Free Enough About Love by Herve Le Tellier Page A

Maureen. And another friend.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Yves.”
    “Beaudouin? You’re taking your manager to Christiane’s party?”
    “No. Yves Janvier. Someone Maureen knows. You don’t know him. Bye.”
    “See you in the morning.”
    Anna hangs up.
    She called Yves two days before, asking if he would like to join her for this party. Maureen served as an alibi, because Anna was not altogether lying: her cousin does know the writer, but hardly, having interviewed him a few years ago.
    When Yves picked up the phone, she immediately forgot how to behave properly and her very first sentence burst out subconsciously: “Yves? On Friday, my husband’s on duty …” Later, while they talked, Anna slipped in: “Maureen’s single atthe moment.” She had a painful longing for him and Maureen to like each other so that Yves, having become Maureen’s lover, would stop being a possibility. Yves did not grasp this. He suspected her of playing matchmaker.
    Outside, Anna hears the dull clunk of the door to the elevator. She hopes it is Yves.

YVES AND ANNA
• • •
    Y VES HAS NOT SEEN A NNA again since their first meeting. The elevator drops him off at her floor. There is only one door, and the hallway acts as storage space for children’s bicycles, scooters, a little red Ferrari with pedals. So many warning signs: Anna’s life is as cluttered as her hallway.
    He rings the bell. A little boy opens the door—Karl, Yves remembers—and stares at him.
    “Mommy, there’s a man.”
    The child runs off.
    “Come in, Yves,” Anna’s voice calls out. “Did you say hello, Karl?”
    Yves takes one step into the foyer, Anna is still invisible. Her voice comes to him along the corridor, from her bedroom, Yves presumes.
    “I’m sorry, I’m not dressed yet. My parents will keep you company.”
    Yves takes another step. It is a nice apartment with a mishmash of furniture, strongly biased toward the sixties. A woman wearing a lot of gold and pearls and with a Sephardic beauty is sitting in an armchair smoothing a little girl’s blond curls for the night. Yves recognizes Anna’s smile in hers.
    “Hello … I’m Anna’s mother. Beatrice. You know her, always late. Well, aren’t you going to say hello, Lea?”
    Lea, sulking, does not look up. Her grandmother does not push her.
    “Laurent, my husband.”
    Yves has not noticed the man with the long white hair and regal features standing by the bookshelves, leafing through a book.
    “Good evening. Laurent Stein, the father of the woman who’s late.”
    Yves shakes his hand: “Yves Janvier.”
    “I know,” says Laurent Stein, turning over the book’s cover. Yves recognizes
The Two-Leaf Clover
. “It’s my reading for this evening,” Anna’s father explains. “It starts really well.”
    “Thanks. But it ends badly. Luckily it’s very short.”
    “It ends badly, it’s very short … That’s a definition of life.” Yves smiles. Anna’s father watches him, half opens the book. “Do you mind if I make a criticism? Or let’s call it just a comment.”
    “Please do.”
    “It’s about the quote from Pascal that you use as an epigraph: ‘We never love a person, but only qualities.’ ”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m sorry, but I wonder whether it’s not the exact opposite: what attracts us about another person has more to do with what makes them fragile, the chink in their armor.Love is kindled by the weakness we perceive, the flaw we get in through, wouldn’t you say?”
    Yves is disoriented, wants to argue the point. “Perhaps. But I felt Pascal used the word ‘qualities’ to mean character traits in general …”
    “I’m afraid his meaning was more prosaic. I have to admit I loathe Pascal. He’s a narrow-minded, third-rate philosopher pinioned by superstition. To be honest, I can’t think of anything more stupid than his challenge.” 3
    “I’m with you on that,” Yves smiles.
    Anna interrupts, her voice amused: “I’ll be quick, Yves, or my