I started crying like a “widow.”
When a woman loses her husband, she’s called a widow. But when a woman loses her lover, what’s she called? A song?
November 8th, 2000
I’m selling the rose nursery.
March 30th, 2001
This morning, Gabriel phoned me. He calls me about once a month. Every time I answer, he seems surprised to hear my voice. He asks me a few questions: “How are you? What are you doing? What are you wearing? Is your hair tied back? What are you reading at the moment? Been to the movies lately?” He seems to be reassuring himself that I really exist. Or that I still exist.
April 27th, 2001
Gabriel came to my place for lunch. He liked my new apartment, told me it was just like me.
“The rooms are luminous and fragrant, like you.”
It amused him that I was living on rue Paradis.
“Why?”
“Because you’re mine.”
“I’m your paradise intermittently.”
“You know the curves heartbeats produce on an electrocardiogram?”
“Yes.”
“The curves of my heart, that’s you.”
“You’re a smooth talker.”
“I should hope so. I’m paid a fortune for it.”
He told me that I didn’t know how to cook, that my gift was getting flowers to grow, not cooking some creature in a casserole.
He asked me whether I missed my work.
“No. Not really. The flowers maybe, a little.”
He asked me if he could smoke in the kitchen.
“Yes. You’ve gone back to cigarettes?”
“Yes. It’s like with you, I can’t stop myself.”
As usual, he spoke to me of his ongoing cases, of his big daughter he hardly heard from, and of his little one, Cloé. He told me that he missed her too much, that he would probably go back to living with her mother.
“Yes, to live with my daughter again, I’ll have to go back to square Karine. And going back isn’t really my thing.”
He asked me for news of Julien, too.
Before leaving, he kissed my lips. As if we were two adolescents. “Amour”—is the word masculine or feminine?
October 22nd, 2002
It’s Gabriel day.
Now, whenever he’s passing through Marseilles, he comes to have lunch here. He gets two daily specials at the delicatessen down below (because what I cook is disgusting: “Not enough butter, not enough cream, not enough sauce, you boil everything, I prefer my vegetables simmered in wine.”)
He rings at my door with our lunch in foil containers. He always finishes what’s left on my plate. Generally, I eat little. And when Gabriel is in my kitchen, I eat less than little.
He’s living with Karine again to be close to Cloé. Or so he says. Indeed, I make that point to him, “Or so you say.” He replies, “Don’t be jealous, you have no reason to be jealous. Of anyone.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“A little, maybe. I certainly am. Are you seeing someone?”
“Who on earth would I be seeing?”
“I don’t know, a lover, a man, men—you’re beautiful. I know you turn heads whenever you arrive somewhere. I know you’re desired wherever you go.”
“You, I’m seeing you.”
“But we don’t sleep together.”
“Want to finish what’s on my plate?”
“Yes.”
April 5th, 2003
It’s a Gabriel day. He called me yesterday evening, he’ll come to my place in the late afternoon, after court. I must get some Suze, Gabriel loves that aperitif.
There are the days without. And the Gabriel days.
November 25th, 2003
Yesterday evening, Gabriel arrived late. He ate some leftover soup, a yogurt, and an apple. He drank a glass of Suze, too. I could tell that it was to please me.
“If I fall asleep, tomorrow morning, wake me at 7 A.M., please.”
He said that as if he was used to sleeping over, when it had actually never happened. Twenty minutes later, he dozed off on my sofa. I put a blanket over him. I couldn’t sleep a wink because he was in the room next door. The man next door. All night, I thought: Gabriel is my man next door. I remembered a scene from Truffaut’s film, The Woman Next Door, when Fanny Ardant leaves the hospital and says to her husband, while thinking of her lover whom she’s about to kill, “That’s good, you thought of bringing me my white blouse, I love it [she inhales it] because it is white.”
This morning, I found Gabriel lying on his front; he had kicked off his shoes. There was the smell of stale smoke in the sitting room; he’d got up during the night to smoke. A window was half-open.
I was sorry he hadn’t come to join me in my bed. He took a shower, had a quick coffee. Between each gulp, he said to me, “You’re beautiful, Irène.” As usual, before leaving, he kissed my lips. When he arrives, Gabriel inhales deeply at my neck. When he leaves, Gabriel kisses my lips.
July 22nd, 2004
I’ve decided to sleep with Gabriel. At our age, there’s a statute of limitations. And anyhow, we’re hardly going to have it off when we’re in eternity. As soon as I opened the door to my apartment, Gabriel knew, saw, read, sensed that I wanted him. He said:
“Oh no, this is where the shit starts.”
“It won’t be the first time.”
“No, it won’t be the first . . . ”
I didn’t allow him time to finish his sentence.
85.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
My list for Nono is done. This year, like every year, he’s the one who’s going to stand in for me, who’s going to take over watering the flowers on the tombs of families who are on holiday. As for Elvis, he will take care of Eliane and the cats. And Father Cédric will look after the vegetable garden, and the flowers in the garden. I’ve given him the index card handwritten by Sasha—he did one for every month.
AUGUST
Priority of the month: watering.
Watering must be done in the evening because then you get the coolness all night, but, importantly, not too early; otherwise, the earth is still hot and the water evaporates immediately, so watering too early is like pissing in the
