Beginning of Chapter 7 of Hopscotch by Julio Cortázar, the Book Natalie Was Reading at the Beginning of This Novel

“I touch your mouth, I touch the edge of your mouth with my finger, I am drawing it as if it were something my hand was sketching, as if for the first time your mouth opened a little, and all I have to do is close my eyes to erase it and start all over again, every time I can make the mouth I want appear, the mouth which my hand chooses and sketches on your face, and which by some chance that I do not seek to understand coincides exactly with your mouth which smiles beneath the one my hand is sketching on you.”p One Hundred Fourteen

Early morning had come already. It was as if the night had never existed. Natalie and Markus had alternated between moments of wakefulness and dozing, blurring in that way the frontiers between dream and reality.“I’d really like to go down to the garden,” said Natalie.“Now?”“Yes, you’ll see. When I was little, I always went there in the morning. There’s a strange atmosphere at dawn.”They got up quickly and dressed slowly.* Looking at each other, discovering each other in the cold light. It was simple. They came down the stairs without making any noise, in order not to wake Madeleine. A needless precaution, since she barely slept when she had guests. But she wasn’t going to disturb them. She knew Natalie’s penchant for the calm of mornings in the garden (to each her own ritual). In all weathers, every time that she came here, she went to sit on the bench as soon as she opened her eyes. They were outdoors. Natalie stopped to observe each detail. Life could go on, life could destroy, but here nothing budged: the sphere of the unchanging.They sat down. There was genuine wonder between them, that of physical pleasure. Something that had to do with the magic of tales, instants flown to perfection. Minutes that you burn into your memory at the very moment you are living them. Seconds that are our future nostalgia. “I feel good,” whispered Natalie, and Markus was truly happy. She got up. He watched her walking to the flowers and trees. She made several slow back-and-forth trips, gently musing, letting her hand touch everything that happened to be in reach. Here her relationship with nature was deeply intimate. Then she stopped. Right against a tree.“When I used to play hide-and-seek with my cousins, you were supposed to stand against this tree to count. It went on for a long time. We’d count to 117.”“Why 117?”“I don’t know! We just decided on that figure, like that.”“Do you want to play now?” offered Markus.Natalie smiled at him. She adored his being able to offer to play. She took her position against the tree, closed her eyes, and began to count. Markus went off in search of a good place to hide. A futile ambition: this was Natalie’s domain. She had to know the best places. As he looked around, he thought of all those places where she’d already have to have hidden. He was walking through Natalie’s ages. At seven, she must have gone under that tree. At twelve, she had to have burrowed into this bush. As a teenager, she’d rejected childhood games and had gone on past those brambles, sulking. And the following summer, it was as a young woman that she’d sat on this bench, a daydreaming poet, her heart filled with the hope of romance. Her life as a young woman had left its traces in several places, and might she even have made love behind these flowers? François had run behind her, trying to tear off her nightie, without making too much noise, to keep from waking her grandparents, traces of a reckless and silent dash across the garden. And then he’d caught her. She’d tried to struggle, without seeming very believable. She’d turned her head, while dreaming of his kisses. They’d rolled along, and then she’d ended up alone. Where was he? Was he hiding somewhere? He wasn’t there anymore. He’d never be there. At that place, there was no more grass. Natalie had torn it all out in rage. Here is where she’d lie flat on the ground for hours, and her grandmother’s attempts to make her come back inside hadn’t changed anything. By walking to that very spot, Markus was treading on her suffering. He was going through the tears of her love. As he kept looking for his hiding place, he also walked over all the places where Natalie would go later. Now and then, he was moved by imagining the old woman she’d be.Thus, at the heart of all the Natalies, Markus found a place to hide. He made himself as small as possible. A strange thing to do on this day on which he felt bigger than ever. Throughout his entire body, impulses of immensity awoke. Once they were in place, he began to smile. He was happy to wait for her, so happy to wait for her to discover him. One Hundred Fifteen

Natalie opened her eyes. THE END

Footnotes

a There’s often a clear tendency for nostalgia in Natalies.b Translator’s note: from Hopscotch (original Spanish title: Rayuela), translated from the Spanish by Gregory Rabassa. Copyright © 1966 by Random House, Inc.c “Here, There and Everywhere” (1966).d Since she’d assumed her new duties, she’d bought three pairs of shoes.e Actresses imagined by the director: Audrey Tautou as Natalie and Mélanie Bernier as Chloé.f Of course, it’s possible to be born in Uppsala and become Ingmar Bergman. That said, his films should give some idea of the tenor of that city.g It’s unusual to be named Alice and to end up using this type of function to meet a man. Usually, Alices meet men easily.h It’s unusual to be named Alice and to work in a pharmacy. Usually, Alices work in bookstores or travel agencies.i At this stage, we might ask: was her name really Alice?j There are no short legs for rent.k Translator’s note: Translated from the Swedish into English by Edith and Warner Oland (1912).l We may finally ask ourselves whether coincidence really does exist. Maybe everybody we run into is walking around near us with the undying hope of meeting us? To think of it, it’s a fact that they often seem out of breath.m We haven’t been able to obtain any details regarding the exact nature of that soup.n National Association of Directors of Human Resources.o Subject for Thursday, January 13, 2009: “Thankfulness in a Time of Crisis: Priority to the Individual or to the Collective?” 6:30 p.m.–8:30 p.m., NADHR, 91 rue de Miromesnil, 75008 Paris.p Translator’s note: from Hopscotch (original Spanish title: Rayuela), translated from the Spanish by Gregory Rabassa. Copyright © 1966 by Random House.q It may have been the opposite. A Note on the Author

DAVID FOENKINOS is a French novelist and playwright. His novels have been translated into fifteen languages and have won awards around the world. Delicacy (published as La délicatesse in France) was nominated for all five major French literary prizes – the first novel ever to win that distinction – and is a bestseller. David lives in Paris. Originally published in France under the title La délicatesse in 2009
First published in Great Britain 2011

Copyright © 2011 by David Foenkinos
Translation © 2011 by HarperCollins Publishers

This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

The moral right of the author has been asserted

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