by Anna Gavalda
For so many years he’d looked back on his youth with such fucking tenderness. Whenever he thought of her, he always got philosophical. He always pretended to smile over it or to understand something from it – whereas in reality he’d never understood a thing.
He knows perfectly well that he’s never loved anyone but her and that he’s never been loved by anyone but her. That she was his only love and that nothing will ever be able to change that. That she dropped him like a cumbersome, useless thing. That she never reached out a hand to him, never dropped him a line to encourage him to get back on his feet – to confess that she wasn’t really doing all that great. That he was wrong. That he deserved better than her. Or even that she’d made the mistake of her life and that she’d regretted it in secret. He knew how proud she was – to tell him that for twelve years she’d been suffering, too, and that now she was going to die. …
He didn’t want to cry. He told himself all sorts of things to keep the tears back – all sorts of things. Then his wife rolled over, putting her hand on his stomach, and immediately he regretted his delusions. Of course he’d loved and been loved by another – of course. He looks at this face next to him, and he takes her hand and kisses it. She smiles in her sleep.
No, he has nothing to complain about. He has no reason to lie to himself. Romantic passion, hey, ho, that only lasts a moment. And now enough of that, huh? Plus, tomorrow afternoon doesn’t work out too well, because he’s got an appointment with the guys from Sygma II. He’s going to have to put Marcheron in charge, and that’s another problem altogether, because with Marcheron. …
*
He hadn’t been able to fall asleep that night. He thought about all sorts of things.
That’s how he’d explain his insomnia. But his lamp doesn’t cast much light, and he can’t see a thing. And, just as back in the days of his great sorrows, he bumps into everything.
SHE COULDN’T FALL asleep that night, either, but she is used to it. She almost never sleeps anymore. It’s because she doesn’t tire herself out enough during the day – that’s the doctor’s theory. Her sons are at their father’s, and all she does is cry.
Cry. Cry. Cry.
She’s breaking up – dropping the ballast and letting herself go under. She doesn’t care. She thinks that everything’s fine now. It’s time to move on to something else and clear the stage. It’s all very well for the doctor to say she’s not tiring herself out – he doesn’t know a thing about it, with his neat white coat and his complicated words. To tell the truth, she’s exhausted. Exhausted.
She cries because, finally, she called Pierre. She always managed to keep track of his phone number, and several times she went so far as to dial the ten numbers that separated her from him. She would hear his voice and hang up right away. One time, she even followed him for a whole day. She wanted to know where he lived, what kind of car he drove, where he worked, how he dressed, and whether he seemed worried. She followed his wife, too. She had had to admit that his wife was cheerful and pretty, and that she had had kids with him.
She cries because her heart started beating again today, and for some time now she had no longer thought that was possible. She’s had a harder life than she could have imagined. She has mostly known solitude. She thought it was too late now to feel anything – that her good days were over. Especially since they got all worked up one day over a blood test, a routine check-up that she happened to have done because she felt a little out of sorts. Everyone, from the little doctors to the great professors, had an opinion about her condition – but not much to say when it came to getting rid of it.
She cries for so many reasons that she doesn’t want to think about it. Her whole life comes flying back in her face. So, to protect herself a little, she tells herself that she’s crying for the sake of crying and that’s all there is to it.
SHE WAS ALREADY there when I arrived. She smiled and said, ‘This must be the first time I haven’t kept you waiting! See – there was no need to lose hope.’ I told her I hadn’t lost hope.
We didn’t hug. I said, ‘You haven’t changed.’ It’s a dumb thing to say, but it’s what I thought, except that I thought she was more beautiful than ever. She was very pale, and you could see all the little blue veins around her eyes, on her eyelids, and at her temples. She’d got thin, and the hollows in her face were deeper than before. She seemed more resigned, whereas I remember the air of vivacity she used to exude. She never stopped looking at me. She wanted me to talk to her; she wanted me to be quiet. She smiled the whole time. She’d wanted to see me again. For my part, I didn’t know how to move my hands, or if I could smoke or touch her arm.
It was a creepy town. We walked as far as the public garden a little farther on.
We told each other the stories of our lives. It was somewhat disjointed. We each kept our secrets. She had trouble finding the right words. At one point, she asked me the difference between helplessness and idleness. I couldn’t remember. She made a gesture to show that, anyhow, it didn’t really matter. She said that it had all made her too bitter, or too hard – in any case, too different from what she’d been before.
We barely touched on the subject of her illness, except when she talked about her kids: she said it was no life for them. Not long ago, she’d wanted to cook them some noodles, but she hadn’t even been able to manage that, because the pot of water was too heavy for her to lift. And really, that was no life. They’d had more than their share of sadness up to now.
She made me talk about my wife and kids and work. And even about Marcheron. She wanted to know everything, but I could tell that most of the time she wasn’t listening.
We were sitting on a peeling bench, across from a fountain that must not have spit any water since the day of its inauguration. Everything was ugly. Sad and ugly. A light mist was beginning to fall, and we sort of shrank into ourselves to keep warm.
Finally, she got up. It was time for her to go.
She said, ‘I have just one favour I’d like to ask, just one. I want to smell you.’ And when I didn’t respond, she confessed that through all these years she’d wanted to breathe in my scent. I kept my hands right down at the bottom of my coat pockets, because otherwise …
She went behind me and leaned over my hair. She stayed like that for a long time, and I felt terrible. Next, she moved her nose to the hollow at the nape of my neck and all around my head, taking her time, and then she went down the length of my neck to my collar. She breathed in. She kept her hands behind her back, too. Next, she loosened my tie and opened the first two buttons of my shirt. I felt the tip of her nostrils all cold against the base of my collarbone, and I … I …
I shifted somewhat abruptly. She stood back up behind me and put both hands flat on my shoulders. She said, ‘I’m going to go. I want you not to move and not to turn around. Please – I’m begging you. I’m begging you.’
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to, anyway, because I didn’t want her to see me with my eyes swollen and my face all contorted.
I waited a while, then headed to my car.
Clic-Clac
FOR FIVE AND a half months now I’ve wanted Sarah Briot, director of sales.
Would it not be better for me to say: for five and a half months now I’ve been in love with Sarah Briot, director of sales? I don’t know.
During all this time, I haven’t been able to think of her without getting a massive erection, and since it’s the first time this has happened to me, I’m not sure what to call it, this sentiment.
Sarah Briot knows something’s up. No, she hasn’t ever bumped up against my trousers or anything, but she knows.
Of course, she doesn’t realise that it’ll be five and a half months on Tuesday, because she doesn’t pay as much attention to numbers as I do. (I’m an account auditor, so it’s only natural. …) But I know she knows, because she’s sharp.
She speaks to men in a way that shocked me before and that now drives me to despair. She speaks to them as
if she’s got special glasses, the Superman X-ray kind, that let her see the exact size of the sexual organ of whatever guy she’s talking to.
The size at rest, I mean. So, obviously, that makes for some entertaining interactions at work. … You can imagine.
She’ll shake your hand, answer your questions, smile at you, even have coffee with you in the cafeteria, from a plastic cup … and you, like a fucking idiot, all you can think about is pressing your knees together or crossing your legs. It’s sheer hell.
The worst of it is that the whole time, she never stops looking you in the eye – and only in the eye.
Sarah Briot isn’t beautiful. She’s cute, and that’s not the same thing.
She’s not very tall. She’s blonde, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that it’s not her real colour – those are highlights.
Like most girls, she wears trousers often, and even more often, jeans. Which is too bad.
Sarah Briot is just a tiny little hair overweight. I often hear her discussing different diets on the phone with her girlfriends. (Since she talks loud and I’m in the office next door, I hear everything.)
She says she’s got to lose 4 kilos to get down to 50. I think about that every day, because I jotted it down on my desk blotter while she was talking: ‘54!!!’
That’s also how I found out that she’d already tried the Montignac Method and that she’d have been ‘better off keeping the fifteen euros’ … that she’d ripped out the centre section from the April issue of Biba, with all Estelle Hallyday’s special weight loss recipes … that she had a giant poster in her tiny kitchen showing calorie counts for every food … and that she’d even bought a little pair of kitchen scales to weigh everything, like they do at Weight Watchers.
She talks about it a lot with her friend Marie, who’s tall and thin, from what I gather.
(Between you and me, it’s stupid, because I don’t see what her girlfriend could have to say to her about it. …)
At this point in my story, any moron’s probably wondering, ‘So what exactly does he see in this girl?’
Hold on … I’ll put a stop to that!
The other day I heard Sarah Briot laughing gleefully as she told someone (Marie maybe?) how she’d ended up palming the scales off on her mother so she could make Sarah ‘lovely cakes on Sundays’. She got a big kick out of telling that story.
Besides, Sarah Briot isn’t vulgar … she’s alluring. Everything about her inspires caresses. And that’s not the same thing, either.
So shut up.
THE WEEK BEFORE Mother’s Day, I was strolling through the lingerie department at the Galeries Lafayette one day during my lunch break. All the saleswomen – a red rose in the topmost buttonhole – were on full alert, on the lookout for indecisive dads.
I’d tucked my briefcase under my arm and was playing if-I-were-married-to-Sarah-Briot-what-would-I-buy-her? …
Lou, Passionata, Simone Pérèle, Lejaby, Aubade … My head was spinning.
Some things seemed too naughty – it was Mother’s Day, after all. Others, I didn’t like the colour or the saleswoman. (I like foundation just fine, but still, there are limits.)
Not to mention all the styles I didn’t understand.
I had a hard time seeing myself unfastening all those tiny little microscopic buttons in the heat of the action, and I couldn’t figure out how the suspender belt worked. (To do it right, do you leave it on or take it off?)
I felt hot.
I finally found, for the future mother of my children, a Christian Dior bra-and-pants set in a very pale grey silk. Classy.
‘What size bra does madaaame wear?’
I set my briefcase down between my feet.
‘About like this …,’ I said, curving my hands about six inches in front of my chest.
‘You have no idea?’ asked the saleswoman, a little dryly. ‘What are her measurements?’
‘Um, she comes up to about here on me …,’ I answered, indicating my shoulder.
‘I see. …’ She pursed her lips in consternation. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a 34C – it might be too big, but she can exchange it without a problem. Be sure to keep the receipt, okay?’
‘Thank you. That’s fine,’ I said, trying to sound like the kind of guy who takes his kids out to the woods every Sunday, without forgetting the water bottles and rain jackets.
‘And for the pants? Do you want the classic style or the tanga? I also have it in a thong, but I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for. …’
What do you know about it, Madame Micheline of the Galeries Lafayette?
Obviously you don’t know the Sarah Briot of Chopard & Minont’s. The one who always lets the tip of her belly button show and who walks into other people’s offices without knocking.
But when she showed it to me, I lost my nerve. No, it wasn’t really possible that someone could wear a thing like that. Seriously, it was practically an instrument of torture. I got the ‘tanga’, which ‘… has all the Brazilian touches but is less cut away over the hips this year, as you can see for yourself. Shall I gift wrap it for you, monsieur?’
A tanga.
Whew.
I shoved the little pink package between my Paris map and a couple of files, and I went back to my computer screen.
Talk about a lunch break.
At least when there are kids, it’ll be easier to choose things. I’ll have to tell them: ‘No, kids, not a waffle iron. … Let’s see. …’
IT WAS SITTIER, my colleague from exports, who said to me one day:
‘You like her, huh?’
We were at Mario’s splitting the lunch bill, and this jerk wanted to act like we were old pals and go ahead, tell me everything so I can cuff you in the ribs.
‘No shit. … You’ve got good taste, huh!’
I didn’t feel like talking to him – not in the least.
‘I guess she’s quite a sexpot, huh. …’ (Big wink.)
I shook my head disapprovingly.
‘Dujoignot told me …’
‘Dujoignot went out with her!’
I was lost in my accounts.
‘Nah, but he heard a thing or two from Movard, because Movard had her, and from what I hear …’
He sat there, jerking his hand in the air like he was trying to shake it dry, making the little O of mOron with his mouth.
‘… Yeah, that Briot’s hot, all right. … Not exactly inhibited, huh. … She’ll do stuff, I can’t even begin to tell you. …’
‘So don’t. Who’s this Movard?’
‘He used to be in advertising, but he left before you got here. Our little pond was too small for him, you know how it goes. …’
‘I see.’
Poor Sittier. He doesn’t finish his thought. He must be picturing a whole slew of sexual positions.
Poor Sittier. You know, my sisters call you Shittier, and they still giggle whenever they think about your Ford Mondeo.
Poor Sittier, who tried to come on to Myriam even though he wears a gold signet ring engraved with his initials.
Poor Sittier. Who still thinks he’s got a chance with smart girls, and who goes on first dates with his mobile phone in a plastic cover attached to his belt, and his car radio under his arm.
Poor Sittier. If you only knew how my sisters talk about you … when they talk about you at all.
YOU NEVER KNOW what’s going to happen – how things are going to unfold, or when the simplest things are suddenly going to take on demented proportions. Take me, for example. My whole life turned upside down because of five ounces of grey silk.
FOR FIVE YEARS and not quite eight months I’ve lived with my sisters in a one-hundred-and-ten-square-metre apartment near the Convention metro station.
In the beginning, it was just me and my sister Fanny. She’s four years younger than I and a med student at René Descartes University. It was our parents’ idea, to be economical and to make sure the little one wouldn’t get lost in Paris. She’d ne
ver known anything but our home town, Tulle, its high school, its cafés, its reconditioned mopeds.
I get on well with Fanny: She doesn’t talk much, and she’s always okay with anything.
For example, if it’s her week to do the cooking and I bring home, say, sole, because that’s what I happen to be in the mood for, she’s not the kind of person to whine that I’m upsetting all her plans. She adapts.
It’s not exactly the same with Myriam.
Myriam is the oldest. We’re not even a year apart, but if you saw us, you wouldn’t even imagine that we were brother and sister. She talks nonstop. Sometimes I think she’s a little off her rocker, but that’s to be expected, I guess – she’s the artist in the family. …
After she finished her studies at art college, she did photography, collages with hemp and steel wool, video clips with paint stains on the lenses, stuff with her body, creations of spaces with Loulou de La Rochette (?), demos, sculpture, dance, and I forget what else.
These days she’s painting stuff I have trouble understanding, no matter how much I scrunch up my eyes. Myriam says that on the day they handed out artistic ability, I stayed at home. She says I don’t know how to see what’s beautiful. Whatever.
The last time we got into it was when we went to the Boltanski exhibition together. (But whose idea was it to take me to see that … seriously. Can you imagine what a fucking idiot I looked trying to figure out which way you were supposed to walk through the exhibition?)
Myriam’s a real artichoke heart – she’s always falling in love. Every six months since the age of fifteen (which must make it about thirty-eight times, if I’m not mistaken), she’s brought us the man of her life. Mr. Good, Mr. Right, Mr. White-Wedding, Mr. Okay-This-Time-It’s-For-Real, Mr. Last-One, Mr. Sure-Thing, Mr. Last-of-the-Last-Ones.
All of Europe, just for her: Yoann was Swedish; Giuseppe, Italian; Erick, Dutch; Kiko, Spanish; and Laurent, from Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines. Obviously, there are thirty-three others. … At the moment, their names don’t come back to me.
When I left my studio to move in with Fanny, Myriam was with Kiko. A brilliant future director.
