• •
THERE ARE NOT MANY PEOPLE left in the More or Less Bookstore, and Yves is about to get up from the table where he has been doing signings and join the manager at the register. A man approaches, Yves has not spotted him, he has been waiting until the very last moment to come over: he hands him a copy of Two-Leaf Clover.
“Who is it for?” Yves asks.
“To Stanislas and Anna, please. Anna is my wife.”
The tone of voice is not very friendly. Yves looks up, quickly appraises the man. He is tall, early forties, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. His brown cord jacket is like the one Anna tried to get him to buy just three days ago. Of course this Stanislas right here is Anna’s husband, he knows everything, this moment had to happen. Perhaps he has seen them together, perhaps a friend has tipped him off.
Yves wants to buy some time.
“You did say Anna, not Hannah with aitches?”
“No aitches.”
“To Stanislas and Anna …” Yves writes, then he says: “I’m sorry, but do we know each other?”
“No,” Stan replies. “I’m sure we’ve never spoken.”
Stan’s voice is cold, hostile. He opens and closes his fist, agitatedly. Anna once told Yves that if Stan ever found out about the two of them, he might “smash his face in.” He warned Anna: if her husband insulted him, he could accept that, but at the first punch, he would press charges.
The punch never comes. Neither does the bland but subtle dedication appropriate for these exceptional circumstances. Yves merely writes this frequently quoted sentence, borrowed from Diotima in Plato’s Banquet and ably transformed by Lacan who then appropriated it:
… a story of love, that thing we give without ever possessing it.
Yves Janvier
He hands the book to Stanislas, who glances briefly at the dedication. He is not the man Yves imagined he was. Anna definitely described him the way a child describes her father, overestimating everything. Stan was “very tall”: Yves smiled when he discovered his actual height. It was the same as his. Stan pulls up a chair, sits down close to him.
“I’ve just read one of your books. Follow On, is that what it’s called?”
His voice is deep, Yves finds it melodious.
“Yes, it’s a short novel, quite old now.”
“Your writing is very, how shall I put this? Very fluent.”
Yves wrote Follow On fifteen years ago. The story of a man with a lot of time on his hands who, out of curiosity, starts following a woman in the street. He takes pleasure in walking behind her every day. At first the book is built around the notes he makes. He spies on her when she does her shopping or goes for a walk with her children or her husband. Weeks go by. He decides to try and seduce her: he is charming and intelligent, he succeeds, and when the woman falls, becomes infatuated with him, separates from her husband, quite irretrievably, he is suddenly afraid, he leaves her and disappears. Having ravaged the woman’s life.
It is crystal clear where Stan is going with this.
“It isn’t a portrait of a woman, even though it does describe her the whole time. It tells us about a man through the way he sees a woman. What’s his name again?”
“Kostas. And the woman is Camille,” says Yves.
“Kostas, that’s right. Camille has a husband and children, she’s happy. The more he watches her life, the more he realizes how alone he is. It’s her happiness he falls in love with. But he doesn’t really love her.”
“I don’t know. I think he does.”
“No, wanting someone isn’t the same as loving them, Mr. Janvier. He doesn’t measure the consequences of what he does to this woman’s life, to her children. He’s not interested in that, his intentions are egotistical. It’s a portrait of a bastard.”
“Why a bastard?”
“Kostas would have every right if he knew for sure what he really wanted. But he doesn’t, he has his doubts, is torn, and he knows that. Being sure of what you actually want, that’s the bare minimum you’d expect of yourself if you’re about to break up a marriage, making a woman — and her children — suffer. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. Perhaps. Kostas is a bastard in spite of himself.”
Stan opens and closes his fist, his knuckles go white.
“A bastard in spite of himself is still a bastard. There is something fragile about Camille, a dissatisfaction with things. But she has a good life. Perhaps too good. Camille carries a deep-seated melancholy in her, and her husband helps her carry it, very tenderly. When Kostas turns up, she hopes she can actually live, at last. Kostas can tell she is vulnerable, he also suspects she loves him because he embodies unpredictability, a sense of adventure she always longed for, but he exploits her dreams to draw her in. It’s a woman thing, like Emma Bovary meeting her Rodolphe. Very traditional, in fact. But you’re too understanding with Kostas. You adopt his point of view. There are several novels that need writing there, Camille’s, her husband’s, the children’s. Those are the ones you should have written.”
“They’re tragic novels. I …”
“Well, maybe Madame Bovary can’t be written more than once, after all.”
There is a note of sadness in Stan’s voice, but no longer any anger. He is still rubbing his fist against his palm, but talking seems to have soothed him. The bookstore is gradually emptying and the manager signals discreetly to Yves.
“Do you have children, Mr. Janvier?” Stan goes on.
“A daughter. Her name is Julie.”
Stan shakes his head.
“Anna and I have two, you know. I read every page of Follow On, imagining a Kostas following Anna, meeting her, seducing her. It made me really sad to think a man that immature, who did so little to deserve her trust, could come and destroy my Anna’s life, hurt our family, for nothing, just because he never really gauged what he wanted.”
“I understand what you’re saying.”
“I know you understand what I’m saying. There’s a bit of Camille in every woman, and a bit of Kostas in every man.”
Stan stops talking for a moment. Yves flicks his pen back and forth between his fingers. He does not want to argue; he is moved by Stan, more than he expected. Anna’s respect and affection for Stan hatched a peculiar empathy in him some time ago. Yves now knows that the love two men feel for the same woman weaves secret connections, even forbidding that lover’s privilege, jealousy.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t write the same book now.”
“Do you think? Yet they say people always write the same book.”
“It’s not true. Books are like the days of your life. They come one after another and you learn from each of them.”
“Well … that’s a good thing, then. That’s a good thing.”
“Kostas doesn’t want to make anyone unhappy.”
Stan gives a furious shrug and stands up. Yves stands too.
“That’s not possible, Mr. Janvier. People like Kostas aren’t happy and they can’t make anyone happy.”
All at once Yves feels cold, puts on his coat. Stan gives a slight bow and steps away.
“I’m very glad I’ve had a chance to meet you, Mr. Janvier. To talk about Kostas and Camille with you. I hope I haven’t bored you.”
Yves shakes his head. Stan walks off without offering a handshake. Before he leaves the bookstore, he opens the book, leafs through it. He comes back, looking determined, fists balled. From the look in his eye, Yves can suddenly tell they are going to fight. He prepares for it. Deep down, he prefers this to their restrained discussion in which they both affected detachment. But Stan simply shows him the dedication.
“Excuse me. You wrote ‘To Stanislas and Anna.’ ”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Ladislas, not Stanislas. Could you write ‘To Ladislas and Anna’?”
Yves is dumbstruck. He apologizes, takes another copy, and corrects his mistake. Ladislas walks away, satisfied. The manager smiles at the writer, slightly dismayed: “I’m so sorry, Yves. I should have warned you. Ladislas is a regular. He’s — how shall I put this? — a bit different. One time, when Delcourt was doing a signing, he came and explained his own book to him for nearly an hour. You can just imagine how Delcourt … And he’s also got that nervous tic with his fists, you always feel he’s about to smash your face in.”
“I didn’t notice,” says Yves.