Thérèse and Isabelle by Violette Leduc Page A

again we could hear each slap of flesh.
    â€œYou’re hot.”
    â€œI want, I want you!”
    Isabelle crashed into my arms. The sweat running down her face, her hair, her throat, wet my face, my hair, my throat. Her last gift after the deflowering.
    â€œYou’re calling me? You want me?” Isabelle asked.
    She returned again, obeying already and to the point of paroxysm.
    The fingers’ whirling reached as far as my languid knees but they did not bring the unearthly wave I was expecting. The pleasure was approaching. It was only an echo. The slow fingers left me. I was greedy for her presence.
    â€œYour hand, your face . . . Come closer.”
    â€œI’m tired.”
    Make her come, make her lend me her shoulder or indeed let her borrow mine, make it so her face is near mine. I musttrade my innocence for hers. She is out of breath: she is resting. I have to move to hear her living. Isabelle coughed as if she were coughing in a library.
    I sat up with infinite care, I felt completely new. My sex, my meadow.
    â€œSay good night to me.”
    Isabelle jumped.
    â€œSay good night . . .”
    I turned the light on. I had seen the blood, I had seen my reddened hair. I turned it off.
    She sat up on her knees in the bed and, naturally, I presented my curly-haired nest so she could bury her face in it. What could I say to her while her cheek was cradled there? She was spoiling me.
    â€œI want to give,” I said.
    â€œBe quiet.”
    â€œI want to give.”
    I turned the light on, looked down at my reddened hair.
    â€œI’m ashamed,” I said.
    â€œAshamed of what?”
    â€œOf the blood.”
    â€œYou’re silly.”
    I went up to the curtain, I crossed one leg over the other, I posed, I turned the light on myself. I was naked: I wanted to be artificial.
    â€œYou’re upsetting me,” said Isabelle.
    She stood up.
    She was coming. She was hiding her face in her hands, her hair flowing down all on one side.
    â€œOh.”
    I welcomed her into my arms. With my teeth I picked the dried blood from under her fingernails. I put her to bed.
    I laid my little girl down, I lifted her head, patted the pillow, smoothed, freshened the bed.
    â€œYou are looking after me,” said Isabelle.
    I was warming her foot on my breast. Isabelle was giving me a child. Now we would be making love, now I would be layinghim back in the cradle. I have never wanted children other than the people I have loved. For me, they were love.
    â€œI’m going, Isabelle.”
    She was holding me back by the hips, with all her strength.
    â€œI’ll scream if you go.”
    I stayed.
    â€œMore supple,” she said to the hand that was no longer mine, that she was guiding.
    I entered the old refuge.
    â€œYou’re nodding off,” she said.
    My finger was dreaming, I was quietly wandering.
    She put her arm on mine, I tingled with pleasure as our arms met.
    You have to remove yourself in order to give. I wanted to become a machine that was not mechanical. My life was her pleasure. I looked beyond Isabelle, I was working inside the belly of the night. We drew into accord as we vanished together. The moan. She sat up, she frightened me. Already theshadow of that pleasure, already. Was she dying or indeed living? The rhythm would tell. I followed everything in her; with my mind’s eye I could see the light in her flesh. In my head there was another Thérèse, her legs open, thrown up to the sky, receiving all that I was giving to Isabelle.
    â€œCome and rest,” she said.
    I became a child again.
    Living, stretched out, floating, parted, in contemplation, we could believe in eternal rest. The brook of solitude was so cool:
    â€œI want to tell you . . .”
    â€œYou’re happy. Don’t question it,” said Isabelle.
    We had put our nightgowns back on.
    I said:
    â€œWhat are you thinking?”
    â€œI’m just living. And you?”
    â€œI was