Pierre-Luc Landry
LISTENING
FOR JUPITER
Translated from the French by
Arielle Aaronson (Xavier’s sections)
and Madeleine Stratford (Hollywood’s sections)
QC fiction
Revision: Peter McCambridge
Proofreading: Elizabeth West, David Warriner
Book design and ebooks: Folio infographie
Cover & logo: Maison 1608 by Solisco
Fiction editor: Peter McCambridge
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Copyright © 2016 Éditions Druide inc.
Originally published under the title Les corps extraterrestres
Translation Copyright © Arielle Aaronson, Madeleine Stratford
ISBN 978-177186-098-7 pbk; 978-1-77186-099-4 epub; 978-1-77186-100-7 pdf; 978-1-77186-101-4 mobi/pocket
Legal Deposit, 2nd quarter 2016
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We acknowledge the support from the Société de développement des entreprises culturelles (SODEC) and the Government of Quebec tax credit for book publishing administered by SODEC.
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing, an initiative of the Roadmap for Canada’s Official Languages 2013-2018: Education, Immigration, Communities, for our translation activities.
“One by one the stars fell into the sea, the sky drained of its last lights.”
Albert Camus (tr. Ryan Bloom)
Notebooks, 1951-59
“Fiction imitates fiction.”
Marc Augé (tr. Liz Heron)
The War of Dreams
“I cannot sleep. I dream that I am in a bed, elsewhere, and that I cannot sleep. I wake. I now know I was asleep. But I am not anymore, and now I really cannot sleep.”
Roger Caillois
exergueThe Uncertainty That Comes From Dreams
Part one
Xavier
We’re all going to die. That’s what crossed my mind while the car was idling. I thought: all these people—Earth’s entire population, me, them, everybody—we’re all going to die at some point. The end is the cornerstone of our very existence. It’s cliché, of course, but it caught me off guard and kind of knocked the wind out of me. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I thought: if I open my eyes and everything is still there, if nothing’s changed, it means I won’t die today. I opened them.
“Oh, get out of the way, you twit! Bloody hell! Can’t you just stay home if you’re afraid of a little snow, arsehole?”
The taxi driver was getting impatient. But the traffic didn’t bother me. Neither did the cold.
OK, I should be honest: the snowstorm worried me a bit. A tiny little bit. I’d started to believe that maybe it was as bad as the media claimed when the plane had to circle Heathrow for more than two hours before the pilot got permission to land. But I wasn’t going to complain about the delay; I didn’t feel like preparing the London pitch, or the one for the Bilbao convention the following week. I wanted to let these “extraordinary circumstances,” these “historic snowfalls” pin me down. I would hide myself amid the crowd and make London my own haven of idleness. But worry had nevertheless crept up on me.
Antony had left me a message a few hours earlier. He wouldn’t meet me at the hotel until the next day, because he’d had to sleep in Lisbon; no planes had been allowed to take off and the airport had just closed. He would take the train to Paris, if all went well, and then a coach on to London.
The company had rented us two rooms at the Hilton across from Hyde Park with a partial view of the garden. The Royal College of Physicians conference would be held there. I had to meet with a group of cardiologists on Tuesday to present a new calcium blocker for patients with Raynaud’s syndrome, a product that was less harmful to the liver than current drugs, to be prescribed to elderly patients suffering from hepatic failure. The thought was weighing on me, and I just wanted to sink into a chair facing the window and watch the snow fall onto the trees lining the pond while drinking a scalding cup of tea. I was already fed up with calcium blockers, even though I’d only been presenting the product for a few months. Before that, it was a new type of non-drowsy antianxiety medication. Before that, amoxicillin for viral lung diseases in children.
The taxi driver honked. We were at a complete standstill. The car in front of us had been abandoned, its doors wide open.
“How long before we reach the hotel?” I asked.
“Usually less than two minutes by cab. But the twit here left his car in the middle of the road.”
I handed him a £50 note and got out of the car, asking him to bring my bags to the hotel as soon as possible. I closed the door behind me. I wanted to walk the rest of the way. I’d get to the hotel sooner and I’d be able to enjoy that partial view of the garden.
At least twenty centimetres of snow covered the pavement. I wasn’t wearing boots; cold water soaked through my shoes, pants and wool coat. I couldn’t see where I was going through the strong wind. On the right, I passed the entrance to Notting Hill Gate Tube station, then the intersection of Kensington Church Street.
We’re all going to die, I kept thinking. All this snow must be some sort of sign.
My phone rang.
“Xavier?”
It was Antony. There was static on the line, probably because of the storm.
“Yes.”
“I ended up taking a train to Paris. I’ll get to London tomorrow, in time for the pitch. Et toi?”
“I’m OK. I’ll be at the hotel in a few minutes. I’ll let them know you’ve been held up.”
“Pas besoin, I already called them. See you tomorrow, then.”
He hung up right away. My forehead was numb from the wind and my clothes were soaked and frozen.
“Sir, please. Do you know if the Hilton hotel is in this neighbourhood?”
The man I’d just stopped raised his head to look at me.
“It’s just around the corner, mate.”
He pointed to the next intersection, barely visible through the blizzard. A two-minute walk, at most. I didn’t notice, but Notting Hill Gate had become Bayswater Road. I started to run, stumbling at every step.
Snow clung to the hotel’s brick façade, which had turned white like everything else: buildings, trees, road signs. A doorman let me in and I collapsed against the reception desk, out of breath.
“Hi. I have a room here. My name is Xavier Adam.”
∷
I turned on the TV after stripping off my wet clothes. I hadn’t seen Annie Hall in forever, even though I always say it’s my favourite movie. I called room service and asked them to bring me tea and gummy bears. I don’t know who I think I am; I like to act like they do in the movies. Plus, the company’s paying.
I didn’t take my eyes off the movie until it was over; I read all of the cl
osing credits, or almost. Then I turned off the TV. It was late, I hadn’t eaten—other than the gummy bears—and I didn’t feel like going out. I called room service again and asked them to bring me a meal. I slipped into the robe patterned with the hotel colours, opened the window to let in some air and lay down on the rug, between the bed and the TV. There was a knock at the door.
The attendant came in with a tray on a small cart, just like in the movies. I motioned to the nightstand. “Thanks.”
She left soundlessly and I didn’t get up until the door was completely shut. I wanted to seem as disagreeable, as irritating as possible. I thought: I’ll take a midnight dip, then I’ll ask them to bring a bottle of scotch up to my room. Even though I don’t really like scotch. I’ll be like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation.
I lifted the cover off the dish. They’d brought me a stew, brown mush that smelled of boiled beef, along with a bread roll. I ate on the bed, shivering. Then I got up, closed the window and ran a scalding-hot bath. But I changed my mind right away and drained the tub before so much as dipping a toe in.
I went swimming. And afterwards I asked for a bottle of scotch to be brought to my room.
The storm didn’t let up during the night. It got even worse. Fuck the snow, I thought. I threw on some jeans over my pyjamas, along with two T-shirts, a wool sweater and my coat, and went down to the lobby. I bought a giant fur hat, a huge scarf and two pairs of gloves at a store a few steps from the hotel. I felt like walking, visiting Hyde Park, taking some time for myself outside of work. It was pretty good timing; Antony hadn’t arrived yet and I’d left my phone in the room.
I walked up and down the paths until I was breathless with hunger. Then I let myself fall backwards into the snow and decided to freeze to death. I knew I’d only have to take a few steps in the right direction to get back to the hotel, but I was in the mood for a little tragedy. Unfortunately, a passerby saw me collapse and came straight over to help. Let me die in peace, I wanted to tell him, but my chin was completely frozen, along with my lower lip. My throat was dry, despite all the snow I’d swallowed, and I was too short of breath to say a word. I pointed to the hotel in the distance, behind the veil of white powder, and the man put his arm around my shoulders to help me walk over.
“Bless your soul,” I told him when he left me in the lobby.
I was feeling mystical. Spiritual, at the very least. The man grumbled something like “Be careful next time” and left. An employee came running over to ask if I wanted him to call an ambulance. No need. Anyway, with the storm, I would have been surprised to see the emergency medics rushing to the Hilton for a snowman who’d tried to let himself freeze to death in a park. “I’ll take a hot bath.” He helped me to the elevator and asked if he could bring something up to my room, on the house. No thanks, I don’t need anything. But wait. Why not? A bottle of champagne, maybe?
In the bath, I belted out the biggest hits in my repertoire: Gainsbourg’s Comic Strip, Madonna’s Hollywood and Velvet Underground’s Pale Blue Eyes. And I didn’t think about a thing. It felt incredibly good.
My phone rang. I didn’t pick up; I was in no shape to stand and walk over to where I’d put it down ear-lier. Then, after a minute, someone knocked on the door.
“It’s open!” I yelled.
“Xavier?”
“Here!” I shouted, still motionless. “Did you just leave me a message?”
“Yeah,” Antony replied, walking into the room. “I just got in.”
I dragged myself out of the bath with considerable effort and leaned against the counter so I wouldn’t fall. My legs were still wobbly, paralyzed from the cold.
“Fuck, Xavier! You’re naked, man!”
Antony threw me the robe that was lying on the bed and turned to face the window.
“I know. I was in the bath.”
I took a step and collapsed on the floor.
“Can you help me get to the bed?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“My legs are all frozen and numb.”
“How come?”
“I was outside. I went for a walk.”
Antony helped me get up and I was able to sit on the bed.
“You went for a walk—avec cette neige?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re crazy! Anyway… Pullman called and told me tomorrow’s meeting is still on. T’es prêt?”
The idea wasn’t appealing. I’d secretly been hoping the meeting would be called off and we’d get to enjoy London in the snow, that all international flights would be cancelled and we’d have to stay here indefinitely. That time would stop for good, that the Hilton staff would take care of me, that I’d be able to watch movies all night and sleep all day and swim whenever I wanted and walk around naked in the room without closing the curtains or anything.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“What do you mean you think so? T’es prêt ou pas?”
“I think so.”
Antony was going to lose it, I could tell.
“Xavier, shit. This meeting is really important. If they buy the drug we get a promotion, which means I get to pay my mortgage and make my wife happy and have great sex when I get home. I need to be made junior associate, and you don’t want to stand in my way.”
“I know, you already told me all this.”
He was getting ready to leave.
“I don’t know what’s with you lately, but you better be ready tomorrow. I can call a whore for you, if that’s what you need to get a little excited about life and stuff.”
I motioned for him to let it go, and he left.
I turned on the TV and picked a channel at random. Reality Bites had been on for about an hour. I got the feeling that it was no coincidence, turning on the TV like that, right at that moment, choosing that channel—among so many others—happening on this part of the movie in particular, on this dialogue between Lelaina Pierce and Troy Dyer:
Lelaina Pierce: “I was really going to be somebody by the time I was twenty-three.”
Troy Dyer: “Honey, all you have to be by the time you’re twenty-three is yourself.”
Lelaina Pierce: “I don’t know who that is anymore.”
It hit me and hit me hard; if I hadn’t been lying in bed, I’d have probably fallen over. I’m just like Lelaina: I don’t have any idea who I am, and I still haven’t become someone great, someone good.
I’ve been going around in circles. I think about what I’d like to do rather than sell medication. I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. I’ve had enough of these hotel rooms and convention centres. I want my life to have meaning, but I don’t know where to find it—or where to look. I can rattle off expressions like “vasoconstrictor tone,” “myocardial oxygen consumption” and “supraventricular tachycardia,” when in reality I have no idea what I’m talking about and couldn’t care less. I want to scream, tell the whole world how much it pisses me off, give it a black eye. I’ve put some money aside, I could make it a few months without working, a year maybe. The idea is becoming an obsession.
I watched the movie through to the end. Then I turned off the screen and collapsed from exhaustion. It was almost five in the morning.
Xavier
journal entry xxiv
I want my story to be beautiful—not realistic—by the time I’m ready to share it. For it to be extraordinary, even with its inconsistencies and holes. Yet I have nothing incredible to tell. The extraordinary, that’s the stuff we never question. The real, the things we claim to know and can explain. I’m looking for my own connection to one of these possible truths, one to be mine, to help me understand the world. Here in this notebook I have to put into words the sort of incongruity I feel when confronted with real things. Try to dig through the nagging feeling that what passes for normal is, in fact, not. I think I should go back to school, like Annie Hall. Lelaina
and Alvy read the classics; not me. So, twenty-four entries already and I can barely even put the signs of my unease into words.
I had the same dream again. I say ‘the same,’ but that isn’t true. It never happens in exactly the same way. And the conversations are always different. I have this recurring dream so often it makes me wonder: Who is this guy I only see at night? The next time he appears, I’ll ask him. Yes: tonight, I’ll ask his name.
Hollywood
I wasn’t home when she got there. I was at the park, despite the warning signs at the gate: “Access prohibited after 11 p.m. Minimum fine: $100.” It was hot out, more than twenty-five degrees, even though it was night, and winter—March soon and it hadn’t even snowed yet. Summer didn’t want to end and I, for one, liked it that way because I could spend the night outside without worrying about freezing to death. I was lying on a wooden bridge in a playground, listening to Everybody Knows on my iPod and looking for the stars. They’re harder to find in the city. The sky is brown or purple or orange or pink and you can only see the moon, and Venus when there are no clouds. Sometimes, later at night, you can catch a glimpse of Jupiter. One day, I’d like to go up north, to the top of a mountain or to an island. I’d lie down in the tall grass and stay up all night, gazing at the sky to see at last what Alpha Centauri, Sirius and Canis Major actually look like.
When I got home a little after midnight, she was sitting at the kitchen table with my mom. They were both drinking coffee, even though it was late.
My mom was wiping tears off her cheeks and Saké seemed to be comforting her.
“What’s up?” I asked.
I couldn’t hear my mom’s answer. I took out my earbuds, asking her to say it again.
“My parents are missing,” said Saké, smiling at me.
“You remember Saké?” my mom asked.
I remembered her well. We’d grown up together; our mothers had been childhood friends. I hadn’t seen her for years, though. These things happen.
Listening for Jupiter Page 1
