JULES CROSSED THE Pont des Arts, where recently scores of thousands of padlocks fastened by hopeful couples to the grills beneath the railings had glittered in the sun. Now that the locks were removed, the panels that replaced the grilles to which they had been attached were covered with graffiti: “Dojo loves Priam,” “Jean-Paul loves Anneka from Groningen.” Though the locks, in being too heavy in their collectivity, may have endangered the railings, they had been a boon to local hardware stores, and as if the gold were real their brassy finish seemed not to fade. He remembered how not long before he had stopped to examine one of these locks. It had a chromed bolt, it was of foreign manufacture, with “333” engraved upon it, and hot to the touch. He had wondered if the two people who fastened it to the bridge to commemorate their love were still together, and how long it would be until not a single couple thus commemorated was intact or living. If both partners made it to the end, would that count as perpetual? Would they have to die on the same day, or at the same instant? If separated by years, would the loyalty of the one who was left count for perpetuity?
He was walking to the Quartier latin to take the last few things from his office, give the key to the new occupant, and, if desired, acquaint him with the idiosyncrasies of the room, the problematic radiator, and the almost stuck window. Jules would inform him of where the sun struck in different seasons, the restaurants nearby, and whom to call on the custodial staff.
Jacqueline had been in this office, of course, when death and parting were hardly a thought, and her presence as a young woman had remained, an invisible and ineradicable undercurrent stronger than even the exciting presence of élodi. When Jules thought of élodi it was like waking, and he would arise as if he were weightless, but then the excitement would drift away like a wave that would fall back and with the salute of its crest disappear into calmer waters.
élodi was now like something in the light when seen from the dark. He could neither love nor not love her, even after she had ended something that hadn’t really begun. He was neither puzzled nor determined, and knew exactly what was happening and what had to be. There was no answer or resolution. The one thing that seemed to be getting stronger was the reality of Jacqueline even as she receded into the past. She may have been dreamlike, but as he himself faded, the dream was becoming more real. The comfort of fading dovetailed with the illusion of rising and the hope of returning. The more élodi receded, the more Jacqueline came to the fore, like an image on photographic paper emerging as if by magic from what according to logic and the senses was only empty and white.
As he had ten thousand times before, he climbed the stairs, experiencing a momentary illusion that the years had not passed. Jacqueline was in a library somewhere, and would meet him for lunch. Cathérine, age six, was in school. They loved her as nothing else.
Waiting for the new tenant to show, he gathered up the few things left and put them in a shopping bag: some books to be returned, stationary for the departmental office, journals to be discarded. He sat down. The replacement was due in a minute and a half. As if to hold the new man to account either for being late or so rigid as to be exactly on time, Jules stared at his watch, ready to form an opinion. Thirty-five seconds before the appointed hour, there was a quick, soft series of knocks, as if a woodpecker had a boxing glove on his beak. Jules got up, went to the door, and opened it as slowly as if it had been the heavy door of a vault.
ACROSS THE THRESHOLD was a trim, beautifully dressed woman, neither tentative nor reserved. As Jacqueline once had been, she was in a gray suit, with pearls. Although beige, her blouse was blessed with pink, her hair reddish blond, down almost to her shoulders.
She had the most extraordinary expression, such as he had never seen even in Renaissance paintings and a millennium’s representation of angels. It was at one and the same time mischievous, knowing, innocent, forgiving, loving, comforting, challenging, proposing, curious, seductive, and enthusiastic, all of which ran together to knock him back into the world. One could say it was all in her eyes, or all in her smile, and one would not have said enough.
And it had to happen on the day before the day he had chosen to die. This woman, though vital and fit, was so much older than élodi, probably in her early sixties. But though she was past the age of creating it anew, she possessed the fuse of life.
She introduced herself. Amina Belkacem – in origin Algerian for sure, Muslim most likely, charming and beautiful without doubt. Her French was that of a highly educated, upper-class Parisienne. Her eyes, like élodi’s, were blue. She asked politely and diplomatically if this was the office to which she had been assigned, and when he responded that it was, she said she hoped she hadn’t inconvenienced him in any way, and although what she said was pro forma, it was also remarkably and absolutely true, the genuineness of it shining through.
“Not at all,” he told her. “I’m happy to retire. At seventy-five,” he added as reassurance and confession.
“I suppose that in twelve years or sooner, I will be too,” she said, graciously informing him of her age – with, he thought, unmistakable flirtation. Why not? Maybe she was as crazy as he was. It was the last thing he wanted, needed, or expected. She went even further.
“The distance between us is not that great.” This may have been just charity.
The distance between them was in fact not that great. She was marvelously attractive, enough that he was distressed to discover that his plans now had competition. He hoped that she was married. “What faculty?” he asked, businesslike but observably rattled.
“History.”
“You’ll be near enough to the libraries. The Bibliothèque Nationale is nearby.”
“Of course.” She smiled forgivingly.
He felt foolish. Obviously she knew where it was. “My wife,” he said, as if to put Amina off, “made good use of the libraries. I’m in music, so not so much.”
“Is she retired, too?”
“No. She never retired. She died.”
“I’m sorry,” Amina said, and it was clear that she really was. “I’m very sorry. My husband is gone, but he’s still alive, so to speak, and stupid.” She couldn’t help but laugh.
“Why did you marry someone who was stupid?”
“He wasn’t stupid to begin with. I think he started taking stupid pills. There’s no other explanation.”