The PowerBook Read Free Page A

relax. A girl in Lycra fixed her date for the night on her mobile phone. A man in a trenchcoat let his phone ring and ring, smiling to everyone as they glanced at his briefcase going off like an alarm.
    At the boat quays couples were waiting to join one of the neon-lit dinner and dance boats, while on other boats—the barges—a cat washed itself by a smoking funnel and a woman with her hair in a scarf threw coffee into the water.
    So many lives, and ours too, tangled up with this night, these strangers. Strangers ourselves.
    Slightest accidents open up new worlds.
    We were both staying at the same hotel. We had arrived the day before, and in the lobby our partners had suddenly spotted one another and thrown their arms around each other like they were old friends. Not surprising, because they were old friends.
    You and I had never met. We hung back smiling shyly, slightly irritated by all this bonhomie we couldn’t share. Then the plan had been made for the next night, to eat at a restaurant nearby, and would it matter—no, it would be fun—if those two long-lost buddies went on ahead, and you and I walked to the restaurant together, getting to know each other.
    Simple. Easy.
    Yes.
    Not knowing you, and knowing that small talk is not my best point, I started to tell you about George Mallory, the Everest mountaineer. I’mputting him in a book I’m writing, and strangers often like to hear how writers write their books. It saves the bother of reading them.
    ‘So you’re a writer?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ve never heard of you.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Have you had anything published?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Can I buy it in the shops?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What, here in Paris?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘In French?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘In English too?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh really?’
    (I said small talk is not my best point.)
    ‘So you’re a writer?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What kind of things do you write?’
    ‘Fiction, mostly.’
    ‘Stuff you make up?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I prefer real life.’
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘No surprises.’
    ‘Don’t you like surprises?’
    ‘Not since my fifth birthday when I was given an exploding cake.’
    ‘Could you eat it?’
    ‘The candles were little sticks of dynamite and they blew the cream and sponge all over the room.’
    ‘What did you do?’
    ‘Scraped it off the walls. Tried to act normal.’
    ‘Difficult …’
    ‘Oh yes.’
    (Then she paused. Then she said …) ‘To me that’s life—a cake with little sticks of dynamite on the top.’
    ‘That doesn’t sound like a life with no surprises.’
    ‘Oh, but it is. That’s just what it is. You see, I know it’s going to blow up in my face.’
    I looked sideways at her as we walked. To me she seemed confident and poised in soft black jeans,white shirt, a slash of lipstick, and a handbag built to take a credit card and a make-up brush. Her sweater was a ribbed cashmere crewneck, tied like a sack, hanging like a dancer.
    Simple.
    Expensive.
    ‘What brings you to Paris?’ (Small talk, not bad.)
    ‘The Eiffel Tower.’
    ‘Do you like towers?’
    ‘I like structures without cladding.’
    ‘OK, it’s a good motto.’
    ‘I try to let the lines show through. Not on my face, of course, but elsewhere. My work, my life, my body.’
    (Suddenly, very badly, I wanted to see her body. I suppressed the thought.)
    ‘Clean living?’ I said.
    ‘Hardly.’
    ‘What then?’
    ‘Clear space. The easiest thing in the world is to wallpaper yourself from head to foot and put an armchair in your stomach.’
    ‘Sounds uncomfortable.’
    ‘Oh no, it’s very comfortable. That’s why people do it.’
    ‘But not you.’
    (She suddenly took my hand.) ‘This is where I feel things.’
    (She guided my hand over the low waistband of her jeans.) ‘Excitement, danger …’
    (She flattened my hand on her abdomen and held it there.)
    ‘Sex. And to go on feeling I have to keep some empty space.’
    (Suddenly she let my hand drop. I looked at it sadly.)
    She said,