I run into my handsome friend Hassan at the Palais de Justice. He’s in such a bad mood, it breaks my heart.
Since he started defending the man who killed all those crippled old ladies in that chain of old people’s homes, the press has been taking endless potshots at him, and he’s worn out. His client’s stubborn denials, despite all the evidence against him, have gotten them both into a morass, and he’s running out of ideas for how to get them out of it.
All the same, he seems happy to see me and eager to talk. He suggests we meet in the place Dauphine.
So I sit down in the Bar du Caveau and wait. Time passes. When he doesn’t come, I quickly dial his cell-phone number.
“Hello, where are you? I’m waiting for you in the Bar du Caveau. What’s up?”
There’s a jumble of noise.
“Can you hear me? It’s Élodie. Can you hear me? Hello?”
I can’t hear anything, except some unpleasant crackling. “Hassan?” I repeat stubbornly. “Hassan, can you hear me?”
“Who do you want to talk to?”
“Hassan? Hassan, is that you?”
“No, Élodie. It isn’t Hassan, it’s your subconscious!”
All at once, I recognize His voice and become all flustered.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, really, I didn’t mean to call you, I dialed the wrong number.”
But He’s already hung up, and I see Hassan coming toward me with that supple walk of his, like a real man of the desert.
When he sees the blush on my cheeks, he bursts out laughing.
I want to cry.
I no longer know where I am. It’s as if I’m living in a bubble, cut off from everyone and everything. I find it hard to concentrate on my briefs. I performed miserably in my last riding competition. All I think about is Him, I belong to Him and nobody else. A few months ago, I was thinking about having another child. Now I can’t even make love to my husband. Fortunately, he’s away so often on business, he doesn’t seem to notice. Sometimes, I tell myself he must have mistresses who compensate for the disastrous sex life I give him. Not that I really care. And yet, deep down, I know he’s still the bedrock of my life, the meaning of my existence. I don’t want to leave him, the thought of hurting him is more than I can bear, but I have no misgivings, I don’t even feel as if I’m cheating on him. Because He isn’t a lover, He isn’t my lover, it’s not about feelings, not even about sex, He hardly even touches me, certainly doesn’t fuck me. It’s an unreal, abstract relationship, and I don’t know what it means. Sometimes I tell myself it’s only a fantasy, He’s only a fantasy, a mental construct invented by a young woman who’s had everything she needs out of life and now wants to experience something stronger, and yet at the same time I’m certain He’s changed my life, that He really does hold sway over me and is gradually poisoning me like a dangerous drug I can’t break free of. The psychic was right, He must have cast a spell on me.