Little Jewel

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IT WAS A little street near the Château de Vincennes or its fort. I’m not exactly sure what the difference is between the two. The street was lined with single-storey houses, garages and even stables. Indeed, it was called Rue du Quartier-de-Cavalerie. In the middle, on the right-hand side, a large dark-brick apartment block stood out. Night had fallen by the time we stepped onto the street. I was still walking a few steps behind her, but little by little I reduced the distance between us. I was certain that, even if I walked level with her, she wouldn’t notice me.

I revisited this street later, during the day. You headed past the brick apartment block, and were going to end up in a wasteland. There was not a cloud in the sky. When you got to the end of the street, it opened onto a sort of vacant lot, which bordered a much larger area. There was a sign: ARMY OPERATIONS. Beyond that was the Bois de Vincennes park.

But, at night, this street looked like any other suburban street: Asnières, Issy-les-Moulineaux, Levallois…She was moving slowly, with her dancer’s walk. It mustn’t have been easy in slipper socks.

The dark mass of the apartment block dominated all the other buildings. Why was it here, in this street? On the ground floor there was a grocery store about to close for the night. The fluorescent lighting had been turned off and the only light was at the cash register. Through the glass I could see her taking food off the back shelves, one can, then another. And a black packet. Coffee? Chicory? She clutched the cans and the packet against her coat but, once she got to the register, she fumbled. The cans and the packet tumbled to the ground. The fellow at the register picked them up. He smiled at her. Their lips were moving, and I would have liked to know what name he called her. Her true, unmarried name? She left, cradling the cans and the packet against her coat with both hands, as if she were carrying a newborn baby. I almost offered to help, but Rue du Quartier-de-Cavalerie suddenly seemed like a backwater, a long way from Paris, in a garrison town. Soon everything would be shut, the town would be deserted, and I would miss the last train.

She went through the metal gate. The minute I saw this dark-brick building, I had an intuition that she lived there. She crossed the courtyard, at the end of which were several identical apartment blocks. She was walking more and more slowly, perhaps frightened that she would drop her shopping again. From behind, it looked as if it was too heavy for her, and that, at any moment, she was about to stumble.

She went into one of the apartment blocks at the far end, on the left. Each building had an entrance with a sign: STAIRCASE A. STAIRCASE B. STAIRCASE C. STAIRCASE D. Hers was Staircase A. I stayed outside for a while, waiting for a light to come on in a window. But I waited in vain. I wondered if there was a lift. I pictured her climbing Staircase A, clasping the cans. That image wouldn’t fade, even in the metro on the way back.