Evil Angels by Pascal Bruckner

Author:Pascal Bruckner [Bruckner, Pascal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

Looking at his face shining with hideous wisdom, I grew angry. Without a word, I arose. Only a man who was deeply gratified by self-punishment could possibly have sunk so low as to make these shameful admissions to me. Could it be that he enjoyed covering himself with filth? I hardly had time to wonder because no sooner had I closed the cabin door than I bumped into someone in the corridor. It was Rebecca, who had obviously been listening at the keyhole. It was strange. She did not utter a cry, and we were both silent; she because she had been caught red-handed in her spying and I because I was numb with surprise and still upset by the cripple’s confessions. It seemed as if she had something to say to me, but also that she might be hiding something from me. She had stepped back so that she was underneath an overhead spotlight, and while this kind of lighting would have been merciless on another woman’s face, on hers it enhanced her beauty and gave it a vague childishness. Her hair waved in the breeze from the ventilator, and her long eyelashes enlarged and emphasized her eyes. I was overcome by a feeling of respect for this mouth, which would utter neither excuse nor apology, and I no longer knew if I was angry at her, if I should resent her betrayal of me.

“Now you know how unhappy I was,” she said, and her frank openness touched me deeply. We were intimates once again, and I hastened to answer her in kind.

“I can’t believe that you endured all that.”

“Don’t judge me by the fact that I look strong on the outside … But, tell me, are you angry at me for the appointment we made this afternoon?”

“Yes, I am. No, I’m not. I mean …”

“It was a stupid joke, I agree, but believe me, it was the only way to get you to hear it.”

“But why should you leave it to him? Why don’t you tell me about your life yourself?”

“I leave the talking to Franz. It’s the only thing left to him. It’s his last remaining pleasure. Every time he’s going to spend more than twenty-four hours with people, he has an irresistible desire to tell it all. Most of the time people don’t pay any attention to him. And so to bait his listeners, he tells them that I’ll sleep with them if they’ll listen to him. It’s all a trick, and I never go along with the bargain.”

“I know, he promised me, too. But that’s not the reason why I listen to him,” I said because I did not want to appear too interested.

“Oh? You mean you’re just listening to be nice to him?”

And then I bombarded her with disoriented questions about the strange habits she and her husband had, but they reminded her of experiences of splendor and suffering that she considered part of the past and which she did not want to divulge.

Sensing defeat, I asked her, “Can I see you again? Really see you, this time?”

“So you do forgive me.

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