All this time Ferrer is still nursing a beer, the same and then another under the sun, but if he hasn’t changed neighborhoods on the left bank, he has nonetheless changed cafés. He is now sitting in Carrefour de l’Odéon, which is not usually the ideal spot for having a drink even though you can always find people there whose lives are devoted to it: it’s an agitated, enclosed, noisy hub, stuffed with red lights and cars heading in all directions at once, and moreover it’s chilled by the great drafts of air that come from Rue Danton. But in summer, when Paris has cleared out a little, the sidewalk cafés are relatively bearable, the light is steady and the traffic calmer, and there is an unobstructed view of two entrances to the same metro station. A parade of people comes and goes from these entrances and Ferrer watches it pass by, taking a closer interest in the female half of this parade, which is, at least quantitatively, as we know, superior to the other half.
This female half could also, he’s noticed, be subdivided into two populations: those who, just after you leave them (not necessarily forever), look back as you watch them walk down the subway stairs, and those who (forever or not) do not look back. As for Ferrer, he always looks back the first time to judge in which camp, looker or non-looker, a new acquaintance belongs. Then he takes his cue from her, conforms to her mannerisms, models his behavior on hers, given that it really doesn’t do any good to look back if the other doesn’t.
But today no one is looking back and Ferrer is about to head home. As no available taxi presents itself—roof lights dark, off-duty signs on—and as time generously permits, it is perfectly reasonable to return home on foot. It’s a bit far but it can be done, and a little exercise can only help put some order in Ferrer’s thoughts, still muddled by the last remnants of his jet lag.
These thoughts, in no particular order, and not counting memories, concern the insurance agent and safe dealer he has to call, a stand-maker’s bill to be renegotiated, Martinov whom he really should repromote, given that for now he’s his only relatively prominent artist. Then there’s the lighting in the gallery, which has to be totally redesigned to go with the new antiques. And finally he forces himself to ponder whether or not he’s going to call Sonia.
And the urban spectacle, in order, as he approaches Rue d’Amsterdam, zigzagging along the sidewalks amid the dog turds, notably presents a guy in dark glasses pulling a large drum out of a white Rover, a little girl declaring to her mother that, all things considered, she’s opted for the trapeze, then two women about to slit each other’s throats over a parking spot, followed by a refrigerated truck speeding away.
Arriving at the gallery, Ferrer is detained a moment by an artist who comes at Rajputek’s recommendation and who wants to tell Ferrer about his projects. He’s a young plastic artist, smug and self-satisfied, who has zillions of friends in the art world, and his projects are of the kind Ferrer has also seen by the zillions. The trick this time is that, instead of hanging a painting on a wall, he eats away at the corresponding place in the collector’s wall with acid: small rectangular format, nine by twelve inches and one and a quarter inches deep. “I’m exploring the concept of the negative work, so to speak,” the artist expounds. “I subtract from the wall’s thickness instead of adding to it.”
“Of course,” says Ferrer. “It’s interesting, but I’m not doing too much in that area at the moment. We might want to think about an arrangement, but later, not right now. We’ll have to talk again. Leave me your book and I’ll be in touch.”
Once rid of the wall eater, Ferrer tries to settle all the pending matters, assisted by a young woman named Elisabeth whom he’s hired on a trial basis to replace Delahaye and who is anorexic but overdosed with vitamins; she is there only on spec, we’ll see how she works out. For starters, he gives her a few minor assignments.
Then it’s back to the telephone: Ferrer calls the insurance man and the safe salesman, both of whom promise to come tomorrow. He reconsiders the bill from the stand-maker, whom he also calls, announcing his visit for later in the week. He doesn’t manage to reach Martinov directly, gets only his answering machine on which he deposits an ingenious hodgepodge of admonishments, blandishments, and warnings—in short, he does his job. He lengthily discusses with Elisabeth the best way to improve the lighting in the gallery, in view of exhibiting the Polar objects. To clarify his ideas, Ferrer suggests going to fetch one or two in the studio, we’ll try it out with, let’s say, the ivory armor and one of the mammoth tusks, you’ll see what I mean, Elisabeth. Then he heads toward the back of the gallery, unlocks the door to the studio, and that’s all there is to it: forced, gaping, the closet door opens onto nothing. It’s no longer the moment to think about whether he’s going to call Sonia.