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gone too far, that he’d spoiled the evening with his admissions. How could he not haveseen that this wasn’t the moment? That she wasn’t ready. It had to go gently, in stages. And he’d taken off at an insane speed, trying to recapture years of desire in two minutes. All of it had been caused by the way the evening started. It was that beautiful, promising lead-in that had pushed him into the confidence of men who come on too strong.
He pulled himself together; after all, he had the right to say what he was feeling. It wasn’t a crime just to open his heart. And yes, it was true that everything was clumsy with her, that her widowed status complicated a lot of things. It occurred to him that he would have had more luck seducing her at some point if François weren’t dead. By dying, he’d set their love in stone. He’d flung them into a static eternity. How could you turn on anything at all in a woman in her condition? A woman living in an immutable world. Really, it was enough to make you ask yourself whether he’d killed himself on purpose to make their love last forever. Some people actually think that passion is bound to end tragically.

Twenty-seven

They left the restaurant. Their discomfort was getting worse and worse. Charles couldn’t find any clever remark or shaft of wit, or even any out-and-out humor that would have allowed him to make up for things a little. To relax the atmosphere slightly. There was nothing to do; they were stuck. For months Charles had been sensitive and considerate, respectful and loyal, and now all his efforts to be decent were being wiped out because he hadn’t known how to control his desire. His body had become a dismembered absurdity, each limb with its own heart. He tried to kiss Natalie on the cheek, to make it casual and friendly, but his neck stiffened. This strangled moment lasted a moment more, like a series of slow pretentious seconds.
Then suddenly, Natalie gave him a big smile. She wanted to make him understand that it all wasn’t so serious. That it was better to forget the evening, that was all. She said she wanted to walk a little and left on that pleasant note. Charles kept watching her, his eyes glued to her back. He couldn’t move, was frozen in defeat. Natalie grew farther away at the center of his fieldof vision, got smaller and smaller, but he was the one who was shrinking, growing smaller as he stood there.
That is when Natalie stopped.
And turned around.
Once again she walked toward him. The woman who’d been fading away in his field of vision a moment before grew larger the closer she came. What did she want? He mustn’t get carried away. Obviously she’d forgotten her keys, a scarf, or one of those many objects women love to forget. But no, that wasn’t it. You could tell by her way of walking. You sensed it had nothing to do with anything material. She was coming toward him to speak, to tell him something. She was walking in an ethereal way, like the heroine of an Italian film from 1967. He wanted to step forward, too, to go toward her. In an excess of romanticism, he imagined that it should begin raining. All the silence at the end of the meal had only been confusion. She was coming back not to speak, but to kiss him. It was extraordinary: at the moment when she’d left, he’d had the intuition that he mustn’t move, that she was going to return. Because it was obvious there was something instinctive and simple between them, something strong and fragile that had been there from the beginning. It was undeniable; you had to understand her. It wasn’t easy for her. Admitting she felt something despite the fact that her husband had just died. It was appalling, even. And yet, how could they resist? Love stories are often amoral.
She was quite close to him now, flushed, heavenly, the alluring embodiment of tragic femininity. She was there, Natalie, his love.
“I apologize for not having answered earlier … I was embarrassed …”
“Yes, I