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"Everything. I can no longer feel the energy of love, what people call passion, flowing through my flesh and through my soul."
"But something is left."
"Left? Does every marriage have to end like this, with passion giving way to something people call 'a mature relationship'? I need you. I miss you. Sometimes I'm jealous. I like thinking about what to give you for supper, even though sometimes you don't even notice what you're eating. But there's a lack of joy."
"No, there isn't. Whenever you're far away, I wish you were near. I imagine the conversations we'll have when you or I come back from a trip. I phone you to make sure everything's all right. I need to hear your voice every day. I'm still passionate about you, I can guarantee you that."
"It's the same with me, but what happens when we're together? We argue, we quarrel over nothing, one of us wants to change the other, to impose his or her view of reality. You demand things of me that make no sense at all, and I do the same. Sometimes, in the silence of our hearts, we say to ourselves: 'How good it would be to be free, to have no commitments.'"
"You're right. And at moments like that, I feel lost, because I know that I'm with the woman I want to be with."
"And I'm with the man I always wanted to have by my side."
"Do you think that could change?"
"As I get older, and fewer men look at me, I find myself thinking: 'Just leave things as they are.' I'm sure I can happily deceive myself for the rest of my life. And yet, whenever I go off to cover a war, I see that a greater love exists, much greater than the hatred that makes men kill each other. And then, and only then, do I think I can change things."
"But you can't be constantly covering wars."
"Nor can I live constantly in the sort of peace that I find with you. It's destroying the one important thing I have: my relationship with you, even if the intensity of my love remains undiminished."
"Millions of people the world over are thinking the same thing right now, they resist fiercely and allow those moments of depression to pass. They withstand one, two, three crises and, finally, find peace."
"You know that isn't how it is. Otherwise you wouldn't have written the books you've written."
I had arranged to meet the American actor-director for lunch at Roberto's pizzeria. I needed to go back there as soon as possible in order to dispel any bad impression I might have made. Before I left, I told the maid and the caretaker of the apartment building that if I was not back in time and a young man with Mongolian features should deliver a package for me, they must take him up to my apartment, ask him to wait in the living room, and give him anything he needed. If, for some reason, the young man could not wait, then they should ask him to leave the package with one of them.
Above all, they must not let him leave without handing over the package!
I caught a taxi and asked to be dropped off on the corner of Boulevard St-Germain and Rue des Sts-Peres. A fine rain was falling, but it was only a few yards to the restaurant, its discreet sign, and Roberto's generous smile, for he sometimes stood outside, smoking a cigarette. A woman with a baby stroller was coming toward me along the narrow pavement, and because there wasn't room for both of us, I stepped off the curb to let her pass.
It was then, in slow motion, that the world gave a giant lurch: the ground became the sky, the sky became the ground; I had time to notice a few architectural details on the top of the building on the corner--I had often walked past before, but had never looked up. I remember the sensation of surprise, the feeling of a wind blowing hard in my ear, and the sound of a dog barking in the distance; then everything went dark.
I was bundled abruptly down a black hole at the end of which was a light. Before I could reach it, however, invisible hands were dragging me roughly back up, and I woke to voices and shouts all around me: it could only have lasted a matter of seconds. I was aware of the taste of blood in my mouth, the smell of wet asphalt, and then I realized that I had had an accident. I was conscious and unconscious at the same time; I tried without success to move; I could make out another person lying on the ground beside me; I could smell that person's smell, her perfume; I imagined it must be the woman who had been pushing her baby along the pavement. Oh, dear God!
Someone came over and tried to help me up; I yelled at them not to touch me, any movement could be dangerous. I had learned during a trivial conversation one trivial night that if I ever injured my neck, any sudden movement could le
ave me permanently paralyzed.
I struggled to remain conscious; I waited for a pain that never came; I tried to move, then thought better of it. I experienced a feeling like cramp, like torpor. I again asked not to be moved. I heard a distant siren and knew then that I could sleep, that I no longer needed to fight to save my life; whether it was won or lost, it was no longer up to me, it was up to the doctors, to the nurses, to fate, to "the thing," to God.
I heard the voice of a child--she told me her name, but I couldn't quite grasp it--telling me to keep calm, promising me that I wouldn't die. I wanted to believe what she said, I begged her to stay by my side, but she vanished; I was aware of someone placing something plastic around my neck, putting a mask over my face, and then I went to sleep again, and this time there were no dreams.
When I regained consciousness, all I could hear was a horrible buzzing in my ears; the rest was silence and utter darkness. Suddenly, I felt everything moving, and I was sure I was being carried along in my coffin, that I was about to be buried alive!
I tried banging on the walls, but I couldn't move a muscle. For what seemed an eternity, I felt as if I were being propelled helplessly forward; then, mustering all my remaining strength, I uttered a scream that echoed around the enclosed space and came back to my own ears, almost deafening me; but I knew that once I had screamed, I was safe, for a light immediately began to appear at my feet: they had realized I wasn't dead!
Light, blessed light--which would save me from that worst of all tortures, suffocation--was gradually illuminating my whole body: they were finally removing the coffin lid. I broke out in a cold sweat, felt the most terrible pain, but was also happy and relieved that they had realized their mistake and that joy could return to the world!
The light finally reached my eyes: a soft hand touched mine, someone with an angelic face was wiping the sweat from my brow.
"Don't worry," said the angelic face, with its golden hair and white robes. "I'm not an angel, you didn't die, and this isn't a coffin, it's just a body scanner, to find out if you suffered any other injuries. There doesn't appear to be anything seriously wrong, but you'll have to stay in for observation."
"No broken bones?"
"Just general abrasions. If I brought you a mirror, you'd be horrified, but the swelling will go down in a few days."
I tried to get up, but she very gently stopped me. Then I felt a terrible pain in my head and groaned.
