They know what will fascinate them yet again: Adam’s triptych in the living room, painted at the time of Laura’s birth. Within a great frame of dark wood there are sketches of three scenes. The first in pearly gray, the second in midnight blue, the third in emerald green. The first shows a soldier in helmet and boots sitting in a trench, his gas mask around his neck, his head bowed over a letter held on his knee; the second shows a man running, seen from behind, his head turned to look over his shoulder, as if he were checking to see if he is being followed, his long coat flung open as he moves; the third sketch is of a man in ripe old age, smiling, his two hands lightly resting on a walking stick. Above him, giving him its shade, there is a spreading tree. Behind him, a forest.
Each picture is deceptively simple and nobody knows how this is contrived, whether it is the clear, bold lines or the color, but they seem alive and vibrant. At each dinner, every summer, new details come to light. In the first sketch there is a faint touch of pink about the letter, and, when this is finally noticed, it is not just a color, but also a perfume, a flower, a love letter, a promise. In the second sketch the man has bare feet and that, too, is not noticeable at first glance. There is movement in the drawing, the coat opening out like a pair of wings, the face both resolute and uneasy, looking straight at you and suddenly, this vulnerability of the bare feet. Beside the third man there is a wooden cube, a child’s toy, and if you get closer to it you can make out the image of a dark-brown pinecone.
The friends already know what will make them jealous: the house. Not that it is particularly beautiful, but it has a heart, it is young as well as being old and wise, a little rickety, furnished haphazardly, a treasure here, a piece of junk there. The passing years have seen it settling into its site, it both imposes and pampers.
The friends know exactly what they will encounter this evening: books, pictures, sketches, timber, both cool and warm, fine worn carpets, beautiful photographs in painted wooden frames, a child’s drawings, cushions decorated with little mirrors, flowers everywhere, dozens of jam jars filled with little dark stones, seashells, sand, and translucent pebbles in pastel shades picked up on the beach, perfumed candles, music, a fine table, fine glasses in which they will swirl a good wine beneath a multitude of soft lights, a good meal.
Oh, all this could be irritating at times. All these books, these pictures, the garden, the couple themselves, the wine “from a little vineyard not far from here,” the parmigiana di melanzane with eggplants from the garden, the basmati rice, the mangoes, sweet as honey, bought heaven knows where, a “typical” dessert from Mauritius, a touch of theater about the whole thing. But there is never any vanity about these evenings, Anita and Adam are warmly welcoming, they are happy to see them, they make great efforts for everything to please them, they ask countless questions about Paris, about the other cities, about what is going on out there, about an exhibition, a play, a film, about what they are all doing in their lives, in their daily lives. Maybe Anita will surprise them by asking:
“Describe one of your days to me.”
“Oh, you know, it’s not very interesting.”
“No, no. Tell me in detail. What time do you get up? What do you have for breakfast? …”
And because Anita asks this without irony, with real interest, they will tell it. The toast, the salted butter, the coffee knocked back, the child who is currently in floods of tears every morning, the relief when it can be left at the nursery school, the line they take on the metro, the names of colleagues, a piece of juicy gossip … They are amazed at everything they find themselves telling, or, at least, to be recalling details they were not aware of noticing at the time.
Naturally the children will end up bringing out a few mattresses into the garden, beneath canvas sheets slung between the trees, naturally they will be wide-eyed with glee at staying up late and playing outside, naturally they will do some dancing. Naturally their friends will talk about themselves as they once were, about what they are now, their present lives, naturally they will use the phrase “in the old days” and will toy with the notion of doing what Anita and Adam have done, moving to the country. On the word country, they will wax eloquent, making sweeping gestures to embrace the house, the garden, the arbor, the forest, Anita, Adam. Naturally they will say all that, but later on …
Without making any comment they will be noticing Adam’s hands, stained like a painter’s, rough and broad like a workman’s. The women will dwell for a moment on Anita’s clothes and shoes—out-of-date colors, unfashionable styles, jackets made of rough wool, worn-down heels, all things bought at markets, like their cheese, their joss sticks, their Afghan pakol caps. They will reflect on the two cars parked in the lane, country vehicles, dirty, noisy, battered. They will end up admiring, but not envying, liking but not being tempted.
Finally the moment will come, well past midnight, when they feel the need to get up and go. They will pick up their children in their arms and lay them down head to tail on the backseat, no thanks, they won’t stay, their hotel or their rented house
