Chapter IV - Blue Flowers

Fabiane arrived at the restaurant half an hour late in a summer dress, light and low-cut. Her lateness was deliberate, of course. She came in apologizing, the traffic, she smiled, always the traffic. He tried not to show his annoyance, he smiled, lied that he’d also been late, yes, right, the traffic had been awful. They went on talking about the traffic for a few minutes, the waiter approached, they ordered something to drink. A glass of champagne for her, a beer for him.

Fabiane was the kind of woman who drank champagne in restaurants, and wherever she went, just like his ex-wife. He watched her for a few moments, noticing for the first time that, yes, the two women were very much alike, the champagne, their way of dressing, even the way they were constantly arranging a lock of hair behind an ear. Even their demands, since nothing was enough, not ever. Octopus women, vampire women, wrapping around him, draining him of everything he had and then calling him selfish. That’s how it always was. From the very look in their eyes, eyes that were carefully made up so as to look natural, ready to complain about everything, because nothing would do, the attention, the love, the affection, and the more he gave, the more dissatisfied they showed themselves to be, that constant air of reproach. He felt guilty, even if he didn’t want to; perhaps he was sure that he could and should do much more. As though there were much more to do. Sometimes he felt insecure with them, other times, irritated like now. He wanted a woman who, rather than demanding, was inclined to give something in return. Not a princess looking down at him from her throne, but a real woman, a woman in love, attainable, capable of getting close and staying there, without fear, without expectations and without that protective distance. Just things the way they were. A woman ready even to lose and be lost for him. A woman ready to forgive. But perhaps this was no more than romanticism, he thought, self-centered romanticism, perhaps the product of some crisis he’d managed to glimpse but couldn’t yet make out completely, a dejection, a discouragement, a discomfort that had begun with the birth of his daughter, had gained in strength in recent years and now seemed ready to settle in for good. Pure romanticism, but why not, he thought, didn’t he also have the right to want, to demand?

Fabiane sipped at her glass of champagne like his ex-wife, and he went on with his comparisons. Like his ex-wife, she was always careful, her movements finely calculated, impeccable; why not just drink, fearlessly, like a woman who drank vodka, tequila, who downed her drink in one gulp with a smile? But no, Fabiane was completely planned; she was like a mannequin in a shop window, as though at any moment someone might appear and surprise her and she would have to be ready. But the truth was, nobody would ever surprise her. Fabiane would never surprise anyone. He was furious.

Perhaps noticing his irritation, she said:

“Marcos?”

“What?”

“So, it looks like you’re not that interested in what I’m telling you.”

“Of course I am, I was just thinking about something else.”

“In other words, you weren’t paying attention.”

“Of course I was, Fabiane, I got distracted for a second and thought about something else, that was all, it happens to everyone.”

“What did you think about?”

“Whatever, I’ve forgotten, nothing important.”

Fabiane didn’t believe his explanation. She sipped a little more of her champagne. To change the subject, he suggested:

“So how about we order?”

“Why, are you in a hurry to leave?”

“No, Fabiane, I’m hungry, I’d like to order, that’s all.”

She glared at him, angry. Something between them wasn’t working that night. But perhaps it had never worked, and it was only at that moment that he’d noticed. Since they’d first met (at the time he was still married), Fabiane had expected something more. After the separation, the demands started; since there was no longer anything to stop him, he had to make up his mind. Make up his mind about what, he’d asked, to be with her, she’d answered, to be with her properly. He’d argued with her: So up till now it’s all been a lie then, I suppose, she’d laughed. After the separation there was Fabiane, it’s true, but there was also solitude and other possibilities. A few girls he was friendly with, not very close, but pleasant, or perhaps pleasant for that reason. Girls who popped up from time to time and whose main function was ensuring that nobody should be allowed to take up too much space, especially not Fabiane. Even though time passes, we keep making the same mistakes, he thought. But he was not born for those girls, pleasant and distant, nor was he born for Fabiane.

“If I’d known how cranky you were going to be I’d have stayed home.”

He pretended not to have heard the comment, finished drinking his beer and said:

“I watched a really interesting movie yesterday.”

“Don’t change the subject, Marcos, you always do that when you’re not interested, you just change the subject, I think it’s cowardly of you.”

“Cowardly?”

“That’s right, cowardly.”

He paused slightly, trying to control himself, but eventually said:

“I do think, Fabiane, that you should think twice before just saying the first idiotic thing that comes into your head.”

She didn’t reply, she stood up, took her handbag. He thought she was going to leave, but no, she headed for the restroom. He stayed, toying with the empty glass, the cutlery, the napkin. He wasn’t usually so harsh, actually, he’d never spoken to her like that, not even when they’d argued. He had lost control and he didn’t know why, he just felt such irritation, as though everything she said were an insult. But nothing about her had changed. He was the one who wasn’t doing well. He shouldn’t have bothered, he should have invented another excuse. Maybe something had changed, he dared to imagine, just like that, after reading the latest letter this morning.

But it was no use now, he would apologize, try to salvage something from the night. It troubled him that he was so bothered by those letters, which weren’t even for him; he’d spent the whole day thinking about them, about the real addressee, the previous tenant. He’d talk to the doorman as soon as he got home, he’d ask for his forwarding address, telephone number, he’d even go to this guy’s new place, deliver the letters, be rid of them at once. He didn’t want to think any more about it now, even though he was thinking about it all the time, barely realizing it. He felt as though there were something subtly worming its way into him. But perhaps there was no subtlety about it at all.

Maybe ten minutes went by, then twenty, Fabiane hadn’t returned, he noticed with surprise, so immersed was he in his thoughts. Perhaps she’d left, gone out the back door. He thought about going after her. But she ended up coming back from the bathroom with her eyes red, hair tucked behind her ear. She was a very beautiful woman, he thought rather sadly, not sad for her, but for himself, for his impossibilities, his inability to accept the way she was, accept her company, simply to like her. She sat down without looking at him. He put his hand on hers. He attempted a conciliatory tone.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, fine, forget it.” She was avoiding his gaze.

“I’m not doing great today.”

“Has something happened?”

“No, nothing in particular, work stress, the usual.”

She gave a little smile now. With the same speed at which she became enraged, Fabiane was also quickly appeased, he thought almost affectionately. Immediately the waiter appeared with their meals. They ate their dinner. Both of them pretending nothing had happened. They talked about the things they usually talked about. He talked about work, about the weekend, about his daughter, she complained about her mother, her sister, her family, she also complained about being alone and about work. He ate a lasagna, she had shellfish au gratin. He asked for another beer, she asked for white wine. He was trying to prevent his feelings of irritation from returning, from becoming so obvious again. She pretended not to notice.

When the dinner and conversation were approaching their final moments, the check paid, one last sip before leaving, the question came that he had been expecting, not quite so suddenly, but he had been expecting it.

“So what now?”

“What now, what?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me around for a drink at your place?”

It was an invitation, no, it was a demand, he thought for a few moments. And she hadn’t even waited till they’d gotten to the car. The easiest thing would be to say yes, to take her to his room, to his bed, but at that moment the easiest thing seemed much more difficult to him. A refusal wouldn’t make things any better, but on the other hand he didn’t want things to get any better. He thought about that morning. He didn’t want it. All the same, it would never be easy to say no to a beautiful woman, and yet, at the same time, there was always a certain narcissistic pleasure to be had in saying no to a beautiful woman. He ought to say no more often. As an act of revenge.

“That’s not going to work out today, Fabiane.”

He inhaled deeply, a pause for breath, tried to arrange things in such a way that they didn’t seem too important.

“I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, a meeting,” he said, playing with his napkin.

A meeting was a fairly well-worn excuse, he could have thought of something better, more convincing, but the truth was he really did have a meeting the following morning. Sometimes it was best not to tell the truth. Now it was too late; he’d already said it.

“A meeting . . .” Fabiane looked at him in disbelief.

“Right, a meeting. And also, I’m really very tired, don’t take it the wrong way.”

His own voice didn’t ring true to him—“Don’t take it the wrong way, Fabiane”—he never talked like that. She seemed to notice this, she probably felt rejected, repelled, all the same she decided to pretend that it hadn’t affected her.

“No, of course I won’t take it the wrong way. It’s for the best, I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, too.”

She seemed to be trying to think fast while she talked, maybe trying to come up with the best response, a few words that would rescue her from that discomfort as quickly as possible, that would restore her poise, her elegance, the manner she had of being the kind of person who drank champagne. He offered:

“I’ll call you later, we can arrange to meet up on the weekend. What do you think?”

“Sure, let’s arrange that.”

He knew it was a lie, he wouldn’t call, of course. She knew it, too.

The night was over before ten, at least it was with Fabiane. He left her at home, saying goodbye to her in the car outside her building. He gave her a quick kiss, trying to strip the moment of any dramatic coloring. She went inside without looking back. He pressed down on the accelerator carefully, as though afraid of being surprised, or worried that any noise might alert her, make her turn suddenly and come back toward him, knock on the window, her lips moving without his being able to hear her. But she didn’t turn around. And he drove home thinking perhaps he had been unfair.

The truth was, he’d arrived at the restaurant already expecting not to enjoy it, whatever she said, not wanting it, so that events would take their course. And Fabiane, who knew nothing of the last few days, had no way of defending herself. He was probably being unfair. Now, sitting on the sofa in his apartment, he thought it was better this way, imagining that that had been their last meeting, but perhaps it wasn’t, perhaps there was still room for others, but in any case, he would not be seeking her out again.