The Elegance Of The Hedgehog Part 15

"Really?" He removes the gloutof gloutof from the ma.s.s of blue tissue paper. "It's an absolute gem." from the ma.s.s of blue tissue paper. "It's an absolute gem."

I suddenly realize that there is music in the background.

It isn't very loud, and it is coming from some hidden speakers that diffuse the sound throughout the kitchen.

Thy hand, Belinda, darkness shades me, On thy bosom let me rest, More I would, but Death invades me; Death is now a welcome guest.

When I am laid, am laid in earth, May my wrongs create No trouble, no trouble in thy breast; Remember me, but ah! forget my fate, Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate.

This is the death of Dido, from Purcell's Dido and Aeneas. In my opinion, the most beautiful music for the human voice on earth. It is beyond beautiful, it is sublime, because of the incredibly dense succession of sounds, as if each were linked to the next by an invisible force and, while each one remains distinct, they all melt into one another, at the edge of the human voice, verging on an animal cry. But there is a beauty in these sounds that no animal cry can ever attain, a beauty born of the subversion of phonetic articulation and the transgression of the careful verbal language that ordinarily creates distinct sounds.

Broken steps, melting sounds.

Art is life, playing to other rhythms.

"Let's go," says Kakuro, who has set cups, tea pot, sugar and little paper napkins onto a big black tray.

I precede him down the corridor and, following his instructions, open the third door on the left.

"Do you have a VCR?" That had been my question for Kakuro Ozu.

And he had replied, "Yes," with a cryptic smile.

The third door on the left opens onto a miniature movie theater. A large white screen, a host of mysterious shiny devices, three rows of real seats covered in deep blue velvet, a long low table opposite the front row, and walls and ceiling covered in dark silk.

"Actually, it was my profession," says Kakuro.

"Your profession?"

"For over thirty years, I imported high-end audio equipment to Europe, for luxury establishments. It was a very lucrative business, but above all marvelously entertaining for someone like me who is enchanted by the least little electronic gadget."

I settle into a wonderfully plush seat and the show begins.

How to describe such moments of bliss? To be watching The Munekata Sisters The Munekata Sisters on a giant screen, in gentle darkness, nestled against a soft backrest, nibbling on a giant screen, in gentle darkness, nestled against a soft backrest, nibbling gloutof gloutof, and drinking scalding tea in contented little sips. From time to time Kakuro pauses the film and we both begin to talk about this and that, camellias on the moss of the temple and how people cope when life becomes too hard. Twice I go off to greet my friend the Confutatis Confutatis and return to the screening room as if to a warm cozy bed. and return to the screening room as if to a warm cozy bed.

This pause in time, within time ... When did I first experience the exquisite sense of surrender that is possible only with another person? The peace of mind one experiences on one's own, one's certainty of self in the serenity of solitude, are nothing in comparison to the release and openness and fluency one shares with another, in close companionship ... When did I first feel so blissfully relaxed in the presence of a man?

Today is the first time.

9. Sanae.

At seven o'clock, after much conversation and drinking of tea, I am ready to take my leave, and as we are pa.s.sing through the living room I notice, on a low table next to a sofa, the framed photograph of a very beautiful woman.

"She was my wife," says Kakuro quietly, seeing that I am looking at the picture. "She died ten years ago, from cancer. Her name was Sanae."

"I am sorry. She was ... a very beautiful woman."

"Yes," he replies, "very beautiful."

There is a brief silence.

"I have a daughter, who lives in Hong Kong," he adds, "and already two grandchildren."

"You must miss them."

"I go there fairly often. I love them very much. My grandson, who is called Jack-his father is English-and who's seven, told me on the phone this morning that yesterday he caught his first fish. It's the event of the week, you can be sure!"

Another silence.

"I believe you are a widow," says Kakuro, escorting me to the front door.

"Yes, I've been a widow for over fifteen years."

There is a catch in my throat.

"My husband was called Lucien. It was cancer, too ... "

We stand by the door, and look at each other with sadness.

"Good night, Renee," says Kakuro.

And with a trace of our earlier light-heartedness: "This has been a fantastic day."

Melancholy overwhelms me, at supersonic speed.

10. Dark Clouds.

You are a sorry idiot, I say to myself as I remove my plum-colored dress and discover some whiskey frosting on a b.u.t.tonhole. What were you thinking? You're only a penniless concierge. Friendship across cla.s.s lines is impossible. And anyway, what have you been thinking, you poor fool?

What have you been thinking, poor fool? I say it over and over as I proceed with my evening ablutions then slide between the sheets, after a short battle with Leo, who does not want to yield any terrain.

The lovely face of Sanae Ozu is dancing before my closed eyes, and I see myself as a sad old thing, abruptly reminded of a joyless reality.

My heart restless, I nod off.

The next morning, I feel something not unlike a hangover.

Nevertheless, the week goes by like a charm. Kakuro puts in a few spontaneous appearances to solicit my talents as an arbiter of taste (ice cream or sorbet? Atlantic or Mediterranean?) and I find the pleasure of his refreshing company unchanged, despite the dark clouds pa.s.sing silently above my heart. Manuela has a good laugh when she sees the plum-colored dress, and Paloma has taken over Leo's armchair.

"I'm going to be a concierge someday," she informs her mother, and Madame Josse herself looks at me with a fresh gaze mingled with caution when she comes to drop off her progeny at the loge.

"May G.o.d preserve you from such a fate," I reply with an amiable smile in Madame's direction. "You're going to be a princess."

Paloma is displaying in equal measure: a candy pink T-shirt that matches her new gla.s.ses; the pugnacious air of girl-who-will-be-a-concierge-someday-in-the-face-of-everything-especially-my-mother.

"What's that smell?" she asks.

There's a problem with the sewage in my bathroom and it stinks like a barracks full of soldiers. I called the plumber six days ago, but he did not seem especially interested in coming.

"The drains," I reply, not terribly inclined to pursue the matter.

"Failure of liberalism," says Paloma, as if I had not said a thing.

"No, it's a blocked drain."

"That's what I mean," says Paloma. "Why hasn't the plumber come yet?"

"Because he's busy with other clients?"

"Not at all," she retorts. "The correct answer is: because he doesn't have to. And why doesn't he have to?"

"Because he doesn't have enough compet.i.tion."

"Exactly," says Paloma triumphantly, "there is not enough regulation. Too many rail workers, not enough plumbers. Personally, I would prefer the kolkhoz."

Woe is me, a knock on the windowpane interrupts this captivating discussion.

It is Kakuro, with an indescribably solemn air about him.

He comes in and sees Paloma.

"Good morning, young lady," he says. "Well, Renee, shall I stop by later?"

"If you like. How are you?"

"Fine, fine," he replies.

Then, suddenly resolved, he takes the plunge, "Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow evening?"

"Uh ... " I feel panic sweeping over me. "It's just that ... "

It is as if my vague intuitions of the last few days are suddenly taking shape.

"I would like to take you to a restaurant that I'm particularly fond of," he continues, with the air of a dog hoping for a bone.

"Restaurant?" I say, feeling the full force of panic.

On my left, Paloma makes a little squeaking sound.

"Look," says Kakuro, who seems somewhat ill at ease, "I really would like you to come. It's ... it's my birthday tomorrow and I would be happy to have you as my dinner partner."

"Oh," I say, incapable of adding anything.

"I'm leaving to see my daughter on Monday, so I'll have a party with the family there, of course, but tomorrow evening ... if you would ... "

He pauses briefly, looks at me hopefully.

Is it just my impression or is Paloma experimenting with apnea?

Silence settles briefly over the room.

"Look," I say finally, "really, I am sorry. I don't think it would be a good idea."

"But why ever not?" asks Kakuro, visibly disconcerted.

"It's very kind of you," I say, hardening my tone, for it has a tendency to go soft, "I am very grateful, but I'd rather not, thanks all the same. I am sure you have friends with whom you can celebrate the occasion."

Kakuro is looking at me, speechless.

"I ... " he says eventually, "I ... yes of course but ... well ... really I would very much like ... I don't understand."

He frowns.

"Well, I just don't understand."

"It's better this way," I say, "believe me."

And, walking toward him to nudge him gently in the direction of the door I add, "We'll have other opportunities to chat, I'm sure."

He retreats, looking like a pedestrian who has lost his sidewalk.

"Well it's a great pity," he says, "I was so looking forward to it. All the same ... "

"Goodbye," I say, gently closing the door in his face.

11. Rain.

The worst is over, I say to myself.

But I have not reckoned with a candy pink destiny: I turn around and find myself face to face with Paloma.

Who does not look the least bit pleased.

"May I know what on earth you are playing at?" she asks, in a tone that reminds me of Madame Billot, my very last schoolteacher.

"I'm not playing at anything at all," I say weakly, aware of how childishly I have behaved.