13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [23]
When they reach the door, he gives back all the bags and smiles widely at her, revealing that his top left canine is rotten, almost brown. “A little kiss, Madam?” he queries softly while leaning forward and pointing to his cheek with his index finger. “A little kiss, Madam,” he states this time, “just right here on the cheek.”
Louise hesitates for a moment at such a command, but decides that it is a reasonable fee for the services rendered. She gives him a peck on the apple of the cheek at the exact place he has pointed. He says thank you, and leaves.
Sentir et ressentir
THIS DAY (TUESDAY) XAVIER Langlais feels peculiar: he has received a curious letter. He is not particularly disturbed by it because, though the letter is anonymous, the content is not threatening. It is downright intriguing, if a bit unexpected.
He checked the mailbox on the way out to school; since the building he lives in is just around the corner from the post office, it is at the beginning of the mailman’s route, and thus he receives his mail first thing in the morning. There was only one envelope, addressed to him. It felt so light that he thought perhaps there was nothing inside, but there was: just a sheet of poor-quality paper with a scrawled message from Lord Knows Whom, but clearly a woman.
The message contained the word “adultery” and, since this word does not leave him indifferent, he put the slip of paper back in its envelope and into the breast pocket of his suit jacket instead of throwing it away. All day, while he teaches, the letter stays there in his jacket, against his warm body.
HE GIVES AN INTERESTING lecture to his last class that day. He reads aloud a prose poem by Charles Baudelaire titled “A Hemisphere in a Mane of Hair.” He asks the boys what they think. They say they think they like it but cannot be more specific, so Xavier tries to help them along. “The wording in this poem is such a delight. Do you see? It means so many different things—there are so many images. They blend together to be anything you like. You see right away, he says he plunges his face in the beloved woman’s hair, as if he is diving into water. Then when he moves the hair around with his hand, he stirs memories into the air, thus, the smell of the hair is also memories. Isn’t it odd?”
Xavier pauses for a moment, lets his eyes take in the room. One boy shrugs. One boy nods. He plows on. “And then in the second stanza, he says that he sees things in her hair, and hears things. Even better, he smells them. Where is he going with this? He is off somewhere. Right here, he says that his soul travels on its perfume as the soul of other men on music! The hair is water—and music—I am puzzled. Are you not?”
Again, he looks up. They are all quiet this time, but they are looking at him. He has a feeling they are paying attention; after all, they are good boys.
“Then afterward, look how far he travels! All this seafaring imagery in distant climes! We are invited to experience the saturated blue of water and sky, the songs of sailors, the scent of flowers, the humid heat of a tropical climate. Can you not feel it? Picture all the things your imagination can fill in when you are swept so far away. Since this poem was written probably eighty years ago, you can picture that the hull of the ship you’re on is wood. Can you hear it creak as you sway on the waves? Where are you? What hemisphere is this?”
Now they are interested—he can tell. The boy who nodded before is leaning forward in his seat and is utterly still. There is very little fidgeting in the room, and this pleases him.
“And in the penultimate stanza, what is he breathing in that ardent hearth of the woman’s hair? Tobacco and sugar, and what else? Opium! Opium, dear boys. You are in the Orient now. You are so far that you can smell what he tells you to: the tar, musk, and coconut oil. But what manner of scent is this? Is the musk the glandular secretions on the woman’s scalp? And this word tar?14 This must be what they seal the hull of the ship with to render it seaworthy,