12 Fifteen Minutes Before the End of the World
Fifteen Minutes Before the End of the World
“What’s bothering you, Júlia?”
“Me?” She answered with the utmost surprise.
“That I’ve just stopped by to pick up the suitcases?”
“No, no . . .”
“I know I was supposed to stay here every day, but I also thought you two newlyweds would be better off on your own.”
“Oh, you were doing it so you wouldn’t bother us, huh,” she said, returning her sarcasm.
“Yes. The house is big, but what is that Chinese saying about guests?”
“That they’re like fish?”
“That by the third day they start to stink, yes. Exactly.”
“You’re never a guest in my home. And you won’t be one in ours either. Alain and I are fine on our own, we’re fine with you, we’re happy . . .”
“Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. Five days of marriage. I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
“You’re right. We’re still on cloud nine. We keep talking about the wedding, what our friends said to us, my dress, and . . .”
“But?”
“But what?”
“I can tell, Júlia . . .”
“It’s nothing. You just could have called the first night. We were worried, but that’s it. I already told you. It’s over. You and I don’t have to explain ourselves. Do whatever you want. I just want you to be well.”
“Anyway, look, you were the one who introduced me to Jean-Pierre. Don’t try to wriggle out of it now. You paired us up, you sat him next to me at the table. So what are you complaining about now?”
“I’m not complaining. I’m just telling you. It’s your life.”
“Or maybe I’m sensing something?”
“In me?”
“Yes, yes.” Paulina, who had been joking, suddenly caught a strange look in her cousin’s eyes. A spark of jealousy, perhaps. “Honey, what happened between you and Jean-Pierre?”
“Please. Nothing. What could have . . . ? Don’t turn things around on me now.”
“Did I catch you?” Paulina teased, although she had a nagging suspicion.
“With Jean-Pierre? Poor guy. No, no . . .”
“Something happened there . . . When? You’re blushing.”
“Stop tickling me, stop it. You know I can’t stand it.”
Paulina had chased Júlia around the kitchen table.
She cornered her on a chair and pounced on her the way they used to do when they were little, playing on the beach at Sant Pol, throwing themselves on top of each other to pin the other down and tickle each other until they nearly peed themselves laughing.
“Come on, tell me. What’s his bedroom like?”
“No, really, I’m telling you I—”
“What painting does he have above his bed?”
“Stop, stop. I’ve never been to his place, I’m telling you. And leave me alone, please. Not here.”
The gardener, who was trimming the hedges as he did every Tuesday from ten to twelve, watched the cousins through the window. He heard them giggling and was dying to come in and join the party uninvited.
“Don’t joke like that, Pau. I’m a married woman.”
“Right, right.”
“As married as you are.”
“Now that you mention it,” she said, as if suddenly remembering, “what’s Gina’s father’s name?”
Paulina let Júlia go. Júlia stood up, straightened her T-shirt, and poured herself a glass of water from the tap built into the refrigerator door.
“What’s that?”
“A wedding present. Alain really wanted it, and we got it. It’s American.”
“I’ve never seen one. Can champagne pour out of it?”
They laughed again.
“When are you leaving?”
Paulina looked at the kitchen clock. It reminded her of the one she’d seen at Brasserie Lipp on the night of Picasso. She noticed that as soon as she was away from Jean-Pierre, everything reminded her of him.
“You can call me a taxi now. I’d rather get to the airport with time to spare. I’d rather waste away there than have to worry about rushing. Order it for . . . I don’t know. Have them send one as soon as it’s available.”
“Is Manuel still that afraid of flying?”
“Who?”
“Manuel, your husband.”
“Oh, Manuel, right.”
“You’re shameless. I don’t even recognize you.”
“‘Afraid’ is an understatement. He always says the same thing to me: ‘If you ever find out I died in a plane crash, it’s because an airplane fell on top of me.’”
Why on earth had she had to bring up her husband and all his misery? It really hadn’t been necessary. Júlia picked up the phone and, from memory, dialed the number of the Croissy-sur-Seine taxi dispatch.
“Pour aller à l’aéroport, oui.” She covered the microphone to speak to Paulina. “To Orly, right?” She took her hand off the microphone. “Oui, oui.”
Once she hung up, she launched into the interrogation, racing against the clock.
“So? How was it?”
“Really good.”
“Really good?”
“Really, really good. What a man, Júlia. He’s attentive, he’s intelligent, he knows how to talk. He can talk about the city, art, life. He talks about drops of honey, and leaves you . . . Wow. And he’s so tactful, you know. And he knows how to always make you feel good.”
“You look like you’ve had a lot of orgasms.”
“Don’t be gross, honey.”
“Fine, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” She was shamelessly inquisitive. “But come on, what happened?”
“I’ve already told you. Really good. I picked up earlier that you were asking about sex.”
“‘Really good’ means he’s a man who’s discovered there’s more to things than penetration?”
“That’s it, yes. Jean-Pierre, the discoverer. And he’s patented it.”
“And I introduced him to you.”
“I don’t understand how a man like that is alone. And it seems he likes it. He’s not exactly young anymore.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he’s obsessed with butterflies?”
“No, no.”
“Don’t pretend. You knew?”
“No . . .”
“He goes all around the world looking for books. Not just butterflies. He inherited his grandfather’s cases and keeps them all there in a room like a museum, with special lighting.
But it doesn’t bother him at all to get on a plane and go to the ends of the earth to look for a book he thinks exists only in that corner of the world. ”
“Did he ask you to go with him?”
“Me?”
“Yes, what’s wrong?”
“Júlia, please . . .”
“Did he ask you?”
“How could he ask me that?” As she said it, she realized it stung a little.
“Did you say goodbye?”
“What?”
“Did you already say goodbye.”
“Yes, yes. Yes, of course.”
“And?”
“Well. What do you want me to say? It was sad, happy . . . serene, I don’t know. It was a bit like . . . We agreed we’d write to each other.”
“You’ll write to each other?”
“And this is where I have to ask you a favor. As a cousin, as a sister, as a confidante. We agreed he wouldn’t call me, at home, not there. I asked him not to . . .”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think? With Isabel hovering all day, she’d ask too many questions. Too risky.”
“You’re more worried about the maid than your husband. That’s really good.”
“We agreed that he should write to me here, if he writes to me.”
“But?”
“Does that bother you?”
“No, no . . .” Yes, it did. “It’s a little . . .”
The gardener knocked on the kitchen window. His knuckles were hairy and black, like a chimpanzee’s.
“Julie, I’m off.” The man spoke, one boot in the garden and the other in the kitchen.
“Everything is okay. I thought I saw some aphids on the apple tree so I sprayed a bit of that stuff, just in case, but I don’t think it’ll get any worse.
Maybe it was just a larva. If you don’t need anything else, I’ll see you on Tuesday. ”
“See you on Tuesday at ten.”
“Au revoir.” The gardener said goodbye to Paulina, in awe of her beauty and the cowboy boots she wore for her return to Barcelona. With the boots and new jeans, she was really something.
The chimpanzee hadn’t even made it out through the back gate at the end of the garden when he came back and shouted: “There’s a taxi outside, Julie.”
“Yes, yes, thank you. It’s ours!”
“Okay!”
Paulina ran to the living room, where she had left her two suitcases, closed and already packed. She set them back down on the floor and hugged Julie.
“Little cousin . . .”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. So much. You know that.”
“Take care, you hear? Enjoy time with Alain.”
“Any last advice?”
“Have kids.”
“Another one.”
“Keep things in the bathroom private. Always keep the door closed.”
“Another one . . .”
“Have fun together, but keep your own space . . .”
“I like that one too. One more, quick.”
“Don’t always give in to him whenever he feels like it.”
“Pau!”
They hugged again and exchanged three long kisses, cheek to cheek, a seal of sisterhood, understanding, and a secret.
“I’ll walk you to the door. It’s heavy.”
“Give my regards to Alain and thank him very much. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to him.”
They exchanged two more kisses. Paulina got into the taxi, closed the door, rolled down the window, and blew two more small kisses to Julie.
“Come visit us in Barcelona soon . . .”
The taxi had already pulled away, and Paulina wasn’t able to hear her cousin’s reply. As soon as she spotted the sign marking the exit from Croissy, she coughed lightly so the driver would look up at her in the rearview mirror. She took advantage of the moment when their eyes met.
“Where did they tell you I was going?”
“To Orly, madame. To the airport.”
“Oh—no, no . . . Sorry, there’s been a mistake. My flight doesn’t leave until this afternoon. We need to go to Paris, to the rue du Trésor. A cul-de-sac in Le Marais. Do you know it?”
“Bien s?r. We’ll find it.”
Jean-Pierre came down to unload the suitcases.
“No need, really. I’ll come up. If there’s an elevator . . .” But he was eager to spend every last minute with Pauline.
“What have you been up to?”
“Missing you . . .”
“I was gone for less than four hours, round trip. You’re a real comedian.”
He opened the door to his apartment. On the key ring hung a butterfly.
“I went to the gallery and made lunch for you.”
“I don’t believe it.”
The table was set with a red-and-white checkered Italian tablecloth. They had never sat at it, never laid out a tablecloth. From sofa to kitchen and kitchen to sofa, they had eaten in a few quick bites.
“Did many people come to Anouk?”
“This morning? One tourist who had to use the toilet in an emergency, and lots of gawking.”
“Did you let him in?”
“What would you have done?”
“Told him to look for a bar, a hotel, like everyone else . . .”