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Page 60.
 Marc and Emma drove in the Renault, planning to park by the Vincennes Park on the eastern side of the city. It was either that or take the Metro, and they wanted to try their luck despite heavy traffic. It was a very familiar route for Marc, since a few minutes further east would take him to his home town of Créteil in the Marne River Valley.
He put the cloth top up because of the heat and bright sunshine. He wore blue jeans, crew socks, loafers, a maroon football shirt. She wore white deck shoes, pink socks, and a simple skirt of light blue denim. A halter top freed her long caramel arms and slender hands.
“I keep wishing you weren’t married,” he said along the way, regarding a stubborn red light with frustration.
She budged slightly in her relaxed position, legs extended under the dashboard, one hand in her lap while she watched her other hand toying idly around the mirror outside the car. “I’m older than you. The age difference would bother you soon enough.”
He shrugged, shifting gears and slowly releasing the clutch as the light turned green and summer holiday traffic edged along.
“Ultimately it will,” she prophesied. “That’s why it doesn’t matter that I’m married. Although who knows how long that will last. I am so sick of it.”
Puzzled, he glanced at her, seeing a grim face. Then concentrated on the street ahead. Suddenly he wished he were far away, tipping beer or chasing girls with one of his male friends. A feeling of futility overcame him, making his hands doubly sweaty.
She smiled wanly. “I supposed one day Jérôme will find the right bones and come back to settle down with me and spend a lifetime writing important papers about his discoveries. Maybe that’s the reason I stay put like I do. We’re okay together when he’s here. He’s so busy all the time I never see him.”
Marc said in a sickly voice, “Please…”
She sidled across the seat and laid her hand gently on his thigh. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud.” She reached up and stroked his hair. “I want us to have a good time today. Don’t be sad or angry. It is what it is.”
He gritted his teeth, full of frustration and futility. What was he doing getting himself emotionally involved with a married woman? One or two of his friends had boasted about such things. They obviously were not poets and did not fall in love with a goddess like this.
She sat close to him and said softly, so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath in his ear and inside his collar, “You wouldn’t marry me or anything. I know Léopold Montblé, maybe better than you think. I know you’re not about to tie yourself down, but I also know you’re in the back of your mind always searching for that perfect young girl who is going to make you happy. Someone ten years younger than me.”
He pulled his ear and collar away. Tears threatened to blind him. He actually heard himself sob, as if he were someone else.
She however pressed—”Please listen. I know how you feel about me. I feel it too. We are crazy about each other. But it’s unrealistic to suppose anything is going to come of our relationship. Even if I were to divorce Jérôme, I really don’t believe you would marry me. I don’t believe you would tie yourself to me. And I know it frustrates you to feel your emotions going down a dead end. But it doesn’t have to be a dead end. Maybe just a…brief stop. You can spare me a few hours here and there, can’t you? I won’t stand in your way.”
He looked at her, and saw tears streaming down her face.
“You liar,” he said. She only made a wry face. He laughed and brushed the wetness from his eyes. “I suppose you’re right. So here I am with you. I have nothing better to do. What would I do now, anyway? Drive around? Drink beer? Buddy up with my old friends and talk about how we’d like to get laid if only we found some ripe young chicks or maybe…”
“…Maybe pick ripe fruit from the married tree?”
He nodded. “I guess that’s sort of what I’d be doing.” He sat upright and put his hand on her knee. “You’re right. This feels like—say, remember that night, with the Beach Boys?” A hard rock tune resounded in the dashboard speaker, and abruptly the mood was broken as they rolled along happily making pretend.
“We’re just on a date,” she said. She blew her nose in a tissue she found in her purse, wiped her eyes, and pathetically clutched the damp, crumpled tissue in her hand. “It’s all a game. Nothing more.”
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