Enough About Love

THOMAS AND LOUISE

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THE SESSION ENDS when the screen of his Mac flashes discreetly. The name and surname appear in dark blue: Louise Blum. She has replied, already. Thomas feels his breathing quicken, finds this irritating. He sees Anna to the door, says goodbye with measured poise, better than that, slow-motion poise. He watches her walk away, thinks her buttocks really are pleasingly defined. To the individual in treatment, the psychoanalyst may never be completely a person, but then Thomas has always had trouble seeing Anna Stein as an invisible woman.

Then he closes the door and goes back to the computer. His feigned composure is in proportion to his impatience. He waits a few moments, as if delaying reading the e-mail could influence its contents. He is annoyed with himself for this relic of magical thinking, but has long been resigned to the fact that he will never shake it off altogether. He clicks at last. The message is warm, very, and yet does not quite satisfy his hopes. Louise mentions the “very friendly” party and envisions having dinner “really soon” with their mutual friends. Thomas is suddenly afraid he misread her, that she will introduce him to her husband and children, that he will be relegated to the status of a friend or, worse, a friend of theirs. He replies, politely, cautiously, saying he would be delighted to see her again, but for lunch instead, perhaps. Lunch always keeps partners out of the equation. He hopes she gets it. Her answer comes back almost immediately: “Lunch, yes. I’m free tomorrow. Otherwise, not till next week,” the message says. Thomas smiles, writes “Where tomorrow?” He clicks. Gust of wind. Barely a minute and the reply comes: “Tomorrow, 1 pm, Café Zimmer at Châtelet.”

Then he risks one last e-mail.

“Okay for tomorrow. Do you know, I watched Truffaut’s Stolen Kisses again yesterday. I’d forgotten the last scene: Claude Jade and Jean-Pierre Léaud are having breakfast after a night spent in each other’s arms. They’re buttering toast and drinking coffee. He asks for a notebook and a pencil, she gives them to him: he writes a couple of words, tears the page out, folds it and hands it to her. She reads it, takes the notebook, writes something herself, tears the page out like him, folds it and hands it to him. They exchange five or six pages like this, no more, and the audience has no idea what they say. Léaud suddenly takes a bottle opener from the drawer in the table and slips the girl’s finger into the circle you fit over the bottle top, as if putting a ring on her. It’s one of the loveliest marriage proposals on film. Do you remember that scene? Don’t you think it anticipates the miracle of e-mail?”

Gust of wind. The dormant shy guy within him rapidly regrets what he has done. A few minutes later, Louise’s reply arrives: “Yes, I do remember that scene from Truffaut. But no relationship with me, I’m already married.”

No relationship with me, I’m already married … Thomas rereads the sentence, intrigued. All at once the double meaning jumps out at him. The psychoanalyst laughs out loud.