The Reinvention of Love

a harbour so that they can shelter for a while before venturing back into their calamitous lives. It is Adèle who tells me of these unfortunates, brings them to my house on Montparnasse.
    Adèle is one thing. The prostitutes are another. They usually drink. They often fight with one another. Instead of appreciating my kindness, they treat me as though I am an idiot for taking them in, and rebuke me at every turn. One of them, a woman who was nicknamed “The Penguin” and had only one hand, was so rude to my guests that people stopped coming to my house. Even my secretary became nervous about entering. For the month she was there, I kept “The Penguin” confined to the downstairs. Even so, she would shout up through the floorboards, startling my visitors with her crudeness and insults. In the end I couldn’t stand her behaviour and I sent her back to the streets, for which she seemed almost grateful.
    I suppose I could take advantage of the prostitutes while they are in my house, but I’m always a little afraid of them and I fear they would laugh at my body when it was revealed to them. I’ve always been a little afraid of prostitutes. I havesometimes hired one to undress for me, but I have never dared do more than fondle her. So I try to treat the women in my house as ladies, although they are always very suspicious of this, and respond to my ministrations with open hostility. I have had saucepans hurled at me, and vile abuse. My mother’s antiques have been broken. Anything valuable and small enough to carry has been stolen. Still, I persist. On Friday nights I take them all to the theatre, in the vain hope that it will instil some artistic sensibility in them.
    At the moment we are mercifully between prostitutes. It is late. My secretary has left for the day and I wait, hopefully, for my supper to be delivered on a tray.
    I wait, and wait, and then I trudge down to the kitchen to see what drunken disaster has befallen Adèle.
    She is leaning up against the pantry door. Her skirts are twisted and her cap is crooked on her head. There is nothing cooking on the stove, no smell of supper rising from any of the pots.
    “Food?” I say, hopefully.
    Adèle fixes me with her gaze, then forgets to say anything.
    The house feels airy and spacious without the prostitutes. Adèle’s neglect is so familiar as to be almost reassuring.
    “Don’t worry,” I say. “I will make myself some bread and cheese. I’m not that hungry tonight anyway.” I cut some bread, put several cheeses on a plate.
    “Wine?” I ask.
    Adèle produces an open bottle from behind her back.
    “Sorry,” she says. This scenario has happened so often that apologies are entirely unnecessary, and I feel badly for her when she decides she has to offer one up.
    I pour a glass of wine. I take down another glass and pour Adèle one.
    “Come and sit with me,” I say, “while I have my supper.”
    The kitchen is on the ground floor of the house. It’s always dark in here, even with the evening light fumbling through thestreet-level windows. I light a couple of candles, place them in the centre of the table. Then I get a plate for Adèle.
    “Thank you.” She helps herself liberally to bread and cheese. We drink our wine.
    “I saw another unfortunate,” she says, “down by the river. Off her head with drink. Raving mad.” It pleases Adèle to find women who are worse off than she is. She delights in it.
    “Really?” My heart sinks.
    “She has an infection.” Adèle thinks for a moment. “No, affliction. She has an affliction.”
    “What sort of affliction?”
    “The mental sort.”
    I chew my bread. “I can’t be having an imbecile here,” I say. “It would be too much work.” I look at her. “For you,” I say. “Remember the woman who imagined she saw rats everywhere? You never had a moment’s peace.”
    “This girl is mental only because of the drink.” Adèle holds out her glass and I dutifully fill it up. “And she’s very young, barely older than a child. It would only be for a week or so.”
    This is what Adèle says about every prostitute who ends up staying here. More than likely this new girl will remain well over a month.
    I sigh. “All right. Tell her to come round and see me.”
    “She’ll be here tomorrow morning, monsieur,” says Adèle, brightly.
    “What’s her name?”
    “Claudine.”
    It’s a pretty name. A name full of music and promise. But I have enough experience in these matters to know that