Until the day I met Madame Huppert, I had never heard of Ikebana. I was very much on the defensive that afternoon. I had prepared myself psychologically to tell a lot of little lies if it seemed to me “promotional.” At that time I considered little lies as a necessary ingredient in order to appear interesting, to escape from mediocrity, and I trained myself to tell them without constraint. All things considered, I found myself quite convincing when I lied, perhaps more so than when I told the truth. But faced with a direct question, without pretext, without even the glimmer of who or what Ikebana was, all my admirable inclinations toward falsehood crumbled inexorably, and I was forced to admit my ignorance. For the interview, Madame received me on the terrace. She was lying on a very austere, cushionless, reed deck chair, of the yoga-meditation type and was dressed in a delicious pale blue kimono. Up until the last moment I had been undecided whether to wear my blue pleated skirt with my red pullover, the “adolescent-of-good-family-who-belongs-to-the-tennis-club”
