And yet he is thinking about someone when Tom takes his last shot. He’s thinking of his son. At that moment, his desire for Claire goes up in smoke.
Philippe thinks he recognizes Vincent near the bar, then sees he was mistaken. Making his way awkwardly through the tables, he sees that the tavern has a second room at the back, darker, more suffocating. Set up in a corner, a television set is showing a hockey game. Philippe goes closer and finally spots Vincent. He’s sitting at a table with a girl in his arms. His throat dry, Philippe approaches him. He pronounces his name, but there’s so much noise that Vincent pays him no attention. Philippe touches his shoulder. Vincent turns and gives him his widest smile.
“You’ve come to watch the game? What a surprise! Here, take my chair, I’ll get another one. Simone, take care of my best friend.”
Vincent disappears, leaving Philippe speechless. After hesitating for a moment, he sits down.
“It’s still one-one.”
“What?”
“The score. It’s one-one.”
“Oh. I’m Philippe.”
“I know. Vincent’s talked to me about you. I’m Simone.”
Vincent comes back with a chair. He leans over Simone, kisses her neck, then sits down.
“It’s so tense! We’re in overtime.”
“I haven’t come here to talk about hockey.”
“So what do you want to talk about, Philippe?”
“Never see Laure again.”
“I see you’re up on the latest developments.”
“You’ve ruined her life.”
“Don’t exaggerate, I’ve only destroyed a tiny piece of what she is. She’s been waiting for that for a long time. Now it’s done. And believe me, I have no intention of seeing her again. She’s totally boring. Keep her for yourself, go ahead, the road is clear.”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“You think I wanted to sleep with her? I didn’t force her, she threw herself at me. You know, your ideas about purity of heart, that’s all ridiculous. And I’m not repeating everything she said about you, I’m being polite. In the end, she’s sorry for you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Understand this: she loves me! At least she thinks she does. But she’ll forget me and go on to the next. And one day she’ll set her sights on someone for all the right reasons, and she’ll know what she’s doing. And on that day, she’ll thank me. Ask Simone what she thinks. She knows all about it. And she’s behind me a hundred percent. She couldn’t care less if I’ve slept with another girl. By the way, you should read her poems. Simone is talented. Her writing’s not all hearts and flowers, no way! Tell him, Simone, what you think of this story.”
“Vincent’s right. He can sleep with whoever he wants, it’s none of my business. He’s free, and so am I. I’m not his property and he’s not mine. And that changes nothing about the sincerity of our feelings.”
“It’s a philosophical position. A position that Simone and I are acting on with the greatest intellectual rigour.”
“A position of egotists. You don’t understand a thing about true love. You’re cursed.”
“Listen to him, Simone, we’re cursed!”
Suddenly there’s a huge eruption in the tavern. For a moment Philippe doesn’t know what is happening. People are launching insults and starting to jeer. The Blackhawks have just scored the winning goal, one minute and eleven seconds after the beginning of overtime. Vincent, standing on his chair, is the only one who applauds.
“The Canadiens lost!”
For the first time in his life, Philippe feels hatred for someone. He leaves the bar but Vincent doesn’t notice his departure. He’s too busy celebrating his victory.
Antoine is anxious. He’s waiting for Alice to get back, she’s gone to see Félix. He’s eager to know how their first meeting went. For three weeks now, Félix has been writing to Alice every day. Increasingly personal letters in which he bares his heart to the person who describes for him the fancies of her soul, reminding him of Anaïs’s enthusiasms, their exchanges concerning life’s mysteries and the new world to be made.
It’s almost midnight when she finally returns.
“So?”
“I’m in love.”
“Very funny, Alice.”
“Not all that funny. Félix is handsome, romantic, sensitive. The opposite of you.”
“Be serious. How’d it go?”
“As expected.”
“Perfect.”
“Where are you going, Antoine?”
“To his place.”
“Now?”
“Have to strike while the iron is hot.”
* * *
When Félix opens the door to him, Antoine is out of breath from racing to the student residence. Without giving his friend time to open his mouth, he shoots him a question.
“Do you still believe in the resurrection of the dead?”
“You’ve come here in the middle of the night to ask me that?”
“You told me once that on the day of the Last Judgment you would be reunited with Anaïs. Do you still believe that?”
Félix remains silent. Antoine approaches him.
“Yes, I still believe it.”
“Even after what just happened here tonight? Don’t look surprised, I know she was with you.”
“Just what do you want?”
“To end a discussion. I’d like you to talk to me some more about the purity of your feelings.”
“Are you jealous? You’re spying on us, is that it? I don’t understand. You’re the one who urged me to reply to Alice’s letters.”
“Are you in love with her?”
“That’s my business.”
“And your eternal love for Anaïs, what about that?”
“That changes nothing about what I think or what I feel. To love Alice is also to love Anaïs.”
“Félix, tonight you made love with a woman, that’s all. The rest, you’ve imagined.”
“You’re wrong. It was as if Anaïs had been there. As if I’d touched her in touching Alice. You can’t understand this feeling of perfect harmony, of fusion.”
Antoine takes a little notebook out of his pocket.
“Have a look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Félix obeys, reads a few sentences at random. He goes pale.
“Alice didn’t write you those letters, I did. She just recopied them before she sent them.”
“That’s impossible, after everything that’s just happened between us.”
“But it’s what she did. Check it out: they’re all in this notebook.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Deep down, you love neither
