The Parisian - Isabella Hammad Page 0,41

into the soufflé.

Midhat returned his attention to Jeannette, who was staring at her bowl. He was always watching her distress from afar, across a room, a garden; he blinked as the image recurred of water falling off her thighs. The anger he felt on the terrace was already cooling, deposed by her apparently worthier annoyance at his mention of madness. That hardly seemed much of an indiscretion, especially given that the speech in its entirety had drawn enough embarrassing attention to himself that no one would be thinking of her mother. All the same, he had forfeited his high ground. Was it a game of one-upmanship, of who could be more annoyed with whom? At least, if it was, then she could not be indifferent to him. At this thought he was surprised to feel a hot little glow of hope.

“I think we ought to change the subject,” said Nolin.

“Which subject?” said Marie-Thérèse.

“Somebody pass Georgine a spoon,” said Molineu.

“Thank you.”

“And how are your studies, Monsieur Midhat?” said Carole.

“My studies are fine, thank you Mademoiselle. I am now beginning the preparations for my final examinations before the summer break. And then in the winter term I will be starting to perform my own dissections on cadavers. In the summer term it will be histology, physiology, and biological physics.”

“How nice. It sounds challenging.”

“We received … or rather, Jeannette …” He glanced across and saw with relief that her expression had softened. “A letter came from Laurent.” She nodded her permission. “It seems he has been putting his learning into practice already.”

“Good luck to him,” said Sylvain.

“He’ll be on leave soon,” said Molineu.

Nolin said, “What is the news from the Front?”

“Oh, please let’s not talk anymore about the war,” said Jeannette.

“Yes,” said Sylvain. “Let’s—let’s talk about cinema, or literature or something. Has anyone seen The Heroes of Yser?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Nolin. “You think talking about cinema is not talking about the war? What do you think the subject is of The Heroes of Yser?”

“Oh, shut up,” said Sylvain.

“High culture has become totally sterile.”

“Patrice.”

“We are actually talking about the cinema. There is nothing left to discuss. Which leads us to the more interesting point that leisure is the grounds for innovation, and that in a state of war …”

“I think we are surfeited with this line now, Patrice,” said Molineu.

Nolin closed his mouth and quivered a frown. What a bore he was, thought Midhat. He noticed the wine was gone from the bottles and their glasses, and wondered if they had all slipped into extreme versions of themselves.

“Have we finished?” said Molineu.

Jeannette had barely touched her dessert; Sylvain’s bowl was empty; the Nolin sisters had made admirable dents. Midhat did not particularly like the soufflé, it tasted too much of egg, but it was sweet and he liked sweet things, and accordingly had eaten half of it. Georgine’s bowl was wiped clean, and at her employer’s question she jumped to her feet and scraped herself free of the chair. Setting off with the squeaking trolley again around the table, she disappeared into the kitchen with the plates.

“Coffee, anyone?” said Molineu.

“I think we have surfeited,” said Patrice Nolin, with a quick smile.

He bowed his head at his daughters, who stood and cooed: the food was delicious, such a treat, really, in these dark days. Sylvain patted his chest, he couldn’t fit in a drop more. They gathered their coats in the hall, and shook hands and kissed goodbye.

In the silence after their departure, Molineu said something about coffee and returned to the dining room. Jeannette hesitated in the hall, and Midhat felt the breath of something resuming. She walked to the door of the cream salon, and turned the key. When he saw she had left the door ajar, he followed.

She was sitting on the piano stool, which was covered in a sheet of canvas, like everything else in the room. The covered piano extended vast and glacier-like before her. There was a strong smell of varnish. He hung in the doorway.

“I understand,” he said.

She looked up at him wearily. He wondered if she would disavow their previous exchange and pretend she didn’t follow.

“Did you drink wine tonight?”

“No,” he replied, with a sharply falling intonation, as if that were a ludicrous suggestion. Then he stepped forward and lowered his voice. “I wanted to say again that I am sorry. Please accept my apology. I understand you are angry. And that I should not have talked with Laurent about you. And

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