Emmanuelle by Emmanuelle Arsan

twenty-two years and eight months old.”
    “I see! Is she married?”
    “No, not even married.”
    “Then she’s even more of an old maid than I am. I can imagine how you must talk to her!” Marie-Anne made no comment. “You don’t intend to introduce me to her, do you?” Emmanuelle asked.
    “All you have to do is come with me! Instead of standing there spouting nonsense.”
    Marie-Anne made a signal to Bee, who came forward to meet them. “This is Emmanuelle,” said Marie-Anne, as though she were revealing the perpetrator of a crime.
    Seen from close up, Bee’s big gray eyes gave an impression of intelligence and freedom. She was apparently as little inclined to dominate others as she was to let herself be easily ruled. Emmanuelle told herself that Marie-Anne surely had her hands full with this girl. She felt avenged.
    They exchanged innocuous banalities. Bee’s voice went well with her eyes. Its delivery was steady, without hesitation, and it was warmed by an intimate gaiety. Emmanuelle thought that she had the face and the tone of voice of happiness.
    She asked how Bee spent her days. Mainly strolling around the city, it seemed. Did she live alone in Bangkok? No, she had come a year ago to visit her brother, who was a naval attaché at the American Embassy. She had at first intended to stay only a month, but, as it turned out, she was still there. She was in no hurry to leave.
    “When I’ve had enough of this prolonged vacation,” she said, “I’ll get married and go back to America. I don’t want to work. I love having nothing to do.”
    “Are you engaged?” asked Emmanuelle.
    This question let her discover Bee’s laugh. It was forthright and very pretty.
    “In my country, you get engaged the day before your wedding; and two days before, you don’t yet know who you’re going to marry. Since I don’t intend to retire tomorrow or the day after, I have no idea who my husband will be.”
    “But getting married doesn’t necessarily mean retiring,” protested Emmanuelle.
    Bee smiled indulgently. She merely said “Oh,” with an intonation of doubt; then she added, “There’s nothing wrong with retiring.”
    Emmanuelle almost asked, “Retiring from what?” But she was afraid of being indiscreet. It was Bee who asked her, “Are you glad you married so young?”
    “Oh, yes! It’s surely the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
    Bee smiled again. Emmanuelle was struck by the impression of kindness that emanated from her. The enamel beauty of her face (which one might have thought to be free of all makeup, although Emmanuelle knew what diligence and patience had been required to produce such a perfect simulation of nature, and the many hours of skilled handling of brushes and creams), made almost embarrassing by its extreme perfection, was forgotten as soon as the playfulness shone through it, like sunlight through a stained-glass window. One then felt like saying, not “How beautiful that woman is!” but, “How likable she looks!” Emmanuelle, however, preferred to think, “How happy she seems!” She felt that this brought them closer together, because she herself was aware of being happy. And unhappiness frightened her so much that she was incapable of sincerely liking anyone who was suffering, disabled, poor, or oppressed. She was sometimes ashamed of this characteristic, although it did not stem from hard-heartedness, but only from a sensitive, almost obsessive passion for beauty.
    While Marie-Anne was making conversation with the ladies, Emmanuelle stayed with Bee. They talked of nothing important, but it was clear that they both enjoyed being together. Emmanuelle was even rather glad that Marie-Anne was neglecting her. When Jean came for her, she was sorry she had to leave. As she was saying her goodbyes, Marie-Anne said, preoccupied, “I’ll call you.” Emmanuelle thought, too late, that she should have asked Bee for her telephone number. She was so dismayed by this