the size or thickness of any visible part of the anatomy. The feet . . . the nose . . . the ears . . . the hips . . . the big toe . . . the wrists. It turned out there was always an exception to every rule.
Place de lâOdéon is deserted, except for a man filming the façade of the theater. With one eye pressed to the viewfinder and the other closed, he doesnât notice her. On she goes.
The Jardin du Luxembourg and its hodge-podge of tourists. Rings of chairs arranged as if for the conversations of invisible characters. Itâs up to anyone out for a walk to imagine, according to the layout of these metal remains, what went on here before his arrival. Grey-haired men and women sit alone, gazing into space, or hunched over a newspaper, the articles and photographs depicting the worldâs latest carnages. And then, suddenly, heads look up. The sunâs rays pierce through the dome of clouds; the contrast in the landscape sharpens. A paradoxical light that lessens the threat of a storm and yet still makes it seem likely, a light which has the coldness of metal and the sharpness of a blade, a light on which nothing feasts but which everything reflects, which strikes only at strategic points. Apocalypse. From a distance, the trees look like a long row of stone blocks miraculously suspended in midair. She enters the shaded path; the complex filigree of the branches appears overhead, the sky starts rustling, the mineral turns vegetal. She emerges on the other side of the park. Two thick lines of spindle trees frame a strip of sky.
Place Saint-Sulpice. Projectors are being set up for a photo shoot. Kids on rollerblades orbit the fountain like multicolored electrons around a nucleus of glistening water. Up the steps to the church, push through the heavy door that leads into the sanctuary. A young woman with blonde hair enters at the same time she does. Hurried steps, dip of the thin fingers into the holy water, sign of the cross. A man with torn trousers has fallen asleep at a prayer stool; his head lolls back at an angle. Walls,
floor, roof, columns, statues, everywhere the same granite hue. She tries to keep her shoes from clattering over the flagstones: excessive noise could bring down the entire building. She doesnât believe in God, has never felt the need to, has never read a religious book. But churches are something else. Their tranquillity, their dark cool air, their solemnity are a respite for her.
Rue de lâUniversité. An old woman with gnarled shaking hands is talking to herself, then addresses her as she walks by. The woman in the blue cape! The poor thing isnât all there, sheâs lost her marbles, and continues to repeat, the woman in the blue cape, her liquid gaze directed at the end of the street. So as not to hurt the old ladyâs feelings, she turns round: there really is a woman in a blue cape, making her way quickly across the street. The mocking tone comes through the yellowed teeth: that one there was a nun and went to bed with a man; now sheâs got nothing. The old woman shakes her head, all but adding, serves her right. At the age of twelve, after a guided tour of a convent somewhere in the middle of the countryside, she considered taking holy orders. No one said a word about the vow of chastity, not even the guide. What appealed to her was the silence of the stonework, the calm of the inner courtyards. Shutting yourself away for ever was like hurling yourself into space. She longed for the challenge of absolute silence. She wanted to know what thoughts she would have after a few months, after a few years without uttering a single word.
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Back home, 5 pm in Paris. Get herself a sponge and doggedly tackle the inside of the fridge or the top of the stove? Play some music and sweat to the rhythm as she goes about getting rid of those greasy rings? Switch on the television and watch some
program? Listen to the radio and sort out the pile of bills on the
Place de lâOdéon is deserted, except for a man filming the façade of the theater. With one eye pressed to the viewfinder and the other closed, he doesnât notice her. On she goes.
The Jardin du Luxembourg and its hodge-podge of tourists. Rings of chairs arranged as if for the conversations of invisible characters. Itâs up to anyone out for a walk to imagine, according to the layout of these metal remains, what went on here before his arrival. Grey-haired men and women sit alone, gazing into space, or hunched over a newspaper, the articles and photographs depicting the worldâs latest carnages. And then, suddenly, heads look up. The sunâs rays pierce through the dome of clouds; the contrast in the landscape sharpens. A paradoxical light that lessens the threat of a storm and yet still makes it seem likely, a light which has the coldness of metal and the sharpness of a blade, a light on which nothing feasts but which everything reflects, which strikes only at strategic points. Apocalypse. From a distance, the trees look like a long row of stone blocks miraculously suspended in midair. She enters the shaded path; the complex filigree of the branches appears overhead, the sky starts rustling, the mineral turns vegetal. She emerges on the other side of the park. Two thick lines of spindle trees frame a strip of sky.
Place Saint-Sulpice. Projectors are being set up for a photo shoot. Kids on rollerblades orbit the fountain like multicolored electrons around a nucleus of glistening water. Up the steps to the church, push through the heavy door that leads into the sanctuary. A young woman with blonde hair enters at the same time she does. Hurried steps, dip of the thin fingers into the holy water, sign of the cross. A man with torn trousers has fallen asleep at a prayer stool; his head lolls back at an angle. Walls,
floor, roof, columns, statues, everywhere the same granite hue. She tries to keep her shoes from clattering over the flagstones: excessive noise could bring down the entire building. She doesnât believe in God, has never felt the need to, has never read a religious book. But churches are something else. Their tranquillity, their dark cool air, their solemnity are a respite for her.
Rue de lâUniversité. An old woman with gnarled shaking hands is talking to herself, then addresses her as she walks by. The woman in the blue cape! The poor thing isnât all there, sheâs lost her marbles, and continues to repeat, the woman in the blue cape, her liquid gaze directed at the end of the street. So as not to hurt the old ladyâs feelings, she turns round: there really is a woman in a blue cape, making her way quickly across the street. The mocking tone comes through the yellowed teeth: that one there was a nun and went to bed with a man; now sheâs got nothing. The old woman shakes her head, all but adding, serves her right. At the age of twelve, after a guided tour of a convent somewhere in the middle of the countryside, she considered taking holy orders. No one said a word about the vow of chastity, not even the guide. What appealed to her was the silence of the stonework, the calm of the inner courtyards. Shutting yourself away for ever was like hurling yourself into space. She longed for the challenge of absolute silence. She wanted to know what thoughts she would have after a few months, after a few years without uttering a single word.
Â
Â
Back home, 5 pm in Paris. Get herself a sponge and doggedly tackle the inside of the fridge or the top of the stove? Play some music and sweat to the rhythm as she goes about getting rid of those greasy rings? Switch on the television and watch some
program? Listen to the radio and sort out the pile of bills on the
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