The Life of an Unknown Man Read Free Page B

cardboard boxes into inoffensive, swaying, unreal blurs…
    Unreal… That says it all! Asking a flesh-and-blood woman to be a dream. Imagine living with a madman who thinks you capable of walking on a moonbeam! He had idealized her from the first moment. Yes, from the first words they had exchanged on a Sunday evening, one as dreary as any wet February night in the chilly station hall at the Gare de l’Est…
    They were telephoning from adjacent booths, two telephones separated by a sheet of glass, in fact. She (he would later learn) was ringing a vague acquaintance who had promised to put her up. He was trying to catch a publisher at home (on his return from his luxury villa in Normandy, purchased, Shutov reflected ironically, with the proceeds from publishing pulp fiction). Suddenly the girl turned around, a phone card in her hand, and he heard a whispered exclamation that was both frantic and amused. Cheerful astonishment, on the brink of tears. “Oh shit! The credit’s run out…” Adding in a louder voice, “Now I’m in a real mess!” Shutov had not caught her eye; at first she did not realize he was offering her his card. (The publisher’s wife had just put him in his place. “I’ve told you already. Call him tomorrow at the off—” Proudly, he hung up on her.) Léa thanked him, dialed the number again. Her girlfriend could not put her up, because… She hung up as well, but slowly and indecisively, slipped the card into her wallet, murmured good night, and wandered over to the arrivals and departures board. Shutov hesitated between versions in different languages. In Russian, word for word, it would be: “And my card, young woman?” In French: “Mademoiselle, may I have my card back?” No. Perhaps: “Hey, you! Aren’t you going to…” Not that either. Well, in any event, he was too old for the retrieval of a phone card to cause more than a moment of embarrassment…
    He strolled away thinking about an opening for a story in the style of André Maurois: a woman walks off with the phone card a man has just lent her… What next? Every time she walks past that telephone booth she thinks of him?… No, too Proustian. Better: a foreigner (he, Shutov) runs after the woman to get his card back, calling out in his appalling accent, the woman thinks she’s being attacked and sprays him with tear gas (alternatively: lays him out with a stun gun)…
    He had already got a good way up the Boulevard Magenta when a breathless voice called out to him, then a hand touched his elbow. “I’m so sorry. I went off with your card…”
    He fell in love with every aspect of Léa. Everything about her that caught his eye had the completeness of a sentence that needs no rewriting. Her old leather jacket with its threadbare lining, a tight-fitting jacket that had ended up being molded to the curves of Léa’s body. Even when it hung on the back of the door at the dovecote this garment retained the imprint of her contours. And then Léa’s notebooks, the slightly childish diligence of her writings, “very French,” Shutov told himself, perceiving in them the obsessive search for the elegant phrase. And yet the mere sight of these notebooks now seemed vital. As did the frozen gesture that, for him, was a poem in itself: an arm flung far out across the covers by Léa in her sleep. That slender arm, a hand with fingers that trembled from time to time, in response to the secrets of some dream. A beauty independent of her body, of the attic awash with moonlight, of the outside world.
    Yes, that had been his mistake, his desire to love Léa as one loves a poem. It was to her that he read Chekhov’s story one evening: two irresolute lovers, their meeting twenty years later. I love you, Nadenka…

“ A n exile’s only country is his country’s literature.” Who said that? Shutov cannot place the name in his confused thoughts. Some anonymous expatriate, no doubt, waking in the night and trying to recall the last line of a