Jealous, adj. Unduly concerned about the preservation of that which can be lost only if not worth keeping. (A. Bierce, ibid, p. 71)
"Life sucks!" Apparently we fail to grasp the depth of this profound statement. "What else is new?" "Care for a Gitane?" Marcel, sighing, extracts a blonde from a blue pack brought forth by Pierre, turns toward me, his eyes mellow. "You know? I was angry, very angry, I guess I was worried." "About what? who?" "Whom, about whom. You, ma petite. Here, this belongs to you." He slips into my hand a silver cigarette case I've never seen before. Inside, an inscription: "a M. avec toute mon amitie, Marcel" "But..." "You should take better care of your possessions. With all the thieves around here..." "I really don't understand. Where did you get this?" "It's a long story, I don't want to even think about it, it makes me so mad... Do you care to come up to my place?" I cannot read his signs, I don't understand what's going on, but I gladly follow him. Meek, soft, affectionate eyes?
After most recent worries, after latest discoveries, and what not, I feel a good talk with good old Marcel would do a lot of good to both of us. Berthe is knitting in her box, waves to us and winks.
"You know, all this mistery puzzles me no end. I am curious and suspicious." Climb up the stairs, so many, never boring. How did he find the case? He usually gives me something expensive when he's mad at me. "I know, you don't want to talk about it. Still, if it involves me, I think I should know..." He signals me to shut up with the finger and opens the door. Mechanically I reach his bed and sit down. He pulls a chair next to me and sits also. "Well, would you care to solve this mistery for me, please? I'm dying..." Words drop on the floor, scattered here and there. Sitting in silence, awaiting for something to come out of his mouth. Unusual embarrassment on my part, unusual secrecy on his.
"Chere, tres chere, I have a confession to make. Don't be surprised, don't overreact. It's been burning my soul for too long now, I can keep silent no more. Do you know what I'm talking about?" I'm afraid I do and I can't believe it. He keeps smiling, I'd hate to see that smile disappear. Shake my head. "La commedia e' finita."
Now, what's that supposed to mean? "Isn't it what they say at the end of a play?" Malicious eyes pierce my head. Puzzled look eventually makes him to lower his. "I see. Well, that ends that." Brooding silence of my petit Marcel. Pause leaves me speechless. Unexpected obvious unworded out declaration, such passion bleeds through his words, images of Marcel in nasty moments of Parisian life, after sex with Jacques, for example. The thought of him always so welcomed in moments of inner disorder, in situations when most I needed comfort and understanding without explaining he was there. Was it bound to come to this? Was I idealizing the Marcel-man who wants sex with a woman or a companion for life? Try to remember last time Marcel told me of sex with a woman but memory fails me.
Stretch out my hand in search for his. His skinny large pale hand meekly subdued to my grasp. I look at him in the eyes, I don't want to lose them. "Marcel?" "Present." "I'm fed up with my life, I want to change." "Mais, there is nothing to change, you're fine the way you are." Quiz over possible meaning of this. "You don't think I should stop selling myself?" "What I think has very little to do with your life. All I can say is that you are not happy. I don't think you could blame your profession, but there is something that keeps you in a situation you can't cope." "Why were you angry at me?" Little silver laughter. "You silly, I wasn't really angry at you. Forget it, it doesn't involve you at all. Why, you believe everything I say?" I guess I shouldn't. "You're like a little girl playing at being a woman. Sometimes I wander about your clients. You're a very confused little girl, but I like you the way you are, I just worry sometimes about you." Wish I could understand, where does he stand? "What's going to be of us?" "Who knows, ma petite. I wouldn't worry about the future, we'll survive." He is smiling again. I smile too, hope back on the horizon. Warmer atmosphere allows for more relaxed exchange of thoughts, we both agree it's tough, I have to sleep with worthless men and have cheap sex because I feel safe, whereas worthy guys always make you feel trapped and end up hurting both. The whole afternoon ends up in private dinner at the bistro a couple of blocks away.
Walking around the city, next day, my heart filled with obsessive thoughts, self-deprecating accusations for my behavior, Paul away for a couple of weeks, Marcel too involved with his own personal problems, my friend, Susanne, away too, nowhere to look for consulation or advice or help. My feet direct me toward the Beaubourg, to listen to some old music, or to brouse in the new exhibit section. While wondering about the back of the weird building, music coming from a couple of skinny long-haired foreigners attracts me and I sit down next to them, closed my eyes. Flute and guitar soothe my inner solitude. One of them, blonde beard, stops playing for a second and smiles at me. My mood prevents me from smiling back, I look straight in front of me, I don't want him to think I'm being rude. Music reprises. I pick up my notebook from my dirty bag and start scribbling thoughts, which refuse to take any form of significate. I think of Marcel, imperious image invades my self. I am perturbed. I don't know why. The thought of him disturbs me vague but strong. Flute player stops playing again.
"Brighten up, lady!" "Easier said than done." "Why? Look at the sky, look at these people, aren't they happy." The young foreigner, half Verlaine, half Wordsworth, exhorts me to live and enjoy life, to be free and absorb nature in all its wholeness and interpret the winds of the blowing heart... I listen to him mesmerized, everything seems so easy to follow, what he suggests seems all too simple, but manages to give me some sense of hope. "All that you say is very true, but it doesn't solve my problems at all." Malicious eyes penetrate my inner self. "Problems of the heart? Be sincere, don't hide your feelings. If he doesn't want you, he doesn't deserve you." "That's not the point. He wants me all right. He is a great guy." "Then what's the problem?" "He's the best friend I have and I'm afraid that if I have an affair with him, I'll lose that part of him I need so much." "You'll have to make a decision. You might lose him altogether." His words please me, the medicine I need for convincing myself that I should throw myself into Marcel's arms.
"And what if I hurt him? I have always hurt people who loved me." "Why should you hurt him? I don't understand." "I'm not good for committments. I always end up leaving for freedom. I'm a bitch, I like to fool around with men." He smiles even more maliciously. "Even now, with me?" Oops! Blush, lower my eyes, smile away. "Take life as it comes. Does he mind if you sleep around?" "I think so, he's very jealous, sensitive, delicate. I couldn't." "You only live once, remember. If you wait, things go away forever." My decision is almost made. I like this guy, I think I will give him a good kiss and a hug, he deserves it. Warmly, he returns hug and kiss and tells me that I can find him there for another couple of days, in case I change my mind. Then he'll be off to other places, somewhere free and beautiful and crowded, where, I think to myself, I don't belong.
Walking away from the Beaubourg, regret not having slept with young foreigner, but if I give myself to Marcel, I have to start now being faithful and renouncing useless and painful experiences. No, I'm wrong again, I have to take life piecemeal, no regrets, no fears, just pure lust for life. I'm in love with the whole world and I would fuck everybody. Hurriedly walk toward Marcel's place, hoping to find him at home. Nope. Try at the Cafe, but Georges tells me that the whole gang went off to Neuilly and they won't be back until late at night. They had tried to reach me in vain, so they left without me. Yes, Georges, I am disappointed. But that's ok, I'll come by tomorrow.