The Woman With the Bouquet Read Free Page B

when one burns, one burns up, as it were, it’s intense, marvelous. Afterwards, all that is left is ash.”
    She turned to the sea.
    “And no one has ever seen a tree struck by lightning, even if it survives, turn back into an entire tree.”
    I had the sudden impression that this woman in her wheelchair was that tree, rooted to the earth . . .
    “I get the feeling you are talking to me about yourself,” I said gently.
    She shuddered. An abrupt anxiety, akin to panic, caused her hands to shake, and her breath came more rapidly. To regain her composure, she picked up her cup, drank from it, scorched her lips, and fussed that it was too hot.
    I acted as if I believed her little charade, and I cooled her coffee for her by adding some water.
    Once she had recovered, I went ahead all the same: “I want you to know I’m not asking anything of you, Madame Van A.; I respect your privacy, I won’t try to invade it in any way.”
    She swallowed and stared at me as if to test my sincerity; I withstood her scrutiny. Convinced, she eventually cocked her head and murmured in a changed tone of voice, “Thank you.”
    The time had come for me to give her one of my books—I had bought it the day before, and now I took it from my rear pocket.
    “Here you are, I’ve brought you the novel I find the most accomplished. It would make me very happy if you would read it at some point and share your thoughts with me.”
    She stopped me, as if stunned.
    “Me? But . . . that’s impossible.”
    She lifted her her hands to her heart.
    “You understand, I’ve only read the classics. I don’t read . . .”
    “New books?”
    “That’s it, recent publications. I am waiting.”
    “What are you waiting for?”
    “For the author’s reputation to be confirmed, for his work to be considered worthy of belonging in a real library, for—”
    “For him to die, is that it?”
    It came out in spite of myself. I found Emma Van A.’s bad grace with regard to my gift revolting.
    “Well then, say it: the best authors are the dead ones! I assure you, it will happen to me, too. One day, I will be consecrated by my ultimate demise and perhaps the next morning you will read me!”
    Why such resentment? What difference did it make whether this old maid admired me or not? Why did I feel the need for her to be interested in me?
    She sat up straight in her chair, trying to raise herself as high as she could, and although she was lower than me, she looked me up and down: “Monsieur, given my age, and my repeated strokes, do not be presumptuous: in all likelihood I shall leave this earth before you do, and soon. And my disappearance will confer no talent upon me. No more than yours will on you, for that matter.”
    Her wheelchair spun around; she wove her way among the furniture in the library.
    “It is sad to say but we have to accept it: we shall not meet.”
    She stopped the wheels by the picture window that looked out on the waves.
    “It sometimes happens that two people who were meant to set each other ablaze do not experience the great passion for which they were destined because one is too young, and the other too old.”
    And she added, her voice broken, “It is a great pity, for I should have liked to read you . . .”
    She was sincerely remorseful. Honestly, this woman turned my thoughts inside out. I went up to her.
    “Madame Van A., it was grotesque of me to get carried away like that, silly to bring this present, and hateful to want to impose it on you. Forgive me.”
    She turned to me and I saw tears in her eyes, usually so dry.
    “I would like to devour your book but I cannot.”
    “Why not?”
    “What if I do not like it?”
    Just the thought of it made her shudder with horror. There was something moving about such extreme behavior. I smiled to her. She noticed and returned my smile.
    “It would be dreadful: you are such a good person.”
    “If I were a bad writer, would you no longer think me a good person?”
    “No, you would