From that day on, there was no further question of her looking for an apartment. I didn’t ask about it; I didn’t show any sign of impatience. During this time, I don’t think L. made any pretence of looking for a new apartment. We no longer went near the subject, as though her long-term presence was a given.
Apart from the blender episode (L. replaced it the next day), L. was calm and even-tempered.
She was attentive, sensitive, didn’t leave a mess. She regularly did the shopping, replaced things we ran out of. Our cohabitation jogged along smoothly and we never had the smallest domestic difference.
L. merged into the decor, as though she’d always been there. I cannot deny her presence provided a kind of reassurance. We were close. We were complicit. In all senses of the term. Beyond complicity, I’d made L. privy to a secret that no one else knew. She was the only person who knew that I could no longer write a line or even hold a pen. Not only did she know it, she also covered for me. She substituted for me so as not to arouse suspicions. L. responded to official and professional correspondence on my behalf.
We turned down meetings and writing commissions.
We refused to talk about subjects that authors are often invited to speak about.
We were hard at work.
Now I have to admit this: I’m aware that the people I supposedly replied to during this period will realise when they read this that it wasn’t me. These people will perhaps find in their inbox or among their correspondence a letter or email, signed by me, not one word of which I wrote.
I hope they’ll forgive me for this.
It’s clear that living together enabled L. to cement her control and I don’t think I put up much resistance. I’d like to be able to write that I fought back, struggled, tried to escape. But all I can say is this: I relied on L. because it seemed as though she was the only person able to get me out of the pit.
Sometimes the rather hackneyed image that comes to mind is of a spider that has patiently spun its web, or an octopus with many tentacles, holding me prisoner. But it wasn’t like that. L. was more like a jellyfish, light and translucent, who settled on part of my soul. That contact left a burn, but it wasn’t visible to the naked eye. Its imprint left me seemingly free in my movements. But it bound her to me much more than I could have imagined.
To the few people I was in touch with (the children, François, my editor), I gave the impression that I was back at work. I’d got started on something. I was right at the beginning, but I was progressing.
I didn’t call any of my friends to tell them about the impasse I was in. I was afraid they would, rightly, consider it the whim of a spoilt child. I had no excuse and it seemed impossible to justify my idleness.
I didn’t say anything to François either. I was afraid he’d stop loving me. Not only did I not tell him anything, but when he came back, I arranged things so that he never met L. Because I knew that the instant he saw her, he’d understand it all: the lies, the subterfuge, the illicit duo we now formed.
What I must now admit is that I was capable of lying to François and the people who are close to me. I sank into lies with a mixture of fear, disgust and perhaps also a hint of relish.
Some mornings, when I felt anxiety swell in my throat like a ball of silver foil, I clung on to something L. had said to me one day: ‘True creative impulses are preceded by a sort of darkness.’
In the evenings, when we were both at home, L. would return to the ritual, going over to my bookcase, running her hand along the spines and seemingly stopping at random.
Had I read sack of bones, the little Arab girl, the dog’s evening, the dog’s night, the knickers, only love, the renunciation, the impossible book, I give up, dark Sunday, purge, the left behind, the unseated, the girls, birth of ghosts, maternity, the art of hunger, scintillation, a feeling of abandonment, no one, the falling man, accidents, the poet, ask the dust, the painted drum, the state of affairs, lone horseman, the summer he didn’t die, grace and truth, the life before her eyes, the counter life, the three lights, the falls, the echo chamber, our fictionalised lives, my best friend’s daughter, the past, on heroes and graves, everything is illuminated, death with interruptions, a ghost, paradise, the willow tree, the inn at the edge of the world, lighthousekeeping, Sukkwan Island, the isles, Elizabeth is missing, never forget.