Dignity
by Lou Godbold
Sunlight from the tall windows lies in diagonal bands across the parquet flooring. Monsieur Boulot stands in the white double doorway tying the belt of his Chinese silk robe. Margaux raises her head from the divan, blonde hair spilling over the brocade cushion as she leans on one elbow. Below, the sounds of an early walker click-clack beneath the leafy trees of the boulevard and through the open window. Margaux studies Monsieur Boulot, his balding head with the two strands of hair brushed in an arc from temple to temple, the pudgy hands leaning by their thumbs from his pockets, and the slightly upturned leather slippers.
“I have my dignity, you know,” he says.
She sighs and swings her legs off the divan. “You're right, mon petit,” she says, coming towards him. “I'll let myself out.”
With that and a brush of skirts against his robe, Margaux is gone.
Monsieur Boulot stands uncertainly in the doorway, allowing the cloud of scent to fall to the ground. He rues the infatuation that has left his Sunday morning shattered and with no way to fit back the shards to create some sort of meaning. He rues his fate and that of all old men who fall for fickle young women. “I have my dignity,” he repeats to the empty room, the birds outside chattering in derision.
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Author's Note
I wrote this eighteen years ago when I was indeed a fickle young woman, but unlike my other work it is not auto-biographical. Wouldn't mind M. Boulot's apartment though.
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I hurt for him.
Bam. Good.
Wait a minute... You wrote this when you were three?!
Matt, you old flatterer. No, I wrote it when I first came to the States, a fully-grown woman. But thanks for the compliment.
Susan - thank you as ever for responding to the material viscerally as well as critically.
Ah. Poor devil. Even the sunshine seems to mock him. I imagine the sun illuminating Margaux's champagne-coloured hair.
Who's writing this, Carol! Just kidding. Glad I sparked your imagination.
Crisp, funny and very good.
such beautiful details! And the repetition of "he rues" filled me w. such sympathy for Boulot in this quiet moment as he ponders his rejection. Really enjoyed reading this.
Merci, Julie!
Wow. It's like a scene out of an art house movie from the sixties. Who? Fellini? Antonioni? Really compact, also.
Dang, Mr. Allen, did they steal that from me? Oh, wait. The sixties. Well maybe for once I'm young enough for that not to be possible.
this made me laugh so hard! well observed, brilliantly told, i feel for le monsieur. 'boulot' and his features made me, for some reason, unflatteringly think of pierre boulet who i always imagine shares this credo with your hero. except, he'd sing the sentence, twelve-tone fashion, musically fucked up beyond all recognition. brilliant piece!
High praise, indeed, Finnegan!
M. Boulot gets his name from the ironic Parisian observation on city life: 'Metro, boulot, dodo' (Subway, job, sleep), but now that you say that, I think he does sound like he'd be put in the same line-up as M. Boulet.
Nice feeling of being there in the setting, but not so comfy feeling melancholy toward M. Boulot. Poor thing. I enjoyed reading this.
Ah, perhaps at that age, a little less dignity (though I love that we aren't told what has occurred to make M. Boulet's feathers ruffle) and he could have had the day with the fickle Margaux.
I missed this--looks like ages ago. I like it!