Leaving Madeleine - Part 4
Madeleine and I arrived at the restaurant last; a cozy, affordable establishment in the ninth agrandissement.
With the exception of Marie-Claire, our dinner companions were all friends of Madeleine’s and all students at La Sorbonne. We had a real united nations to dine with. Omar, an Egyptian. Estelle, a Jew. Patrick, a Christian (not only in word, but in deed). And Luc, who could not be described adequately by his religious affiliation or ethnicity, but rather by his claim to have read the entire Comédie Humaine – an accomplishment that, if true, would have endeared him to me, if only he wasn’t so oft to repeat it. Without fail, within a half-hour of any conversation, Luc would inevitably allude to his conquest of Balzac’s oeuvre. Moreover, every opinion or thought expressed by Luc, regardless of subject, seemed to find its origin in this story or that of the staggering collection.
I once found the occasion to quote Aquinas to him: “Beware the man of one book.” Either the insinuation was too subtle, or Luc was very clever, because he actually wrote the quote down in his notebook and suggested a similar excerpt from Eugenie Grandet provided the same lesson, promising to provide me with the exact quote the next time we met. What did manage to upset him was the fact that, of the entire series, I had only ever read halfway through Lost Illusions and put it down. The truth is, I always felt awful about not finishing the novel and had every intention of completing it. I decided however not to divulge this information to Luc and derived an ironic pleasure in the ability of my failure to get under his skin.
Marie-Claire had been with Luc approximately eight months. She was part of the group before they started dating and Luc wore her on his arm perhaps a little too proudly, which was a blemish to his character, not to her appeal. The truth of the matter was, when she was a little younger, Marie-Claire was very pretty, but a little dull. Now that she was a little older, she wasn’t as pretty but still just as dull. Up until a couple of years ago, she was one of those women who could get by all together on her beauty. Grades, employment, relationships, everything would fall nicely into place. Though she harnessed the advantage quite well, she never grew cruel or spoiled or demanding. As she approached her thirties, a few visible signs of age developed on her face and body. She gained the tiniest bit of weight. Developed almost imperceptible lines near her eyes and mouth. People, shallow as we are, took notice. She was undoubtedly still more attractive then the majority of women, but the gap had slightly closed. Women, subconsciously for the most part, rejoiced. Men were still kind and overcompensating, but less so and less frequently. Marie-Claire was not oblivious to these changes in interactions and began a concerted effort to develop her intellect. It was pleasant to see. Here and there she would ask me for a reading recommendation, which I was happy to supply. For her birthday I even gave her a couple of magazine subscriptions. She would read everything immediately. After the first time she asked me if I cared to talk about the books I suggested. “No,” I said, “but keep them in mind for later.” I think she understood perfectly. Luc, who always had an eye for Marie-Claire, presumably took notice of our growing relationship and, I believe, began to consider me as competition. The threat jump-started his efforts to gain her hand and it was obvious that it was a qualified victory for him in the unstated match between us. I wanted to tell her I was sure she could do better, however I kept the thought to myself.
The conversation, as was customary with this group, turned to politics. In particular, and perhaps unavoidably, to the Israeli-Palestinan conflict. Although everyone, Jennifer and Omar especially, remained cordial, I decided to remain silent. There were no surprises regarding opinions. Madeleine and Omar emphasized the plight of the Palestinians. Jennifer and Patrick sided with the security of Israel. Luc remained neutral, citing the atrocities of both parties. And Marie-Claire also remained silent, though I suspect for different reasons than my own.
“Evan, you’re very quite tonight,” Estelle announced.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Yes, what kind of American are you? A supporter of Israel or of Palestine?” Omar added. He liked to call me American. I never bothered to correct him.
“We’re not going to solve anything here,” I said.
“No, but surely you have an opinion,” Omar pressed. I sensed Madeleine leaning forward. I was the only one who sensed it.
I decided to be clever. “I’d like to sleep with a Jewish girl,” came out of my mouth.
Madeleine leaned back.
“So you’re on the side of Israel,” Patrick concluded.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just, I’ve already slept with an Arab.”
Patrick did not like the response.
“I’m not Arab,” Madeleine said.
“I know,” I responded. She punched me in the arm.
“Do you want to change the topic of conversation?” Estelle asked.
“No. I don’t mind,” I said. It was the truth.
“I don’t believe you,” Patrick said. “I know you have an opinion.
“I do. But, I don’t know…”
“Tell us.”
“Okay. But this is only one side of me. I want everybody to understand that. There are other sides, but there’s this side and lately I’m leaning towards it.”
“Okay.”
They waited.
“I think, if they want to fight so badly, they should just be left to fight. To the death, or to absolute surrender. No Iran. No Hezbollah. No U.S. Nobody. Just Israel versus Palestine. Kill until there is no will left to fight. Or no one left to do the fighting. Like Hiroshima.”
The table fell silent for a few moments. Not what was expected from me I gathered. Perhaps I revealed too much.
“They already did that,” Patrick broke in.
“Not to the finish,” I decided not to retreat.
“But Israel has so much. They would crush Palestine,” Omar said.
“Then they should stop fighting.”
Thankfully, desert came and saved the evening. The conversation changed and Middle East peace was left to other minds and other armies for the rest of the evening.
With the exception of Marie-Claire, our dinner companions were all friends of Madeleine’s and all students at La Sorbonne. We had a real united nations to dine with. Omar, an Egyptian. Estelle, a Jew. Patrick, a Christian (not only in word, but in deed). And Luc, who could not be described adequately by his religious affiliation or ethnicity, but rather by his claim to have read the entire Comédie Humaine – an accomplishment that, if true, would have endeared him to me, if only he wasn’t so oft to repeat it. Without fail, within a half-hour of any conversation, Luc would inevitably allude to his conquest of Balzac’s oeuvre. Moreover, every opinion or thought expressed by Luc, regardless of subject, seemed to find its origin in this story or that of the staggering collection.
I once found the occasion to quote Aquinas to him: “Beware the man of one book.” Either the insinuation was too subtle, or Luc was very clever, because he actually wrote the quote down in his notebook and suggested a similar excerpt from Eugenie Grandet provided the same lesson, promising to provide me with the exact quote the next time we met. What did manage to upset him was the fact that, of the entire series, I had only ever read halfway through Lost Illusions and put it down. The truth is, I always felt awful about not finishing the novel and had every intention of completing it. I decided however not to divulge this information to Luc and derived an ironic pleasure in the ability of my failure to get under his skin.
Marie-Claire had been with Luc approximately eight months. She was part of the group before they started dating and Luc wore her on his arm perhaps a little too proudly, which was a blemish to his character, not to her appeal. The truth of the matter was, when she was a little younger, Marie-Claire was very pretty, but a little dull. Now that she was a little older, she wasn’t as pretty but still just as dull. Up until a couple of years ago, she was one of those women who could get by all together on her beauty. Grades, employment, relationships, everything would fall nicely into place. Though she harnessed the advantage quite well, she never grew cruel or spoiled or demanding. As she approached her thirties, a few visible signs of age developed on her face and body. She gained the tiniest bit of weight. Developed almost imperceptible lines near her eyes and mouth. People, shallow as we are, took notice. She was undoubtedly still more attractive then the majority of women, but the gap had slightly closed. Women, subconsciously for the most part, rejoiced. Men were still kind and overcompensating, but less so and less frequently. Marie-Claire was not oblivious to these changes in interactions and began a concerted effort to develop her intellect. It was pleasant to see. Here and there she would ask me for a reading recommendation, which I was happy to supply. For her birthday I even gave her a couple of magazine subscriptions. She would read everything immediately. After the first time she asked me if I cared to talk about the books I suggested. “No,” I said, “but keep them in mind for later.” I think she understood perfectly. Luc, who always had an eye for Marie-Claire, presumably took notice of our growing relationship and, I believe, began to consider me as competition. The threat jump-started his efforts to gain her hand and it was obvious that it was a qualified victory for him in the unstated match between us. I wanted to tell her I was sure she could do better, however I kept the thought to myself.
The conversation, as was customary with this group, turned to politics. In particular, and perhaps unavoidably, to the Israeli-Palestinan conflict. Although everyone, Jennifer and Omar especially, remained cordial, I decided to remain silent. There were no surprises regarding opinions. Madeleine and Omar emphasized the plight of the Palestinians. Jennifer and Patrick sided with the security of Israel. Luc remained neutral, citing the atrocities of both parties. And Marie-Claire also remained silent, though I suspect for different reasons than my own.
“Evan, you’re very quite tonight,” Estelle announced.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Yes, what kind of American are you? A supporter of Israel or of Palestine?” Omar added. He liked to call me American. I never bothered to correct him.
“We’re not going to solve anything here,” I said.
“No, but surely you have an opinion,” Omar pressed. I sensed Madeleine leaning forward. I was the only one who sensed it.
I decided to be clever. “I’d like to sleep with a Jewish girl,” came out of my mouth.
Madeleine leaned back.
“So you’re on the side of Israel,” Patrick concluded.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just, I’ve already slept with an Arab.”
Patrick did not like the response.
“I’m not Arab,” Madeleine said.
“I know,” I responded. She punched me in the arm.
“Do you want to change the topic of conversation?” Estelle asked.
“No. I don’t mind,” I said. It was the truth.
“I don’t believe you,” Patrick said. “I know you have an opinion.
“I do. But, I don’t know…”
“Tell us.”
“Okay. But this is only one side of me. I want everybody to understand that. There are other sides, but there’s this side and lately I’m leaning towards it.”
“Okay.”
They waited.
“I think, if they want to fight so badly, they should just be left to fight. To the death, or to absolute surrender. No Iran. No Hezbollah. No U.S. Nobody. Just Israel versus Palestine. Kill until there is no will left to fight. Or no one left to do the fighting. Like Hiroshima.”
The table fell silent for a few moments. Not what was expected from me I gathered. Perhaps I revealed too much.
“They already did that,” Patrick broke in.
“Not to the finish,” I decided not to retreat.
“But Israel has so much. They would crush Palestine,” Omar said.
“Then they should stop fighting.”
Thankfully, desert came and saved the evening. The conversation changed and Middle East peace was left to other minds and other armies for the rest of the evening.
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