Every Time Hélène went to see a hockey game, she left the girls at her parents’ house because it was on the way. At least the death throes of her relationship with Philippe had brought this benefit: Clara and Mouche got to see their grandparents more often. And Hélène’s parents, thrilled by this turn of events, almost forgot to criticize her.
This time, as usual, the two girls jumped out of the car as soon as it came to a halt and rushed through the yard. Their grandfather had just installed a playground set there, and Clara and Mouche fought over who would get to sit on the swing first. Mouche lost, which was a shame because she was too small to reach the monkey bars.
“Good trip?” Mireille asked, kissing her daughter on the cheeks.
Hélène shrugged. “It’s not far…”
“That’s not what you used to say.”
Hélène did not rise to the bait. Mireille was shading her eyes with one hand, even though she was wearing dark glasses. She found exposure to sunlight increasingly painful.
Hélène kissed her father, who was wearing his usual old loafers—perfect for the yard as well as for trips to town—and his favorite old blue T-shirt. She instantly recognized the scent of his cheek, the smoothed leather of the skin, the aftershave he wore. Then she took a moment to look at him. He hadn’t changed: he still had the same slim body he’d had in the army. Old age did not seem to have attacked his inner core, as it did with so many people. Jeannot was simply crumbling around the edges, growing ever thinner, his hair turning to a sort of down, his skin growing diaphanous at the temples and under his eyes, poignantly revealing the meandering river of a mauve or blue vein, and his body—not a single inch shorter or a single pound heavier—taking on a volatile, almost cloudlike appearance.
“Well,” said her mother.
Her father announced that he would go look after the girls, and Hélène watched him walk serenely away.
“How are you for time?” her mother asked.
“I’m not in a rush,” said Hélène, emerging from her reverie.
They went into the house. The curtains were partially drawn to spare Mireille’s eyes. Hélène sat in her usual spot at the kitchen table and touched the plastic tablecloth with its design of cherries.
“I was about to make some tea,” her mother said.
“Perfect.”
Through the French door, she could see the girls playing outside. Mouche had finally been allowed on the swing, and Clara was hanging upside down on the monkey bars. Their grandfather stood, hands in pockets, watching them have fun. Since he had quit smoking, it was as if a part of his physiognomy was missing. Wherever he was, he always looked now as if he was waiting for something that was never going to happen again.
The water began to gurgle inside the kettle and Mireille put two cups on the table, then poured the boiling water into them before adding the Lipton tea bags. While the tea was brewing, she told Hélène about a conversation she’d had with the new neighbors, a young couple who had just moved in. The woman worked at the hospital and the man sold cars at one of those lots that lined the road between Cornécourt and Chavelot.
“It’s strange how all the car lots are in the same place.”
Anyway, the couple wanted to have children, but they were “struggling.” Three attempts at IVF had already ended in failure, but they weren’t giving up.
“They should just enjoy being young,” her mother observed. “They’ve got plenty of time to have kids later.”
This was an old refrain. Before starting a family, Mireille had insisted on “having a life.” No doubt her own mother’s example had influenced Mireille’s determination to remain free. The poor woman had given birth to five children before her husband was killed in a cycling accident at a railroad crossing. Throughout her childhood, Mireille had watched her mother wear herself out washing dishes, doing laundry, ironing clothes, a stew constantly simmering on the stove, looking ever more ravaged and pilfering whatever cash she could to stay afloat.
“Not for me,” Mireille would say whenever she thought about this or saw such sacrifices in a movie or a TV documentary.
She’d had Hélène quite late in life, and that was the end of her childbearing. In the family mythology, it was often said that Mireille was not one of those “perfect women” who gave everything to their family, and nothing annoyed her more than having to listen to someone drone on about self-sacrifice when she happened to meet some old acquaintance at the supermarket or the newsstand where she went to buy her lottery tickets.
“I saw that Christiane Lamboley. There’s one who never talks about anything but her kids and all her aches and pains.”
Jean might well have wanted another child, but it was never a possibility. Instead, he’d had his vegetable garden, which had grown considerably smaller over recent years, and then—after their daughter had left home—the two of them had discovered the pleasures of package tours. When it came down to it, a postcard was just as good as a family photograph.
Hélène drank her tea and listened as her mother told her the latest news. There were stories of cousins she never saw, neighbors she had never met, and—with sour little asides—an assessment of Hélène’s own situation and how it affected the lives of her parents. After this little tirade, though, her mother still asked her how she was doing.
“Yeah, I’m okay…”
Mireille observed her daughter from behind the photochromic glasses that had become transparent again now that they were in the dim interior.
“The kids see everything, you know,” she said in a serious voice.
“Have they said anything?”
“A few things,” her mother replied. “Clara’s worried she’ll have to leave her room.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m explaining stuff to her gradually.”
“The important thing is to keep hold of your job.”
“I’ve never had any problems with that, have I?”
“Do you have some savings at least?”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry.”
Her mother gave a satisfied nod.
“I always worked. That’s what matters.”
Hélène agreed. Her cup was empty, but she was not yet thinking about leaving. It was the strangest part of all this, how comfortable she felt at her parents’ house these days.
Of course, if she stayed here much longer, the situation would soon deteriorate. Her mother would want to start bossing her around, asking her why she did this and not that, she’d have to start taking her shoes off inside the house and all her parents’ old habits would once again feel like an unbearable straitjacket. All the same, she had to admit that Cornécourt and its surrounding area no longer filled her with disgust the way they used to. Several times, visiting Christophe here, she had felt curiously relaxed walking around the streets of her adolescence. Now that she was no longer imprisoned in these walls, behind these façades, now that she felt sure she had escaped the fate of becoming one of those women who settle for a little dog and dyed hair, she no longer lived in dread of this town. On the contrary, there was a kind of sweetness in seeing again the same light, at dusk in a back alley, that she had seen at fifteen, at passing the same storefronts on the high street. Every bridge brought back a memory, and the basilica with its remnants of a maze reminded her vividly of sneaking out there with Charlotte on freezing nights to smoke cigarettes in the ruins. Above all, the smell of earth from the gardens and on the banks of the Moselle, in the evenings, after rain, was exactly the same. In fact, she felt so comforted by this homecoming that it was starting to worry her.
“They’re not like you at all,” her mother said, watching the girls play outside. “Neither of them.”
Mouche had given up on the swing and was now digging a hole in a corner bordered by big stones that her grandfather had created for her. As for Clara, she was following the old man, who, incapable of doing nothing for more than a few minutes, was now busy watering the flower beds.
“What was I like, at their age?”
“Don’t you remember?”
Hélène tried to excavate a memory, but nothing came.
“I don’t remember anything at all until I was eight or ten.”
“Well, that’s nice,” said her mother sarcastically.
“So what was I like?”
Her mother stared at her, trying to work out if her daughter was making fun of her, then said: “You laughed all the time.”
The Wolves Were a strange team that season, with no fewer than four players aged over forty and three under eighteen. They’d had to deal with this motley crew, an ever-lengthening injury list, and their Canadian goalkeeper, Jimmy Poulain, leaving in January because his brother was in a car accident back home. In the end, ironically, the club had to take the number-two goalie from Strasbourg, their biggest rival, on loan for the rest of the season. The only major investment the club had approved was for the transfer of a Slovakian international named Tomas Jagr, who, despite his eagerness and hard work, did not make much of an impact, barely reaching double figures for goals scored.
Even so, the Wolves had done reasonably well, beating the weaker teams and defending stoutly against the better sides such as Dijon and Reims. Overall it had been a tough season so far. They’d enjoyed a few moments of glory, and suffered a minor crisis in January. As things stood, they still had a vague hope of being promoted to D1. Now they were getting ready for a home game against the Colmar Titans, having already won the away leg.
Christophe had not had much game time and had scored only two goals. He’d had some big fights with the coach, Madani, who had finally lost patience over the player’s failure to lose weight. “I don’t need a calzone on ice,” Madani had declared two weeks earlier. Christophe was now a benchwarmer again.
That night, in the locker room, Christophe looked at his teammates as though they were already fading into the realms of memory. The same routine was going on around him, the same familiar sounds—sticky tape being unrolled, the thud of blades on ice, men sniffing and clearing their throats as they stared with concentration, and the voice of Gilles, the gear guy, as he thundered out his usual mantra: “Come on, boys.” Christophe felt outside all of this, impatient, frustrated, a spectator.
After a while, unable to bear it any longer, he decided to go and see the coach in the little hut that served as his office. Madani was on the phone while inspecting the tactical diagrams spread out across his desk. The game would not start for another half hour, but already the hubbub from the bleachers was audible.
“I wanted to talk to you,” said Christophe.
The coach looked up and asked him to wait a minute while gesturing for him to take a seat. The two men had known each other for more than twenty-five years. They had never been friends. Christophe sat down on the chair in front of the desk. He had a bad stomachache and thought he might throw up.
“Yeah?” said the coach, after hanging up.
“I know I’ve had a shitty season.”
Madani laughed. He was wearing a baseball cap in the club’s colors and a fleece jacket, and was aggressively chewing gum. The softness of his caramel eyes seemed to clash with his edgy, almost vindictive attitude.
“I’m not just talking about hockey,” Christophe went on. He was struggling to get the words out. Thankfully the coach was not interested in hearing the details. After a sigh, Christophe continued: “I know I’m not going to play anymore.”
“What’s your point?”
“This is my last season. It’s over.”
Madani was tempted to tell him that it had been over long before this, that he spent too much time drinking and not enough training. But he just nodded.
His thighs spread, his forearms resting on his knees, his head lowered, Christophe cleared his throat before adding:
“My son’s in the crowd tonight.”
The coach’s face twitched. He didn’t like it when people played on his feelings. Christophe sniffed again, then looked up. His lips had practically vanished, leaving just a horizontal slit. It took him a massive effort to get the next few words out.
“He’s never seen me play.”
“Go on.”
“I’m not asking for a lot.”
“Hmm,” said the coach. “We’ll see.”
Christophe waited. He would have liked some kind of promise. Since his son had been living in Troyes, he had seen him only during holidays and on the occasional weekend. People had asked him why he didn’t move there too. Others had wanted to know why he wasn’t fighting it. They said he should get a lawyer and take the case to court. As for Marco and Greg, they just bitched about Charlie even more than they had before. Only Hélène abstained from giving a firm opinion. She knew what it was like to have a life at the mercy of opposing forces, and she knew that in such situations no one was entirely to blame, nor entirely innocent.
At first, Christophe had thought it wouldn’t be a big deal. He would see Gabriel less often than before, but they would be able to spend quality time together, as people said these days. He would spoil the boy. Gabriel’s time with his father would be like a permanent vacation. But he had not considered the speed at which children changed. Every time he saw his son, he was almost a different person. Away from Christophe, he had grown thinner, less naive, more handsome. He spoke new words, knowing words, and could curse fluently in Arabic after a few months in the mini-Bronx of the school playground. He had also adopted some new tics, like sticking his fingers up his nose or grunting like a piglet. At least Christophe could blame Charlie for all of this, which was compensation of a kind.
Some Sunday evenings, when Christophe dropped him outside his mother’s house and watched him cross the street with his backpack, he could almost feel the sands of time slipping through his fingers. In no time at all Gabriel would be ten, twelve, sixteen; he would become an annoying little prick, a rebellious teenager who never listened to advice and cared only about his friends; he would fall in love; he would struggle with school, his grades, the stress of exams; he would pester his dad to buy him an Eastpak backpack, an expensive puffer jacket, a scooter so he could get hit by a car; he would smoke weed, make out with girls, learn to like the taste of cigarettes, beer, and whiskey, get bullied by rugby players, find other people who would listen to him and hold his hand; he’d want to have sleepovers, vacations without his parents; he would want them to give him more and more money while he gave them less and less of his time. Christophe would have to go to the police station to pay his son’s fines, would have to read teachers’ reports describing a total stranger, a creature capable of groping girls or insulting a truant officer…unless he just sank beneath the surface, became the school whipping boy, faded into the background. Christophe didn’t know which possible fate he feared more.
And then one day, with a bit of luck, while they were driving in the car or eating supper in the kitchen late one night, that child would tell his father something about his life. Christophe would then discover that he no longer knew him at all. That this boy had found his way and was now stronger than his own father, with a better understanding of objects and their uses, and the son would gently mock his old man for being out of touch. Christophe would discover that the kid was outflanking him in every way possible, and that would be the best news he could ever hope to hear. But he would not be there to witness most of this. Gabriel would do his growing up out of sight. That time would be lost forever.
The Épinal Players came onto the ice amid a deafening roar that mingled shouts, bravos, and the sound of foghorns. Two thousand people were gathered inside that rink, Freddie Mercury was singing “We Will Rock You,” and in the whirl of green and white spotlights it looked like the entire town had come together, their hearts beating as one. Soon, under the vaulted roof of this strange cathedral, the announcer’s fairground bark would list the players’ names. Christophe’s would not cause much of a stir, but there would be a brief roar when Théo Claudel’s name was spoken. This kid had scored three of the four goals that secured victory a week before, and he had already become a kind of star. Christophe’s teammates looped gracefully around the ice a few more times, then stood in line while Colmar’s players emerged to the habitual boos.
Standing inside the arena, Christophe felt the hammering of his heart inside his chest once again. It was not the kind of thing you could get used to. The cauldron of noise, the will of a people. That joy, boundless, and yet bound to end. He started looking for his son’s face among all those that filled the bleachers, but the din was too loud and there were too many people standing up, blocking his view. Marco, on the other hand, was easy to spot in the middle of the hard-core supporters, with his bass drum, his enormous stature, and the scary faces he kept pulling. Finally, the music stopped, the lights came back on, and Christophe saw his little boy sitting next to Hélène, along with Greg and Jenn. He immediately noticed that Gabriel was not wearing a hat, and felt irritated. But he had to go back to the bench.
Épinal started the game at full speed, the three lines of players taking turns to move forward in waves. Théo Claudel scored in the second minute, then twice more during the first period, sending a frisson of excitement through the supporters, who felt they were witnessing the birth of a legend. High on confidence, he even tried a slap shot from ten meters out. It was stopped by the goalkeeper, but its power, audacity, and sheer artistry were thrilling. Even the opposition goalie saluted the attempt.
It soon became apparent that this was one of those exceptional nights when the atmosphere reaches fever pitch, when the rink starts to vibrate like a locomotive, the jubilation in the bleachers transforming into speed on the ice, the screams and shouts coming from two thousand mouths translating into a single, unending dull roar. Everyone seemed caught helplessly in the rotation of the game, as if inside the drum of a monstrous machine where destinies and actions, desires and fears all tumbled at dizzying speeds. And inside that drum, Marco banged his own drum, grimacing as he made it boom, like a semaphore amid the infinite movement of flags.
Christophe, meanwhile, sat still on the bench.
To him, minutes had never felt so brief. He watched the game, then the spectators, glaring, sniffing, spitting, his legs twitching, his whole body bathed in sweat despite his inaction. One way or another, something was happening for the last time, and he felt this in every pore of his body. He was like a beached fish, dying. He had to get out on the ice.
Standing behind the barrier, the coach was organizing the game as always, sending mysterious signals to his players and ordering the rotations. From time to time, he would squat down to scrawl tactical ideas on his whiteboard, which he generally kept to himself. This was his way of thinking, of channeling his anxiety. The first period came to an end. Christophe had still not touched the ice. He returned to the locker room without a word.
At First, Hélène had had to be persuaded to come and see the games. It all brought back too many memories. But ultimately, the rink proved to be more like a tranquilizer than a time machine. As soon as she was sitting in the bleachers, her head was emptied of thoughts, all her worries dissolved. All she had to do was shout along with everyone else, clap at the same tempo, follow the movements of the puck on the ice, and the outside world just vanished. This time, it was slightly different because the atmosphere was more febrile and Christophe had asked her to look after his son. The kid had followed the game enthusiastically at first, yelling and making lots of comments. But tiredness had overcome him, and now he was resting against her, looking very pale, his eyelids growing heavy behind his glasses. After a while, he turned to Greg and asked: “Uncle, is it almost over?”
“Almost,” Greg lied.
At the intermission, Greg went to fetch three cups of Picon and one of Coke, which revived the boy’s spirits a little. Then he asked Jenn to switch seats so he could sit next to Hélène. They made a toast.
“So, I’ve given it some thought…”
“Given what some thought?”
“The wedding.”
“Well, I should hope so.”
The game had started again, as had the deafening roar in the bleachers, so they had to press close and speak into each other’s ear. Greg smelled strongly of cigarettes and deodorant, which Hélène didn’t mind.
“No, I mean…I want you to come.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be free that day.”
“You don’t even know the date yet.”
Hélène smiled.
“When is it?” she asked.
“May sixth.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, why?”
“That’s the day of the second round of the election.”
Greg was speechless for a moment, unsure what her point was.
“So?”
“No, nothing.”
“Who cares about elections?”
He took a swig of Picon, and Hélène did the same. He was a really nice guy, she thought.
The Game Went on in the same supercharged atmosphere. By the end of the second period, Épinal was leading 9–1, but Christophe still hadn’t played. In the locker room, the coach congratulated his players and urged them to take care of themselves. From that point on, what mattered was avoiding injuries. There were other games on the horizon, the season wasn’t over, and as far as Colmar was concerned, it didn’t really matter how many handfuls of dirt they threw on their coffin.
The players listened in silence. Steam rose from their bodies, like racehorses, and they just sat there sniffling, breathing hard, hawking, and spitting on the floor. Some nibbled cereal bars; others bit into bananas. They drank water straight from the bottle, their Adam’s apples rippling quickly up and down their throats. They were tired, but they knew they had to keep going. The whole room was filled with a mixture of exhaustion and electricity. The goalkeeper, who was having a problem getting his pads to stay on, asked for help, and Desmarais knelt down to tape them in place.
Christophe watched all this as if from afar. He wanted to say something, but what?
“Come on, boys…”
The game restarted. The opposing team seemed drained of confidence and barely dared to attack anymore. As the seconds ticked past during this final period, Christophe’s throat tightened. He felt increasingly unwell. In the ninth minute, he stood up and walked over to the coach.
“I need to play.”
Madani continued watching his players move around the ice, whiteboard in hand.
“Please,” Christophe said.
This time, the coach looked up at him and, after a few seconds of thought, gave a firm nod.
“You can replace Kevin,” he said.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Christophe skated onto the ice as part of the next line. There were only eight minutes left. The lines were usually swapped every forty-five seconds. There were four lines in the squad, three of which played regularly. Christophe probably had only one or two minutes of play before the game ended. Thankfully, Colmar’s players seemed incapable of maintaining possession of the puck.
During his first stint on the ice, Christophe had two chances and fired both at the goal, but didn’t score. There was a strange feel to this final period: the tempo had slowed, and the exhausted players seemed to be moving around in a daze. In the bleachers, the hard-core fans were still yelling loudly, and Marco was the loudest of all, banging his drum and screaming so hard that the veins in his neck swelled and throbbed.
On his way back to the sidelines, Christophe received a pat on the back from his coach before collapsing onto the bench. Forty-five seconds of play and he was shattered, drenched in sweat from head to foot. While he watched the game, drops of perspiration rolled down his face, falling from his fast-blinking eyelashes. Licking his lips, he recognized the pleasant salty taste.
This was it. He had started playing hockey thirty years before and he had only forty-five seconds left before the end. Inside his chest, his lungs were filling and emptying as fast as they could. He closed his eyes, trying to compose himself, and gripped his stick with both hands. Desmarais turned toward him and saw his lips twitching in a silent whisper. He elbowed the guy next to him and all the other players on the bench turned to watch Christophe, his handsome face streaming with sweat, his brows knitted, his voice inaudibly begging some higher power: Please, just give me one more chance.
Back on the ice, Christophe could feel that his legs had gone. Thankfully, the Titans were even more drained. They tried desperately to hold off Épinal’s attacks, defending aggressively, almost angrily. Christophe tried to make up for his physical shortcomings with smart positional play. Soon, the puck slid toward him along the boards; he tried to dribble it for a few meters before making the pass, but he didn’t have time. A Colmar defender came hurtling toward him out of nowhere and smashed him into the Plexiglas barrier. It was such a brutal, flagrant foul that the crowd let out a collective gasp. For a moment, Christophe knelt on the ice, unmoving, struggling to catch his breath. Then, hanging on to his stick, he clambered to his feet. There was not much more than twenty seconds left. He skated forward as Kamel Krim was aiming a shot at goal. But Colmar’s goalie blocked the puck and one of the defenders sent it speeding up the other end of the ice. Desmarais intercepted it and skimmed it back into the box. Christophe emerged from behind the goal. Using his last reserves of strength, he curved his trajectory to meet the straight line of the puck. And, with a mixture of gracefulness and skill, gave a glancing touch that altered its direction. The net bulged.
A roar rose from the bleachers, punctuated by the blaring of foghorns, while the announcer spoke the words “Number twenty, Christophe Marchal” for the very last time. He went on a lap of honor to thank the supporters, his stick raised above his head. When he reached the stand where his son was sitting, he noticed the weird expression on his face. Greg had woken him just then so he could witness his father’s triumph. Gabriel looked as if he was crying.
By The Time Christophe walked out into the parking lot, his heavy bag slung over his shoulder, it was practically deserted. The Titans had cleared out long before, and only a few of the players’ friends remained, a handful of fanatics hoping for an autograph or a selfie with their latest idol. Hélène was waiting with the others inside Jenn’s Duster. In order not to wake the little boy who was sleeping with his head against her chest, she and the others were all talking in murmurs, although they had drunk so much that they kept bursting into hysterical laughter. Hélène had made them laugh especially hard when she had marveled at the passion-fruit scent of the little orange fir tree hanging from the rearview mirror. Intoxicated by the combined effects of victory and Picon mixed with beer, she had declared with absolute sincerity:
“Mmm, I have to get one—it smells amazing!”
After a while, unable to hold it in any longer, she had gotten out of the Duster to relieve herself between two other cars, an action of which the others had heartily approved. She wasn’t as stuck-up as they’d thought, this girl—even Marco had to admit that. After pulling up her jeans, she stayed outside a little longer to smoke a cigarette, and they all watched her without a word, tall and ponytailed, in skintight jeans, smoking like a cowboy.
“Okay, that settles it,” said Jennifer. “She’s coming to the wedding.”
Back in the car, Hélène was not given a choice. They made her promise, and she thought, yes, it was good to be with these people, in this place, to be surrounded by their thick accents and their simple kindness. It was a little like putting on a comfortable old sweatshirt discovered at the bottom of a drawer. She kissed Gabriel’s forehead.
“Look, There He is,” said Marco, spotting Christophe.
Hélène got out of the 4x4 and ran toward him, then threw herself into his arms. He caught her midflight and they kissed, all their worries forgotten, two kids in the easy night. Christophe’s hair was wet and gave off the clean, fresh smell of shower gel. Hélène held him at arm’s length so she could look at him.
“Hi,” she simpered.
“Hi.”
He dropped his bag on the ground and held her around the waist. In her eyes, the lights of the rink traced angles of luminosity, and her smile, for once, was free of irony, suggestiveness, any subtext at all. He asked her what she thought of the game.
“It was great,” she said, with total sincerity.
In the darkness, he thought she was truly beautiful. She kissed him again. She smelled of alcohol, but what did that matter?
“I want to go home,” he said.
“What about your car?”
“You can drop me off here tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
The Dacia’s engine roared behind Hélène and the headlights shone full beam through the night. They moved apart from each other, and Jenn honked the horn a few times. Now they had to explain to their friends that they were going back to the house instead of out to a restaurant as they’d planned.
“What’s wrong with you?” said Marco, disappointed.
“The kid’s shattered.”
“Next time,” said Hélène.
The others argued about it a little longer, then left them there, honking the horn several times as they departed. Christophe was carrying his son in his arms, and Gabriel’s sleeping face gave the whole scene a sort of sweetness.
“They’re really nice,” said Hélène, slinging the strap of the sports bag over her shoulder.
They headed toward Christophe’s station wagon. She felt at peace with the whole world.
When They’d Put the little boy to bed, Hélène took a shower and Christophe went to the kitchen to make them a bite to eat. He’d turned the heating up and the house seemed to purr around them. When Hélène came downstairs, in panties and a T-shirt, a pair of old slippers on her feet, she found the table set and her boyfriend in an apron. He’d cooked an omelet and toasted some bread.
“Have a seat. Do you want some salad?”
No, just the omelet was perfect. They drank wine and Hélène, feeling merry again, scraped salted butter over the toast and dipped it in the runny egg mix. It was rich, fatty, delicious.
“Cheers,” said Christophe.
They clinked glasses and talked about the game, the team, the season, Christophe’s friends.
“I think I basically promised them I would go to the wedding.”
“Well, good.”
“Yeah, I don’t know…”
Christophe ate hungrily, using his fork to cut into the viscous egg mixture, stuffing his mouth with big hunks of bread, and doing it all so eagerly that he ended up with egg-stained fingers. He licked the yellow liquid from his fingertips and caught Hélène staring at him.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just eat. I like watching you.”
She gestured encouragingly with her chin, then poured herself a third glass of wine. But Christophe put his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. They both felt good, relaxed and pleasantly full. They had world enough and time. And the child’s presence upstairs contributed in a strange way to this simple, almost routine pleasure. Hélène hoped they weren’t going to stay too long at the table. And yet she was the one who spoke next:
“Have you always lived here?”
“In this house, you mean?”
The cat came over then, begging to be petted, and Christophe’s hand disappeared under the table to scratch its head.
“No, I mean in Cornécourt,” said Hélène. “Have you always lived in this area?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not a criticism, you know…”
“I know.”
He used the tip of his tongue to prize a piece of bread from between his teeth, and she watched him chew it, his lips pursed.
“I’m not friends with anyone from that part of my life,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
She could sense his suspicion but couldn’t help articulating what was in her heart.
“I don’t know. Didn’t you ever want something else?”
“It’s no worse here than anywhere else.”
“I was so desperate to get away.”
“But you came back.”
“Not really.”
The cat jumped onto Christophe’s lap. With his enormous hand, he caressed its spine, and it began to purr loudly.
“So you’ve never been anywhere else?” Hélène asked.
She saw him tense.
“What for?” replied Christophe, his face suddenly as hard as wood. “It’s the same everywhere.”
Hélène raised an eyebrow and Christophe stood up, forcing the cat to jump to the floor. It ran out of the room with an indignant yowl while its master began clearing the table. Hélène felt guilty, but she couldn’t help herself. She liked him so much that night that she felt compelled to pull him closer to her.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said.
“I’m not upset.”
She stood up too and joined him near the sink. She needed to reduce the distance between them. She wanted to be happy, then and there.
“Come on, leave that. Who cares?”
She kissed him on the mouth and immediately began rubbing her hands over his chest, under his T-shirt, as if she were trying to warm him up. This touch was enough to empty both of their heads. Christophe held her tight. He felt her breath on his skin, her teeth biting his neck. She breathed in his smell, then licked him with the tip of her tongue, just to taste him, pressing herself harder against him, against his huge hockey-player thighs that made him seem almost superhuman, like a slightly gross but beloved centaur. When he held the back of her neck to kiss her deeply, she moaned with pleasure and felt herself melt inside. Her fingers reached for the fly of his jeans, popping the buttons one by one, then she reached her hand inside his pants and felt his erection straining the soft fabric of his underwear. Hélène began to pant. She bit him again, and their foreheads bumped together. He grabbed hold of her ass, feeling the smoothness of her skin, the softness of her flesh, through the fabric of her panties. Hélène was a centimeter or two taller than him, and it felt good to be taken like that, enveloped, her eyes deep in his, her big ass just for him, her fingers around his dick. Her other hand gripped the back of his neck. They kissed each other on the lips a few times, and Hélène began to undulate, breathing hard through her nose. He picked her up and shoved her against the sink and she gave a little cry of surprise when she felt the cold enamel against her butt. Christophe had already pulled her panties halfway down her thighs. She twisted her body to help him and, when she felt them around her ankles, kicked them across the kitchen.
Christophe was very hard now, and she plunged her hand deeper inside his boxers to squeeze him, her fingers brushing the bristly disorder of his pubes. The need burned inside her. They kissed each other a few more times, their mouths fused occasionally, their tongues heavy, their pupils magnified, their breathing out of sync. When he pulled her hair, Hélène moaned louder, a sound that rose from her chest, and she rotated her hand around his dick, leaving a deliciously viscous film on the back of her wrist. When those drops of semen, beading at the tip of his glans, touched her skin, it felt like fire flowing through her veins.
She grabbed Christophe’s hand and guided it between her thighs, standing on tiptoe so she could support herself against the sink and open her legs wider. He slid two fingers into the fold, then inside the slit, the shimmering frills where the skin grew so fine and so sensitive. Hélène felt a shiver run up her body to the tips of her hair and sighed with pleasure, as he moved his fingers inside her, lightly, almost subliminally, probing the hot interior before touching her clitoris, rolling it between his index and middle finger, pressing allusively on the hidden, unmysterious little bulge. He kept moving his fingertips until Hélène felt herself grow deep and wet, then she buried her face in the hollow of his neck, her hand continuing to jerk him off, pulling away the fabric of his boxers to get a better grip.
“Come on,” she said after a while because she wanted to feel him inside her.
Instead of which, he kept going, stubbornly, subtly, his fingers sliding over her lips and inside her pussy, deep within the burning flesh, then back to the clitoris, which sent its inevitable waves radiating through Hélène’s body. He wanted to make her come, but she held herself back: for fun, to make it last, out of pure spite.
“You won’t beat me that easily,” she panted, her lips curled in a smile.
Instead of speeding up his movements, Christophe continued with the same inexorable delicacy, grazing the crenellations of the mucous membrane, pressing the blood-swelled organs, pulling at her pubic hair. Hélène’s fingers, meanwhile, were making a slow, flutelike movement and she could feel how stiff he was, veins bulging, shaft quivering, on the verge of orgasm.
When she spat into her hand, he couldn’t help cursing. It had become a game, a contest of wills. He accelerated his movements in the hope of making her surrender first.
“In your dreams,” she said, and they both laughed.
She grabbed his arm, tensed against the edge of the sink, so she could arch her back more. It was coming. They were soldered together, interlaced like snakes, their hair tangled, their eyes closed, their gestures narrowed to the smallest of movements, and she felt his cock throbbing against her palm. He couldn’t hold it in much longer. Christophe turned his face away to catch his breath. She was right at the edge too, her feet balanced on the end of the diving board. She whispered a few words into Christophe’s ears, and there was nothing he could do.
He came, standing there in the kitchen, all over her, and Hélène removed her hand to let him finish what he’d started. Only a few seconds later, she came too. She had won.