Free Sila's Fortune by Fabrice Humbert

though it clearly wasn’t. Simon flashed him a bitter smile.
    â€˜Chatting with one’s guests is a host’s duty.’
    The retort seemed about right. He was rather proud of it.
    â€˜I’ll leave you to the tiger’s tender mercies,’ Simon quipped to Julie as he left. ‘Call me when you’ve had enough. And if he attacks, just yell and I’ll come running.’
    Very proud, in fact. His casual tone surprised even Matthieu.
    In a particularly good mood, he did the rounds of his guests, slipped into the kitchen, inhaled the wonderful spicy aromas of the two huge saucepans of vegetables, lifted the tea-towel covering the couscous.
    â€˜We can serve up in half an hour,’ he said in a tone he hoped was firm and then worried it sounded officious.
    â€˜Up to you,’ said his cleaning lady, radiant, barefoot. In herkitchen she reigned supreme and clearly considered her boss a fool.
    A cool breeze blew through the living room. The guests had moved out to the terraces and the yawning gulf had dissipated into indifference. The guy with the shaven head was chatting to a female researcher who was staring at him too insistently, too intensely. In short, the party had begun.
    When the three women carried out the platters piled high with couscous, there was a burst of applause. Everyone sat around the table on the big terrace, squeezing up to make room, passing each other plates. The skinhead, brandishing two bottles of red wine, began filling glasses.
    Sitting next to Julie, Matthieu smiled at his success. Simon appeared, bent double from the weight of the huge stockpot which elicited a roar of approval. He set it in the middle of the table.
    â€˜I’ll serve.’
    When he had finished he went inside and checked the living room, where he found a dozen people chatting. ‘No need to go out to the terrace,’ he said to them, ‘I’ll sort you out.’
    He picked up some plates and with the help of the three cooks piled them with food and passed them around.
    By the time he went back out onto the terrace, everybody was eating and joking. No one had saved him a place. He considered the people. If the two camps did not quite form a harmonious whole, the food and the wine had clearly created bridges between them. In the gathering darkness, differences melted away. Simon was thrilled with his success until he saw Julie, staring into space, smiling at Matthieu who was talkingto her in a soft voice, verging on a whisper, the dangerous tone of seduction. His shyness boiled over.
    â€˜Matthieu,’ he said, his voice quavering slightly, ‘aren’t you going to look after your guests?’
    His friend did not hear. Raising his voice, he said again, ‘Matthieu, could you help out a bit?’
    â€˜That’s what I’ve been doing.’
    â€˜What about the people in the living room?’
    â€˜They’re old enough to take care of themselves.’
    â€˜Really? I just served them.’
    â€˜Chill, man. It’s a party!’
    Then, in a magnanimous tone, he said, ‘Come on, join us, help us eat this delicious couscous!’
    People moved up to make space and Simon squeezed in beside his friend. Matthieu turned away from Julie for a moment to liven up the general conversation. Simon sat in silence. He had nothing to say. He would have liked to talk to Julie about maths. Would have liked to ask about her professors, talk to her about his research, discuss the pros and cons of different universities, bring up her maths degree again, maybe suggest some way they might work together. He would have liked to be interesting, to be attractive. Attractive to her.
    But right now the whole table was roaring with laughter at one of Matthieu’s jokes and he felt so small, so drab, so boring, a dreary
lab rat
… Why would this beautiful young girl be interested in talking about professors and mathematical theorems? How could she talk to him without