The Image

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When I saw Claire again for the first time

that summer, it was at a party given by-

let's say the X's near

the Place de la Concorde.

The entire summer had been lovely,

but that evening was particularly beautiful.

I was late, as usual.

Normally,

I detest literary cocktail parties...

- Jean!

- Hi.

As anyone who attends them regularly

should, if he has any self-respect at all.

I had just come out of a long

siege with a short story,

a short story that had

an enormous resistance

to being completed, and,

had I to be totally honest,

I would confess that I was genuinely pleased

to be once more among the living.

How are you?

- And you?

- Fine.

Good.

Excuse me.

What struck me most about seeing Claire

again was that she hadn't changed at all.

I felt as if I had just

left her the night before.

Although, in reality, I hadn't seen her for

at least two or three years, maybe more.

Friedlander? Coudrain.

I said hello to other people,

but I meticulously avoided getting involved

in the peculiar kind of pointless argument

which is so typical at that kind of party.

I remember that I noticed something

then in which I wouldn't have

minded getting involved,

and it was dressed all in white.

As I think back,

she had made more of an impression on me

than the usual pretty

girl one sees at parties.

The young girl in the white dress

and Claire were friends, obviously.

But beyond that, I sensed a strange link

between them, a kind of electricity,

although I had never heard it said that

Claire was particularly interested in girls.

Still, there was a conspiracy between

them that one could feel quite clearly.

Hi.

What are you doing hiding out there?

Thinking of clever things to

say to your delightful guests.

That shouldn't be too difficult for you.

What about the young

girl in the white dress?

I don't know a thing about her.

She came with Claire.

I suppose she's a friend of hers.

Funny thing is, I haven't been able

to get two words out of her all night.

I remembered clearly the

look Claire had given her.

It was the look of one viewing a rerun of a

successful film one had directed oneself,

whose plot couldn't possibly

have any surprises.

Lovely to have had you.

Later, as I was getting ready to leave...

- Jean.

- All right,

I might call you later. Jean. Yes?

If you like,

perhaps we could have a drink somewhere

to forget about this dreadful party. Nice.

You can get to know Anne. Anne?

Anne.

You'll see.

She's very nice.

Who is she, anyway?

Just a young model.

And?

Well, she belongs to me.

Three mineral waters, please.

She's pretty, isn't she?

Yes, very.

She's very pretty.

You can touch her if you like.

And she has a beautiful mouth,

lovely soft lips, lovely,

soft, knowing lips.

And pretty teeth.

Come, let's have a look at them.

Stay like that.

Someday I'll show you some

photographs I took of her.

Claire had arranged to

meet me the following day.

I knew enough by now not to ask whether we

would be alone or with her young friend.

We were supposed to spend the afternoon

together in the Bagatelle Gardens,

the most beautiful rose garden in the world.

She had insisted that she

wanted to show it to me herself.

Claire was a stunning woman and probably

even more interesting than her friend.

But unlike her friend, she

had never aroused me at all.

At first this had bothered me.

But then I told myself that

it was her impeccable manners

and the precise way in

which she did everything

that made it impossible to think

about her as a potential conquest.

I probably needed to feel that at

least some little thing was vulnerable

in order to arouse a

desire in me to win her.

Claire was waiting for us in the car.

Anne's manner reminded me of a

well-behaved young schoolgirl.

I had time to ask the girl

several casual questions,

but all I could get out of her was,

"Yes, monsieur,"

"No, monsieur,"

or, "I don't know, monsieur,"

as though she were a child.

Instead of letting us wander from flower to

flower, Claire made us look at the varieties

that she admired most, knowing

exactly where each one was.

After the grand tour, we wandered off

toward a more deserted part of the garden.

Go over to it.

Go on. Hurry up.

Now go ahead.

Watch this.

She has pretty hands.

Yes.

She likes doing that, you know.

It excites her.

I can prove it to you, if you like.

At the slightest provocation,

she gets all wet.

Isn't that right, little one?

All right, that's enough.

Pick the flower and bring it over here.

Well, what are you waiting for?

It's not allowed.

Nothing that I like is allowed, Anne.

You know that.

There are too many thorns.

You simply have to get scratched.

Very good.

And it wasn't too difficult, was it?

Of course, you will be punished for

having hesitated just a second too long.

What are you planning to do?

I don't know.

But she'll be punished in front of you.

Somebody's coming.

All right, bring the flower.

Excuse me.

What time is it, please?

10:
30.

We continued our walk.

Anne, in the middle, held the rose against

her breast so no one could detect her crime.

We soon came to a sort of grove or thicket,

more or less closed off from

the rest of the gardens

and completely deserted.

Since there weren't any flowers, we reasoned

that here we could find some privacy.

This will be all right.

No. She'll have to stand.

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