horrible. Against your pale skin, frankly they make you look like the living dead. With your glasses on, you’re terrific. But when you take them off, you look like a scorpion-fish. If I was a surgeon, my dear Charles, I’d try and fix them for you, clean them up. There’s no reason why you should carry on looking like a scorpion-fish if there’s a way out. I know someone, a surgeon. He did a great job on a friend who’d had an accident that left him with a face like a John Dory. The John Dory’s not a pretty fish either.’
‘What if I like looking like a scorpion-fish?’ asked Charles.
‘Dear God,’ said Mathilde. ‘Are you going to plague me for the rest of my days moaning about being blind? You want to look terrible? OK, go ahead, look terrible. You want to go on being mean and nasty, making cutting remarks that reduce other people to shreds? All right, go ahead, my dear Charles, see if it bothers me. You won’t know about this yet, but you’re out of luck, because it’s Thursday today. So we’re at the start of a section two of the week, and until Sunday, inclusive, I will have absolutely no moral sense. You want compassion, a sympathetic ear, insight, encouragement, or any other humanitarian sentiments, sorry, that’s all over for this week. We get born, we die, and in between we destroy ourselves wasting time while we pretend to be spending it productively, and that’s all I want to say just now about the human race. Next Monday, I shall find humanity perfectly splendid with all its foibles and procrastinations, as it slouches towards the millennium. But today, nothing doing, the office is closed. Today’s a day for cynicism, laissez-aller , futility,
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