12 Fifteen Minutes Before the End of the World #4
Jean-Pierre got up and went into the kitchen.
She listened, trying to guess what was happening in there.
The refrigerator opened. A wine bottle was stubbornly uncorked.
He filled the ice bucket with a clatter that foiled any surprise.
He opened the fridge again and lingered there before closing it again.
He rummaged around in a drawer like he was searching for a tool among ladles and tongs.
A can opener, probably. If she listened closely, she thought she could hear the dry crackle as .
. . A handy man like Jean-Pierre wouldn’t have so much trouble opening a tin.
A little plate—that sound, she recognized.
“Close your eyes—I’m coming over.”
“Done.” She squeezed her eyelids shut.
First he set the ice bucket and two glasses on the table. Then he passed his hand right in front of her nose, like a greeting, to make sure Pauline wasn’t cheating.
“I love you.”
“Can I look?”
“No!” And his steps disappeared back into the kitchen.
He grabbed something and came into the living room, trying not to make noise. He came close to Paulina. His breathing gave him away.
“Don’t open your eyes now of all times.”
“But . . .”
“Trust me.”
She heard him cut something on a plate. It must have been a small coffee saucer based on the light clink.
“Wait with your eyes closed. Open your mouth. Just a little. I’m going to put something in with the knife. Be careful. Okay?”
“And if—”
“Just trust me. You’ll like it, believe me. Don’t worry. When it’s in your mouth, keep your eyes closed. Don’t bite it. Let it melt in your mouth. Okay?”
“Okay,” Paulina said, more nervous than filled with desire.
She scraped the knife with her teeth, hiding her tongue, careful not to cut herself.
“Mmm . . .”
“Don’t open your eyes.”
“It’s foie gras!”
“Savor it. Enjoy all the flavors. Let it melt. Don’t chew. Let it dissolve like a soft caramel.”
She did as he told her. In the meantime, he also slid a small piece into his own mouth and poured two glasses of Riesling.
He didn’t say anything. He watched her taste it with pleasure.
He had gotten Pauline to take note of all the flavors: a slow, fresh flavor; a faint aftertaste of bitter fruit, tobacco, salt, little drops of fat; a vague hint of chocolate melting, little by little—unctuous, smooth—dissolving between her tongue and palate.
“It’s delicious, Jean-Pierre.” She opened her eyes. He was waiting with a glass in hand, ready to bring it over to her. He sat down beside her.
“It’s goose. Smoother than duck. I like it more.”
“When I met you I thought you were one of those bachelors who doesn’t even have a teaspoon at home . . .”
“Hidden talents. You can’t take advantage of me, but it’s one of life’s pleasures.”
“So this is lunch, my love?”
He cut her another little cube that Paulina let melt on her tongue. Instinctively, she closed her eyes again, and from then on she always closed them when she ate foie gras, to concentrate on the flavors and to remember Jean-Pierre’s surprise. The man who knew how to make every instant special.
“You’ve had home field advantage these days. That’s not fair. You’ve taken me places, shown me things, surprised me with the foie gras, and the wine, and your music, and the drops of honey. You must think I don’t have—I don’t know—initiative. That I’m boring.”
“Then stay. Stay here and show me you have hidden talents too. Stay with me.”
Paulina covered her face with her hands.
They had broached the conversation both of them knew had been coming.
It was the first time he had said “Stay.” She wanted him to say it.
She longed for it with all her might. But she was afraid.
Afraid to hear those words—and even more afraid that Jean-Pierre, prudently or because he was happy for their love to have an expiration date, might never say them at all.
“Stay,” he repeated, more emphatically, resolute.
“Don’t do this to me, Jean-Pierre.”
“Stay, stay with me. We’ll live here or wherever you want. We’ll work together at the gallery if you want, we’ll travel the world, or we’ll stay here forever. We’ll do whatever you want . . .”
“Don’t say that . . . You know that I . . .”
“Of course I’m saying it, Pau. This time I’m going to think about myself.
Now it’s my turn. I’ve helped enough people, I’ve been burned enough, I know what it’s like to lose what you love and never see it again.
I know that opportunities like ours come only once—or they never come at all. Let’s risk it all.”
“You’re a bachelor. You wouldn’t be able to get used to . . .”
“Don’t use me as your excuse. I know what I want. I know the only thing I want to happen to me over the next forty years. Let’s risk it together.”
“I’ve got a whole life already, I . . .” She laid her head on his belly. “Jean-Pierre, my love, don’t say it again. Don’t say it twice.”
“Three times, as many as it takes, if you tell me I have a chance . . .”
Jean-Pierre bent to kiss her forehead. He waited for an answer. But he sensed Paulina didn’t want to say anything else. He waited, tousling her bangs back and forth, like a pendulum of a clock slowing its speed.
“I understand it’s easier for me. I also understand that you have a life already, but that’s exactly what this is about.
About life. We’re given one, just one, and we have to make the most out of it.
You’re too young to drag around, your whole life, the sorrow of not doing what you wanted.
We love each other too much to scold ourselves forever for not being together, if that’s what we want. ”
“What I want? How can you say that?” She lifted her head again and looked at him in a lover’s desperation. “Of course I want it. Don’t doubt that, please. Whatever happens, never doubt that.”
“Then . . .”
“It wouldn’t work out, Jean-Pierre. It’s been four days. You’re used to being alone. I have a daughter . . .”
“Bring her . . .”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Bring her. I’ve already thought about that . . .”
“It’s not the same. You and I here with a little girl . . .”
“I already know what it’s like to live with a little girl. I was a good father . . .”
A thought suddenly stabbed Paulina, sharp as a needle.
What if Jean-Pierre was proposing they settle there to recover a daughter, and not for her?
She tore the thought out of her mind forever.
She couldn’t afford to fall into the trap of neurons working overtime.
Not for an instant did she want to entertain—even remotely—the idea that Jean-Pierre needed Gina to recover from losing Monique.
Her love couldn’t be that twisted. Jean-Pierre couldn’t be one of those people.
For a second, she noticed he was soft, but she couldn’t be weak in that moment.
“My daughter aside—I don’t want to drag her into this conversation—living together isn’t the same as four perfect days.
‘Perfect’ meaning ‘flawless, unsurpassable, unforgettable,’ but it’s only been four days.
I’m telling you this with all my heart. That’s how I experienced it.
For you”—she didn’t want it to sound accusatory—“what have these four days meant?”
“It’s not the days. It’s you. My love, my salvation.
We don’t know what will happen later. Life has many periods, and we don’t know what’s waiting for us even tomorrow.
This isn’t a painting, not a finished work of art, framed and hung.
We can paint it together, with whatever colors you want.
I—now that we have each other, now that we’ve found each other—I don’t see why we should set limits. ”
“Jean-Pierre . . .”
“Whatever happens going forward, we know that you and I have saved each other. We met so that we could save each other. I’m sure of it.
I’m in love. I know what it means to be in love for the first time, and that’s something we’ll always have.
I’ve opened my heart, and I’m so happy. I didn’t know it was possible to feel all this.
I thought that many years ago, maybe in college, I had been in love, but now I realize that this is what love is.
A new feeling, truer than any other. Incomparable, unmistakable.
Of course, I’ve known other women, married women, attractive women, sophisticated women.
I don’t know what your cousin may have said about me, but no one ever meant anything.
What have you, only you, succeeded in doing, my love?
I had to wait forty-five years to know what it was like to be in love.
Let’s celebrate life; let’s celebrate it together. That’s the greatest miracle.”
Paulina, who didn’t want to say anything she might regret, struggled not to let herself be swept away by Jean-Pierre’s fervor.
“My father used to say that his parents, my grandparents, said ‘I love you’ so often that, in the end, they accepted it like it was nothing, like a ‘good morning’ or ‘good night.’ Emotionless. They grew old and lived together all their lives, but their feelings had worn down . . .”
“We’re not ninety years old . . .”
“My father said that ‘I love you’ is the only phrase that has to be said feeling each and every letter. And I realize—”
“That he’s right. Until yesterday I hadn’t told you I love you.
And I said it deliberately. And you said it to me, in French.
And since yesterday, every time we’ve said ‘I love you,’ and we haven’t counted, we’ve said it feeling every letter.
And we’ve accepted it like it was the first time or a last wish. ”
“I know. And I feel the same way. It’s like that, Jean-Pierre, and I wish you could go inside my head so you could see that I feel exactly the same way you do.”
“But?”
“But.”
“What can I do to break through your armor, Pauline? I’ll always love you with the height of emotion of these days. We’ll earn our happiness together. You have to desire and work for happiness. Everything has a cost, and fighting for love costs much more.”
“Jean-Pierre, I wish that I could . . .”