The book “The Girl from Brooklyn. Guillaume Mussaud The Girl from Brooklyn The Girl from Brooklyn read online

Page 1 of 76

Dedicated to Ingrid and Nathan

LA FILLE DE BROOKLYN

Copyright © XO Editions, 2016. All rights reserved.

© Kozhevnikova E., translation into Russian, 2017

© Sharikova G., translation into Russian, 2017

© Edition in Russian, design. LLC Publishing House "E", 2017

Where did she disappear to?

A long weekend on the Cote d'Azur a few weeks before the wedding. We lived them as a blissful introduction, a joyful intimacy, warmed by the August sun.

The evening began with a wonderful walk through the fort of the old city: a glass of merlot on the cafe terrace, spaghetti with shellfish under the ancient stone arches from the time of Michelangelo. We talked about your work, about mine and about our wedding. We gathered to celebrate it in a very small circle: two friends-witnesses and my little son Theo to clap our hands.

On the way back, I was driving a rental car, driving slowly so that you could admire the view of the coastline. I remember these moments: the light of green eyes, flowing hair, a short skirt, a leather vest, open on a bright yellow T-shirt with the inscription “Power to the People”. On turns, changing gears, I looked at your golden legs, we smiled at each other, you hummed Aretha Franklin’s old hit.

It was so warm, so nice... I remember these moments: sparkles in the eyes, a smile, hair flying in the wind, thin fingers beating a rhythm on the panel...

We rented a house in the Pearl Fishers, a beautiful place with a dozen villas overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. And when you walked up the alley, inhaling the resinous smell of pine trees, your eyes opened wide - everything was so beautiful around.

I remember these moments: that was the last time we were happy.

* * *

The chirping of cicadas. The soothing sound of the surf. A light breeze softens the damp warmth of the evening.

On the terrace, nestled against the rocky slope, you lit scented candles and a mosquito coil, I put on a Charlie Hayden CD. As in Fitzgerald's novel, I stood at the bar and began preparing a cocktail for us. Your favorite: Long Island Ice Tea, lots and lots of ice and a slice of lime.

I have rarely seen you so joyful.

We could have a wonderful evening. We should have had a wonderful evening. But one thought haunted me. For the time being, I kept her under control. But she didn't let me go. She insistently repeated the same thing: “You know, Anna, we shouldn’t have secrets from each other.”

Why the desire to know the truth got the better of me that very evening? Because of the proximity of the wedding? Because we decided to take this step too quickly? For fear of crossing the threshold?

I think everything together played a role - and also my personal story, when I was betrayed by people whom I thought I knew well.

I handed you the glass and sat down opposite you.

“I’m serious, Anna, I don’t want to live a lie.”

- Wow! And me too. But living without lies does not mean having no secrets.

“So you admit: you have secrets.”

– Who doesn’t have them, Raphael? Secrets are wonderful. They are boundary pillars, a piece of our personality, a piece of life lived; they add mystery.

“But I have no secrets from you.”

- And what from this?

You were upset, angry. And me too. Where has our joy and fun gone? And we felt so good at the beginning of the evening...

The conversation could have ended there, but I continued, laying out new arguments. I couldn’t stop, I had to get an answer to the question that was tormenting me:

- Why do you avoid answering as soon as I ask you about the past?

- Because the past is past. This is an axiom. And you can't change it.

I didn't like the answer.

– The past determines the present, and you know this very well. What the hell are you hiding from me, damn it?!

- Nothing that could threaten you and me. Trust me. Believe me us with you!

– Stop using general phrases!

I slammed my fist on the table and you flinched. How many different feelings ran across your beautiful face like a wave - grief and fear too...

I was angry because I really wanted to calm down. We only knew each other for six months, and from our first meeting I loved everything about you. And most of all – mystery, restraint, silence and your independent character... But the boomerang returned. Now your mystery and restraint oppressed and tormented me.

“Why do you want to ruin everything so badly?” – you asked with indescribable fatigue in your voice.

– You know what I went through. I've already been wrong. And now I have no right to make a mistake.

I felt that I was hurting you, but I believed: I love you so much that I can listen to everything - and understand everything. I wanted to console you, to share with you the heavy burden of the past, if you entrusted it to me.

I wish I could shut up and stop talking, but I didn’t stop. I didn't spare you. I felt like you were about to tell me something. And I sent arrow after arrow, I wore you down so that you would stop defending yourself.

– I only want the truth, Anna!

- Is it true! Is it true! All you know is that you repeat the word “truth”; are you sure you can withstand it?!

Now it was you who attacked, and I couldn’t help but doubt it. I didn't recognize you. Your mascara was running and there was a fire in your eyes that I had never seen before.

“Do you want to know if I have secrets, Raphael?” I answer - yes! Do you want to know why I don't want to open them? Because once you find out, you won’t just stop loving me, you’ll hate me!

- It’s not true, I’ll understand everything.

At that moment I did not doubt myself. I was sure that I would accept whatever you told me.

- No, Rafael, these are all words. The words are from your novels, but life is completely different.

Something has moved. The sluice gate in the dam opened slightly. And you - I felt it quite clearly - you wanted to know what I was like. You also decided to find out what I am. And will you love me further? After. Always. And do I really love you? Or the grenade you prepared will sever our connection.

You rummaged through your bag and pulled out your tablet. You typed in the password, opened the gallery and slowly began flipping through the photos, looking for the one you needed. And then, looking into my face, she quietly said a few words and handed me the tablet. I saw the secret that I wanted so much from you.

“And I did it,” you repeated.

I closed my eyes in horror, not wanting to see the screen; Nausea rose in my throat and I turned away. Icy goosebumps ran down my body, my hands trembled, and the blood rushed into my temples. I was ready for anything. It seemed to me that I had experienced everything possible. But oh like this I never thought.

I stood up and felt that my legs were weak. My head began to spin as I took a step, but I pulled myself together and walked out of the living room with a firm step.

My bag with my things was still in the hallway. Without looking at you, I took it and left the house.

Guillaume Musso

Girl from Brooklyn

Dedicated to Ingrid and Nathan

Where did she disappear to?..

Antibes

A long weekend on the Cote d'Azur a few weeks before the wedding. We lived them as a blissful introduction, a joyful intimacy, warmed by the August sun.

The evening began with a wonderful walk through the fort of the old city: a glass of merlot on the cafe terrace, spaghetti with shellfish under the ancient stone arches from the time of Michelangelo. We talked about your work, about mine and about our wedding. We gathered to celebrate it in a very small circle: two friends-witnesses and my little son Theo to clap our hands.

On the way back, I was driving a rental car, driving slowly so that you could admire the view of the coastline. I remember those moments: the light of green eyes, flowing hair, a short skirt, a leather vest open on a bright yellow T-shirt with the words “Power to the People.” On turns, changing gears, I looked at your golden legs, we smiled at each other, you hummed Aretha Franklin’s old hit.

It was so warm, so nice... I remember these moments: sparkles in the eyes, a smile, hair flying in the wind, thin fingers beating a rhythm on the panel...

We rented a house in the Pearl Fishers, a beautiful place with a dozen villas overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. And when you walked up the alley, inhaling the resinous smell of pine trees, your eyes opened wide - everything was so beautiful around.

I remember these moments: that was the last time we were happy.

* * *

The chirping of cicadas. The soothing sound of the surf. A light breeze softens the damp warmth of the evening.

On the terrace, nestled against the rocky slope, you lit scented candles and a mosquito coil, I put on a Charlie Hayden CD. As in Fitzgerald's novel, I stood at the bar and began preparing a cocktail for us. Your favorite: Long Island Ice Tea, lots and lots of ice and a slice of lime.

I have rarely seen you so joyful.

We could have a wonderful evening. We should have had a wonderful evening. But one thought haunted me. For the time being, I kept her under control. But she didn't let me go. She insistently repeated the same thing: “You know, Anna, we shouldn’t have secrets from each other.”

Why the desire to know the truth got the better of me that very evening? Because of the proximity of the wedding? Because we decided to take this step too quickly? For fear of crossing the threshold?

I think everything together played a role - and also my personal story, when I was betrayed by people whom I thought I knew well.

I handed you the glass and sat down opposite you.

I'm serious, Anna, I don't want to live a lie.

Wow! And me too. But living without lies does not mean having no secrets.

So you admit: you have secrets.

Who doesn't have them, Raphael? Secrets are wonderful. They are boundary pillars, a piece of our personality, a piece of life lived; they add mystery.

But I have no secrets from you.

And what from this?

You were upset, angry. And me too. Where has our joy and fun gone? And we felt so good at the beginning of the evening...

The conversation could have ended there, but I continued, laying out new arguments. I couldn’t stop, I had to get an answer to the question that was tormenting me:

Why do you avoid answering as soon as I ask you about the past?

Because the past is past. This is an axiom. And you can't change it.

I didn't like the answer.

The past determines the present, and you know this very well. What the hell are you hiding from me, damn it?!

Nothing that could threaten you and me. Trust me. Believe me us with you!

Stop using general phrases!

I slammed my fist on the table and you flinched. How many different feelings ran across your beautiful face like a wave - grief and fear too...

I was angry because I really wanted to calm down. We only knew each other for six months, and from our first meeting I loved everything about you. And most of all - mystery, restraint, silence and your independent character... But the boomerang returned. Now your mystery and restraint oppressed and tormented me.

Why do you want to ruin everything so badly? - you asked with indescribable fatigue in your voice.

You know what I've been through. I've already been wrong. And now I have no right to make a mistake.

I felt that I was hurting you, but I believed: I love you so much that I can listen to everything - and understand everything. I wanted to console you, to share with you the heavy burden of the past, if you entrusted it to me.

I wish I could shut up and stop talking, but I didn’t stop. I didn't spare you. I felt like you were about to tell me something. And I sent arrow after arrow, I wore you down so that you would stop defending yourself.

I only want the truth, Anna!

Is it true! Is it true! All you know is that you repeat the word “truth”; are you sure you can withstand it?!

Now it was you who attacked, and I couldn’t help but doubt it. I didn't recognize you. Your mascara was running and there was a fire in your eyes that I had never seen before.

Do you want to know if I have secrets, Rafael? I answer - yes! Do you want to know why I don't want to open them? Because once you find out, you won’t just stop loving me, you’ll hate me!

It's not true, I'll understand everything.

At that moment I did not doubt myself. I was sure that I would accept whatever you told me.

No, Rafael, these are all words. The words are from your novels, but life is completely different.

Something has moved. The sluice gate in the dam opened slightly. And you - I felt it quite clearly - you wanted to know what I was like. You also decided to find out what I am. And will you love me further? After. Always. And do I really love you? Or the grenade you prepared will sever our connection.

You rummaged through your bag and pulled out your tablet. You typed in the password, opened the gallery and slowly began flipping through the photos, looking for the one you needed. And then, looking into my face, she quietly said a few words and handed me the tablet. I saw the secret that I wanted so much from you.

And I did it,” you repeated.

I closed my eyes in horror, not wanting to see the screen; Nausea rose in my throat and I turned away. Icy goosebumps ran down my body, my hands trembled, and the blood rushed into my temples. I was ready for anything. It seemed to me that I had experienced everything possible. But oh like this I never thought.

I stood up and felt that my legs were weak. My head began to spin as I took a step, but I pulled myself together and walked out of the living room with a firm step.

My bag with my things was still in the hallway. Without looking at you, I took it and left the house.

* * *

Dullness. Goose pimples. Tinny taste in mouth. Ice drops on my forehead.

I slammed the car door and drove into the night. Automatically. Anger and bitterness filled my throat. My head is in turmoil. The horror seen in the photograph. I do not understand anything. I only know one thing: my life is over.

I drove a few kilometers and noticed the austere silhouette of Fort Carre on the top of the cliff. Powerful fortress. The last sentinel before going to sea.

No. I couldn't leave like that. I already regretted that I just took it and left. I was shocked. I lost my composure, but I couldn't leave without hearing your explanation. I slammed on the brakes and spun right across the highway, nearly hitting a motorcyclist speeding in the oncoming lane.

I should have supported you, helped you get rid of the nightmare. I had to be what I imagined: understanding your pain, able to share it and help you overcome it. I raced back at top speed: the Boulevard du Cap, Honds Beach, Port Olivette, the Grayon Tower, and then a narrow road leading to private houses.

Anna! - I called, entering the hallway.

There's no one in the living room. There are shards of glass on the floor. A shelf full of trinkets fell onto the coffee table and broke the glass into smithereens. And on top of the bookcase lies a bunch of keys that I gave to Anna a few weeks ago.

The large window behind the curtains stood open. I parted the curtains flapping in the wind and went out onto the terrace. And he called you again, shouting into the void. I dialed your number on my mobile phone, but received no answer.

I was on my knees with my head in my hands. Where are you? What happened in those half an hour while I was gone? What Pandora's chest did I open by touching your past?

I closed my eyes, and pictures of our life with you ran. Six months of happiness, which is now gone forever. The future, my wife, our child - there is nothing else, there is emptiness ahead.

How I repented...

Why say you love if you can’t protect?..

Guillaume Musso

Girl from Brooklyn

Dedicated to Ingrid and Nathan

LA FILLE DE BROOKLYN

Copyright © XO Editions, 2016. All rights reserved.

© Kozhevnikova E., translation into Russian, 2017

© Sharikova G., translation into Russian, 2017

© Edition in Russian, design. LLC Publishing House "E", 2017

Where did she disappear to?

Antibes

A long weekend on the Cote d'Azur a few weeks before the wedding. We lived them as a blissful introduction, a joyful intimacy, warmed by the August sun.

The evening began with a wonderful walk through the fort of the old city: a glass of merlot on the cafe terrace, spaghetti with shellfish under the ancient stone arches from the time of Michelangelo. We talked about your work, about mine and about our wedding. We gathered to celebrate it in a very small circle: two friends-witnesses and my little son Theo to clap our hands.

On the way back, I was driving a rental car, driving slowly so that you could admire the view of the coastline. I remember these moments: the light of green eyes, flowing hair, a short skirt, a leather vest, open on a bright yellow T-shirt with the inscription “Power to the People”. On turns, changing gears, I looked at your golden legs, we smiled at each other, you hummed Aretha Franklin’s old hit.

It was so warm, so nice... I remember these moments: sparkles in the eyes, a smile, hair flying in the wind, thin fingers beating a rhythm on the panel...

We rented a house in the Pearl Fishers, a beautiful place with a dozen villas overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. And when you walked up the alley, inhaling the resinous smell of pine trees, your eyes opened wide - everything was so beautiful around.

I remember these moments: that was the last time we were happy.

The chirping of cicadas. The soothing sound of the surf. A light breeze softens the damp warmth of the evening.

On the terrace, nestled against the rocky slope, you lit scented candles and a mosquito coil, I put on a Charlie Hayden CD. As in Fitzgerald's novel, I stood at the bar and began preparing a cocktail for us. Your favorite: Long Island Ice Tea, lots and lots of ice and a slice of lime.

I have rarely seen you so joyful.

We could have a wonderful evening. We should have had a wonderful evening. But one thought haunted me. For the time being, I kept her under control. But she didn't let me go. She insistently repeated the same thing: “You know, Anna, we shouldn’t have secrets from each other.”

Why the desire to know the truth got the better of me that very evening? Because of the proximity of the wedding? Because we decided to take this step too quickly? For fear of crossing the threshold?

I think everything together played a role - and also my personal story, when I was betrayed by people whom I thought I knew well.

I handed you the glass and sat down opposite you.

“I’m serious, Anna, I don’t want to live a lie.”

- Wow! And me too. But living without lies does not mean having no secrets.

“So you admit: you have secrets.”

– Who doesn’t have them, Raphael? Secrets are wonderful. They are boundary pillars, a piece of our personality, a piece of life lived; they add mystery.

“But I have no secrets from you.”

- And what from this?

You were upset, angry. And me too. Where has our joy and fun gone? And we felt so good at the beginning of the evening...

The conversation could have ended there, but I continued, laying out new arguments. I couldn’t stop, I had to get an answer to the question that was tormenting me:

- Why do you avoid answering as soon as I ask you about the past?

- Because the past is past. This is an axiom. And you can't change it.

I didn't like the answer.

– The past determines the present, and you know this very well. What the hell are you hiding from me, damn it?!

- Nothing that could threaten you and me. Trust me. Believe me us with you!

– Stop using general phrases!

I slammed my fist on the table and you flinched. How many different feelings ran across your beautiful face like a wave - grief and fear too...

I was angry because I really wanted to calm down. We only knew each other for six months, and from our first meeting I loved everything about you. And most of all – mystery, restraint, silence and your independent character... But the boomerang returned. Now your mystery and restraint oppressed and tormented me.

Russian language

Year of publication: 2017

Pages: 269

Brief description of the book The Girl from Brooklyn:

The plot of this detective story is characterized by very high dynamics and a fascinating writing style that the reader will remember forever. Young Rafoel met the beautiful and pretty Anna, a girl who became his brightest dream. Their relationship developed rapidly, and marriage was soon to happen. On the eve of the wedding, just a few weeks ago, the young man decided to find out the past of his newly-made bride, before they met. The girl decided that there would be no secrets between them, and showed him just one photo. While Rafael was discouraged, the girl disappeared. Having come to his senses, he makes a rash decision to find Anna. However, to do this, he will have to unravel the mystery of various complicated cases and events that happened to his beloved many years ago.

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Dedicated to Ingrid and Nathan

LA FILLE DE BROOKLYN

Copyright © XO Editions, 2016. All rights reserved.

© Kozhevnikova E., translation into Russian, 2017

© Sharikova G., translation into Russian, 2017

© Edition in Russian, design. LLC Publishing House "E", 2017

Where did she disappear to?

Antibes

A long weekend on the Cote d'Azur a few weeks before the wedding. We lived them as a blissful introduction, a joyful intimacy, warmed by the August sun.

The evening began with a wonderful walk through the fort of the old city: a glass of merlot on the cafe terrace, spaghetti with shellfish under the ancient stone arches from the time of Michelangelo. We talked about your work, about mine and about our wedding. We gathered to celebrate it in a very small circle: two friends-witnesses and my little son Theo to clap our hands.

On the way back, I was driving a rental car, driving slowly so that you could admire the view of the coastline. I remember these moments: the light of green eyes, flowing hair, a short skirt, a leather vest, open on a bright yellow T-shirt with the inscription “Power to the People”. On turns, changing gears, I looked at your golden legs, we smiled at each other, you hummed Aretha Franklin’s old hit.

It was so warm, so nice... I remember these moments: sparkles in the eyes, a smile, hair flying in the wind, thin fingers beating a rhythm on the panel...

We rented a house in the Pearl Fishers, a beautiful place with a dozen villas overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. And when you walked up the alley, inhaling the resinous smell of pine trees, your eyes opened wide - everything was so beautiful around.

I remember these moments: that was the last time we were happy.

* * *

The chirping of cicadas. The soothing sound of the surf. A light breeze softens the damp warmth of the evening.

On the terrace, nestled against the rocky slope, you lit scented candles and a mosquito coil, I put on a Charlie Hayden CD. As in Fitzgerald's novel, I stood at the bar and began preparing a cocktail for us. Your favorite: Long Island Ice Tea, lots and lots of ice and a slice of lime.

I have rarely seen you so joyful.

We could have a wonderful evening. We should have had a wonderful evening. But one thought haunted me. For the time being, I kept her under control. But she didn't let me go. She insistently repeated the same thing: “You know, Anna, we shouldn’t have secrets from each other.”

Why the desire to know the truth got the better of me that very evening? Because of the proximity of the wedding? Because we decided to take this step too quickly? For fear of crossing the threshold?

I think everything together played a role - and also my personal story, when I was betrayed by people whom I thought I knew well.

I handed you the glass and sat down opposite you.

“I’m serious, Anna, I don’t want to live a lie.”

- Wow! And me too. But living without lies does not mean having no secrets.

“So you admit: you have secrets.”

– Who doesn’t have them, Raphael? Secrets are wonderful. They are boundary pillars, a piece of our personality, a piece of life lived; they add mystery.

“But I have no secrets from you.”

- And what from this?

You were upset, angry. And me too. Where has our joy and fun gone? And we felt so good at the beginning of the evening...

The conversation could have ended there, but I continued, laying out new arguments. I couldn’t stop, I had to get an answer to the question that was tormenting me:

- Why do you avoid answering as soon as I ask you about the past?

- Because the past is past. This is an axiom. And you can't change it.

I didn't like the answer.

– The past determines the present, and you know this very well. What the hell are you hiding from me, damn it?!

- Nothing that could threaten you and me. Trust me. Believe me us with you!

– Stop using general phrases!

I slammed my fist on the table and you flinched. How many different feelings ran across your beautiful face like a wave - grief and fear too...

I was angry because I really wanted to calm down. We only knew each other for six months, and from our first meeting I loved everything about you. And most of all – mystery, restraint, silence and your independent character... But the boomerang returned. Now your mystery and restraint oppressed and tormented me.

“Why do you want to ruin everything so badly?” – you asked with indescribable fatigue in your voice.

– You know what I went through. I've already been wrong. And now I have no right to make a mistake.

I felt that I was hurting you, but I believed: I love you so much that I can listen to everything - and understand everything. I wanted to console you, to share with you the heavy burden of the past, if you entrusted it to me.

I wish I could shut up and stop talking, but I didn’t stop. I didn't spare you. I felt like you were about to tell me something. And I sent arrow after arrow, I wore you down so that you would stop defending yourself.

– I only want the truth, Anna!

- Is it true! Is it true! All you know is that you repeat the word “truth”; are you sure you can withstand it?!

Now it was you who attacked, and I couldn’t help but doubt it. I didn't recognize you. Your mascara was running and there was a fire in your eyes that I had never seen before.

“Do you want to know if I have secrets, Raphael?” I answer - yes! Do you want to know why I don't want to open them? Because once you find out, you won’t just stop loving me, you’ll hate me!

- It’s not true, I’ll understand everything.

At that moment I did not doubt myself. I was sure that I would accept whatever you told me.

- No, Rafael, these are all words. The words are from your novels, but life is completely different.

Something has moved. The sluice gate in the dam opened slightly. And you - I felt it quite clearly - you wanted to know what I was like. You also decided to find out what I am. And will you love me further? After. Always. And do I really love you? Or the grenade you prepared will sever our connection.

You rummaged through your bag and pulled out your tablet. You typed in the password, opened the gallery and slowly began flipping through the photos, looking for the one you needed. And then, looking into my face, she quietly said a few words and handed me the tablet. I saw the secret that I wanted so much from you.

“And I did it,” you repeated.

I closed my eyes in horror, not wanting to see the screen; Nausea rose in my throat and I turned away. Icy goosebumps ran down my body, my hands trembled, and the blood rushed into my temples. I was ready for anything. It seemed to me that I had experienced everything possible. But oh like this I never thought.

I stood up and felt that my legs were weak. My head began to spin as I took a step, but I pulled myself together and walked out of the living room with a firm step.

My bag with my things was still in the hallway. Without looking at you, I took it and left the house.

* * *

Dullness. Goose pimples. Tinny taste in mouth. Ice drops on my forehead.

I slammed the car door and drove into the night. Automatically. Anger and bitterness filled my throat. My head is in turmoil. The horror seen in the photograph. I do not understand anything. I only know one thing: my life is over.

I drove a few kilometers and noticed the austere silhouette of Fort Carre on the top of the cliff. Powerful fortress. The last sentinel before going to sea.

No. I couldn't leave like that. I already regretted that I just took it and left. I was shocked. I lost my composure, but I couldn't leave without hearing your explanation. I slammed on the brakes and spun right across the highway, nearly hitting a motorcyclist speeding in the oncoming lane.

I should have supported you, helped you get rid of the nightmare. I had to be what I imagined: understanding your pain, able to share it and help you overcome it. I raced back at top speed: the Boulevard du Cap, Honds Beach, Port Olivette, the Grayon Tower, and then a narrow road leading to private houses.

- Anna! – I called, entering the hallway.

There's no one in the living room. There are shards of glass on the floor. A shelf full of trinkets fell onto the coffee table and broke the glass into smithereens. And on top of the bookcase lies a bunch of keys that I gave to Anna a few weeks ago.

The large window behind the curtains stood open. I parted the curtains flapping in the wind and went out onto the terrace. And he called you again, shouting into the void. I dialed your number on my mobile phone, but received no answer.

I was on my knees with my head in my hands. Where are you? What happened in those half an hour while I was gone? What Pandora's chest did I open by touching your past?

I closed my eyes, and pictures of our life with you ran. Six months of happiness, which is now gone forever. The future, my wife, our child - there is nothing else, there is emptiness ahead.

How I repented...

Why say you love if you can’t protect?..

The first day
The art of hiding

1
Paper man

If I don’t have a book in my hands, if I don’t think about the one I’ll write, I’m ready to howl with anguish. You can only endure life if you hide from it.

Gustave Flaubert

1

“My wife sleeps with you every night; It's good that I'm not jealous.

The driver, terribly pleased with the joke, winked at me in the mirror. Then he slowed down and turned on the turn signal, preparing to turn onto the highway leading from Orly airport.

– I think she’s a gambler. “I, however, also read several of your books,” he spoke again, stroking his mustache. – No doubt, it’s exciting, but it’s a little hard for me. Murder, violence... I will say with all my respect to you that you have an unhealthy view of things. If there were as many horrors around us as there are in your novels, we would be in trouble.

I stared at the phone screen without stopping and pretended that I didn’t hear anything. The only thing I missed that morning was discussions about literature and the perfection of the world.

Eight ten. I urgently returned to Paris on the first plane. I called Anna and got an answering machine. I left her a dozen messages, apologizing, asking for forgiveness, begging her to call back because I was worried.

I didn't know what to do. We've never quarreled before.

That night I didn't sleep a wink. What dream? I was looking for Anna. I started from the territory security post. The security guard told me that during my absence many cars arrived, including a car from VTC.

“The driver said that he was called by Madame Anna Becker, a guest at the Wave Villa.” I contacted madam on the interphone and she confirmed the call.

– Why are you sure that it was a VTC car? – I asked.

– On the windshield, as expected, there was a company logo.

“Could you tell me where he took her?”

- How should I know?

The driver took Anna to the airport. At least that’s what I realized when I went to the Air France website a few hours later. I asked what happened to our tickets - I bought the tickets - and found out that passenger Anna Becker had changed her return ticket for the last flight of that day Nice - Paris. The plane was supposed to depart at 21.20, but departed only at 23.45. There were two reasons: delays, of which there are always many at the end of the holidays, and a computer breakdown, due to which all the company’s planes were delayed by an hour.

The situation has cleared up a little. Anna, in anger, smashed the table herself and hurried to fly to Paris. At least she was safe and sound.

The taxi turned off a wide highway with tunnels and signs, and we entered the city. The already dense flow of traffic near Port d'Orléans has practically stopped. We barely crawled in the black oily exhaust fumes from trucks and buses, bumping our bumper into someone else's bumper. I raised the glass: nitric oxide is a dangerous carcinogen. Cars were honking all around and drivers were cursing. PARIS…

I decided to start at Anna's apartment and asked the driver to take me to Montrouge first. For the last month, Anna and I have been living together, but she has retained her apartment - two rooms in a modern house on Rue Aristide-Briand. Anna loved her home; her things were still there. I hoped that, angry and offended, she went home.

We made a long detour, reached the Vache-Noir turnoff and drove on.

“We’ve arrived, Mr. Writer,” the driver announced, stopping in front of a new, but completely ugly house.

The driver, a stocky, stocky man with a bald skull with a wary gaze and thin lips, had a voice like Raoul Volfoni from “Gangster Uncles.”

– Could you wait for me?

- The counter is spinning. No problem.

I got out of the car and, noticing a boy with a backpack coming out of the entrance, I hurried there to get in before the door closed. The elevator, as usual, was not working. I climbed to the twelfth floor in one breath, but before knocking, I stood leaning over with my hands on my knees to catch my breath. And when I knocked, no one answered me. I listened - silence.

Anna left the keys to my apartment. And if you didn’t spend the night at home, then where?

I started calling all the apartments on the site in a row. One neighbor opened the door, but did nothing to help me. Saw nothing, heard nothing - the usual rule in high-rise buildings.

In complete frustration, I went downstairs and gave Raoul Volfoni my address in Montparnasse.

– When was your last novel published, Mr. Barthelemy?

“Three years ago,” I answered with a sigh.

- Is the next one ready?

I nodded and clarified:

“But it won’t come out soon.”

- My wife will be upset.

I didn’t want to talk, so I asked to turn up the radio: it would be nice to listen to the news.

One of the most popular radio stations. Nine o'clock in the morning, news of the hour. Today is the first of September, Thursday. Twelve million schoolchildren have started classes, François Hollande is pleased with the growing success in the economy, and the Paris-Saint-Germain football team has a new striker. In the United States, the Republican Party selects a candidate for the future presidential election...

“Tell me,” the restless taxi driver continued to mumble, “did you want to idle around or did you experience the blank page syndrome?”

“It’s much more complicated,” I answered, looking out the window.

2

To tell the truth, I haven’t written a single line in three years because life got to me.

I don’t have any blockages, and fantasy works too. Since I was six years old, I have been making up all sorts of stories; since I was a teenager, all I know is that I write to give vent to my gushing imagination. My fantasies are my salvation, a free plane ticket that takes me away from boring reality. Years passed, and I was focused only on my stories. In a notebook or laptop, I wrote to myself and wrote, wrote everywhere and everywhere: on a bench in the park, at a table in a cafe, standing in the subway. If I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about my characters, what they were suffering from, who they loved. Nothing else interested me. The gray reality didn't matter to me. Far from everyday life, I wandered through an imaginary world, its only creator and demiurge.

Since 2003, when my novel was first published, I have written a book a year. Mainly detective stories and thrillers. In interviews I always claimed that I sit at my desk every day, with the exception of Christmas and my birthday. I borrowed the answer from Stephen King. And just like him, he lied. I also worked on December 25 Same, and saw no reason to sit back on the highly solemn day of his own birthday.

What's the truth? I've rarely been able to find anything more interesting than my heroes.

I loved my “job”, I lived like a fish in water, in an atmosphere of mysteries, murders and violence. Just like children - remember the ogre from "Puss in Boots", the wolf from "Little Red Riding Hood", the criminal parents from "Tom Thumb", the villain named Bluebeard - adults love to play scary stories. They need scary stories to cope with their own fears.

Readers' passion for detective stories allowed me to live a fabulous ten years, becoming one of the few authors who live by their pen. And, sitting down at my desk in the morning, I felt happy, I knew that readers in all parts of the world were waiting for my new novel.

But the magic circle of creativity and success was broken by a woman three years ago. During a promotional trip to London, my literary agent introduced me to Natalie Curtis, an English biologist by profession and a talented young woman in both science and business. At this time, she was promoting a medical project to distribute “smart” contact lenses that diagnosed eye diseases that arose due to a lack of glucose in the tear fluid.

Natalie worked eighteen hours a day. With disconcerting ease, she juggled computer programs, clinical trials, and business plans, crossing time zones to report to financial partners.

She and I lived and acted in completely different worlds. I am a paper person, she is a person of figures and numbers. I made my living by telling fictional stories, she by using microprocessors thinner than a baby's hair. I was one of those who studied Greek at the Lyceum, loved the poetry of Aragon and wrote love letters with a pen and ink. She belonged to the ultra-modern world of electronics and felt at home in the icy hulks of airports.

Even now, looking into the past, I cannot understand what pushed us towards each other. Why did we suddenly believe in the future of incompatible couples during this period of our lives?

“We like to be different,” wrote Albert Cohen. Maybe that’s why we sometimes fall in love with our complete opposite. We hope for addition, transformation, metamorphosis. We expect that, by getting closer to the antipode, we will become more valuable, richer, broader. On paper this works well, in life - in the rarest cases.

The illusion of love would have dissipated very soon, but Natalie became pregnant. The prospect of starting a family reinforced the mirage. At least for me. I left France and settled in London. Natalie was then renting an apartment in Belgravia, and I was with her throughout her pregnancy.

“Which of your novels do you like best?” During promotions, journalists always asked me this question. Over the years, I have learned to answer in a streamlined manner and get off with the usual phrase: “It’s hard to say, because books are like children, you understand me.”

Books are not children. I was sitting in the ward when my son was born. The midwife handed me Theo’s tiny body, I took it and immediately realized what a terrible fake my phrase was in numerous interviews.

Books are not children.

Books are a special object, akin to a magic wand. Pass to another world. Escape. Books can be a medicine and help you cope with everyday troubles. As Paul Auster says, books are “the only place in the world where two strangers can come together.” But they are not children.

Nothing compares to a child.

3

To my great amazement, Natalie returned to work ten days after giving birth. Overtime and business trips prevented her from fully experiencing the first weeks - wonderful and terrible - of our son's life. However, it seems that the baby did not particularly inspire her. And then one evening, undressing in the dressing room, which served as an extension of our bedroom, she told me in a dull voice:

– We accepted Google's offer. They will have a controlling stake in our enterprise.

It took me more than a minute to be able to say:

- Are you serious?

Natalie took off her shoes with an absent look, rubbed her sore ankle and finished me off:

- Seriously. Since Monday I have been working with my group in California.

I looked at her with square eyes. She flew twelve hours by plane, but jet lag I had it.

- Natalie! You can't make these decisions alone. We need to discuss everything. Need to…

She sat down tiredly on the edge of the bed.

– I understand that I cannot ask you to come with me...

I've completely lost my mind.

- But I forced to go with you! I haven't forgotten that we have a three week old baby!

- Do not scream! I'm even worse off than you are, Rafael. But I can't do it...

- That does not work?

Natalie burst into tears.

– To be a good mother for Theo...

I tried to convince her, to console her, but she sobbed and repeated one single terrible phrase, which was probably true: “I am not created for this, I feel so bad".

I asked how she was specifically imagines our life in the near future. Natalie looked at me pleadingly and took out a card from her sleeve, which she kept ready.

– If you want to raise Theo myself in Paris, I don't mind. And to be honest, I think that this would be the best solution for us.

I nodded silently, stunned by the happiness that shone on her face. The face of my son's mother... Natalie swallowed a sleeping pill and stretched out on the bed. A leaden silence reigned in the bedroom.

A day later I returned to France, to my apartment in Montparnasse. I could have found a nanny, but I didn't look for one. I firmly decided that I myself would watch my son grow and mature. And I was deathly afraid of losing him.

For several months in a row, as soon as the phone rang, I began to think that a lawyer was calling: they say that his client changed her mind and demands exclusive rights to Theo. But, thank God, I didn’t wait for this terrible call. Almost two years passed without a single word from Natalie. Time flew by. Previously, the rhythm was set by work, now - pacifiers, bottles, diapers, walks in the park, baths with a temperature of 37 degrees and endless laundry. I also experienced insomnia, anxiety at the slightest cold, and fear that I couldn’t cope. But I would never trade my new experience for anything. Five thousand photos on my phone are evidence of this. From the first months of his life, my son involved me in an extraordinary adventure: I became both an actor and a director at the same time.

4 Jet lag is a phenomenon where a person’s rhythm does not coincide with the usual daily rhythm, caused by night work, the transition to daylight saving time, or a rapid change of time zones when flying on an airplane.