“Just because I defend louts doesn’t mean I’m not one myself. These chattering girls, they’re so delicate, so small, I knew very well I could slip them under my coat and run off with them. Can you imagine owning them at home? Looking at them every evening before going to bed, finding them there every morning while drinking your coffee?”
“You spend your life in hotels, it would have been slightly tricky, all the same.”
He burst out laughing.
“Your hand stopped me from committing a crime. I should have lent it out to all the idiots I defend, it would have prevented them from making all sorts of stupid mistakes.”
That evening, we dined at the Jules Verne restaurant, at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Gabriel said to me, “During these three days, we’re going to pile on the clichés, nothing in the world beats clichés.” As he was finishing his sentence, he fastened a diamond bracelet around my wrist. A thing that shone like a thousand suns against my pale skin. It sparkled so much, you would have thought it a fake. Like the imitation stuff the actresses wear in American soaps.
The following day, at the Sacré-Coeur, I was just placing a candle at the feet of the golden Virgin when he fastened a diamond necklace around my neck, while kissing my nape. He took me by the shoulder and pulled me toward him, whispering in my ear, “My darling, you look like a Christmas tree.”
On the last day, at the Gare de Lyons, just before I got on my train, he took my hand and slipped a ring onto my middle finger.
“Don’t get me wrong. I know you don’t like jewelry. I haven’t given it all to you to wear. I want you to sell these trinkets and treat yourself to holidays, somewhere to live, whatever you like. And never thank me. That would kill me. I don’t give you presents so you can thank me. It’s just to protect you, should anything happen to me. I’ll come and see you next week. Call me when you get to Marseilles. I’m missing you already, these separations are too hard. But I love that I miss you. I love you.”
I sold the necklace to buy my apartment. The bracelet and ring are in a safe at the bank, my son will inherit them. My son will inherit from my great love. Poetic justice. Gabriel sought justice.
Gabriel was a man of forthright character. Woe betide anyone who annoyed him. Including me. And yet, the last time I saw him, I did just that. He had openly criticized a female colleague of his, the newspapers were all commenting on it. This colleague had defended a woman who, having suffered her husband’s sadism for years, had finally killed him. I dared to reproach Gabriel for criticizing his colleague.
We were both in my kitchen, after making love, he was smiling, seemed lighthearted, simply happy. As soon as Gabriel came through my door, he relaxed, as if jettisoning suitcases that were too heavy. While drinking my tea, I questioned him, reproachfully: how could he have criticized a lawyer who was defending a persecuted woman? How could he be so Manichean? What sort of a man had he become? Who did he think he was? Where were his ideals?
Wounded, Gabriel flew into a mad rage. He started yelling. That I knew nothing about it, that this case was far more complex than it seemed. What business was it of mine? I should just drink my tea and shut up; all I’d ever managed to do was create wretched roses that I just ended up cutting; in fact, I spoiled everything.
“You haven’t got a clue, Irène! You’ve never bothered to make one fucking decision in your whole damn life!”
I finally put my hands over my ears, not to hear him anymore. I asked him to leave my apartment immediately. When I saw him getting dressed, looking solemn, I already regretted it. But it was too late. We were both too proud to apologize. We deserved better than that. Parting in the middle of a fight.
If I could just go back . . .
I feel like opening my windows and shouting out to any passersby, “Make it up to each other! Apologize! Make peace with those you love! Before it’s too late.”
February 16th, 2009
A solicitor has just called me: Gabriel had arranged things so I would be buried with him in the cemetery in Brancion-en-Chalon, the village he was born in. The solicitor asked me to come by his office, where Gabriel had left an envelope for me.
“‘My darling, my sweet, my dearest, my wonderful love, from dawn to dusk, I still love you, you know. I love you.’
I who plead, object, improvise, defends murderer, the innocent, victims, I steal Jacques Brel’s words to tell you my deepest thoughts.
If you’re reading this letter, it means I’ve passed on. I’ve beaten you to it, definitely a first. I have nothing else to write to you that you don’t already know, except that I’ve always hated your name.
Irène, how ghastly is that, Irène. Everything suits you, you can wear anything. But a name like that, it’s like bottle green or mustard yellow, it suits no one.
That day I waited for you in my car, I knew you wouldn’t come back, that I was waiting for you for nothing. It’s that nothing that kept me from immediately driving off.
She won’t come back, I have nothing left.
I’ve missed you so much. And it’s only just beginning.
Our hotels, love in the afternoon, you under the sheets . . . You will remain all of my loves. The first, the second, the tenth, and the last. You will remain my loveliest memories. My great expectations.
Those provincial towns that became capital cities as soon as you hit their sidewalks, that I’ll never forget. Your hands in your pockets, your perfume, your skin, your scarves, my native land.
My love.
You see, I didn’t
