Could Adèle somehow be that project? Anita is writing her story, he is painting the same story, or at least what that story evokes in him. A sudden anguish causes a tightening in Adam’s stomach. What were they going to do with that text, with those paintings? How had all this taken on the form of a secret? Not a day passes without Adam longing to puncture the abscess: all it would take would be to sit down with Adèle and tell her everything. In simple language. Adèle, your story has inspired us to write a novel, to paint pictures.
But they had never found a way of doing this and, somehow or other, it is too late now. The novel is under way, the pictures have been painted.
Imran is squatting in front of the Christmas tree. He gets up when he hears Adam, but continues looking at the tree, his hands on his hips, a posture that makes him look effeminate and childish at the same time. Adam has a momentary vision of a young lad with thick dark hair moving forward toward the starting line, his arm held out straight before him, his body slightly stooped. Adam could tell Imran. He would understand, or at least would try to understand how Adam has gotten out of his depth with the paintings, with Anita’s words, with Adèle. Imran would tell him how to extricate himself from this situation, just as he gives him advice about running, about breathing, about his footwork. Imran would not judge him.
“Hi there, Adam. Is that a Christmas tree? It looks as if it’s been made out of Coca-Cola cans.”
“That’s exactly it, Imran. How’s things?”
“It’s pretty weird, isn’t it? I don’t say it’s ugly, but why would anyone make stuff like that?”
“I guess it’s a personal interpretation.”
“So, how about you? Do you think it’s beautiful? I guess you do. You put it up in your office.”
“It’s interesting.”
“Hmm. Anyway, where do you buy stuff like that?”
“It was Anita who unearthed it.”
“I’ll bet it was. Has she written a manifesto for the preservation of Coca-Cola cans to go with it?”
“You can ask her tonight. Would you like a drink of something?”
“A coffee, if you’ve got time. I don’t want to hold you up.”
“Come along.”
They are standing out in the little courtyard and Adam notices that Graziella has brought the camellia in under cover. Imran drinks his coffee slowly. It is the first time he has come to see Adam in his office and he is exhausted after walking here, exhausted by all the feelings that have been gnawing at him for more than a month and exhausted by having had to repeat his name several times to the secretary. In the old days he could have been amused by such things but he has no energy left for this. He looks at the chairs, imagines sitting on one, resting his forehead on the iron table, forgetting the weariness, the petty irritations, the pain.
Adam and Imran have known one another for a long time. As boys they used to go to the same sports club and they had more or less the same recorded times in cross-country races and the half marathon. They would run one behind the other, their sneakers filthy, their legs spattered with mud, their faces bathed in sweat. They never spoke, but now they like to think they were keeping an eye on one another.
“What’s going on, Imran? Is everything okay? You’re very pale.”
Every Wednesday he and Adam train together, encourage one another, improve their recorded times. Then they spend a little while together for a drink or a meal. They talk about their families, their work, the passage of time, on which they are, perhaps, losing ground. It is a simple friendship, with no frills, just like the sport they both love. But recently Imran has seemed distracted, his recorded times are bad, he says he feels nauseous, preoccupied by his work. He is a mathematics teacher at a lycée on the edge of the city. Those kids, he says simply. This is enough to paint a nightmare picture, featuring six-foot adolescents who have no use for a math problem and refer to their teacher as “the Taliban” or “Massud,” on account of his Afghan origin. He has not even put his name down for the half marathon at the end of February, excusing himself by saying he forgot (those kids).
“Imran? You really worry me.”
Imran peers down into his coffee cup then he looks up at his friend and says softly: “Adam, I’ve got cancer.”
A little later a man can be seen weaving his way fast through the city streets. Instinctively he seeks the sunlight, he feels cold, he is surprised by the pale, icy look of things. So winter arrived while he was at his office, maybe at the very moment when Imran was sitting down and telling him everything. Adam is thirty-nine. He needs to get back home, he needs to hug his wife and daughter tightly, he needs to forget everything he has heard this morning, he needs someone to reassure him, to give him a guarantee, someone to make him a promise, swear an oath, yes, you’re going to live a long time, no, your body will not become your enemy, yes, your family will live forever, yes, your house will stand forever.
Adam drives fast and only realizes once the car has stopped outside the house that he has left his parka, his cell phone, and his shoulder bag behind. The kitchen door is open. What day is it? What did Anita say at breakfast that morning?
“Anita?”
There is indeed a woman sitting at the kitchen table, but it is not his wife, it
