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By Root 2141 0

like everyone else. She slept in a dormitory, took her meals in the common dining hall, participated in the various activities of the home, and was given the same pocket money as we were. In short, she had the same privileges, the same duties. But of course she added others. She worked more, demanded less, and never complained. She was always the first to show up for rehearsals and was always prepared. Yet we quarreled incessantly, with or without cause. It became second nature to both of us. She challenged most of my decisions and choices. Though friendly enough with the others, she stiffened at the very sight of me, barely deigning to smile hello. No matter what I said, she would grouse. She didn’t agree with the schedule, the program, the casting. She claimed I was both stubborn and lax, too authoritarian and too permissive. In other words, the chemistry between us was terrible. She didn’t like me. That was clear. The whole choir thought we were divided on everything; we always disagreed. When I said, “Yes,” she would roll her eyes and say, “Oy.” When I said, “You’re not concentrating,” she would reply, “How do you know?” When I said, “I can’t hear you,” she would say, “You’re not listening.”

The trouble was I loved her. Not physically or erotically, or at least I didn’t think so, but not platonically, the way I loved Niny, either. I can honestly say that the fantasies I came to know later I did not have then. Or if I did, they passed through me without a trace. I might even lie and say it was not her body I loved—but then, why did I get so excited when my shoulder brushed hers? The truth is I loved her self-assured walk and the way she ran her fingers through her dark hair; I liked the way she laughed (rarely) and the way she listened (even more rarely), and the way she glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was following her when she trotted upstairs. I loved her for herself, and to convince myself that I was capable of loving, of yearning, of living, of existing for somebody else. I loved her because she was my first love.

Of course, in those days I fell in love “for the first time” more than once. Hanna was not the only girl I loved. There was also Niny. Even when I was attracted to other girls, I couldn’t tear myself away from Niny. In time I became more lucid and courageous where she was concerned. I learned to deal with it, as the saying goes. I now know what I felt then. Love is no longer taboo, not a vague, murky sensation, but a very precise pain. In other words: Niny meant something in my life. Naturally, she didn’t know it. If she had, I would have felt the need to leave Ambloy or later Versailles, though for where I don’t know. But for me this was no more than a kind of adolescent game of hide-and-seek, and since it was a game, innocent enough, I allowed myself to play it elsewhere as well, feigning indifference to all women, young and otherwise, that I passed in the street, in the métro, and of course in Versailles. But any woman at all could turn my head if she wanted to. How often did I feel a disturbing yen to walk up to some stranger and tell her, “Love me!” But I lacked the courage, and the experience. To conceal my confusion I wore a Basque beret that was too big for me and struck the pose of the dedicated student devoted only to his courses, the religious neophyte who loves God alone. I remember an encounter from those days. I was on the train from Paris to Versailles, sitting opposite a very fit, athletic-looking woman of about thirty. She was reading a newspaper, I a book. Our knees touched, and suddenly I couldn’t read anymore. Our eyes met. She smiled at me and I thought I would faint from happiness.

“Why were you smiling at me?” she whispered.

“Excuse me? I was smiling at you? Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“No,” I said, “not me,” and plunged back into my book, powerless to prevent the infernal dance of the letters on the page. I felt dizzy, but at the same time I was afraid she would move her knee away. I wondered how to do what I was supposed to do, what I wanted to do. Fortunately, my neighbor