knocked down the slums and alleys and corners of old Paris. It was a medieval city. Gérard de Nerval lived in a building like mine—a seventeenth-century building of small rooms and small windows round a tiny rear courtyard. The square of sky like a lid.
“He had fallen in love with a woman of the lower classes and he was ashamed of himself. One night he had a dream that an angel, vast and
majestique
, had fallen into the courtyard. Folding his wings as he fell, the angel was trapped. Feathers drifted through the windows into the dark apartments. An old woman began to stuff a pillow.
“If the angel tried to escape by opening his wings, then the buildings would collapse. But if the angel didn’t open his wings he would die.
“Some days later Gérard de Nerval hanged himself in the basement from a street grating. A man on the street, walking by, looked down and saw him swinging there, in darkness and alone.”
“That’s a terrible story,” said Xeno.
“But what do you do,” said MiMi, “if to be free you demolish everything around you?”
“But if you don’t, you die?” said Xeno.
“Yes. If you don’t, you die.”
—
It was August. The banks of the Seine had been transformed into a seaside fantasy, part
plage
, part stalls of street food and pop-up bars. The weather was hot. People were easy.
Xeno said, “About Leo…” MiMi nodded and squeezed his hand, part reassurance, part understanding.
For a while they walked in silence.
Xeno liked holding hands with women he liked. He liked women. As long as they didn’t get too close. And they always did—or thought they did, or tried to. It was easier with men. The sex was simple, often anonymous. A dark stranger whose name (for the night) was love.
Xeno couldn’t manage too much nearness. He was solitary and introverted, with an enthusiasm that people mistook for sociability. He was interested in everything, attentive to people, genuinely kind, and entirely present when he was present. But he was never sorry to close the door at night or to be alone.
Leo had sent Xeno to ask MiMi to give him another chance.
“I’ll mess it up if I see her. You explain.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know! The long form of ‘I love you.’ ”
—
Leo gave Xeno a piece of paper in his bad handwriting. “This is the long form.”
Xeno looked at it. He nearly laughed, but his friend was so hangdog and anxious that he just nodded while he was reading.
“I’ve been working on it,” said Leo.
1) Can I live without you? Yes.
2) Do I want to? No.
3) Do I think about you often? Yes.
4) Do I miss you? Yes.
5) Do I think about you when I am with another woman? Yes.
6) Do I think that you are different to other women? Yes.
7) Do I think that I am different to other men? No.
8) Is it about sex? Yes.
9) Is it only about sex? No.
10) Have I felt like this before? Yes and no.
11) Have I felt like this since you? No.
12) Why do I want to marry you? I hate the idea of you marrying someone else.
13) You are beautiful.
So when they had walked awhile and stopped for water at a bar selling
l’eau
in fancy blue bottles, Xeno got out the piece of paper and gave it to MiMi. She started laughing. “No, listen,” said Xeno, “he’s awkward but he means it. This is his way of being sure.”
MiMi shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Then say yes,” said Xeno.
“Pourquoi?”
—
They walked on. They talked about life as flow. About nothingness. About illusion. About love as a theory marred by practice. About love as practice marred by theory. They talked about the impossibility of sex. Was sex different for men? With men? What did it feel like to fall in love? To fall out of love?
And why do we
tomber
? To fall?
“There’s a theory,” said Xeno, “the Gnostics started it as a rival to Christianity right back at the start: this world of ours was created Fallen, not by God, who is absent, but by a Lucifer-type figure. Some kind
“He had fallen in love with a woman of the lower classes and he was ashamed of himself. One night he had a dream that an angel, vast and
majestique
, had fallen into the courtyard. Folding his wings as he fell, the angel was trapped. Feathers drifted through the windows into the dark apartments. An old woman began to stuff a pillow.
“If the angel tried to escape by opening his wings, then the buildings would collapse. But if the angel didn’t open his wings he would die.
“Some days later Gérard de Nerval hanged himself in the basement from a street grating. A man on the street, walking by, looked down and saw him swinging there, in darkness and alone.”
“That’s a terrible story,” said Xeno.
“But what do you do,” said MiMi, “if to be free you demolish everything around you?”
“But if you don’t, you die?” said Xeno.
“Yes. If you don’t, you die.”
—
It was August. The banks of the Seine had been transformed into a seaside fantasy, part
plage
, part stalls of street food and pop-up bars. The weather was hot. People were easy.
Xeno said, “About Leo…” MiMi nodded and squeezed his hand, part reassurance, part understanding.
For a while they walked in silence.
Xeno liked holding hands with women he liked. He liked women. As long as they didn’t get too close. And they always did—or thought they did, or tried to. It was easier with men. The sex was simple, often anonymous. A dark stranger whose name (for the night) was love.
Xeno couldn’t manage too much nearness. He was solitary and introverted, with an enthusiasm that people mistook for sociability. He was interested in everything, attentive to people, genuinely kind, and entirely present when he was present. But he was never sorry to close the door at night or to be alone.
Leo had sent Xeno to ask MiMi to give him another chance.
“I’ll mess it up if I see her. You explain.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know! The long form of ‘I love you.’ ”
—
Leo gave Xeno a piece of paper in his bad handwriting. “This is the long form.”
Xeno looked at it. He nearly laughed, but his friend was so hangdog and anxious that he just nodded while he was reading.
“I’ve been working on it,” said Leo.
1) Can I live without you? Yes.
2) Do I want to? No.
3) Do I think about you often? Yes.
4) Do I miss you? Yes.
5) Do I think about you when I am with another woman? Yes.
6) Do I think that you are different to other women? Yes.
7) Do I think that I am different to other men? No.
8) Is it about sex? Yes.
9) Is it only about sex? No.
10) Have I felt like this before? Yes and no.
11) Have I felt like this since you? No.
12) Why do I want to marry you? I hate the idea of you marrying someone else.
13) You are beautiful.
So when they had walked awhile and stopped for water at a bar selling
l’eau
in fancy blue bottles, Xeno got out the piece of paper and gave it to MiMi. She started laughing. “No, listen,” said Xeno, “he’s awkward but he means it. This is his way of being sure.”
MiMi shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Then say yes,” said Xeno.
“Pourquoi?”
—
They walked on. They talked about life as flow. About nothingness. About illusion. About love as a theory marred by practice. About love as practice marred by theory. They talked about the impossibility of sex. Was sex different for men? With men? What did it feel like to fall in love? To fall out of love?
And why do we
tomber
? To fall?
“There’s a theory,” said Xeno, “the Gnostics started it as a rival to Christianity right back at the start: this world of ours was created Fallen, not by God, who is absent, but by a Lucifer-type figure. Some kind
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