Suddenly, Madeleine said: ‘Are you sure he’ll be there?’

‘Yes, I told him we’d arrived last night. He’s expecting us.’

‘What if it’s not him? Just someone who resembles him.’

‘That seems unlikely …’

‘What if we have nothing to say to each other?’

‘Then you’ll just look at each other in silence, I suppose.’

‘What if we can’t see each other because we have blurred vision?’

‘…’

I thought that last question was a joke, but apparently I was wrong. She was too on edge to be capable of humour. She was genuinely afraid she might lose it completely; just sit there tongue-tied or half blind. I could sense her growing ever more rigid. I even thought I could hear the dryness in her mouth. She reminded me of an actor with stage fright. This was the film of her life that was about to play before my eyes; the fiction that all love is.

It was so intense that I began to have doubts myself. Suddenly, I feared my presence would be intrusive. I wanted to write about reality, not steal their privacy. Some things are too beautiful to be seen by outsiders. Madeleine could tell me all about it afterwards, if she wanted to. Yes, that would be better. I would accompany her to the meeting, then leave her there. Would it really matter if my book didn’t contain a first-hand description of the scene? Everyone could imagine it. Each reader could create his or her own reunion novel. Just as I was ready to tell Madeleine about my decision, she took my hand and said: ‘I want you to stay. I need you.’

84

We arrived an hour early at the meeting place: a large café divided into two rooms by a glass wall. Yves was already there. A shame: I’d wanted to write the scene of his arrival. My first impression was that he looked incredibly elegant. Dressed in a linen suit, wearing a large hat, he was like a character from a Fitzgerald novel. He quickly thanked me for organising this reunion, before focusing his full attention on Madeleine. So I took a few steps back to let them experience this moment that I, for one, would never be able to forget.

For a few days now, I had felt a very close connection with Madeleine. We were united by my project, and I had a front-row seat in the theatre of her emotions. This woman and this man looked at each other, hardly even believing what they were seeing. Their eyes were wet with tears, but their smiles were wide. For a few seconds, they were unable to touch each other. That’s what moved me most, I think. Seeing them like that, face to face, frozen in amazement.

Finally they hugged and exchanged a few polite greetings. Yves was worried that the trip had been too tiring, and Madeleine reassured him. She would probably be exhausted later, but for now she was high on adrenaline. They turned to me then, like children looking for instructions from an adult. This was their story. I told them I was going to sit outside. I even wondered if Yves had chosen this place especially for me. I could sit on the veranda, on the other side of the glass divider, and observe them without disturbing them.