Michaux sat and wrote.
“You look terrible.” Blunt though this statement was, it had no visible effect on him; he still stared vaguely away into empty introspection and malleable shadow; his eyes without sharpness; his expression fallen and gone; his slender hand poised over the paper as if simply waiting. She blinked and watched him in a highly perplexed manner, cautiously coming nearer to him, raising her hand to wave it in front of his absent eyes.
“Nana, don't.” Madison closed the door behind her, dropping the keys noisily onto the hall table. “You'll only annoy him; let him work in peace.”
Nana continued to stare at him, however, and whispered, “He looks terrible,” as though Madison could hear her, but he couldn't. She wrinkled her nose. “Worse than ever.”
“Nana, leave him be.” She took off her coat and hung it behind the door, speaking in a lowered voice. “You shouldn't disturb him when he's working.”
“He's not working,” she pointed to his still hand, “are you sure he's even alive?”
Madison shushed her.
“He looks terrible.”
“Yes, I think you may have mentioned that already.”
“I don't remember him being like this.” Nana moved back a little in surprise. Michaux's hand had begun to write again, his head tilted down slightly, allowing some of his overgrown hair to fall across his brow.
Madison looked at him, but didn't see the man that sat there. “He just works hard.” She saw what she knew.
“I work hard too, but I don't look like that. He might even be ill, have you thought of that? Are you sure he hasn't come down with something?” Nana took her coat off and threw it carelessly over the back of a chair.
“Nana, please. Leave him.”
“But-”
“Anna,” this voice was low and had the distinct roughness of disuse. He had stood up from his chair, so suddenly and quietly, in fact, that neither of them had noticed. Nana jumped in surprise, putting a distance between them. His eyes were sharp, a scathing and dark green; focus and clarity brought back to them with decided swiftness. He frowned and looked suddenly grave, an expression made emphatic by his pallor and strangely dark demeanour. Whatever traces of vacancy had been visible in him only a moment before were now gone. He moved near to her, brought his face close to hers and spoke hoarsely, “Either desist your verbal diarrhoea,” words of his were low and carefully articulated, “or get out.” He held her gaze for a heartbeat before moving swiftly away into the next room, slamming the door behind him.
Nana was shocked. “He's really not what I remember him to be.”
Madison didn't have anything to say to this. Michaux had always been temperamental, but his clear exhaustion made him difficult to live with, and near impossible to communicate with. Though eloquence was his, he chose never to use it, and silence had been the only language between him and Madison for some time. The result of this was a strangely cold affection. Madison sat down at the kitchen table.
“He doesn't get a lot of sleep.” She leant her hand against her cheek. “He doesn't eat. He doesn't speak.”
“That's not normal.” Nana said, she was beginning to blush. “That man is rude.”
“He was always a short fuse.”
“Not like this.” Nana shook her head, sitting across from Madison, gesturing vaguely to where he had sat. “Do you remember when we first met him? I would never have guessed that he would turn out like this. He always seemed to be more on the level than anyone else, but then, I suppose people do change.” Madison opened her mouth to respond – Nana ignored this completely. “Do you remember when we first met him how handsome we thought he was? Look at him now: he's not handsome, just haggard – he's completely let himself go.”
“He has more important things on his mind now, Nana.” This sentence, though spoken quietly, bore more weight than what her friend had just finished saying. “He may be more drawn than he used to be, but he's still the same man he always was.”
“The Michaux five years ago would never be so hard-boiled,” Nana said, “to either of us. If him sitting in complete silence without even acknowledging your presence is normal, then something is seriously wrong. Either with him, or with your relationship, or both, and what exactly are these so called 'more important things' you're talking about? Do you even know? Do you know what it is that he's so consumed with this time? Have you ever read any of it?”
Madison closed her eyes briefly before answering. “I know it's important to him, Nana, and I won't go interfering into things that I know I shouldn't. I've never read any of it, no. I don't know what it's about, not even vaguely, but you know what? I don't really want to know.”
“But it's driving him insane!”
Madison dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Don't be melodramatic. You just feel wounded by what he said. Don't attack him for it. Can't you see that he's exhausted?”
“Of course, but I can also see that he's a little too fond of his own personal review. I know he likes to work hard, but there's more to life than writing. You have to talk to him about it, Madison.”
“I try my best.” She sighed, fixing her eyes on the door so newly slammed. She lowered her voice. “I think maybe you should go.” Nana nodded, picking up her coat. Madison followed her to the door, opening it for her.
“Listen,” and now Nana seemed to see the sense in tact; she whispered, “if you ever run into trouble come stay with Steve and me. I personally can't understand why you would stay with a man who treats you like that.”
“I'll talk to you later.” Madison said to her, and with a last farewell, closed the door behind her friend. She turned back into the front room, not noticing Michaux as he stood leaning against the door-jamb of their dark bedroom, and so jumped slightly at the sound of his voice.
“Why do you stay with a man who treats you so badly?” He asked, his voice was soft.
In that moment Madison appreciated what her friend had said. Michaux did look drawn and pallid in the mid-afternoon light; his past beauty lost to a seemingly excessive amount of thought; the slender elegance of his form still remained, but was lost, somewhat, in his ungroomed appearance. There was still something there of the old Michaux: she just had to look closer to find it.
She sat down. “You know the answer to that.” Madison spoke softly.
He cocked his head slightly and watched her avoiding his gaze. Her eyes flicked up uncertainly.
“You do look a little rough, you know. Why won't you take better care of yourself? If not for me, then at least for yourself.”
He still watched her thoughtfully; and these were the words he chose: “Don't you understand that I would sooner do something for you than I would for myself?”
She looked away and bitterly said, “How hideously sentimental.” She thought before her expression cleared. “If that is true then I want you to stop working yourself so hard.”
He shook his head.
“You think I don't realise how much time you spend bullying yourself into writing? You think I'm not awake when you get out of bed to go back to your punitive invocation, in the middle of the night? You think I don't notice that you eat nothing? You think I don't notice that you ration and limit your words to bare necessity? Stop this, for goodness' sake, before you do yourself some lasting damage!”
He raised his head and watched her with sharpness and clarity in dark green eyes. Eloquence was his: he chose not to use it.
“How transparent are you? You say you would put my wishes before your own?” She laughed bitterly. “Yeah, right. You're governed by your own right hand,” she raised her own and mimicked his quick writing in the air with an invisible pencil, “and always will be. No love inside you, however strong, will ever be able to compete with your compulsion and obsession.”
He watched.
“Still nothing?” She pushed past him into the dark bedroom and slammed the door. He stood for a moment of reverie and then moved away from the door, staring vaguely through it.
Michaux sat and wrote.
Nana and her husband, Steve, were sitting in the kitchen when he came home, promptly bursting into applause the moment they saw him. In reaction to being greeted in this way, Michaux pulled an expression that was too quick to be interpreted. The kitchen table was spread with the day's newspapers and three cups of coffee in varying shades of black.
“Have you seen the Guardian, yet?” Michaux muttered that he hadn't, his back turned as he filled the kettle with water. “Parisian born Jean Michaux's third play, Gentle, which caused a sensation as it premiered on the London stage last week, explores the complex relationships between... blah blah blah – we all know that already – and is widely regarded as one of the most powerful pieces of drama to be brought onto the stage to date. Michael Billington writes: 'Michaux sees the world exactly as it is. There's no unnecessary sentiment or romanticism in his writing, his is a style of cold, clean-cut clarity. This man is a genius.' Genius!”
“Where's Madison?” He asked, still with his back to them.
“She went down for some milk a few minutes ago.” Nana said with a wave of her hand as if it wasn't important. “I must say, though, that Gentle is indeed a masterpiece, Michaux.” Her husband nodded in agreement. Michaux's back arched slightly as he placed his palms flat down on the counter, closing his eyes slowly, as if in defence against that woman's voice. “I've never experienced anything quite like it, and it's causing quite a stir in all sorts of circles. Everybody says so.” He breathed out slowly through his mouth. They didn't notice this, of course. His back was to them. “As long as everybody says so,” he said under his breath. They continued to talk about his work as if he were listening – he continued to ignore them as if the room were empty. The door slammed, then, and Madison could be heard dropping her keys noisily down on the hall table.
Michaux was still leaning against the counter with his eyes closed, a slight crease in his brow, when he felt a light warmth land gently on his lower arm. He opened his eyes to Madison's pleasant oval face close by while the other two sat and discussed his plays in great detail, flinging flattery and pronouncing his praises at every opportunity. He didn't hear this, however, as his attention was devoted to his appreciation of Madison's hand bringing him away from the edge.
“What did the doctor say?” She spoke softly. Madison was simple and mechanical; she had never surprised him in her life. She was capable of love, hate, passion, coldness, all these things, but as a writer all emotions were commonplace to him; the raw mechanics of the human mind were so easily predicted when he knew what the next line in the script would be. But her simpleness was pleasure and endearment that few others ever displayed.
“That I should take it easy – ” he grimaced as he recalled the man's parched face.
“Well, I could have told you that.” She said quietly.
“ – and 'bask in the glow of my recent success'.”
“Another fan?” She asked and her face fell. Michaux was a rarity in more ways than what was obvious at first glance. Though he was universally acknowledged as being something of a savant , he himself had never been able to accept this. He truly, and genuinely, believed himself to be sub par, and couldn't handle compliments or praise on his work. He simply couldn't accept that he had any talent whatsoever, something which had recently become something of a complex with him as his plays became more popular. Any hint of praise about his work and he became absent at once. It was modesty on a grand scale, but this wasn't just playful bashfulness; it was plain denial. He would never know his own excellence. “How did you handle it?”
“I told him I needed to go as soon as he started to ask me questions about casting.”
“I'm sorry.” She smiled sadly. “I know it pains you to talk to people like that.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Nana and Steve were still relishing the delicious twists and sub-texts of Michaux's play. Their relish must have seemed crude to him. “Shall I ask them to leave?” She touched the back of her hand gently to his cheek (which had seen a few days' neglect and added to his shabbiness) as she said this. He took this hand in his own before glancing at her with a sharpness that she had never quite become accustomed to.
“It's alright.” He said quietly. “I'll probably go to bed soon.”
“I think that's sensible, Jean.” She was mechanical, pragmatic, he thought. “You do have a few week's worth of sleep to catch up on after all.” She emptied the plastic bag onto the counter. “We were running out of that decaf tea you like, so I ran downstairs before you got home.” He still had her hand in his, and she secretly missed his private intimacy. The kettle came to the boil with its large, angry hissing, and he let go.
“Merci, Madison.” He spoke that language so rarely that to her it now seemed softer; as if it existed only for him to address her in.
She answered, “You're welcome,” and kissed him lightly on that same rough cheek before he disappeared through into their dark bedroom.
“... and in the end, what was the line? Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten, when she comes home to him and says... where you going Michaux?” Nana watched him with her mouth open – he hadn't been aware of her properly for the last few minutes. Her question went unanswered therefore, so she turned to Madison with both eyebrows raised.
“He's going to bed, Nana.” She took her place at the table by the third coffee cup, and looked at the Guardian review. “We all know how hard he's worked all these months.”
“Yeah, well, the last time I saw him was, if you exclude opening night last week, that day he had a hissy fit at me.” Madison arched an eyebrow at her; Michaux didn't have 'hissy fits'. “And if he's been working as hard as that for all this time, well, I'm not surprised that he's so exhausted.” She suddenly smiled. “But it was worth it. Isn't he proud of the end result? I would be.”
Madison made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat. Nana had never been able to understand that Michaux had never in his life been proud of anything of his own making, and probably never would. But there was one thing that was for certain; although the doctor had prescribed it, and she had always advised it, Michaux would be awake again within a few hours to sit, and write.
Michaux had, however reluctantly, picked up a few friends on his way to becoming the cunning writer he was now thought to be. And though it was now near impossible to imagine him any less social than he was, he had not always been this way. With those he knew well, and liked, he was as talkative as he had been in his youth, but he was still hard-bitten. Those he didn't like received nothing from him. Madison sometimes cast her thoughts back to the time when Michaux had been a nothing and a nobody. He had always been surrounded by people, had always spoken with eloquence and wit, and had always worn a wry, wolfish smile that was his only. Before he was anything more than a failed novelist he had been happy, and so had she, while it lasted. But if there was one fault that Michaux was guilty of, it was perfectionism; never had he written something he had been content with, and to him this became something of a crusade. It didn't stop him from having to attend those social gatherings that only the most popular or most fashionable, or those who believed themselves to be either (or both) of these things, really enjoyed. As his work became more well-known, and more well-liked, he started to cause more of a stir wherever he went. Generally, Madison was brought with him to these sorts of things, and, generally, Madison didn't mind being brought.
At one such party, which Nana had insisted on being brought along to, Michaux was standing at the edge of room with someone he seemed to know fairly well. She was pale-skinned, slim, and youthful. Her hair was a white blonde that was as soft as her fair complexion, but her eyes were a fierce and harsh green, giving her a raw edge to her otherwise stunning beauty. She smiled at Michaux, who was now more animated than he had been for months; his slender, elongated hands being swept about in graceful gestures; his eyes sharp and bright, his wolfish smile returned after a long absence. The ghostly vacancy in his countenance was gone without a trace. Madison watched him out of the corner of her eye, while Nana spoke to a crowd of people around them both in her loud, grating voice. Madison had, just as Michaux was so apt at doing, learnt to block out most of what she said. She was, at that moment in time, straining hard to catch parts of Michaux's conversation with this woman, but all she heard was the occasional burst of laughter; hers breathy, his low. She tapped the fingers of her left hand absent-mindedly against the side of her drink.
Meanwhile, the conversation she couldn't hear that Michaux was having with the younger woman progressed like this:
“It's not as if it was even intended.” Michaux smiled at this . “What? Are you laughing at me?”
“Well,” his mouth twitched, eyes sharp, “is everything you do done with malicious intent, or is that just always the end result?”
“You're a cruel man, Jean.” But she smiled too. “You can hardly say that you've never intentionally done something to harm someone else.”
“I could say it,” he answered, “but I would be a liar.”
“Better a jerk than a liar?”
“Better both than neither.” He said to her. “I would be bland and unappealing otherwise.”
“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow. “Being harsh isn't unappealing?”
“You're still here, aren't you?” He said. “I've never been anything less than I will be, and will never be anything more than I am. If I'm callous then call me callous and leave me alone, but if I was unappealing you wouldn't stand here and talk to me.”
“No, I suppose not.” She said as she ran a hand through her soft hair. “But if you weren't at least a little attractive, then wouldn't that characteristic callousness of yours be a repellent?” Michaux sensed there was a compliment in there somewhere and his face hardened momentarily. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but there's no denying it.”
“Denial,” he said to her, his eyes as fiercely green as her own, but sharper, “is the most powerful of all abstract notions that man uses to defend himself. It works efficiently, quietly, and keeps a writer from ever knowing how skilled he is or isn't. It's what keeps those who are the beginners practising, and those who are the masters from becoming their own number one fans. If any man knew exactly what he was; how talented, how attractive, how intelligent, then he would either be so overwhelmed by himself or so depressed at his own existence that to live would be impossible. And so denial is a wall behind which any kind of person can hide.” He smiled mildly, showing his canine-like teeth. “I have great faith in denial. It has never failed me.”
“Modesty is one of the most annoying things I've ever had to witness.” Was her reply. “And unfortunately it's something which you have a great deal of.”
“So they tell me.”
She laughed. “You need to be told because you can't see clearly enough through that denial of yours to realise that you're being modest.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder. “That's wonderful.”
“You think so?” He arched an eyebrow. “It's all I hear about.”
“Excluding the compliments.”
“Excluding the compliments, yes.”
“Well you bring it upon yourself.”
“Just as you bring a bad reputation upon yourself by intentionally doing things to harm others.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don't do that intentionally.” He laughed his wolfish laugh. “She's pretty.” She suddenly said. Michaux raised his chin slightly as if he didn't understand to whom she was referring. “Your girl.”
Michaux's face hardened for a fraction of a second before he smiled mildly. “Madison, yes, she is.”
“What does she do anyway?” She asked, and now her features had sharpened also. “Another writer?”
“Not as such. She gave that up a long time ago.” Michaux looked over his shoulder to where Madison stood across the room. Nana was trying to bring her into her conversation, but she seemed preoccupied. “No, she's no writer.” He said, almost under his breath.
“So,” she prompted, “what does she do?”
Michaux turned back to her. “She's an interpretor. Sometimes she does a little freelance translation.”
“Into what language?”
“French, mostly, with some German and Italian.”
“A talented girl.” She replied, but what she said was said falsely. Michaux vaguely noticed this.
“You're still writing, aren't you?”
“Of course,”she answered.
“I haven't seen anything of yours for a while now.”
“Yeah, well, you know as well as anyone how difficult it is to start. The next difficult thing is working on it, and then the most difficult thing is to finish.” She shook her head. “No, I've had very little inspiration lately.”
“I know how you feel.” He glanced over his shoulder again at Madison, who had in that moment, turned her head to do the same. Their gazes met for only the briefest of moments before Madison's eyes flicked to the younger woman he seemed to know so well. She then surrendered herself into Nana's conversation with a slight, but visible, reluctance. “I know how you feel.”
“So who is she?” Madison asked this question with as much lightness as her nature would allow, but she was fooling neither herself, nor Michaux, with her falseness. She was sifting through a pile of papers on the kitchen table to disguise her curiosity, as if the question hadn't followed her around ever since the other night, nagging at her. Michaux was in a playfully cruel mood.
“Who?” He said without looking up from his work.
“Oh, you know.” She said slowly, as if she was only making conversation. He saw right through her, but didn't raise his head. “The girl you were talking to on Wednesday night.”
“Wednesday...” He said vaguely, still not looking up, turning his paper over and continuing to write on the other side.
“Yes, Wednesday.”
“What did she look like?”
“ I think she may have been blond?” Michaux's smile was obscured from her view.
“Oh yes.” He said at last, slowly and softly. “I remember.”
Madison waited, sitting back in her chair, her own work dropping from her fingers onto the cold table, “So who is she?”
And at last, Michaux raised his eyes; they were sharp and scathingly green. His smile widened into a wolfish smirk. “Jealous?”
“Should I be?” She asked quickly.
To this he laughed coldly, showing his lupine teeth.
She winced. “Your reaction isn't reassuring.” She said quietly.
His smile suddenly softened, though there was still a hint of the sadist in him. “You've no need to be jealous, Madison.” He shrugged. “She's just another writer.”
“The world has seen enough of them.” She said.
He looked up again from his writing with a crease in his brow, and his smile suddenly gone. Those words had sounded uncharacteristically bitter from a mouth like hers. Madison was watching him carefully for a reaction. She knew he could bluff emotion, you see, and tried her hardest to keep him on his toes. She was, unfortunately, no match for the Frenchman. Michaux dropped his pencil onto the table.
“You want to elaborate a little on that?” He said, coldness and darkness creeping into his voice and expression. She shrugged.
“Is she successful?”
He narrowed his eyes, slightly. “Fairly, yes.”
“She doesn't have a name then?” She said with borrowed sharpness.
“Why does it matter?” Michaux raised his voice. “She's just a friend.”
“It matters because you don't want to tell me her name, Jean.” She said savagely. “It matters because I can tell you don't want me to know about her.”
“That's ridiculous.” Now a growl crept into his voice.
“Then tell me her name if it's so ridiculous!” She shouted across the table; eyes blazing. “If she's nothing more than a friend to you, tell me her name!”
He snarled. “You don't trust me.”
She ignored that last comment. “You once said to me that you would do anything for me before you even thought of yourself. But you're a liar, Jean.” Her anger was quickly cooling into disappointment, which is, of course, much worse. “You always have been. I want to know her name.”
He sat back in his chair and frowned at her deeply, his eyes dark and sharp and fierce.
“Why won't you tell me?” She asked weakly.
“Because you're behaving like a child.” He stood and left the room. Madison winced at the sound of the front door being slammed. A few moments of thought, and then she bent over her work and began to write again. Her hand shook badly but she continued into the night.
When Michaux did eventually come home, there was more than just suspicion in the lingering perfume. Neither the man nor the woman spoke. Madison found that she was unable to even look at him, and sat curled up in a large chair, staring at the floor, sobbing almost imperceptibly. Michaux had in his mind many, quite different, things that he could have said: eloquence was his, but he chose not to use it. He stood with his coat on near where she sat all curled up like a child, silent. Then, still unable to lift her eyes, Madison spoke quietly.
“I'm not one of your characters whose pain ends as the paper does. If you're going to leave me, do it now, and do it quickly.” Minutes passed between them with nothing taking place. He said nothing, and did nothing. “You must have known her for so long.” He lowered his head, and watched her with sharp eyes. More time passed without her raising her head, punctuated here and there by small muffled sobs. “I wish I'd never gone to Paris.”
Michaux sat and wrote.
He would stare vaguely away into empty introspection and malleable shadow; his eyes without sharpness; his expression fallen and gone; his slender hand poised over the paper as if simply waiting. But then he would remember something, and tilt his head, bent over the paper, allowing some of his overgrown hair to fall across his brow. “She saw what she knew.” He said to himself.
There was a noise of someone closing the door behind them, dropping their keys noisily onto the hall table. Then he felt a warm weight land on his arm, and he turned smiling. She leant over him, running a hand through her white-blond hair, smiling her own raw smile.
“Finished?” She asked.
Michaux put down his pencil. “Yes.”
[edited: 09/03/06]
