by Anna Gavalda
I groped for the light switch. The light was ugly. I hung my jacket on a peg and the peg was ugly. And the mirror, too. The mirror was ugly. The mirror, the framed poster, the carpet, the sofa, the coffee table, everything. Everything was ugly.
I looked around me and I didn’t recognize anything. Who could actually live happily here? I wondered. Playmobil figures? Show-home salesmen? No chaos, no mess, no whimsicality, no comfort. Nothing. Just decoration. Even worse: décor. I went into the kitchen, and there was nothing of me there either. It didn’t remind me of anything. It didn’t tell me any stories. I insisted, though. I bent down, opened doors, cupboards, drawers, but no, truly, there was nothing. No one.
The bedroom, maybe? I lifted the duvet, grabbed one pillow and then the other, buried my face in them, examined the sheets. Zilch. Nothing to indicate that human beings had ever lain there. Not the slightest smell of perfume, let alone sweat or saliva or cum. The bathroom? Toothbrushes, the oversized T-shirt Melanie slept in, our bath towels: silent. Who were these zombies, and what kind of existence was this, that we were leading, ultimately?
I didn’t know what to grasp on to anymore. After the emotional overflow I’d more or less managed to unburden myself of upstairs, I was incapable of letting myself go again, and deep within me, in my nostrils and my throat, something kept me from making a sound. I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth and braced myself. I was ridiculous. A child. A stupid kid, temperamental and upset, but much too proud to show it.
Okay, well, now what? What could I smash to get myself noticed, huh?
I was frozen in that state of anxiety and violence and powerlessness when the doorbell rang.
Jesus, what the hell time was it? What the fuck was going on now?
EIGHT, COURTESY
Are you okay?”
Isaac looked like he didn’t recognize me.
“Yann, are you okay? Is everything all right?”
I don’t remember what I said to him. That I was tired, I think.
And it was true. I was tired.
Very tired.
Too tired.
It was myself I should have smashed. Too bad we only lived on the second floor.
“Here,” he said, taking my hand. “I peeled it off for you. As a souvenir. You can order some, if you like, before . . . well . . . it’s now or never . . . ”
My Isaac. My prince. I gazed at him for a long time, to calm myself down. He looked exhausted.
Even the wings of his bow tie were drooping.
It’s true, I did find him soothing, but in another sense he was way out of reality, too. Why had he brought me this now, really? As if it couldn’t wait. And what wine was I going to order? I had no cellar, no money, no Alice, no almonds, no cast-iron casserole dish, no little daughters, no spices, no tablecloth, no wineglasses, nothing. For a guy who said he could sense everything and had an unfailing eye, this wasn’t a very impressive performance.
To be fair, though, we’d drunk two and a half bottles of wine between the two of us. That can cause an error or two.
We stood on the landing since I couldn’t reasonably invite him in, and it was at that precise second, just as I was thinking that, saying to myself on the subject of Isaac Moïse, who had become my friend, my treasured friend, I can’t reasonably invite him in, that I finally grew up:
“Would it be all right if I came back upstairs with you, and borrowed Misia’s little Fisher-Price tape recorder, the one that’s in her bedroom in the middle of all the Barbies, if you don’t mind?”
NINE, THE CROSSING
I had the murder weapon, but I needed the bullet. In this case, a cassette. That relic from the last century. That little black or clear plastic box containing a magnetic strip on which you could record sounds. That other world.
I wasn’t going to ruin Misia’s nursery rhymes, though.
I must still have one or two of them lying around somewhere, but where?
Diversion:
When I met Melanie I was sharing an apartment with two other shady characters near Barbès. The shared rooms were usually unbelievably messy, but I’d made a pretty cozy little bedroom for myself, I remember.
Lots of books, lots of music, ashtrays, eviscerated boxes sent from the country by my mom every week (Andouille sausage, kouign-amann, and galettes au beurre. Yeah, yeah, it’s a lot, but that’s just how my mom is. She’s from Brittany.), a bunch of idiotic T-shirts, dirty underwear, mateless socks, burps, farts, wanking, dirty jokes, and even—miraculously, and far fewer, but a couple, anyway—girls who ended up there sometimes, plus everything that kept me treading water, stuck up on the walls: messages, pictures, faces, people’s faces that I thought were beautiful or that I admired, architectural plans, prototypes, mock-ups, ideas, school essays, work reports, movie tickets, concert tickets, things I’d copied out of books, phrases instructing me to live with my head held high, facsimiles of drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, Arne Jacobsen, Le Corbusier, and Frank Lloyd Wright . . . and all those generous things adults write when you’re still blowing bubbles in your milk with a straw, and when you go to Paris to study, and when you want to believe that you have some talent; but I won’t let go of them, I’ll never let go of them . . . and photos of my family, and my boats and my friends, and my dogs, living and dead . . . and posters of films and exhibitions and graphic artists and musicians and charismatic leaders . . . well, a bit of everything, really.
When we decided to live together to save on rent (my God, that sounds so sleazy—to have the pleasure of living together, let’s say), we moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment near the Gare de l’Est, and that was when I had to downsize.
I took a lot of it back to my parents’ house and kept only the bare minimum necessary to finish my studies and keep myself clothed. But it was okay; we both worked and went out a lot; we loved each other, and besides, in the intervening years the Internet had become a giant wall on which I could pin, unpin, and admire anything that inspired me to my heart’s desire.
Then when it became a question of us moving here to save on rent again (but let me be clear, we pay for the utilities, okay?!) (oh God, what have I become?), Melanie went through my clothes yet again, and because I was a grown man with a job now, there went my baggy T-shirts, my old sailor’s jacket and my sweaters from the co-op, my Clarks, my trumpet, my cigarette papers, my sailor’s caps, and my Tolkien books, because I wouldn’t really be needing them anymore. Right, darling?
Fine, okay. She was right. We were living in a nice neighborhood now, and it really was great not to hear trains in the night anymore, or to be asked for a spare cigarette every two meters. If this was the price to pay, so be it. Quite apart from the fact that if I couldn’t convince myself that I was an adult, who else would believe it? So, here we go, one more time, five fewer boxes. To be honest it never bothered me too much; I’d always liked to travel light, but the thing is . . . that now, well, I’ve got nothing left. Not even an audiocassette.
Well, too bad for Misia. I’ll buy her a new one.
And then it comes back to me. When I sent my dear old Titine off to the junkyard last year, I saved everything in the glove compartment. Mandatory prehistoric radio, I must have a few tapes left, right?
I search.
And at the very back of the part of the closet that’s been assigned to me, I find one. Just one. I don’t recognize it and there’s nothing written on it.
Okay. We’ll see.
* * *
I take a shower and think. I put on boxer shorts, socks, and clean jeans, and I think. I look for an acceptable shirt and think. I tie my shoes and think. I make myself a coffee, thinking. A second coffee, thinking some more. A third, still thinking.
I think. I think. I think.
And when, from thinking so much, I don’t have even a gram of alcohol left in my blood, when I don’t have a single dry chest hair left a
nd I’m as much on edge as a person can possibly be, I calm down.
I settle myself in the kitchen, light a candle like in Alice’s kitchen because I noticed that candlelight makes people more attractive and more intelligent (mine is less elegant, of course, not a votive candle, just some of Melanie’s “décor” bullshit that stinks of coconut) (but it’ll do, it’ll do) (not all in one night, Lady Life) (leave me a little something for what happens next, I beg you), turn out the light, sit down, and set the little tape recorder, covered with Strawberry Shortcake stickers, on the table in front of me.
I put my old cassette in and guess what I hear? Massive Attack.
God has a hell of a sense of humor. It would be hard to find anything more synchronistic. I could almost laugh about it, if I weren’t so stressed. I rewind, grab the microphone, and I . . . I turn around, so I can’t see my reflection in the mirror.
Because I’m disappointing even in my nice Sunday shirt, with my Home Shopping Network candlelight and my tiny microphone at the end of its yellow cord. No, trust me, it’s better if I don’t see that.
I clear my throat and press the big REC button (the blue one). The tape unspools, I clear my throat again, and I . . . I . . . uh . . . oh, shit. I rewind.
Okay, big guy, get on with it . . .
I take in a huge gulp of air, like the time I tried to swim across the whole jetty without coming up for air in front of all the girls at summer camp, and I press the blue button again.
I take the plunge:
“Melanie . . . Melanie, I can’t stay with you. I . . . by the time you hear this message I’ll be gone, because I . . . I don’t want to live with you anymore.”
(Silence.)
“I know I should have written you a letter, but I’m afraid I’d spell things wrong, and I know you, and I know that whenever you see a spelling mistake you immediately hate the person who made it, and I’d rather not take that risk.
“See, I’m recording this message so I can explain things to you, and I know this will be enough: Melanie, I’m leaving you because you hate people who misspell things.
“I’m sure that won’t seem like much of a reason for you, but for me it’s crystal clear. I’m leaving you because you don’t cut people any slack, and because you never see what really counts in people. I mean, really, why does it matter if it’s ‘é’ or ‘er’ or ‘it’s my sister’s sweater’ or ‘its my sister’s sweater,’ you know? Why does it matter? Of course it catches a little in the ear and on the tongue . . . but, well, so what? It doesn’t damage anything else, as far as I know. It doesn’t damage people deep inside, their desires and their intentions. But yeah, actually, it ruins everything because you hate them even before they’ve had time to finish their sentence, and . . . uh . . . I . . . I’m getting off track. I didn’t start out to talk to you about grammar.
“If I wanted to wrap this whole thing up super-fast I’d tell you that I’m leaving you because of Alice and Isaac. Because that would say it all. I’m leaving you because I met some people who made me understand how far off the mark we are as a couple. But I’m not going to talk to you about that. First because you’ll be even ruder to them than usual, and second because I don’t want to share them.”
(Pause. The sound of a siren in the distance.)
“Among a million other things, they made me realize that . . . that we’re playacting. We’re lying. We’re sweeping everything under the rug.
“I’m talking about love, Melanie. How long ago did we stop loving each other? Truly loving each other, I mean. Do you know? When did we start fucking instead of making love? It’s always the same; I know how to give you pleasure and I give it to you; you know how to return the favor and you do it, but . . . what is that? What is it? We both come and then go to sleep? No, don’t roll your eyes, you know I’m right. You know it.
“It’s a sad place, our bed.
“Everything . . . everything has become sad.
“And it’s not only that. Because I know you, and I know you’ve spent the last few minutes telling anyone who will listen that I’m a bastard, a real son of a bitch, and that really, when you think about everything you’ve done for me, and everything your family has done for me, the apartment, the rent, the vacations and all that, and my ears haven’t stopped ringing, I’m going to give you my three reasons for leaving. Three little reasons, very clear, very straightforward. That way, at least the son of a bitch will be doing something more than just badmouthing you.
“I’m not telling you these reasons to justify myself; I’m telling them to you so you’ll have something to chew over. Because you love chewing things over. Munching and chewing and harping ad nauseam, oh, people really suck, and you really don’t deserve the stuff that happens to you, and . . . yeah, that’s your thing, always blaming other people rather than questioning yourself. I don’t hold it against you; I even envy you, you know. I’d love to be like that too, sometimes. It would make my life a lot simpler. I know it’s because of your education, and the fact that you’re an only child, and your parents have always idolized you and indulged all your little whims, and . . . well, all of that kind of spoiled you to the core, in the end.
“Even when it came to your stupid little Breton they turned a blind eye, which just goes to show! No, I know you’re not actually cruel. But I’ll give you the reasons anyway. It’ll keep you busy. Both of you. You and your mother.”
(Silence.)
“I’m leaving you because you always ruin the ends of movies for me at the theater. Every time. You do it to me every damn time.
“Even though you know it’s important for me to sit in the dark for a few minutes longer, to get my emotions back under control, watching that string of unknown names on the screen, which are like a vital airlock for me between the dream and the street. I know you think it’s boring, okay?, but I’ve told you a hundred times: go ahead without me, wait for me in the lobby, wait for me in a café, or just go to the movies with your friends, but don’t do that to me anymore—don’t ask me which restaurant we’re going to after this, or talk to me about your coworkers or the fact that your shoes are pinching your feet, when the movie only just ended.
“Yeah, even a bad movie. I don’t care. I’m going to stay until the very end. I’m not leaving until I’m sure they remembered to thank the mayor of Petzouille-les-Ouches and I’ve read the words ‘Dolby’ and ‘Digital’ at the end. Even a Danish film or a Korean one, and even if I don’t understand a word, I need to do it. We’ve been going to the movies together for almost three years now, and for almost three years now I’ve felt you get irritated, physically irritated, from the very first line of the credits, and . . . and you . . . go fuck yourself, Melanie. Go to the movies with someone else. I didn’t ask for much from you, and I even think that was the only thing I ever actually asked you to do, and . . . no.”
(Silence.)
“The second thing is that you always eat my pieces of cake, and I can’t take that anymore either. You claim to be watching your waistline, and you never order dessert, and every time mine arrives you grab my spoon and dig right in. It’s just not okay. Even though you know the answer, you could ask my permission anyway, even if only to give me the illusion that I count a tiny bit. And plus you always eat the point, which is the best part of the cake. Especially with lemon tarts and cheesecakes and flan, which you know—or used to know, maybe—are my three favorite desserts.
“So there, now you can say to your friends: ‘Can you believe it? After everything I’ve done for him, that asshole is leaving me over a piece of pie!,’ because it’ll be true. But make sure you specify that it’s over the point of the piece of pie. The foodies will appreciate that.
“The last thing, and this is the most important one, I think, is that I’m leaving because I don’t like the way you behave with my parents. God knows I haven’t imposed them on you very much. How many times have they visited us si
nce we’ve been together? Two? Maybe three? It doesn’t matter; I’d rather not remember, because it would piss me off too much.
“I know they’re less sophisticated than your parents. Less intelligent, less attractive, less interesting. I know their house is kind of small and there are a lot of doilies and bouquets of dried flowers, but you know, it’s exactly the same thing as the spelling mistakes. It doesn’t mean anything about them. Not anything important, anyway. The embroidery, the camper van in the back of the garden, the Venetian masks . . . all of that means they’ve got bad taste, sure, but it doesn’t mean anything about who they are. About their tolerance and their kindness. Okay, my mother isn’t as classy as yours. Okay, she doesn’t know who Glenn Gould is. Okay, she always gets Manet and Monet mixed up and is afraid to drive in Paris, but when you deigned to come and see her, Mélanie, she went to the hairdresser just to honor you. I don’t know if you noticed, but I did, and every time I think about that, every time, it . . . I don’t know . . . it gets me right in the heart. That subservient way she acts with you, because you’re thin and elegant, and because her son loves you, and . . . it may be bullshit, but that all gives you kind of a rarefied aura. She never goes to the hairdresser for my father, but for you, as a sign of respect, yes, she tries to make herself look pretty. And you can’t possibly know how much that touches me. It probably doesn’t mean much to you, though, right? You pick at your food, and turn up your nose every time your refined gaze happens to fall on their little shell knickknacks or their set of Encyclopedia Universalis arranged in alphabetical order but never opened, but you know, when I was a kid, I never once saw my mother have fun, or go out shopping with her girlfriends, because my grandparents lived with us and she took care of them nonstop. And then when that was over, when she didn’t have to cut their hair and fingernails anymore, or give them huge piles of potatoes or beans or whatever to peel, just so they’d feel like they were still useful; when she finally had some peace because they were in the goddamn cemetery at last, then boom, my sister’s kids came to take their place. And you know what? I never heard her complain. Not once. I only ever saw her cheerful. Do you realize that?
