Claire's Operation
Claire. Thirty-two. Woluwe-Saint-Pierre. Six years before The Ferry Passenger.
The Dress
The evening was misty. The linden trees barely rustled. Every window in the house was lit. Not a soul on this wide, tree-lined street in Woluwe-Saint-Pierre, where the houses stood large and well-appointed. This one belonged to Claire's parents, who had made it available to the young couple five years earlier. Five uneven years that had seen Claire's repeated efforts to satisfy her husband.
The phone on the dressing table rang. Jeanne — and she picked up without hesitating, even though Michel was waiting downstairs.
She was standing in front of the mirror, in her bra and underwear, pulling on the dress. Her navy dress, simple, that followed her silhouette — her chest, her hips, the waist that curved inward between them. She loved this dress.
— Jeanne. Are you well?
— Very well, ma beauté. And you?
Ma beauté — Jeanne's way of seeing her since childhood, warm and encouraging, her constant presence that had given her the emotional security her parents, always travelling, had neither the time nor perhaps even the desire to provide.
— We're going out tonight. Friends of Michel's.
— Are you pleased?
Claire smiled faintly at the mirror.
— We'll see.
She heard the stairs. That step she would have recognised anywhere after five years. He stopped in the doorway.
She didn't turn around. She saw him in the mirror.
He was looking at her. Not with coldness exactly, not with reproach either. Something more subtle and more wearing. A slight curl of the mouth, a faint tension around the eyes. As though what he saw presented a problem he had long since given up putting into words.
— Is your leg still bothering you? she said into the phone.
Jeanne's voice, slightly roughened by the cigarettes she couldn't give up.
— A little. It's nothing. Are you beautiful tonight?
Claire was watching Michel in the mirror. He hadn't moved.
— I think so, yes.
— Good. Enjoy yourself.
— I'll call you tomorrow.
She hung up. Turned to face Michel.
— Does this dress look all right?
His eyes dropped to her chest and she felt again that small, familiar pinch of anxiety that kept coming back more and more often.
— That dress clings.
— And?
— Have you put on weight?
She smiled at him, slightly defiant.
— I don't think so. My weight's always been fairly stable — genetics, I suppose.
He nodded. No insistence. Just that nod that meant what it meant, and she knew it.
He went back downstairs.
Claire turned back to the mirror. She took her lipstick, applied it slowly. She could feel her breasts pressing against the navy fabric. She thought of Jeanne asking whether she was beautiful. A tightening in her stomach.
She turned off the bedroom light and went downstairs.
Tonight Claire is somewhere else, her mind turning. She tallies it up without meaning to — five years of choosing her dresses with his gaze in mind, watching every mouthful, watching for that curl of his mouth that says everything without saying a word.
All that time not knowing whether she is too much, or whether he simply cannot see.
It isn't the first time he's said something like that. That doesn't suit you. Or a variation. You should wear something more slimming. Short sentences, delivered quietly, almost neutrally — as though he were doing her a favour.
She hears the television downstairs. He's turned it on while he waits.
She thinks of Jeanne's voice. Are you beautiful tonight? Jeanne, who has never seen her as anything other than beautiful, since always, since summers at the sea when her parents were elsewhere and it was Jeanne who smoothed cream into her shoulders and told her you're going to break hearts, ma beauté.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs.
Michel has his keys. He's ready.
He doesn't look at her.
The Evening
The evening had been loud, many people talking, few listening.
Michel drives in silence and she watches the city slide past through the window of the BMW. The radio is off.
She keeps coming back to the phrase. Women who dare to do that have something courageous about them. He hadn't turned towards her when he said it. He was speaking to the table, to no one, to everyone. But she had felt a cold current run down her back.
At home, Michel goes straight upstairs. She hears the shower, then nothing. It won't be tonight, and she feels relief. Last time, it hadn't exactly been Broadway.
After the film, he had turned off the light, climbed on top of her and said, smiling in the dark: Nicole Kidman was incredible in that film. Claire wasn't really in the mood, and after one or two unsuccessful attempts to enter her, he had reached for the tube of lubricant that sat on his bedside table: You really should see a gynaecologist. It's not normal to be this dry.
She stands in the living room, coat still on, in front of the bay window looking out onto the dark garden. The linden trees shiver outside.
Courageous. The word turns in her head. Is it courage, or something else — giving in, accepting that you are told you are not quite good enough as you are. She doesn't know. She tries to be honest with herself.
Her breasts. She rarely thinks about them on her own — it's Michel who brings her back to them — that look in the mirror, the short sentences. She presses her hands flat against her chest over her coat, a strange gesture, a taking stock. They're there. They've always been there. Jeanne used to say you're built like a goddess, my beauty and she was twelve years old and didn't yet know that this would complicate her life.
She finally takes off her coat and throws it over the sofa.
She may call. The surgeon whose name Patrick's wife had let slip in conversation, almost in passing — he's very good, very gentle, he explains everything beforehand. She had held onto the name without meaning to. Just in case.
Perhaps.
She turns off the living room light and goes upstairs.
October
In the weeks that follow, the memory of that woman keeps coming back to her. She doesn't know what to do with it. The idea of having her breasts reduced seems unreal, and depresses her a little.
It's October, and the leaves have started to fall. The air smells of earth and of something ending.
One Sunday they sit on the terrace at the ice rink in the Bois de la Cambre. A few families pass along the path — bikes, scooters, pushchairs. Small children shouting and jumping in every direction.
Two women settle at the next table. Early thirties, slim, light coats still open over thin jumpers. And Michel, who had been reading the menu, looks up to watch them. He smiles absently, and she imagines that if he were alone, he would try to talk to them.
She picks up her glass. Sets it down. He eventually turns back to her.
— Can I get you anything else?
— No.
That evening he's already in bed when Claire is removing her make-up in the bathroom. She hears him clearly.
— You know, the clinic where Dr Leblanc works — the surgeon Sabine mentioned the other evening — there's also a gynaecologist there. You could go and talk to her about your dryness, and make an appointment with Dr Leblanc at the same time… Two birds, one stone. I'd be happy to come with you — for the surgeon, I mean…
— Do you really want me to go?
— It doesn't commit you to anything. Just a consultation.
Claire freezes. Dryness? Well, yes — it's been a long time since she felt aroused, wet. Sometimes she fantasises about a man without a face who would tell her she's beautiful, who would love her body, who would make her feel desired, who would take the time to give her pleasure.
Michel continues.
— Come to bed, I'm in the mood. Keep your bra on.
She joins him in this strange arrangement — no underwear, and that bra a size too small that compresses her chest. It isn't the first time he's asked her to do this.
— Turn over and pass me the lubricant.
— You're not going to…?
— Of course not, I just want to see your arse. I'm not really into big arses, but I have to admit, when I see you like that, it does something for me.
He coats her sex with a layer of gel and enters her in one thrust, gripping her hips.
After a minute of energetic back and forth, Claire feels a brief shudder, he pulls out sharply with a grunt and stretches out on the bed. She stays there a moment, stunned by the reality of the scene. He hasn't exactly accustomed her to much more, but tonight she genuinely wonders what she's doing here.
— What's wrong with you? Aren't you going to wash?
She gets up heavily without a word and makes her way to the bathroom. When she comes back, he's sprawled across the bed, snoring.
Downstairs, she settles on the living room sofa, the blue waffle-cotton dressing gown chafing her skin a little, knees pulled up against her chest. A porcelain mug of green tea steams on the small table. Her throat is scratchy, and Claire thinks here comes a cold… What is my body telling me? She feels unsettled, not clean, despite the shower.
And the memories come flooding back. She was sixteen, in Uccle.
That tall boy — the best-looking in the class, broad-shouldered, a devastating smile. The one every girl dreamed of catching the eye of, and more if possible… She can't recall his name.
What she does remember is the large bedroom in his parents' villa, empty that afternoon. His hands on her, the gentle way he had undressed her. His gaze on her body, particularly on her breasts when he found the triple clasp of her bra.
The pain and the small cry of surprise when he pushed inside her and took her virginity. The absence of words, and the sense that something was missing. They had taken no precautions, and Jeanne had scolded her when she told her about her afternoon.
And Monday morning at school, when he had greeted her with a you all right? and a quick smile.
And the end of classes around five, when she had overheard two girls — seniors — openly repeating the don juan's public confidences… she's a good shag, and the rack on her — I've been with a lot of girls but I've never seen anything like it, had her screaming.
She had cried for a long time in Jeanne's arms. No, Claire, they're not all like that, he's a young man who isn't very bright or very decent, and he needs to show off — you'll meet someone quite different.
Jeanne, all her warmth and her steadiness over the years, closer to her than her own mother. A woman without much formal education, but with strong values and clear ideas. Rigorous in her tenderness.
Claire was more careful after that. She had a few relationships, more or less satisfying, but no one had yet been that someone quite different.
And certainly not Michel.
She thinks of Léa, her friend since primary school. An intermittent but strong and loving presence. They had even tried being physical together, but although once or twice they had managed to give each other pleasure, neither of them felt it was something they could make a way of life.
The two women on the terrace. Two sticks, no breasts, no hips. Michel watching them without even trying to hide it. That's the kind of body he's drawn to, she realises.
She thinks that it's been five years and she isn't happy.
The next morning Michel comes downstairs first. He makes eggs, sets a plate in front of her without a word. He looks rested and smiles as he reads his newspaper.
Dr Leblanc
Monday evening, Jeanne calls.
— You sound tired, my little one.
— I'm not sleeping well.
— Michel?
Claire doesn't answer straight away. Outside, the linden trees have lost almost everything. The branches are black against the white October sky.
— It isn't simple, Jeanne.
Jeanne doesn't ask anything more. But she stays on the line for another ten minutes, talking about her leg, the weather, nothing — just to be there, with her little one.
After she hangs up, Claire stays sitting in the living room. She thinks about the name on the Post-it. Dr Leblanc, avenue Louise. Patrick's wife, who had been radiant.
Claire isn't in the habit of giving up. Jeanne taught her that when you start something, you don't just abandon it. She senses that Michel isn't happy either. She shivers — she's afraid, but she won't back down because of that. If it can change something between them. If it can make him different, in bed, with her.
The following morning, she calls.
The receptionist has an efficient, neutral, well-articulated voice. Thursday at five o'clock, Dr Leblanc can see her. She notes the address.
For the gynaecologist, the receptionist moves straight on — Dr Maes can see her the same day, at four.
— No, says Claire. Just Dr Leblanc.
A brief silence on the other end.
— Very well. Thursday at five then.
She hangs up. She stands there for a moment, phone in hand. That no — she hadn't really planned it. It had simply come out.
She says nothing to Michel beyond the fact that she has made an appointment.
— Do you want me to come?
— If you like.
On Thursday they take the car. Michel drives, she watches the avenue go by. They don't talk much. He finds a parking space easily, as always.
The practice is discreet, on the second floor of a Belle Époque building. A bright waiting room, two armchairs, plants. A young woman at reception who smiles at them.
They sit down side by side. Michel rests his hand on her knee for a second, then takes out his phone. Claire looks at her hands.
Dr Leblanc is young, younger than she had imagined — and good-looking. He shakes both their hands, invites them to sit, opens a blank file.
— What brings you in today?
A silence. Claire feels Michel's gaze from the side.
— My husband thinks I should consider a breast reduction.
Her own voice surprises her in the quiet room. It's the first time she has said that out loud.
The doctor looks at her, pen in hand, not yet writing.
— And you?
A silence.
— I don't know. That's why I'm here.
He sets down his pen.
— I'm going to ask you to step behind the screen. For a brief examination.
Michel half rises.
— Can I—
— No, says the doctor gently. This is a medical examination. Just your wife.
Claire gets up, follows the doctor behind the white screen. She removes her coat, her jumper, unclasps her bra. She suddenly feels cold. The doctor examines her with precise, professional gestures. He palpates each breast in turn, weighs them, assesses their size, shape and volume, and notes something down. Then he pauses.
— I need to tell you something, from a strictly medical standpoint. For a volume such as yours, the firmness is quite remarkable. I very rarely see this. You have an exceptional morphology.
He says it the way he might note a blood pressure reading — though not quite. Then he continues his examination.
— You can get dressed.
Claire dresses slowly. She isn't quite sure what she feels. No one has ever said something like that to her in quite that way — without desire, without intention, simply as a fact.
On the other side of the screen, she can hear Michel on his phone.
When she sits back down, the doctor has his hands folded on the desk.
— Medically, there is no indication. You are in perfect health. A reduction is technically possible, but it is not a necessity. Far from it.
He pauses.
— This kind of decision must come from you. From you alone. Take all the time you need.
Claire nods. She says nothing.
Michel smiles — that measured, reasonable smile.
— But the techniques today give very natural results, don't they? The scarring is barely visible, I've read that—
— That's correct, says the doctor. I can reduce your wife's breasts if she genuinely wishes it, with very little risk, and the scarring would in all likelihood be minimal. But I repeat — there is no medical reason. This is a personal decision, and it must be hers.
He doesn't look at Michel when he says this. He looks at Claire.
In the car on the way back, Michel drives. He seems satisfied — she can feel it — the way he does after a meeting that went well.
— He seems serious, that doctor. Will you think about it? It really would be good.
— Yes.
She watches avenue Louise go by through the window. Shop fronts, trees, people on the pavements. A woman pushing a bicycle, a child on the rack behind her.
She thinks of what the doctor said. This kind of decision must come from you.
She thinks of the other thing he said, behind the screen. An exceptional morphology.
And of Jeanne. You're built like a goddess, my beauty.
She looks at her hands on her lap.
They've always been there.
Jeanne
In the days that follow, she doesn't mention it. Michel doesn't either — he has placed the idea, and now he waits. That's his way.
She turns it over.
Wednesday evening, she calls Jeanne.
— I went to see a surgeon.
A silence.
— What for?
— Michel thinks I should have my breasts reduced.
— Claire! NO!
Claire hears Jeanne's breathing quicken, that slightly rough breath the cigarettes have worn into her over the years.
— You're not going to do something like that!?… You're actually considering it?
— I don't know.
— The Claire I know would know.
Claire doesn't answer straight away. She's standing in the kitchen, back against the counter, arms crossed.
— The doctor said I had an exceptional morphology. That he rarely saw anything like it.
— Of course he did. Because it's true.
— Michel…
— I'm beginning to think Michel may not be the right man for you. How can he ask you to do something like this?
Claire hears her, but her mind seems to have gone still and cannot quite take it in. Jeanne has this direct, unsparing way of saying things.
— Is this what you want, Claire?
Claire stands motionless, trying to feel her way through it. To go where it hurts, where she is afraid.
Jeanne continues.
— You are magnificent as you are, ma beauté, and you always have been. Take the time to be sure before you do something irreversible to your beautiful body.
After she hangs up, Claire stays in the kitchen for a long time. The tea goes cold in her cup.
She thinks of the doctor behind the screen. She thinks of Michel in his chair, on his phone. She thinks of Jeanne who says you are magnificent with that quiet certainty she has always had.
Upstairs, she loses herself in Bach's fifth keyboard concerto in F minor, letting the piano carry her as she slips off her jumper in front of the large mirror. She unclasps the bra that has been compressing her — she has been buying them a size too small for at least three years. To try to please Michel. Her breasts settle gently into their natural shape, heavy, dense, warm, alive.
She will not call Dr Leblanc's practice back.
It seems obvious to her now. It was there all along — she simply had to look it in the face.
Claire doesn't know it yet, but it will take six years. Six years of small victories and setbacks, of mornings when she sees herself in the mirror and evenings when she doubts again.
Six years before she meets him, finally, on a February evening on the ferry that crosses between the Chalet Robinson and the Bois de la Cambre, in Brussels.