Page 38.
Chapter 9
They enjoyed weekends together, when she wasn’t busy at her little secretarial job in Pantheon-Sorbonne, and he wasn’t mowing lawns.
For the first time, he had her up in his garret on the Rue Monge. It was just a pied-a-terre, so to speak, except he had no tierre other than this unless one brought into play his parents’ house in Créteil (rather not).
“I hope you don’t mind it’s so small.” He sat in the only chair, which was at his desk a meter away from her if that.
She sprawled on the bed with her arms up and her legs parted as if she’d just fallen a great distance. “I’m so happy here. I am away from me and him, and this is so totally you.”
“I did the dishes and the laundry so it would be clean.” He pointed with his chin to the little sink at one end, and the laundry basket on the other side of his little desk from the trashcan, under the window.
“You did a heroic job.” She squirmed. “Oh I love it here. It smells like you. Something so different for me.”
“The bed is almost big enough for both of us.”
She bounced up and down, listening to the music of the springs. “Listen, it’s big enough if one of us is on top and the other on the bottom. Or we can squeeze really close. Would you like to cuddle?”
“I would love to.” He rose and clambered onto the mattress. She opened her arms to receive him.
They sipped red wine and nibbled on pretzels about two hours later.
The window was open, and it had grown gray outthat long evening in summer, when the sun takes forever to set even though it’s not really daylight anymore.
“So what kind of poetry does Léopold Montblé write?”
He shrugged. “It’s like composing and playing music. All kinds. Light stuff, heavy stuff. Imagist, surrealist, classical, whatever mood strikes me.”
“So it’s like playing piano or guitar?”
“Very much. Only the music is from the eye to the ear, as it’s been described, not from the fingers to the strings or keys or horn to the ear.”
“Do you feel music inside?”
“Usually. A sort of subtle low-down cool jazz best describes it most of the time.”
“Can I see some? Can you give me a reading?”
“I’d love to.”
He rose and searched in his little filing cabinet for something nice.
“I can be a little slow,” she said. “Maybe you can explain. Teach me.”
“Whatever makes you happy.”
“Put on your pants.”
They were both naked.
“Okay. But I like seeing you that way.”
She flipped a corner of his bedsheet over her bush. “No distractions.”
He pointed. “They are small and delicious, like pears.”
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