The Elegance Of The Hedgehog Part 14

Manuela ought to be more indulgent with the Pallieres boy in future: she is sitting there gaping.

"He leans toward England, and obviously I am for France. So I told him I knew someone who could settle the matter between us. Would you mind being the referee?"

"But I'm a judge and being judged at the same time," I say, sitting down, "I can't vote."

"No, no, no, you're not going to vote. Just answer my question: what are the two major inventions of French and British culture? Madame Lopes, I'm fortunate indeed this afternoon, you can give me your opinion too, if you would."

"The English ... " Manuela begins, in fine fettle; then she pauses. "You go first, Renee," she says, suddenly remembering, no doubt, that she is Portuguese, and that she ought to be more careful.

I reflect for a moment.

"Where France is concerned: the language of the eighteenth century, and soft cheese."

"And England?" asks Kakuro.

"Oh, England will be easy," I say.

"Pooding-ghe?" says Manuela, spicing the dessert with her accent.

Kakuro bursts out laughing.

"No, we need something more."

"Then the roog-eby," she says, savoring every syllable.

"Ha, ha," laughs Kakuro, "I totally agree with you! And you, Renee, what do you suggest?"

"Habeas corpus and lawns," I laugh.

And this sends us off into another fit of giggles, including Manuela, who heard 'baby porpoise,' which is strictly beside the point, but it makes her laugh all the same.

At that very moment, someone knocks at the loge.

How extraordinary that this loge which yesterday was of no interest to anyone seems today to be the focus of global attention.

"Come in," I say without thinking, in the heat of the conversation.

Solange Josse looks in around the door.

All three of us look at her questioningly, as if we were guests at a banquet being disturbed by an ill-mannered servant.

She opens her mouth, then thinks better of it.

Paloma looks in around the door at the height of the lock.

I remember myself and get to my feet.

"May I leave Paloma with you for an hour or so?" asks Madame Josse, who has recovered her composure, albeit her curiosity needle has gone right off the gauge.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Ozu," she says to Kakuro, who has risen to his feet and come to shake her hand.

"Bonjour, chere Madame," he says kindly. "h.e.l.lo, Paloma, how nice to see you. Well, dear friend, she'll be in good hands, you can leave her here with us."

How to send someone gracefully on their way, in one lesson.

"Okay ... well ... yes ... thank you," says Solange Josse, stepping slowly back, still somewhat stunned.

I close the door behind her.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" I ask Paloma.

"I'd love one."

A true little princess among high-ranking party members.

I pour her half a cup of jasmine tea while Manuela plies her with the few remaining madeleines.

"What did the English invent, do you think?" Kakuro asks her, still at it with his cultural contest.

Paloma sits lost in thought.

"The hat, as a symbol of stubborn resistance to change," she says.

"Excellent," says Kakuro.

I note that I have probably greatly underestimated Paloma, and that I will have to dig deeper but, since destiny always rings three times, and since all conspirators are doomed to be unmasked some day, there is once again a drumming at the window of the loge, and I am distracted from my thoughts.

Paul Nguyen is the first person who does not seem to be surprised by anything.

"Good morning, Madame Michel," he says, then, "h.e.l.lo everybody."

"Ah, Paul," says Kakuro, "We have definitively discredited England."

Paul smiles gently.

"Very good," he says. "Your daughter just rang. She'll call again in five minutes."

He hands him a cell phone.

"I see," says Kakuro. "Well, ladies, I must take my leave."

He bows.

"Goodbye," we offer in unison, like a virginal choir.

"Well," says Manuela, "that's a job well done."

"What job?" I ask.

"We've eaten all the madeleines."

We laugh.

She looks at me thoughtfully and smiles.

"It's incredible, isn't it?"

Yes, it is incredible.

Renee, who now has two friends, is no longer so shy.

But Renee, with her two friends, feels a sudden undefined terror welling up inside.

When Manuela has gone, Paloma curls up in Leo's armchair in front of the television, quite at home, and looking at me with her big serious eyes she asks, "Do you believe that life has meaning?"

7. Deep Blue.

At the dry cleaner's, I had had to confront the wrath of the lady of the premises.

"Spots like this on such a quality item!" she had grumbled, handing me a sky blue receipt.

This morning I hand my rectangle of paper to a different woman. Younger and dozier. She hunts endlessly through the serried rows of hangers, then brings me a lovely dress in plum linen wrapped tightly in transparent plastic.

"Thank you," I say, picking up said item after an infinitesimal hesitation.

To the chapter of my turpitudes I must now add the abduction of a dress that does not belong to me, in place of one stolen from a dead woman, by me. The evil is rooted, moreover, in the infinitesimal nature of my hesitation. If my vacillation had been the fruit of a sense of compunction linked to the concept of ownership, I might yet be able to implore Saint Peter's forgiveness; but I fear it is due to nothing more than the time needed to ensure the feasibility of my misdeed.

At one o'clock Manuela stops by the loge to drop off her gloutof gloutof.

"I wanted to come earlier, but Madame de Broglie was looking at me out of the corner."

According to Manuela, the corner of her eye of her eye is a superfluous clarification. is a superfluous clarification.

As far as gloutofs gloutofs are concerned: nestled amidst a profusion of rustling deep blue tissue paper are a magnificent Alsatian cake, succulent with inspiration; some whiskey tarts so delicate you hesitate to touch them for fear they will break; and some almond are concerned: nestled amidst a profusion of rustling deep blue tissue paper are a magnificent Alsatian cake, succulent with inspiration; some whiskey tarts so delicate you hesitate to touch them for fear they will break; and some almond tuiles tuiles crisply caramelized on the edges. The sight of these treasures instantly causes me to drool. crisply caramelized on the edges. The sight of these treasures instantly causes me to drool.

"Thank you, Manuela," I say, "but there will only be the two of us, you know."

"Well then, just start in right away."

"Thanks again, really, it must have taken you a lot of time."

"Fiddle-dee-dee. I made two of everything and Fernando has you to thank."

Journal of the Movement of the World No. 7.

This broken stem that for you I loved.

I wonder if I am not turning into a contemplative esthete. With major Zen tendencies and, at the same time, a touch of Ronsard. wonder if I am not turning into a contemplative esthete. With major Zen tendencies and, at the same time, a touch of Ronsard.

Let me explain. This is a somewhat special "movement of the world," because it's not about a movement of the body. But this morning, while having breakfast, I saw a movement. The The movement. Perfection of movement. Yesterday (it was Monday), Madame Gremont, the cleaning lady, brought Maman a bouquet of roses. Madame Gremont spent Sunday at her sister's, and her sister has a little allotment garden in Suresnes, one of the last ones, and she brought back a bouquet of the first roses of the season: yellow roses, a lovely pale yellow, like primroses. According to Madame Gremont, this particular rosebush is called "The Pilgrim." I already like that for a start. It's loftier, more poetic, less sappy, than calling a rosebush "Madame Figaro" or "Un amour de Proust" (I'm not making this up). Okay, I won't go into the fact that Madame Gremont offers roses to Maman. They have the same relationship that all progressive middle-cla.s.s women have with their cleaning ladies, although Maman really thinks she is the exception: a good old rose-colored paternalistic relationship (we offer her coffee, give her decent pay, never scold, pa.s.s on old clothes and broken furniture, and show an interest in her children, and in return she brings us roses and brown and beige crocheted bedspreads). But those roses ... they were something else. movement. Perfection of movement. Yesterday (it was Monday), Madame Gremont, the cleaning lady, brought Maman a bouquet of roses. Madame Gremont spent Sunday at her sister's, and her sister has a little allotment garden in Suresnes, one of the last ones, and she brought back a bouquet of the first roses of the season: yellow roses, a lovely pale yellow, like primroses. According to Madame Gremont, this particular rosebush is called "The Pilgrim." I already like that for a start. It's loftier, more poetic, less sappy, than calling a rosebush "Madame Figaro" or "Un amour de Proust" (I'm not making this up). Okay, I won't go into the fact that Madame Gremont offers roses to Maman. They have the same relationship that all progressive middle-cla.s.s women have with their cleaning ladies, although Maman really thinks she is the exception: a good old rose-colored paternalistic relationship (we offer her coffee, give her decent pay, never scold, pa.s.s on old clothes and broken furniture, and show an interest in her children, and in return she brings us roses and brown and beige crocheted bedspreads). But those roses ... they were something else.

I was having breakfast and looking at the bouquet on the kitchen counter. I don't believe I was thinking about anything. And that could be why I noticed the movement; maybe if I'd been preoccupied with something else, if the kitchen hadn't been quiet, if I hadn't been alone in there, I wouldn't have been attentive enough. But I was alone, and calm, and empty. So I was able to take it in.

There was a little sound, a sort of quivering in the air that went, "shhhh" very very very quietly: a tiny rosebud on a little broken stem that dropped onto the counter. The moment it touched the surface it went "puff," a "puff" of the ultrasonic variety, for the ears of mice alone, or for human ears when everything is very very very silent. I stopped there with my spoon in the air, totally transfixed. It was magnificent. But what was it that was so magnificent? I couldn't get over it: it was just a little rosebud at the end of a broken stem, dropping onto the counter. And so?

I understood when I went over and looked at the motionless rosebud where it had fallen. It's something to do with time, not s.p.a.ce. Sure, a rosebud that has just gracefully dropped from the flower is always lovely to look at. It's so artistic: you could paint them over and over! But that doesn't explain the the movement. The movement ... and we think such things are spatial. movement. The movement ... and we think such things are spatial.

In the split second while I saw the stem and the bud drop to the counter I intuited the essence of Beauty. Yes, here I am, a little twelve-and-a-half-year-old brat, and I have been incredibly lucky because this morning all the conditions were ripe: an empty mind, a calm house, lovely roses, a rosebud dropping. And that is why I thought of Ronsard's poem, though I didn't really understand it at first: because he talks about time, and roses. Because beauty consists of its own pa.s.sing, just as we reach for it. It's the ephemeral configuration of things in the moment, when you can see both their beauty and their death.

Oh my gosh, I thought, does this mean that this is how we must live our lives? Constantly poised between beauty and death, between movement and its disappearance?

Maybe that's what being alive is all about: so we can track down those moments that are dying.

8. Contented Little Sips.

And now we are Sunday.

At three in the afternoon I make my way to the fourth floor. The plum-colored dress is slightly too big-a G.o.dsend on a gloutof gloutof day-and my heart feels as tight as a kitten rolled into a ball. day-and my heart feels as tight as a kitten rolled into a ball.

Between the third and fourth floor I find myself face to face with Sabine Pallieres. Over the last few days whenever she has run into me she has openly and disapprovingly scrutinized my puffy hair. Might I mention that I have abandoned the idea of hiding my new appearance from the world. But such determination puts me ill at ease, however liberated I might be. Our Sunday encounter is no exception to the rule.

"Good afternoon, Madame Pallieres," I say, carrying on up the steps.

She answers with a stern nod as she considers my sconce and then, noticing how I am dressed, she stops short on the step. A wave of panic a.s.sails me, deregulating my sudatory glands and threatening my stolen gown with the infamy of underarm rings.

"As you are headed that way, would you water the flowers on the landing?" she asks in an exasperated tone of voice.

Must I remind her? It is Sunday ...

"Are those cakes?" she asks suddenly.

On a tray I am carrying Manuela's masterworks wrapped in navy blue tissue paper, and I realize that in Madame Pallieres's eyes this far surpa.s.ses my dress and that it is hardly my pretension to elegance which is arousing Madame's condemnation, but some wastrel's greedy appet.i.te.

"Yes, an unexpected delivery," I say.

"Well then, take advantage of it to water the flowers at the same time," she says and resumes her irritated descent.

I arrive at the fourth floor and find it somewhat awkward to ring the bell, as I am also carrying the video ca.s.sette, but Kakuro opens diligently for me and immediately relieves me of my c.u.mbersome tray.

"Oh my goodness," he says, "you don't mess around, my mouth is watering already."

"You'll have to thank Manuela," I say, and follow him into the kitchen.