The Case of Lisandra P. (22 page)

Lisandra slips the business card into her pocket. She leaves the shop. She goes over to where Pepe sits waiting on a bench. “Pick a hand.” “I don't know . . . the right one.” Lisandra opens her right hand and holds out a little porcelain cat, then she opens her left hand, which contains a similar cat. “I took two of the same, one for you, one for me.” Pepe thanks her, puzzled. “Because a porcelain cat doesn't meow over love,” hums Lisandra, quietly. “The truth sometimes lies dormant in songs.” She thanks Pepe for waiting for her. She thanks him for being so kind to her. For listening to her. It has done her good, to talk. Lisandra puts her arms around Pepe and hugs him. She pulls away again very quickly; she doesn't want to prolong the moment. She can go home now; she feels better; he doesn't need to come with her. Lisandra gives Pepe a little wave. She walks away. She feels her heart sink. She doesn't turn around. Don't turn around, anything but that; he'll understand. Pepe is someone she loves infinitely. If only all men could be as kind as he is. Lisandra is agitated. She wants to walk home. Even if it's a long way. She wants to walk. She slips her hand in her pocket, feels the business card beneath her fingers. She can't get over it. She did it! Like with the others. And it wasn't any harder. Just act as if it's not him, just act as if it's not him, he won't recognize you. And he took
the bait. She had really hoped it would go like this. She can't get over it. So she hadn't been mistaken. When she first went into the shop, she didn't look at him. She walked around among the shelves. That smooth, emphatic walk of hers. She leaned closer to see the toys on the lower shelves. She bent down without crouching. To arch her back. To give him something to fantasize about. Lucas is looking at her. She knows he is. Out of the corner of his eye. She keeps telling herself that Pepe is outside. That there's no risk. So she acts as if she is trying to reach a toy that is too high up for her. On tiptoe. Her arm stretched out toward the inaccessible toy. Her sweater pulling up on the side, she can feel the air. A patch of bare skin. What better promise. Lucas is looking at her. She knows he is. She's on the right track. He doesn't think she's so ugly anymore. He comes over.

“Can I help you? Which one would you like?”

In her mind she answers, You.

“The little cat, up there.”

“The stuffed one?”

“Yes, and the porcelain one, too, next to it. ‘Because a porcelain cat doesn't meow over love.'”

“For sure, those cats don't make much noise.”

Lisandra pretends to compare the two little toys. She doesn't look at Lucas.

“Do you have a cat?”

“No.”

Lisandra turns to face him. Her expression as blank, as neutral as possible, so that he can project anything he desires onto it. And also because she cannot smile.

“I am sure you have a dog,” she says.

“You're a bit of a magician, aren't you.”

“A bit.”

Lisandra turns back to the two little toys. Goes on pretending to compare them.

“I'm allergic to dogs.”

“That's a pity.”

“I agree. A real pity.”

Lisandra hands him the little porcelain cat.

“I'll take two of these.”

“Very good.”

Lisandra heads toward the cash register with him. She can feel his gaze behind her. On her body. She closes her eyes. She represses a tremor. Clenches her jaw. She feels him brush past her to go behind the cash register. Lisandra takes out two bills. She puts them down on the counter. He takes the bills with his right hand. He leaves his left hand under the counter. That's a good sign. She's on the right track. She notices the shop's business card.

“May I?”

“Go right ahead. Do you live in the neighborhood?”

Here we go, he's fishing for information. Lisandra doesn't answer. She takes the business card. She acts surprised.

“You also repair toys?”

“Of course.”

“Dolls as well?”

“Of course.”

“I have a broken doll at home. A big doll.”

Lisandra's words are full of innuendos. Nothing is more exciting than coyness. When it comes from an exciting body, of course.

“Could you come by and see whether you can repair it? It's a childhood memory; I'm very fond of it.”

“Of course, I can make house calls.”

“Like a doctor?”

Another coy remark. Lucas smiles.

“So to speak.”

Lisandra stakes everything on her next question.

“This evening?”

“Why not.”

Almost there.

“Oh, no, not this evening, how silly of me, tonight I'm working. And I won't be home before half past nine. That surely won't be possible for you. What a pity. It would have been a good opportunity.”

Lisandra goes heavy with the innuendos. Lucas hears them.

“Half past nine, no, that's okay, I can come by.”

Bingo.

“I can use the time in between to do my inventory. I've been postponing it far too long.”

“Oh, really, are you sure, it's not an inconvenience?”

“Not at all.”

Lisandra gives him her address. Just once. She is sure she doesn't need to repeat it. A man's powers of concentration are phenomenal when he senses the possibility of a fuck in the air. Lisandra picks up her change. She knows she ought to let him touch her skin. But she can't. It's too hard. She doesn't hold out her hand. She waits for him to put the change down on the counter.

“Would you like this gift-wrapped?”

“No, it's for me, for my collection.”

“Oh? You have a collection?”

“Yes.”

And besides, you'd need both hands to gift-wrap it, so go on hiding your wedding ring; you know very well what is going to happen this evening, in the staircase, when you come to my place—you'll take it off, if you haven't already, but tonight you will for sure, the way all the others did.
Lisandra takes the two little cats from the counter. She looks Lucas straight in the eye.

“So, I'll see you this evening. It would be wonderful if you could repair it.”

Lucas looks down before she does. That would be a first. Lisandra never thought she'd be able to look Lucas straight in the eye. She'd been too afraid he'd recognize her, but he's not in a mood for analyzing, he's in a mood for fantasizing. He doesn't even see her standing there before him, he's already seeing her naked, moaning as he feels her up, his cock in place. Now Lisandra has to get out of there. It's getting too difficult for her. A woman in love can't look a man in the eye, she's too upset. Love leads to tenderness, and to really look a man straight in the eye the way they like it there must not be any tenderness. That is what is lacking in married men. Lisandra slips the business card into her pocket. Lisandra takes one step. And another. She did it. She did it because there was nothing else she could do. Now she knows; now she is certain. She is no longer afraid. She can go through with it. There's no going back. Everything has been said. She has planned for everything. She has tried everything. She has exhausted every line of thought. Imagined every possible outcome. When you have reached the end of your line of thought, afterward, you go back over things, and going back over things is a form of death. Lisandra knows that. Going back over things makes for a dull life. Above all, Vittorio has reached the end of their love story. Lucas was going to pay. It was all his fault. It had taken her a long time to admit it. First of all she'd had to take stock of the damage. And only life going by allows you to take stock of the damage. She'd had to grow up. She'd had to get older. The pattern had to become obvious, repetitive. And then she'd had to relent, and confront the truth. She was her own worst enemy. Of course. But only because she'd been taught that she was. Because Lucas had taught her that she was. Initially she had thought it was no big deal. She'd live with it. It was in the past;
she had to move on, turn the page. The past can be forgotten. But she hadn't been able to turn the page because she had become the page. She hadn't been able to forget the past. So she had wanted to know everything. For her stability, for her mental well-being, she could not go on living like that. She had to know. For Vittorio's sake. To understand. No, in fact, not to understand, because there was nothing to understand. Things like that cannot be understood. She just wanted to know. How it had all begun. How long it had lasted. Once you know, you figure out how to live with it. To remember everything, in the end, would enable her to forget everything, in the end. She had summoned the past. She'd conjured it, by force of will. She had applied all her concentration to it. She had analyzed so many of her dreams. She had tried everything. Hypnosis. Automatic writing. Even dance, she'd turned to dance, inhabited by that desire. The remembrance of the past. But memory is versatile. Impenetrable. Nothing had come back. The mysterious life of memories consists in yielding and in holding back. Memories are free. They play with us. They get fainter, they expand, they retract, they avoid us or strike like lightning. Once life gives birth to them, they become the masters of life. They are time's foot soldiers, driving us mad. Without memories we would be free. Memory is time's bad fairy. No memory brings true joy, serenity. Regret, remorse—memories are like so many dissonant little bells clanging inside us. And the more life goes on, the more the little music of memories rings false. You think you are your own self, but you're nothing but your memories. Lisandra fought against amnesia. Against the electricity in her brain that tossed a black cloth over memories, memories that ought only to be veiled in the gentle white glow of childhood. Amnesia had encoded her brain, had subjugated it. Lisandra had to face facts. Four pictures. Four moments. Four images that had been shifting since the day
she had remembered. Her memories always begin with the same moment and always end with the same moment. Never an additional detail. Perhaps we only ever remember the things we know we can bear? Since then, Lisandra has been locked in her present, her hand shading her eyes; she's asking herself where else does injustice plan to enter and assail her yet again? Others would surely have reacted differently. She withdrew into the cruel workings of jealousy. Others would have taken refuge in anger. Others in a hyperactive joy, a pretend joy, a joy that is exhausting because it is mandatory. Others in aid work, altruism at any cost to forget oneself. Why jealousy? Now we're getting at the mystery of individual tragedy. Of personality. Lucas had taught her how to be. Four pictures. Four moments. Four images shifting since the day she had remembered. Her memories always begin with the same moment and always stop with the same moment. Never an additional detail. But she wanted to remember everything, every single time. How it had all begun. How long it had lasted. So she had hoped he would be able to tell her everything that she could no longer remember. They could pool their memories to reconstruct the story. Lucas owed her that much, that nobility of soul. She had taken a long time to make up her mind, but once she had, it hadn't been very hard to find him. She'd always kept the memory of his first name. She'd always kept the memory of his last name. They often ran through her head. Find him. She had to. For her stability, for her mental well-being, she couldn't go on living like that. Maybe Vittorio wouldn't come back to her. But if she was better, she could accept his departure. She figured that maybe when she saw Lucas it would all come back. She would look at him from a distance and it would all come back with a bang; okay, it might not be very pleasant but it would all come back. So then she'd take her little bundle of memories, all her memories at last reunited, and
she'd set off down the path of life, she'd move on to other things. She would be stronger. More solid. She couldn't stand feeling fragile like this anymore. Remembering everything would, at last, enable her to forget everything, at last. So she found his address. How many months did she stay like that? She had his first name. His last name. She had his address. Vittorio was deserting her. She'd made up her mind. So she walked past Lucas's place. The way you walk past anything, when you're out and about. She didn't slow down any more than if the place had nothing to do with her. Far from it. But she had hastened her step. Which wasn't good. You can't be perfect. But she would have liked to be perfect. Vittorio would have stayed with her. He wouldn't have gone looking elsewhere. But it wouldn't have changed anything. Lisandra knows this. Time destroys perfection. You can be perfect for a few days. A few weeks. A few months at best. Imperfect for the rest of her days. Because love is a principle that is in constant motion. You always end up knowing your partner inside out. The principle of dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction with yourself, which drove you to your partner in the first place. Then dissatisfaction with your partner, which drives you to someone else again. And again. All in an attempt not to see that it's not you or anyone else who is so unsatisfying, but life itself. Because it makes you die. That was one day. And then another day she walked past Lucas's place again. The way you walk past anything when you're out and about. But she had slowed down. That was one day. And then another day she stopped. As if the place did have something to do with her. She stationed herself outside his house. And she saw him come out of his place. Lucas had changed, but she recognized him. And would he recognize her? He hadn't changed much. She'd changed drastically. With the gap in their ages it was inevitable. There he was before her eyes but nothing came back to her. That was the worst
thing she could have imagined. And she realized that she wouldn't go and talk to him. She couldn't go and ask him. His memories, too, would be deficient. Because of the time that had gone by. And above all because of the shame. Not only would Lucas not tell her anything more, he would deny it. He would never confess. He would claim she was insane. And if he was brave enough, and scared enough by the threat she represented, Lucas would kill her. She had let a few weeks go by. But the more her love story with Vittorio lost its potency, the more courage she found to go on with “her little investigation.” That was what she called it. And then another day, not only did she see Lucas leave his house, she even followed him. To his work. She had imagined a hundred different professions for him. What might he have chosen to do for a living? She had no job. Other than that of loving. Other than that of being jealous. He takes the bus, she takes the bus. She stays as far away as possible. He gets off. She gets off. He walks. She walks. He stops, he takes out his keys, and he opens a little green shop. Lisandra looks up. She looks at the sign. “Lucas Juegos.” The shock leaves her rooted to the sidewalk. He raises the green iron shutter. Children's toys invade the display window. Disgust rises to her lips. But he'd gotten control of her, without knowing it he held sway over her, and she began to follow him. Day after day. It was the fascination of evil. The fascination of the past. She followed him from a distance. To the restaurant where he had lunch every day. She would sit down behind him and observe him. His movements. His body. His hair. It began with a knife. She stole objects he had touched. A napkin. A fork. A newspaper he tossed into the garbage. The empty packs of cigarettes he tossed into the garbage. She put all the objects away at home. In a little suitcase. From time to time she would open it and look at them one by one. Without any thoughts. That was one day. And then another day, she had
seen him in his doorway kissing his wife. So Lucas had a wife; she should have suspected as much. What she could never have imagined was that tiny hand, that tiny arm she had seen coming out the door at the last minute, and running, running with all her little body, running up to him to give him one last kiss. A kiss for a good day. Lucas had smiled. So Lucas had a child. A little girl. She didn't. Lisandra had never been able to imagine having a child. Children scare her. She thinks of them as little vermin, often lovely, but little vermin all the same. She cannot stay alone with a child. She is afraid of herself. As if it weren't already enough to have experienced it one day, you also have to live with the idea that you'll be the cause for others to experience it one day, too—isn't that what everyone says, after all? Lisandra would so have liked to know what it meant to want a child, maybe everything would have been different with Vittorio. A child doesn't stop you from falling out of love, but perhaps with a child she wouldn't care about the loss of love. Lucas smiled. That day, because of his smile, because of that little girl, Lisandra knew she would have her revenge. Her desire to gain access to the past would be transformed into a hatred of the past. When she understood that he was happy and she wasn't, that he had obtained everything life makes it possible to obtain, and she hadn't. Lucas was going to pay. Everything was his fault. Lisandra didn't know what she was waiting for. She was waiting. For something. She had no precise idea. She knew that life, at some point, would give her the opportunity. A situation where the Idea would be born. It's always like that. She was waiting. She was in no hurry, not really. You're never in a hurry with this sort of thing. And Vittorio was still making love to her. Not as well. Not as often. But still. There, she had it. This morning Lucas left the house with a shopping bag. He took the bus. He got out at the usual stop. He walked past his green shop without opening it. He
went further on. And he went through the door to the dry cleaners'. She got her Idea. Lisandra knew what she was going to do, even though she'd never thought about it. What she had to do. She went through the door after he did. Right away. Behind him, without waiting. She looked at him from behind, standing in front of her. This, she was used to. But she had never been this close to him, well, not this close in all these years. Lucas opened the shopping bag and left a gray jacket on the counter. She listened to his voice. It was the first time she'd heard his voice. She didn't recognize it. Which was perfectly normal—he didn't have that voice yet, back then. He took his receipt. “Good-bye.” Lisandra looked away. She heard the door open. She heard him going out. Quick, her turn now, quick, find a way to grab the jacket—don't leave them the time to take it. Think later on. Analyze later on. Now was not the time. She turned to the man behind the cash register. “Hello, I don't know what to do; a few days ago my husband dropped off a skirt for me and he's lost the receipt.” Lisandra stared at the gray jacket, there, right in front of her, a few inches away. She could reach out and touch it. “It's a red skirt. Woolen.” “Red, did you say? Let me take a look. Long?” “No, short.”
Don't take the jacket. Don't take the jacket.
Completely absorbed by his new mission, the man left the gray jacket on the counter by the cash register. He disappeared into the hanging rows of clothing wrapped in plastic. Lisandra grabbed the gray jacket from the counter, spun around, and hurried out of the dry cleaners'. She ran. She ran down the street. As fast as she could. The gray jacket hanging from her hand. She ran. Now she knew what to do. Now she had everything she needed. She knew. She knew without even having planned it. She was determined. She had it all worked out. All she had to do now was wait for the right moment. And life would bring it to her, the right moment. It was always like that. She wouldn't see Lucas
again until the great day. She'd been hoping there wouldn't be a great day, she'd been hoping that Vittorio would come back to her. But Vittorio hasn't come back to her. And now the great day has come. What's the point of going on? She can't, without him. All that is left is for her to make him pay. Vittorio is going out more and more frequently in the evening; Vittorio will be wanting to leave her soon. She will not be a prison for him. The conversation with Pepe has opened her eyes. Pepe is right. She has to find a solution. And she has the solution. She's had it for a long time. And now she has to implement it. Lisandra gets home at last. As she goes through the door to the apartment, she falters. Briefly. Barely. So will it be tonight? She takes her shower. Usually running water relaxes her. Not this time. That's normal. She's human. She puts on a new dress. High heels. She's always known how to do this, at least, she keeps telling herself. A chance. One last chance. Make yourself beautiful. Very beautiful. He has to see you. He has to. Only Vittorio can make her stop. This is their only chance. He has to remember how they used to love each other. He has to stay. He can't have completely forgotten the way we used to be. What we were. How beautiful it was. Vittorio hardly looks at her. He is elsewhere. Lisandra can't help herself, force of habit. “You haven't even noticed my new dress.” The rest, the vulgar stuff, she keeps to herself—