Free Delicacy by David Foenkinos Page B

clever, either … I mean, really, it’s not like I committed a crime or something!”
“Then you don’t know anything about desire. A kiss from you, and then nothing more, of course it’s a crime. Even in the land of hard hearts you’d be convicted.”
“The land of hard hearts? … That isn’t how you usually talk to me.”
“I’m certainly not going to break into poetry about 114.”
The cold was changing their faces. And aggravating a certain injustice. Markus was becoming slightly blue, not to say pallid, and Natalie was becoming as pale as a depressed princess.
“Maybe it would be better to leave,” she said.
“Okay … then what’ll we do?”
“Well … that’s enough for now. There’s nothing to do. I apologized. We’re not going to make a big production out of it, are we?”
“Why not? I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of seeing an extravaganza like that.”
“Then we stop. I don’t even know what I’m doing talking to you here.”
“Okay, we stop. But after we go out to dinner.”
“What?”
“We have dinner together. And after that, I promise you we won’t talk about it anymore.”
“I can’t.”
“You really owe me that … just dinner.”
Certain people have the rare ability to come out with such a statement. An ability that keeps the other person from answering in the negative. Natalie sensed all the conviction in Markus’s voice. She knew it would be a mistake to accept. She knew she should back away now, before it was too late. But, in front of him, it was impossible to say no. And then, she was so cold.

Fifty-two

    Concrete Information About
File 114
It consisted of a comparative analysis between France and Sweden of the regulation of the balances of external trade in rural areas during a period ranging from November 1967 to October 1974.

Fifty-three

Markus had gone home first and was pacing in front of his closet. What do you wear to have dinner with Natalie? He wanted to be dressed to the nines. But even that number was too small for her. He would have like to have been dressed to the 47s, or the 112s, or even the 387s. He wanted to deaden himself with numbers to keep from thinking about the pressing issues. Should he wear a tie? He didn’t have anyone to help him. He was alone in the world, and the world was Natalie. Usually quite confident about his wardrobe preferences, he was losing his footing in everything and didn’t know how to choose the shoes, either. He really had no habit of getting dressed to go out at night. And then, this one was tricky: she was also his supervisor, which added to the pressure. Finally he managed to calm down by telling himself that appearance didn’t have to be the most important thing. Above all, he had to seem relaxed and be good at chatting glibly about lots of different subjects. And especially avoid talking about work. The number one taboo would be bringing up file 114. Letting the afternoon rub off on their evening. Then what were they going to talk about? You can’t change context with a snap of the fingers. They’d be like two butchers at a vegetarians’convention. No, it was silly. Maybe the best idea was to cancel. There was still time. Unforeseeable circumstances. Yes, sorry, Natalie. You know, I’d really love to have gone, but, well, Mom died today. Nope, that was no good, too brutal. Too Camus, as well; and Camus was no good for canceling. Sartre: a lot better. I can’t tonight, you see, because hell is other people. A hint of existentialism in the tone—that would go over nicely. As he raved on, it occurred to him that she must be looking for last-minute excuses, too. But for the moment, still nothing. They were meeting in an hour, and no message. She had to be looking for one, had to be. Or else, maybe there was a problem with her phone battery that was keeping her from notifying him that something had cropped up. His thoughts kept spinning like this a while longer, and then, since there was no news, he went out