She was convinced that he was smiling just as he had smiled on the street, amid that group of bystanders in which he alone had been indifferent.

She raised her head quickly, in order to surprise him, and was astonished on looking at him to see that she had been wrong. He wasn’t smiling.

“No, I don’t love him. I don’t think I love him. He comes here ... to this apartment ... He comes, he leaves, he phones me, he gets angry, he makes up ... That’s him. I think you’d find him amusing.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. It seems like he’s the exact opposite of you.”

“And how do you know that?”

“For lots of reasons. Your voice. Your tie.” She got up and came towards him. “Yes, your tie. His is always perfectly tied. Yours is crooked. You don’t know how to tie it. Will you let me?”

She sat down on the low back of the armchair and undid the knot of his tie with fluid, measured movements. He didn’t resist. He waited dutifully for her to finish. The aroma of lavender passed through her porous bathrobe, bearing a wave of heat in which she felt something like a distant beating of her blood, the fine throbbing of her pulse.

When she had finished knotting the tie, Nora stepped away from him and observed him to see how he looked.

“No, it doesn’t work. It’s perfect, but it doesn’t look right on you. It’s too perfect for you.”

And, with that worry, she was compelled to ruin the too-perfect knot in his tie in order to restore his negligent air.

He was ready to leave. He put on his hat. My God, how tall he looks in that hat! He was preparing to bid her good evening.

“Are you really going?”

“It’s late.”

“You haven’t even introduced yourself.”

“Do you need to see my identity papers?”

“There’s no harm in our looking at them.”

He searched with a serious expression in the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out an I.D. card, which he held out to her.

Nora looked it over for a moment, as though she wished to verify the photograph, the personal information, the signature. Then she looked at him in sudden surprise.

“You were born on December 18th?”

“Yes.”

“December 18th? You’re sure?” Without waiting for his reply, she turned her head towards the calendar on the wall. “You did realize that today is your birthday? You realized that you’re turning ...” She stopped, opened again the I.D. card in her hand, read his birthdate ... “You knew that you were turning thirty today? Exactly today?”

He didn’t look surprised. He looked far more amused by her open stupefaction. She insisted.