FIC : four days of dialogue
[Title:] Four Days of Dialogue
[Setting:] AU. Modern day.
[Character(s):] Mireille & Jean Louis, alternating POVs
[Summary:] When she's away, they are brought closer still.
[Author's Notes:] Collaboration project, unreadability!mun and population-ctrl!mun.
05.09.11
sent : 10.05 ][ received : 11.07
are u there yet
voice message | sent : 10.15 ][ received : 11.08
“Call me when you get there.”
“The public will perceive it as a breach of honesty, State Minister. So will the Opposition.” Potos smiles, his glass of water still untouched on the oval meeting table. “We’re very concerned, you know. After all, questioning the integrity of your administration is the last thing anyone wants to do - “
“Potos.” Jean Louis doesn’t waste his energy mirroring that smile, his attention split between exasperated anger at the man’s smug demeanour and the uncanny silence of his iPhone. Even with a slight delay, she should have landed by now. “If you couldn’t question my decisions, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself all day. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Not even a quick SMS. An update. A two-minute call, for god’s sake.
For all he knows, the plane could have crashed.
“I assure you,” says Potos, his eyebrows rising in mock amusement, “I would rather spend my time dealing with politics.”
At that, Jean Louis gives him an irritated look. Reaches for his phone just in time to hear the loud, bell-like chime, audio on max volume today because, well. Circumstances. He glances at the screen. Finally. 1 message received. Reading it over, he adds, somewhat distractedly, “Then by all means, get out of my office.” Starts typing up a message, eyebrows furrowed.
“Perhaps I should!” Potos’ voice rises noticeably as he leans back, the black leather chair creaking at the movement. “My concerns might easily be enough to gather majority in Parliament, Jean Louis; even with your precious Liberals, this could endanger your continuous efforts towards privatisation. The voters aren’t as enamoured with your no-tax strategies as they used to be.”
Another chime. He writes a quick reply while Potos takes a break to breathe, his face looking slightly pink from anger at this point. Before he can continue with his tirade, however, Jean Louis looks up at him, managing to mask his impatience in an almost friendly sort of blankness. “You know I’ll listen to your concerns when they matter. People have no reason to think otherwise and neither do you, even if you’d rather just complain and be obnoxious.” He holds up a hand when Potos makes to interrupt him. “Your issues are void. We aren’t breaking any promises because the stated time line is basically endless. Perhaps public hospital workers aren’t getting better wages or equipment in 2011, but it’s registered in the budget plans for 2013. The associated numbers aren’t up for debate, nor will they ever be unless the Opposition chooses to go against their own policy. If you think about it, Potos - “ He picks up the phone, running through his contacts quickly and hitting up her number, “- this is actually what we always promise. We preach efficiency and security. Not magic.”
“And meanwhile,” says Potos, teeth gritted, “the banks are celebrating.”
“Certainly. As promised.”He turns the chair partly towards the window, large glass panels providing a magnificent view over the valley. Waits as the call goes through, his foot tapping against the floor quickly, erratically. Meetings with Potos are, at best, wasteful. When the man called upon him for an impromptu meeting today, of all days, Jean Louis had almost been prepared to make arrangements out of town, just to thwart his efforts. Sure, they would have been boring, impulsively useless arrangements but it would have given Potos a few hours to re-think his supposed ideological indignity.
It’s one thing to deal with that sort of thing when Mireille isn’t busy, frolicking around with some British intellectuals. Too enchanted with precious academia, aren’t they, to understand that they’re depriving him of her company completely unnecessarily. Leaving her in danger, too, because Mireille refuses to travel with the proper security measures. He’s arranged for something anyway, of course, without telling her; but all the same. He hates it. She could have stayed home. Ignored the invitation. Stuck to one night instead of three. It’s ridiculous, this need for... exposition. Generosity. Whatever drives her to leave him like this without a thought for the consequences. It’s not like she needs to travel to make herself heard. Can’t they just read the books? Make a phone call? He’s married to her, what’s their excuse?
All of this is on his lips and he’s more than ready to throw it in her face, to make her blush and stammer and come home with the next, available flight. When she finally picks up, however, he’s forgotten how to complain, the sound of Potos exiting his office in anger little more than a background commodity.
sent : 11.18 ][
My plane was delayed. The university has provided me with a ride; the driver informing me that our arrival in Canterbury should be within the next hour and a half.
sent : 11.19 ][
british airways. waste of time. at a meeting now, call u in five
sent: 11.23 ][
I’m on the motorway, Jean Louis. Surely your call can wait until I’ve arrived.
sent : 11.24 ][
potos wont mind
outgoing call | 11.25 ][ 5 minutes
Once they turn off the motorway, the countryside of Kent exhibits an aesthetically attractive arrangement of flat terrain, basins of clear water reflecting the bright September sky and roads roofed over by tree crowns in the colours of the season. Orange and red. Bordeaux. Fashion is never without its influences. Naturally. Morning rush hour has waned gradually over the past 45 minutes; the nearer noon has drawn. Only narrowly avoided in its entirety due to the unscheduled delay that had served as her official introduction to British Airways. Substantiating Jean Louis’ statement, however pointless the critique had been. In contrast, the university has lived up to its reputation, hasn’t it? Superbly so - the driver waiting for her at the designated location, near the international terminal’s main entrance hall. Along with an endless row of the iconic London cabs.
“You’ve been to Canterbury before, Mrs. Duroc?” When the chauffeur makes a dedicated attempt at catching her gaze in the rear view mirror, she grants him the victory of success out of courtesy, mainly. Preparing to conduct these lectures has drained her of any real desire to converse, despite the many weeks of grounding study having strengthened her English skills significantly. A much needed improvement, as she had come to discover.
“I have not.”
As if on cue, he initiates a monologue on the towns they are passing through or the villages passing them by, depending entirely on the perceiver’s point of view. There is no need to interrupt him; to inform him of how she has already educated herself out in the history of the area, with special attention to the university, of course. At best, it would be interpreted as a gesture of brusqueness. Poor manners posing the more likely reading, isn’t that so? Seeing that his dialect hinders a smooth translation as well - his pronunciation of the letter R too often collapsing into a sound much more reminiscent of V - she eventually looks out the window again. Confining her responses to basic phrases of concurrence and interest. Neither does he demand further participation.
Despite the frantic tone of his messages and the offhanded manner in which he had dismissed Potos’ presence, Jean Louis had sounded surprisingly pleasant upon calling her. It is a well-established and altogether familiar routine, isn’t it? When she is gone. On business most often, because her private life is so closely interlinked with Luxembourg that she sees no reason to seek her personal gratification elsewhere. They visit Paris, Brussels and Berlin every so often, together - Jean Louis and she, but for entirely different… purposes. No need for her to pause at the observation. Instead she leafs through L’Avaleur de Feu, random phrases jumping out at her, figuratively. The project she is currently working on is a comprehensive analysis of Anise Koltz’ portrayal of domesticity. There is no road longer than to you. This time she does pause.
They’ve been married for almost five years now. Despite everything without any closer definition, she still harbours no desire to leave him. Not even briefly, as in the present case. Yet, they are individuals and in between that which comprises the constitution of their togetherness, they have incorporated their independence. Really, though, he seems insistent on her unwavering dedication. Needing it; masked in a firm fixation on control. She does not object to it generally, only to its specific manifestations, because she doesn’t truly mind, does she?
Had it been a self-contradiction, she might have. Would have, but it has little to do with inconsistency and all to do with differences. The contemporary understanding of relationships seems phobic in regards to dissimilarity. Although the notion of likeness holds no meaning without its opposite. To be without -- is without appeal.
The latest and apparently last text was received thirty minutes ago. Silence. The driver, too, has stopped talking.
_____
sent : 18.07 ][
this pizza is ridiculous
sent : 18.10 ][
Neither is British cuisine in general worth too generous a critique.
sent : 18.11 ][
shepherds pie?
sent : 18.17 ][
Indeed. The mash would have fared much better without this overabundance of cheese. The campus restaurant, however, is not without its charm.
sent : 18.18 ][
campus restaurant.
sent : 18.20 ][
why
sent : 18.21 ][
thats disgusting
sent : 18.30 ][
I’ve been accommodated in one of the faculty staff apartments.
sent : 18.35 ][
what
image571.jpg attached | sent : 18.37 ][
It features a study with a view of the main building.
sent : 19.00 ][
spoke to the head of faculty. theres a suite in the abode at your disposal.
sent: 19.01 ][
Unnecessarily so.
sent : 19.02 ][
my wife isnt staying in some old campus crack joint
outgoing call | 19.05 ][ 7 minutes
sent : 19.17 ][
call me when u get there
sent : 19.50 ][
The desk is insufficient. There is no reason to waste our breaths discussing this fact - we’ve spoken already.
sent : 19.58 ][
theyre bringing u a bigger one
sent : 20.01 ][
And now it has resumed its originally intended function in the reception hall.
sent : 20.05 ][
whats wrong with it?
sent : 20.11 ][
They need it downstairs, I’m certain. I shall be conducting my preparations and research at the university’s premises.
sent : 20.12 ][
as you say
_____
sent : 22.30 ][
Hopefully you are home at this point.
sent : 22.31 ][
parliament
sent : 22.33 ][
Do try not to keep your colleagues from their families, merely because I happen to be unavailable. To you.
sent : 22.34 ][
they got off at nineteen. marcel is still around
sent : 22.57 ][
How reassuring.
sent : 23.00 ][
your choice to be international
sent : 23.10 ][
I’m retreating for the night. My first lecture is at nine. This room you’ve so vehemently insisted on comes with an alarm clock.
06.09.11
sent : 00.30 ][ received : 06.45
fine sleep well
sent : 07.30 ][
Unless you are otherwise engaged, I shall call you once my lecture is over. Around noon.
sent : 07.32 ][
meetings until thirteen. good luck
sent : 07.33 ][
Thank you.
_____
sent : 13.05 ][
I am aware you are busy, but I wanted to inform you that I’ve had the mahogany desk reinstated in my hotel room.
sent : 13.25 ][
of course. flight leaving in five minutes, writing u asap
sent : 13.40 ][
Your official calendar does not make mention of any business abroad.
_____
sent : 16.30 ][
good lecture?
sent : 17.00 ][
The ensuing discussion was exceedingly dedicated. The British students are impressively well educated out in the connection between literary commentary and politics.
sent : 17.02 ][
p sure they didnt understand what u said
sent : 17.10 ][
My English requires some improvement. I am not adept in regards to the political jargon.
sent : 17.11 ][
not the point ;-)
sent : 17.12 ][
You are not usually so artistically inclined.
sent : 17.13 ][
:-)
sent : 17.15 ][
As far as I recall, you have a dictionary of political terms in English at your office, yes?
sent : 17.16 ][
y
sent : 17.18 ][
I take it that this isn’t an abbreviation of the interrogative pronoun.
sent : 17.18 ][
n
sent : 17.25 ][
If it’s possible, I would ask to borrow it.
sent : 17.26 ][
come home & get it
sent : 17.30 ][
Carl Wadd has made dinner reservations at the Vineyard Restaurant. At six.
sent : 17.31 ][
carl who?
sent : 17.31 ][
never mind
sent : 17.32 ][
just blow him off
sent : 17.35 ][
He is the leading professor of media communication. We are both married, rendering sexual favours of that nature highly inappropriate.
sent : 17.36 ][
Mireille
sent : 17.40 ][
Undoubtedly you don’t need to be reminded that most men enjoy oral sex more than you do.
sent : 17.41 ][
planes leaving in ten. have fun
sent : 17.42 ][
Jean Louis.
sent : 17.43 ][
what
sent : 17.44 ][
It was meant as a joke, naturally.
sent : 17.50 ][
of course. bad day. talk to u later
_____
sent : 20.50 ][
Do you intend to spend another night in your office?
sent : 20.58 ][
carl wadd is really old
sent : 21.03 ][
Age equals experience. You, of all people, should know.
sent : 21.15 ][
man’s in his prime, ok and i’m not talking about mister sacking balls
sent : 21.16 ][
Excuse me?
sent : 21.19 ][
aekgjalhg kawjg ..; akelkg
sent : 21.20 ][
marcel is an idiot. carl wadd is old and wrinkly. we both lose
sent : 21.25 ][
Since you can’t see me, I believe it’s highly necessary I tell you that I am currently raising my eyebrows at all the preceding texts.
sent : 21.26 ][
lol oh dear
sent : 21.27 ][
A definition of lol would be in order.
sent : 21.28 ][
how can u not know
sent : 21.30 ][
None of my dictionaries list it as an authorised word. Be it in German, French or Luxembourgish.
sent : 21.31 ][
hit up a dictionary of contemporary phrases for once
She does look it up. Not because he ordered rather than suggested it, but because her career by definition is the art of bridging the differences between words. Between languages. Although he is a decade older than her, from a time where children did not grow up to be dependent on interactive communication, he is much more well-versed in contemporary technology than she. As was the implication, her interest has been in paper and history, isn’t that so? Extinct verbality. Google, of course, can’t be considered any independent science and when she types in the combination of lol and meaning, the first hit is a Wikipedia link. Subjectivity may be something which she ascribes sovereign significance, an impact that mustn’t be dismissed; still, such a thing as an open-source lexicon should be treated with discretion. Objectivity, too, is not to be denied. Truly, too many of her students seem to willingly rely on information provided by anonymous IP addresses.
The description, at least, is written in an easily accessible format. The very first sentence contains enough of an introduction that she doesn’t need to read any further. This is not even to be understood as ‘watering down’ casual dialogue - it is mere meaninglessness. Ridiculous at best.
It reminds her of his laughter, however. Jean Louis rarely laughs, neither does she herself. Their displays of emotion, their outward reactions are subtler than that, aren’t they? Image does not equal falseness, but privacy is only ever shared between the two of them. For better and for worse. His laughter surpasses even the best. A luxury, being in demand like this and she treasures it, because it can’t be bought. Despite everything, that particular form of corruption -- continues to appear unacceptable to him.
She would have liked a voice message rather than an abbreviation. If just to be reminded.
sent : 21.40 ][
... laughing out loud.
sent : 21.42 ][
Such a message could have been conveyed in a voicemail. In a meaningful manner.
outgoing call | 21.42 ][ 17 minutes
_____
sent : 22.10 ][
It’s late.
sent : 22.10 ][
true
sent : 22.12 ][
I can’t stay up any longer, Jean Louis. My schedule tomorrow includes two lectures - the first at eight.
sent : 22.25 ][
told them to get that book for u. should have it tomorrow at six. sleep well.
sent : 22.50 ][
<3
sent : 22.50 ][
Being artistic is not entirely foreign to me. Either.
sent :22.51 ][
really now
sent : 22.52 ][
go to bed Mireille
sent : 22.53 ][
Yes. Do notify Marcel that I won’t hear of him having interrupted your chance of a good night’s sleep.
sent : 22.54 ][
26 years too late
sent : 23.05 ][
There is no such thing as ‘too late’.
sent : 23.06 ][
agreed. goodnight
sent : 23.07 ][
Goodnight.
07.09.11
He goes to sleep with the sound of her voice still lingering on his mind. When he wakes up, only five hours later, he reaches out an arm by instinct to check for her presence - and very nearly tumbles off the couch, the parquet floor lined in shades of black from the light in the hallway. It takes him at least two minutes to fully shake off the illusion and return to reality; that he’s not at home, that she’s not at home and that Marcel just woke him up, stomping through the apartment with his phone pressed to his ear. His expression instantly sours, especially when one glance at his iPhone reveals the sad truth: it’s a quarter past three. And going to sleep now is impossible, clearly. Marcel’s voice is too loud and too angry, aggression turning the atmosphere heavy more or less by default. They’re both over-sensitive when it comes to conflicts and as a result, Jean Louis is wide-awake only a moment later, watching Marcel with narrowed eyes and raised eyebrows. A question, instinctually unexpressed. That goes comparatively unnoticed in the darkness, Marcel pacing the hallway outside the living room.
“Listen. I don’t give a fuck that you’ll be pissing off De Groot. You’d better learn to choose.” Pause. And then, amusement with a clear hint of teeth, “Between making such a small man angry or floating in the Alzette with your feet around your neck.”
At that, Marcel suddenly meets his gaze from the doorway, finally realising that he’s being watched. It doesn’t usually take him this long to notice, but of course, he’s been cleaning up for the better part of the night. Enough to make a man prickly, isn’t it? Proving that yes, he’s still pissy about their little trip to the Zeedijk in the afternoon, Marcel simply reaches out a hand in response to Jean Louis’ inquiring look and shuts the living room door, his expression emotionless. The light still seeps through the crack beneath the door, but its wooden barrier effectively masks his voice and the sound of his agitated footsteps. Better than nothing. Jean Louis doesn’t know who De Groot is and he doesn’t care, either. The days when they had to be equally involved in the criminal world are long gone.
Besides, he’s tired enough to simply let this little rude awakening go, ignoring the rather pitiful urge to walk out there and kick Marcel in the shins. He’d get kicked right back and considering Marcel’s mood currently, he might not even care enough to pull his punches. Even so. He has to be at work in four hours again, doesn’t he? Has to keep this business afloat in the daylight hours, when the underground falls back into status quo. And his exhausted mind is running a mile-a-minute now, completely on automatics, his thought-processes split cleanly in two. One part of him wants to keep a constant look at the dark streets of Rue du Beggen, in case their Dutch dealer decides to double-cross him just to be contrary. The other wants to call the University of Kent once more and cancel every appointment Mireille might have, then put her on a flight back to Luxembourg City.
Waking up to Marcel throwing one of his rare hissy fits is bothersome; but waking up, believing for a few, pathetic seconds that he isn’t alone is flat-out intolerable.
Body more or less jittery from restlessness, he sits up straighter on the couch, reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, the enormous flat-screen on the wall lightening up the room violently enough to make his eyes sting. Unsurprisingly, the default channel is porn. Gonzo, naturally, but boring as hell all the same. He flicks onwards. A German thriller, some French late-night game show, more porn, Cartoon Network, porn, some English programme about dogs wearing dresses, even more porn... Nothing of interest. Oh, wait. CNN. Stop. Pause. Letting the news roll past on the screen, he tries to keep his feet still, knowing full well that tension makes sleep impossible. He wonders, briefly, where his jacket is before deciding that it’s unimportant. Brain matter doesn’t clean out well from Armani fabrics. Unlocking the screen on his phone, he glances through the texts in his inbox, most of them from Mireille. The others, he deletes. Watches as the list shrinks down to one name and, in turn, fewer complications. Depending on how you look at it, that is.
He sits like that for a while, reading over their last conversation. About her language and that dictionary she wanted. The ridiculous little heart she made. Of course, communication is always key with Mireille; it’s typical of her, to embrace whatever means she has to, to pass her message on. Typical when she isn’t getting caught up in her own rigidity, accusing him of hypocrisy when she herself travels the world on the monetary trail of blood and African dust. The thought doesn’t provoke the usual type of heated frustration - he’s simply too tired. But it brings a cold slap of reality back into his train of thought. Gaze returning to the television screen, he finds himself drawing a blank. He can’t call her, of course. Can’t bring her home without looking like a desperate fool. Can’t do anything but sit here and wait for dawn, watching the news on repeat.
What a joke.
The door opens seconds later. Marcel navigates the messy floor of his living room with practiced ease, the door falling shut behind him. Shadows dance erratically across the floor, spurred on by the plasticity of the plasma lights. Though the couch is big enough to seat at least six people, predictably Jean Louis ends up having to shift further upwards to keep his feet from getting crushed as Marcel sits down, staring at the television with obvious disinterest. Glances up at him, the look in his eyes mostly devoid of expression. Dangerously so, perhaps, but they’re sitting on his couch in the middle of the night, not-watching CNN and waiting for the other shoe to drop throughout the Dutch drug empire and Jean Louis just can’t be bothered. Wordlessly, he hands over the remote and returns his attention to his iPhone, leaving Marcel to pick whichever inane porn channel he feels like watching before heading back to bed. Or out into the night. Doesn’t matter.
Finally, he types up a short sentence and sends it off. She won’t receive it until morning, but just this slight trail of communication sets his mind at ease. The knowledge that she’ll read it and respond to it. It’s a quick, contextually broad sort of statement, something that will keep their dialogue flowing tomorrow and make the masses of land between them feel just a bit less conspicuous. As the phone beeps - ‘message sent’ - there’s a dry huff of laughter from Marcel, the derisive kind that leaves no question as to its underlying meaning. Jean Louis simply stretches out his legs in response, poking him hard enough with his heels to make a point. Doesn’t make the other man move, but it shuts him up.
They sit like that in silence for a while, until Marcel turns the sound off the television in an almost frightening display of generosity. Jean Louis dozes off as a consequence, his four-o-clock night vision blurring and cracking apart, leaving a stale kind of stillness behind for the morning hours.
sent : 03.20 ][ received : 06.30
only need one word: neoliberalism
sent : 06.34 ][
If Potos called you in the middle of the night, you should simply have hung up.
sent : 06.50 ][
just did
sent : 06.59 ][
Seven isn’t to be considered in the middle of the night.
sent : 07.10 ][
ungrateful of u
sent : 07.25 ][
Manners. You are not without. Or exempt.
sent : 07.45 ][
sounds like your father
sent : 07.56 ][
Which is a compliment, isn’t that so? I will be occupied until twelve.
sent : 07.59 ][
right ttyl
_____
sent : 12.16 ][
I looked up the detailed description of neoliberalism.
sent : 12.17 ][
&?
sent : 12.30 ][
The most appealing aspect is its insistence on a free market, in order to support the continued development of globalisation, but the subsequent approach is too extreme.
sent : 12.40 ][
too extreme for what? the world as it is or the world we shape as we go?
sent : 13.40 ][
Flexibility, too, has its given limitations. Unless you wish for it to degenerate into just another form of rigidity.
sent : 15.00 ][
no ideology is one hundred % benefits, mireille. why settle for less just because more isnt perfect?
_____
sent : 17.41 ][
We’ve all had to settle - it is a consequence of coexistence. As long as one harbours a desire to interact in the plural sense, settlement cannot be avoided. Mustn’t.
sent : 17.41 ][
But I have no interest in this discussion now, Jean Louis.
sent : 17.41 ][
<3?
sent : 17.44 ][
Is this the time when I have to repeat that I am too tired and nurture a headache?
sent : 17.45 ][
i could book an earlier flight for u
sent : 17.50 ][
No.
sent : 17.51 ][
why not
sent : 18.00 ][
Because I already have a flight booked. At thirteen tomorrow. Over Frankfurt.
_____
sent : 19.15 ][
leaving monsieur wadd to his own devices tonight?
sent : 19.24 ][
It was nothing but a one night stand.
sent : 19.27 ][
surely anything more would kill him
sent : 19.31 ][
With your bare hands or my being bared altogether?
sent : 19.33 ][
we’ll leave marcel to do the honours
sent : 19.33 ][
That is a disgusting thought, Jean Louis.
sent : 19.35 ][
true. besides he prefers women
sent : 19.43 ][
Let us change the subject.
sent : 19.45 ][
lets
sent : 19.47 ][
must go, writing u before bed
sent : 19.58 ][
Another unofficial incident, I imagine.
sent : 20.13 ][
The faculty is hosting a reception in my honour at nine which requires that I retire for the night. Early.
sent : 20.14 ][
sleep well
sent : 20.16 ][
The city lights certainly shan’t keep you awake; when you are engaging yourself in this kind of business.
At times like this, she is reminded that their backgrounds are vastly different. That, in many ways, they may not know the same country, may not live in the same world. That their frames of reference overlap as an exception, not as a rule. She has never thought less of him, because of their differences, of course. Neither does she do so now. Jean Louis is the most prominent proof Luxembourg has seen yet, beyond the reality of its own existence, that one can rise from the ashes. To remain has always been the emphasis of the national sense of self, isn’t that so? - but Jean Louis embraces their motto’s second statement much more naturally. What we are.
The notion of ‘being’, however, is never a constant. What he is, currently…
The hotel room is not unappealing as such, is it? It is merely the manner in which it was acquired that’s entirely disagreeable. Academically and intellectually, she does not endorse the distinction that meets her in all other aspects of her life. A small dormitory room would have been to prefer, considering her business at the university. Instead he insisted that her position was favoured, if nothing else then in regards to her status as his wife. The wife of the Luxembourgian State Minister. As the only daughter, only child of a leading politician - one who even bore the name of a formerly aristocratic family, she has never been in want of anything during her upbringing. She has never stood before a door that was closed to her and never walked a path obstructed. Until she involved herself with Jean Louis. Sexually, it has never been an innocent relation, but in intention it certainly wasn’t a crime either. Now -- another difference. Between herself and her surroundings. Between herself and him.
There are doors, now, that she can’t open, because he won’t allow her to. The way his neediness expresses itself, when she is away, entails the same selfish attempt at protecting her. They have had the discussion time and time again, what security precautions she is to apply in his absence. Most likely, it is another form of misinterpreted concern in evidence, every time their arguments turn heated.
Her nightgown is cool against her skin while she braids her hair. Gradually it absorbs the temperature of her body. She never sleeps in the nude, unless at home. With him. The restrictions within their shared sphere are not unrivalled. Between them, there is also liberation. At a distance, it’s easier to appreciate. Mistakes like the one he is undoubtedly making tonight easier to forgive. The relief it brings should leave her feeling ashamed, certainly, but the feeling alone is fleeting. Like this, the heat shan’t spread to her face, at least. It’ll remain merely a product of her own physique.
Lying down on the bed slowly, arranging herself piece by piece - duvet, pillow and hair in succession - she reaches for her phone. Rereads her last message before turning it off. Whatever he is doing while she sleeps, the consequences must wait until morning. Even if he were to tell her, she doesn’t want to know.
Thus, when she closes her eyes, it goes beyond the bodily action of blocking out the light. And she is well aware, too.
sent : 22.00 ][ received : 06.30
Luxembourg is well-lit behind the walls.
sent : 22.01 ][ received : 06.30
goodnight
private call - outgoing ][ 22.15
“... ‘ello?”
“Is this Mister Howard Ashfield?”
“I - yes. Who’s this?”
“This is Jean Louis Duroc, calling from Luxembourg City. I want to order thirty calla lilies.”
“... I’m sorry?”
[A long moment of silence on both ends.]
“Thirty, Mister Ashfield. Addressed to -“
“I beg your pardon! It’s - [Rustling of clothes] - it’s ten in the evening! My shop is closed. How did you get my private number?”
“Well, it’s ten in the evening. Do you really want to ask for unimportant details? Dark red lilies, by the way. Non-negotiable.”
“You must be out of your mind. Goodnight, sir!”
[Connection terminated by recipient.]
*
private call - outgoing ][ 22.30
“Listen here, Monsieur whatever your name was - if you’re looking for France, you’ve got the wrong bloody land code.”
[A short pause.]
“... hello?”
“You’re not into politics.”
“... it’s close to midnight, of course I’m not! What is this, a practical joke?”
“No. I am the State Minister of Luxembourg, Mister Ashfield, and my wife is currently visiting your country.”
“Oh, right! And I’m the Queen of England. Stop calling me.”
[Connection terminated by recipient.]
*
private call - incoming ][ 22.38
“Yes, Mister Ashfield?”
“... terribly sorry about that, Mister Duroc. Uh, the police confirmed your - I mean, I looked up your number. I’m really very sorry, awfully stupid of me.”
“Quite alright. Thirty red calla lilies, delivered for the University of Kent, Canterbury, addressed to Mireille Duroc. Understood?”
“Yes, but... it’s very late, as... as you know. I can’t place an order with my store at this time of the night.”
“That’s not my problem. I want them delivered before 9 am.”
“I - but we open at 10!”
“Ah. You’ll find a way.”
“Now, listen here -“
“I’ve listened to your insults without complaints, Mister Ashfield, but my patience isn’t endless. Trust me; as a satisfied customer, I am worth that extra effort. And I’ll remember your store either way.”
“... yes. Yes, alright. Again, I’m very sorry. Did you say dark red?”
“Indeed.”
“Your wife will have them before 9 am, Mister Duroc. Thank you very much, sir.”
[Call terminated by recipient.]
08.09.11
sent : 11.17 ][
You sent me flowers.
sent : 11.18 ][
y
sent : 11.20 ][
Thank you.
sent : 11.20 ][
<3!
sent : 11.21 ][
Yes, I have realised, by now, that I am not in possession of any great talent in the arts department.
sent : 11.22 ][
A trait we share, isn’t it?
sent : 11.24 ][
no need for useless abilities. or useless people in general. some mademoiselle rocher wants an interview with u, btw
sent : 11.29 ][
What magazine does she represent this time?
sent : 11.30 ][
no idea
sent : 11.32 ][
French Femme and Elle Germany have already received an interview each this year.
sent : 11.38 ][
Are you equally unhelpful if I ask what the topic was to be?
sent : 11.38 ][
tell u later, have to catch a plane
sent : 11.41 ][
Of course.
_____
sent : 12.30 ][
where are u?
sent : 12.32 ][
In the lounge. My check-in was half an hour ago.
sent : 12.34 ][
specifically
sent : 12.35 ][
No. 1 Traveller Lounge.
sent : 12.35 ][
How is this piece of information relevant?
written : 12.45 ][ unsent
Jean Louis. I have missed you... As w -
Of all the airports in the world that he’s visited, Heathrow ranks amongst his favourites. The busy flow of international travelling and business linking itself from point to point with unparalleled efficiency - for a manmade metal construction, the airport comes remarkably close to living and breathing on its own. The small airport vehicles are mercifully fast - and as such, the trip from the aircraft through Terminal 3 takes minutes. Avoiding the crowd of people currently shuffling their way through the underpass is a privilege reserved for VIPs, isn’t it? Jean Louis is more than happy to count himself amongst them. God knows he’s been stuck on the floor with the rest of them for long enough.
Typing in his security access clearing to Mireille’s lounge, he leaves Marcel to enter first to clear the area if necessary. It’s not. The bar is deserted along with most of the café tables, stretching from the entrance to the glass panels in the back of the room. The view is, of course, pleasant; just like the polished faux marble floor and the expensive flower decorations on the tables. And sitting by herself on a bench close to one of the windows... He pauses. For just a second, his gaze actually softens. It’s an unconscious thing and when he glances back at Marcel, his expression is as cool as ever. Marcel nods and sits down on the bar stool farthest away, his men following suit quickly, seating themselves on a tidy row on the remaining chairs.
The few other people present in the lounge - men, all of them, in expensive suits and sporting high-tech Mac computers - spare him only fleeting glances. The unspoken rule about minding your own business is rarely as well-respected as amongst the elite; where everyone has something to hide and much more to lose. Jean Louis moves quietly through the lounge, pausing near her bench and looking her over. Blatantly.
She has her back to him, her attention entirely focused on her iPhone. Even while travelling, Mireille’s visual image is flawless; that black pair of YSL pantaloons have always suited her perfectly. He sits down next to her, shifting close enough to seem socially disruptive. Glances over her shoulder, trying to glimpse the words of the text message. It’s meant for him anyway, it seems. Being this close to her again, he has to fight himself not to simply grab hold of her and turn her towards him. Take her back, after days of silence and words in simple black and white. But he can’t help himself; she hasn’t noticed him, even now, and he has to tease her a bit for it. Has to.
The lounge has been all but deserted since her arrival 45 minutes ago. She has been to the UK and inevitably to Heathrow before, and usually a calm such as this proves a rarity, if not an impossibility altogether. This time it is her turn to write Jean Louis text upon text without getting an answer. He had another plane to catch, he’d informed her, upholding the consistent trend of the past two days. The question she asks this time is relatively neutral, bordering on a mere observation. Then, a pause. Not to be understood as a wait, because she shan’t be so stubborn as to deny him the acknowledgement of how flying always ensures interactive silence. Even he must abide by that. Rather, it’s due to the sudden realisation that someone has sat down next to her, within a distance which must be considered impolite. The British, more so than most, live by an inherent respect for the private sphere.
He is so close that she can easily make out the scent of Armani Code. Jean Louis hardly uses any other fragrance. He stays as loyal to the Armani brand as she does to Yves Saint-Laurent. It is less a question of attachment than the fact that they have both made a conscious choice in regards to what elements they wish to put on display. And what designs live up to those same ideals.
Ten minutes have passed since her last message was announced sent. She could insist on clinging to the justified disappointment that she has been nurturing since his first break with his official schedule, but she has had him at a distance for four days at this point and it would surely be childish. An example of sulking, when one can’t throw an even more childish fit of temper. Likewise, it would be well within her right to tell the newcomer to please mind his manners, but her pride has no need for further sustaining, does it? A room at the Abode when she had originally intended to stay on campus for the entirety of her visit has established her status to excess.
The urge is innocent, in and by itself. Thus, she doesn’t reject its existence. Perhaps because it is indeed true that she doesn’t endorse the ambiguity he leaves her with, ignoring another truth of the opposite nature can only be considered self-contradiction. Shifting slightly, her back constituting enough of a barrier to the man behind her for now, she lets her fingers run over the touch screen of her iPhone, tapping in the next message in a row of three. In the same manner that she informs him of her concerns, she wants him to know that much more often she embraces their relationship. Fully and without regrets.
She turns away more fully and he loses his view of the screen. He caught the first word, however, and that’s more than sufficient. It’s not that he ever doubts the reciprocity in their relation; no, not its existence, certainly not, but its degree? Sometimes. It doesn’t bother him. He’s never been averse to the sensation of want. Of longing to possess something that you can’t, immediately, have. And what can you truly expect from a woman like her? Who keeps herself so well-guarded and hands out only carefully-measured pieces of the larger picture? It’s who Mireille is, surely, and if he didn’t like it, he couldn’t love her either.
It’s a good feeling, though. A little bit pitiful, perhaps, but who really cares?
Deciding that he’s had enough of being right next to her and getting ignored, he reaches out and curls an arm around her waist, the movement made easier by how she’s currently sitting. Leaning in fully, he rests his chin on her shoulder, her braided hair soft against the side of his face. Her perfume is dark without the implicit heaviness of so many, expensive brands and he can’t help but breathe her in, just a bit, because she’s right here and he’s missed her too.
Her fingers slip across the screen at the sudden bodily contact. The sudden intimacy. Feeling herself go rigid in the grasp of an anonymous stranger, arm around her waist and chin resting on her shoulder, she is instinctually reminded of Jean Louis. Of how he favours the closeness of this specific embrace. There is a note of possession to it, of course, and she isn’t blind to its meaning. Never has been, but with Jean Louis it’s natural. To be expected. Ever since she accepted his proposal, began wearing the ring with which he has marked her and mirrored his “I do” with one of her own, the acknowledgement of belonging has been official as well as personal. With it comes an unquestionable adherence to marital fidelity, isn’t that so? In all variations of the concept.
One reason out of many that the current situation is entirely unacceptable.
Pushing her black shoulder bag to the side with one foot, Mireille turns her head slowly. Her cheek sliding along the line of the man’s jaw, something she ignores with a detachment that still comes to her effortlessly. It has been four years now, hasn’t it? Since the year they spend apart, when she educated herself to perfection out in the art of separating body and mind. One should have thought she would no longer harbour any motivation to maintain the skill, despite the nights following --
The fragrance of Armani Code grows increasingly strong. Gaze carefully focused at nothing, her reflection in the window glass catches her attention, her features watered out. Not unrecognisable, but softened. Next to her own, there is the outline of another face. Dark brown hair, a pronounced volume of lips and nose. And eyes that meet hers blatantly. It requires but a second to identify him, the recognition of his presence forcing her to a halt, the corner of her mouth pressed to the curve of his cheekbone.
Mireille is such a bright woman - taking her by surprise is always a pleasure. He smiles, very slightly, as their eyes meet, reflected back at them in the window glass. She’s frozen to a complete stop, the pressure of her lips very soft against his cheek. Of course, she wouldn’t ever expect him to meet her halfway, when he has no business in England and no work-related reason whatsoever to make the trip. When the papers catch hold of it back home, there’ll most probably be a small scandal, too. What a waste of fuel, of money and time. The Opposition, in particular, will be outraged. But they all know. That the two of them have set themselves above those every-day details and concerns; above the general, political implications. It’s how it has to be, naturally. If they didn’t, they’d have too little space to move.
Turning her towards him the rest of the way, he looks at her for a short moment - meets her eyes for real this time, eyebrows raised in amusement. Then, without further ado, he leans in and kisses her, not too quickly, his hand running up her side and curving against her ribs. He doesn’t advance the kiss beyond lip-contact, though; while the lounge isn’t over-run, it’s still a public place. And someone putting up a YouTube video with the tag line “State Minister Duroc spends fortunes on a French kiss” just isn’t what he needs at the moment. The past days considered.
Thus, he breaks away and draws back, looking at her. Awaiting her reaction in silence.
“You are in Heathrow.”
It may seem a redundant observation to any third party, anyone who does not reside within the four walls that constitute the institution she and Jean Louis have erected around themselves. He has drawn back before she gathers herself enough to cool her features into something more dignified than two wide eyes and the tingling sensation lingering on her lips even after the kiss has been terminated. Straightening up, she collects the fragments of reality at a steady pace - how he is here, with her, but without reason. How it is impossible not to notice Marcel as the end of a tangent formed by his men. Not Jean Louis’ men, because it would entail a clash of colour, wouldn’t it? Whereas Marcel is dressed in black, just like the rest of them… Jean Louis is watching her and she grants him her full attention freely, continuing the scarcely initiated trail of thought. Because she is not exempt from the use of clichés, albeit this one is of her own making. Entirely. “Your schedule makes no mention of --”
Full stop. She doesn’t avert her gaze, neither does she expect him to. If either of them were the type, there would be nothing to look away from in the first place, surely. No matter the implications… If Jean Louis were here on what he erroneously categorises as business, she would not have been included, despite it being all she ever calls for. Instead, he is offering her neutral ground.
Bending down enough to slip her iPhone back into her bag is also to lean in against his touch. Thus, she puts away the means by which she has been repeating herself the last couple of days and completes the motion by leaning forward. Utilizing their proximity in order to press a kiss to each of his cheeks. Standard as it is, it’s also another offering in return.
She stops herself. It’s a good decision - his expression comes close to freezing over at the implications alone. The last few days have been trying enough without her sticking her nose in... but no matter. She isn’t doing it now. She’s backing away, the situation salvaged somewhat by that gesture in itself. That’s how it happens sometimes; one of them chooses to retreat, to save the heat smouldering beneath the surface for another time. Another place. But it brings him pause all the same and when she kisses his cheeks, he’s staring straight ahead, blinking a bit dumbly at nothing.
He catches himself too late when she draws back, though he manages to school his expression into something less problematic as smoothly as possible. She’s here. He is happy to have her - that part of her, too, especially the sensible side of it. But she just can’t help herself. And in turn, she throws him - the both of them - out of alignment, which is just plain frustrating.
“Ten minutes,” he says, shifting away from her, the distance between them suddenly physical again. On a different level. “I don’t want to rush you. But with this particular air space...”
In the same manner that he initiated the intimacy between them, he suddenly ends it. Suddenly, in the temporal sense of the word, rather than any implicit unexpectedness. The moment of surprise. She didn’t tread carefully enough and they are both well aware that this particular topic is a minefield. His mind knows it, through its close connection with his hand. Her cheek knows it. Through those very same ties. There are times when they can venture within the borders and crawl through the mud; victims of shellshock. Not of injury. Not as such. At times like this, however, there is no reason to seek out the already acknowledged danger. Because there are ways around it. And they must be found.
“Of course.” She stands up. Turns her back on him once more, collecting her things with cautiously measured movements. Her petticoat, her bag, her plane tickets although she shan’t be needing them now, obviously. The bouquet of flowers he has sent her lies on the nearby table, an elegant arrangement of dark red - almost purple flowers, black fabric and rhinestones. Pause. Again. For her own sake. Touching the single petal of the individual lilies will make them wither, turn brown before the day is over, so she doesn’t. It is always the same. She never truly wants to leave and he never fails to remind her that she never truly regrets staying either. The large shoulder bag remains in contrast to the white lines of the bench while she picks up the bouquet by the handle of silk.
He watches her in silence as she gathers her things, picking up the flowers last, carefully. At least they’ve made it a stylish bouquet, he thinks. Randomly. It’s not like it really matters. He sent her flowers because he had to send her something - had to influence her life somehow, as directly as possible with miles of distance between them. It’s not a problem now or it wouldn’t be if they hadn’t... if she hadn’t...
He sighs. Looks at her turned back for another moment before rising from the bench, stepping closer and folding his arms around her waist. Pulling her up against him slowly, easily, her body light but steady against his. He doesn’t speak right away, eyes fixed on some of the planes currently waiting in line from Terminal 3, one of them taking off in the distance. He recognises that he’s harsh sometimes. Towards her. He doesn’t deal with failure well, not from others and especially not from her. But it might not really be a fault, this tendency of hers to rush onwards at the sign of conflicts as opposed to shying away. This persistency. If she would only direct it elsewhere, he’d never question it.
Lips close to her ear, he keeps his voice low. Devoid of anything but mild curiosity; another peace offering, in the shape of neutrality. “I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself. Mireille.”
Distance is a fluid concept. Between them. Increasing one moment and decreasing the next, on both their parts, but regardless of the changes, they always manage to bridge it, don’t they? Insist on doing so, too; physically, if nothing else. After only a few seconds of hesitation, she relaxes against his frame. He never towers over her. It isn’t a question of stature as much as one of equality. The bouquet drops a few inches, coming to a temporary rest - rather than defeat - against her thigh. The black silk blends in with the fabric of her pantaloons. Perfectly.
She is as attached to her profession as he is to his, but their individual identification markers are independent of their job descriptions, naturally. As such, she may have enjoyed herself, indeed - lecturing at the University of Kent, experiencing another academic milieu than that which she frequents, but the current must nevertheless be considered much more significant. Necessarily. To her life. With him. Seeing how this is the privacy that they claim for themselves.
“Next time I shall have to bring you along,” she tells him, the direct response to his question remaining implicit. “Surely an institution that prides itself of its dedication to the art of politics will have something to learn from you.” And he would captivate the crowd easily, she knows. Jean Louis is, in certain aspects, the superior orator, after all.
Your bitter lip arouses us, isn’t that so?
She leans back against him, finally, and while he doesn’t smile, his features relax noticeably. He doesn’t tighten his grip on her unnecessarily, though his mind wants rather badly to overcompensate for her past days of absence. However. No matter what she might think about his underground business, right now she isn’t protesting or threatening to walk away. And that’s good. Subtext is only that and Jean Louis is quite adept at leaving it be when he must.
“Me, lecturing university students?” It doesn’t exactly come out as a laugh; there’s definitely a touch of humour to his voice, though. A bit of good-natured disbelief. “You know I’m not much for theory. I’d have to spend my office hours studying.” And bending his neck slightly, kissing her hair very close to her temple. “My secretary would be traumatized.”
Releasing her, he steps back. Turns towards the bar and glances in Marcel’s direction, watching as he empties his glass (… alcohol? Is he planning on flying home drunk?) before gesturing to his men. They all get up as one, like well-trained dogs; puppets on invisible strings. Ignoring them, Jean Louis looks back at Mireille, expression calm. Contented, for now, with the state of things.
“Let’s go.” He holds out an arm, waiting for her.
Yes, he is thoroughly practical. A trait Father recognised in him first; which she has always admired, not only for the semblance. It’s a unique talent in and by itself, standing apart from everything he and Father may have had in common, working within the same framework. A trait that he has made his own, if it hasn’t been his from the beginning. Even so, she expects that a simple discourse given by him would have much the same effect any of her three-hour lectures do. On a much broader audience, as well. Luxembourg presenting a wholly sufficient example.
She lets him move away, now. Doesn’t follow immediately, but instead allows herself the time to fasten her petticoat, arrange her bag comfortably over one shoulder and shift the bouquet to her other hand. Materialism on display, isn’t it? - But for the sake of savouring the situation as it is. Before they return to a setting where their proximity will no doubt put up the same sort of barriers that the past days of distance have done. Additional only in amount.
Finally, she turns to face him again, finding him in the foreground. Of a picture that surely requires extensive study, by whomever is not blinded by its apparent flawlessness. She has never entrusted others with the task of expounding the entirety of any context, neither will she endorse such laziness in this, simply because…
It is close to home.
Joining him, Mireille rests her hand against the crook of his elbow, fingers splayed out over his forearm. Without adding weight. It is hardly necessary. Like this; the sleeve of his jacket having absorbed the heat of his body. As they head for the exit, she doesn’t look back - well aware that she has left nothing behind. Beyond the inflexibility that written dialogue may also entail, amongst many other things.