Thomassen first shook my hand, then went over to Tisserand. Tisserand got up and realized that, standing, the other man was a good fifteen inches taller than him. He abruptly sat down, his face went bright red, I even thought for a moment that he was going to go for Thomassen's throat; it was painful to see.
Later I made a number of trips to the provinces with Thomassen - for training sessions, the usual sort of thing. We got on really well. I've remarked it time and again: exceptionally beautiful people are often modest, gentle, affable, considerate. They have great difficulty in making friends, at least among men. They're forced to make a constant effort to try and make you forget their superiority, be it ever so little.
Tisserand, thank God, has never been called on to make a trip with Thomassen. But each time a group of training sessions is being organized I know he thinks about it, and that he has a lot of sleepless nights.
After the meal he wants to go for a drink in a `friendly café'. Wonderful.
I follow just behind, and I have to say this time his choice turns out to be excellent: we go into a kind of huge vaulted cellar, with old, obviously authentic beams. Small wooden tables, lit with candles, are dotted all over the place. A fire burns in an immense fireplace at the end of the room. The whole thing makes for an atmosphere of happy improvization, of congenial disorder.
We sit down. He orders a bourbon and water, I stick to beer. I look about me and say to myself that this time this is it, this is perhaps the journey's end for my luckless companion. We're in a student café, everyone's happy, everybody wants to have fun. There are lots of tables with two or three young women at them, there are even some girls alone at the bar.
I watch Tisserand while assuming my most engaging air. The young men and women in the café touch each other. The women push back their hair with a graceful gesture. They cross their legs, await the occasion to burst into laughter. In short, they've having fun. Now's the time to score, right here and now, in this place that lends itself so perfectly.
He raises his eyes from his drink and, from behind his glasses, fixes his gaze on me. And I remark that he's run out of steam. He can't go on, he has no more appetite for the fray, he's had it up to here. He looks at me, his face trembles a little. Doubtless it's the alcohol, he drank too much wine at dinner, the jerk. I wonder if he isn't going to break into sobs, recount the stations of his particular cross to me; I feel him capable of something of the sort; the lenses of his glasses are slightly fogged with tears.
It's not a problem, I can handle it, listen to the lot, carry him back to the hotel if I have to; but I'm sure that come tomorrow morning he'll be pissed off with me.
I remain silent; I wait without saying anything; I find no judicious words to utter. The uncertainty persists for a minute or so, then the crisis passes. In a strangely feeble, almost trembling voice he says to me: `We'd best go back. Have to begin first thing in the morning.'
Right, back it is. We'll finish our drinks and back it is. I light a last cigarette, look at Tisserand once more. He really is totally haggard. Wordlessly he lets me pay the bill, wordlessly he follows me as I make for the door. He's stooped, huddled; he's ashamed of himself, hates himself, wishes he were dead.
We walk in the direction of the hotel. In the street it's starting to rain. So there it is, our first day in Rouen over. And I know that on this evidence the days ahead will be absolutely identical.
2
Every Day's a New Day
Witnessed the death of a guy, today, in the Nouvelles Galeries. A very simple death, à la Patricia Highsmith (what I mean is, with that simplicity and brutality characteristic of real life which is also found in the novels of Patricia Highsmith).
Here's how it happened. On entering the part of the store that's arranged as a selfservice I observed a man whose face I couldn't see stretched out on the floor (but I subsequently learnt, while listening in on a conversation between the checkout girls, that he must have been about forty). A lot of people were already fussing over him. I went by trying not to linger too long, so as not to show morbid curiosity. It was around six o'clock.
I bought one or two things: cheese and sliced bread to eat in my hotel room (I'd decided to avoid Tisserand's company that particular evening, to relax a bit). But I hesitated a while over the very varied bottles of wine offered tip to the covetousness of the public. The problem was I didn't have a corkscrew. And anyway, I don't like wine; this last argument clinched it and I opted for a six-pack of Tuborg.
On arriving at the checkout I learnt from a conversation between the checkout girls and a couple who'd assisted in the life-saving operation, at least in its final phase, that the man was dead. The female partner in the couple was a nurse. She was saying that he should have been given heart massage, that maybe this would have saved him. I don't know, I know nothing about it, but if that was the case then why didn't she do it? I find it hard to comprehend this kind of attitude.
In any event, the conclusion I draw from it all is that in certain circumstances you can so easily depart this life - or not, as the case may be.
It can't be said that this had been a very dignified death, what with all the people passing by pushing their trolleys (it was the busiest time of the day), in that circus atmosphere which always characterizes supermarkets. I remember there was even the Nouvelles Galeries advertising jingle (perhaps they've changed it since); the refrain, in particular, consisted of the following words: Nouvelles Galeries, todayeee .
. . Every day's a new day . . .
When I came out the man was still there. The body had been wrapped in some carpets, or more likely thick blankets, tied up very tight with string. It was no longer a man but a parcel, heavy and inert, and arrangements were being made for its transport.
All in a day's work. It was six-twenty.
3
The Old Marketplace Game
I know it's crazy but I've decided to stay in Rouen this weekend. Tisserand was astonished to hear it; I explained to him I wanted to see the town and that I had nothing better to do in Paris. I don't really want to see the town.
And yet there are very fine medieval remains, some ancient houses of great charm. Five or six centuries ago Rouen must have been one of the most beautiful towns in France; but now it's ruined. Everything is dirty, grimy, run down, spoiled by the abiding presence of cars, noise, pollution. I don't know who the mayor is, but it only takes ten minutes of walking the streets of the old town to realize that he is totally incompetent, or corrupt.
To make matters worse there are dozens of yobs who roar down the streets on their motorbikes or scooters, and without silencers. They come in from the Rouen suburbs, which are nearing total industrial collapse. Their objective is to make a deafening racket, as disagreeable as possible, a racket which should be unbearable for the local residents. They are completely successful.
I leave my hotel around two. Without thinking, I go in the direction of the Place du Vieux Marché. It is a truly vast square, bordered entirely by cafés, restaurants and luxury shops. It's here that Joan of Arc was burnt more than five hundred years ago. To commemorate the event they've piled up a load of weirdly curved concrete slabs, half stuck in the ground, which turn out on closer inspection to be a church. There are also embryonic lawns, flowerbeds, and some ramps which seem destined for lovers of skateboarding - unless it be for the cars of the disabled, it's hard to tell. But the complexity of the place doesn't end here: there are also shops in the middle of the square, under a sort of concrete rotunda, as well as an edifice which looks like a bus station.
I settle myself on one of the concrete slabs, determined to get to the bottom of things. It seems highly likely that this square is the heart, the central nucleus of the town. Just what game is being played here exactly?
I observe right away that people generally go around in bands, or in little groups of between two and six individuals. No one group is exactly the same as another, it appears to me. Obviously they resemble each other, they resembl
e each other enormously, but this resemblance could not be called being the same. It's as if they'd elected to embody the antagonism which necessarily goes with any kind of individuation by adopting slightly different behaviour patterns, ways of moving around, formulas for regrouping.
Next I notice that all these people seem satisfied with themselves and the world; it's astonishing, even a little frightening. They quietly saunter around, this one displaying a quizzical smile, that one a moronic look. Some of the youngsters are dressed in leather jackets with slogans borrowed from the more primitive kind of hard rock; you can read phrases on their backs like Kill them all! or Fuck and destroy! ; but all commune in the certainty of passing an agreeable afternoon devoted primarily to consumerism, and thus to contributing to the consolidation of their being.
I observe, lastly, that I feel different from them, without however being able to define the nature of this difference.
I end up tiring of all this pointless people-watching and take refuge in a café. Another mistake. Between the tables there circulates an enormous Alsatian, even more monstrous than most of its race. It stops in front of each customer, as if making up its mind if it should or shouldn't permit itself to bite him.
Six feet away a young girl is seated before a big cup of frothy chocolate. The animal stops for a while in front of her, it sniffs the cup with its snout as if it were going to suddenly lap up the contents with one lick of its tongue. I sense that she's beginning to be afraid. I get up. I want to intervene, I hate such beasts. But finally the dog departs.
After that I drifted through the narrow streets. Completely by chance I went into the Aître Saint-Maclou: a huge and magnificent square courtyard entirely bordered with Gothic sculptures in dark wood.
A bit further on I saw a wedding procession coming out of the church. A truly oldstyle affair; blue-grey suit, white dress and orange blossom, little bridesmaids ... I was sitting on a bench not too far from the church steps.
The bride and groom were getting on a bit. A stocky, rather red-faced man who had the look of a rich peasant; a woman a bit larger than him, with a bony face and glasses. I must say, alas, that the whole thing had something ridiculous about it. Some young people passing by were taking the piss out of the newly-weds. Quite.
For a few minutes I was able to observe all this in a strictly objective manner. And then an unpleasant sensation started to come over me. I got to my feet and quickly left.
Two hours later, night having fallen, I came out of my hotel once again. I ate a pizza, standing up, alone, in an establishment that was deserted - and which deserved to remain so. The pizza pastry was revolting. The decor was made up of squares of white mosaic and wall lamps in brushed steel - you'd have thought yourself in an operating theatre.
Then I went to see a porno movie in the one Rouen cinema specializing in such things. The place was half full, which is pretty good these days. Mainly pensioners and immigrants, of course; there were, however, a few couples.
After a while I was surprised to see that people were often changing seats, and for no apparent reason. Wanting to know the rationale for such behaviour I too changed places, at the same time as another guy. In fact it's very simple: each time a couple arrives they find themselves surrounded by two or three men, who install themselves a few seats away and immediately start to masturbate. Their great wish, I think, is that the woman of the couple cast a glance at their dicks.
I stayed in the cinema for around an hour, then recrossed Rouen to go to the station. A few vaguely menacing beggars were hanging about in the concourse. I didn't take any notice of this and jotted down the train times for Paris.
The next morning I got up early, I arrived in good time for the first train; I bought a ticket, waited, and didn't get on it; and I can't for the life of me think why. It's all very unpleasant.
4
It was the following evening that I took ill. After dinner Tisserand wanted to go to a club; I declined the invitation. My left shoulder was hurting me and I was shivering all over. Returning to the hotel, I tried to sleep but it was no good; once out flat I was unable to breathe. I sat up again; the wallpaper was discouraging.
An hour later I started having difficulty breathing, even sitting up. I made it over to the sink. My colour was cadaverous; the pain had begun its slow descent from the shoulder towards the heart. That's when I said to myself that maybe my condition was serious; I'd clearly overdone the cigarettes of late.
I remained leaning against the sink for some twenty minutes, registering the steady increase of the pain. It vexed me greatly to go out again, to go to the hospital, all that.
Around one in the morning I banged the door shut and went out. By now the pain was clearly localized in the heart region. Each breath cost me an enormous effort, and manifested itself as a muffled wheezing. I was scarcely able to walk, except by taking tiny steps, thirty centimetres at very most. I was constantly obliged to lean against the cars.
I rested for a few minutes against a Peugeot 205, then began the ascent of a street that appeared to lead to a more important crossroads. It took me around half an hour to cover five hundred metres. The pain had stopped getting worse, yet went on being intense. On the other hand my difficulty in breathing was becoming more and more serious, and that was most alarming. I had the feeling that if this continued I was going to die within the next few hours, before dawn at any rate. The injustice of such a sudden death hit me; it could hardly be said that I'd abused life. For a few years I was, it's true, in a bit of a bad way; but that was no reason to interrupt the experiment; on the contrary it could be maintained, rightly so, that life was contriving to smile on me. In truth, it was all rather badly organized.
What's more, this town and its inhabitants had been instantly repugnant to me. Not only did I not want die, but above all I did not want to die in Rouen. To die in Rouen, in the midst of the Rouennais, was especially odious to me, even. That would be, I was telling myself in a state of slight delirium probably engendered by the pain, to accord them too great an honour, these idiot Rouennais. I recall this young couple, I'd managed to flag down their car at a red light; they must have ... the impression they gave. I ask the way to the hospital; somewhat annoyed, the girl cursorily points it out to me. A moment of silence. I am barely able to speak, barely able to stand, it's obvious I'm in no fit state to get there on my own. I look at them, I wordlessly implore their pity, wondering in the meantime if they actually realize what it is they're doing. And then the lights change to green, and the guy drives off.
Did they exchange a word afterwards to justify their behaviour? There's no certainty they did.
Finally I spot an unhoped-for taxi. I try and seem blasé when announcing that I want to go to the hospital, but it doesn't really work, and the driver comes close to refusing. This pathetic creep will have the gall to say to me, just before moving off, that he `hopes I won't muck up his seat covers'. As a matter of fact I'd already heard it said that pregnant women face the same problem when going into labour: aside from a few Cambodians all the taxis refuse to take them for fear of finding themselves lumbered with bodily discharges on their back seat.
So let's be off!
Once in the hospital, it has to be said, the formalities are very quick. An intern looks after me, makes me do a whole series of tests. He wishes, I think, to assure himself that I'm not going to die on him within the next hour.
Once the examination is over he comes over to me and announces that I have a pericardial, and not an infarction as he'd first thought. He informs me that the early symptoms are exactly the same; but contrary to the infarction, which is often fatal, the pericardial is a completely benign complaint, it's not the kind of thing you die of.
`You must have been scared,' he says. So as not to complicate things I reply that yes, but in fact I wasn't in the least bit scared. I just had the feeling I was about to snuff it at any moment; that's different.
Next I'm wheeled into the emergency ward. Once sitting on the b
ed I start sobbing. That helps a little. I'm alone in the ward, I don't have to worry. Every once in a while a nurse pokes her head round the door, assures herself that my sobbing remains more or less constant, and goes away again.
Dawn breaks. A drunk is conveyed to the bed next to mine. I continue sobbing softly, regularly.
Around eight a doctor arrives. He informs me that I'm going to be transferred to the cardiology ward and that he's going to give me an injection to calm me down. They might have thought of this a little sooner, I say to myself. Sure enough the injection sends me straight off to sleep.
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