Now and then, at first, I think I catch people scowling in my direction. They can’t really mean me, can they?
When I summon my courage and mention this to Ange, at the dinner table, he pauses for a moment, sheepish or troubled, and tells me he’s noticed the same thing with him. Looking into my eyes, he asks if I think his students have some grievance against him, or if through him they’re aiming at me, knowing I’m his wife.
That question leaves me at a loss. What could I have done, and to whom?
I see deep concern for me in Ange’s eyes. He wants me to tell him his students’ hostile stares are intended for him and him alone, as are even the dark glances my students give me, meant for him and no one else.
But what could Ange have done, and to whom? Isn’t he a beloved teacher, isn’t he a discreet and perfectly honorable man?
We finish our meal in silence, each aware of the fear gnawing at the other but neither daring to speak of it openly, because we’re both used to peace and serenity, an untroubled understanding of everything around us, and so, in a way, our own fear offends us, like something unseemly and out of place.