“Let’s be realistic and talk about the next four months. (grim laughter) The average life expectancy for a man in France is seventy-eight, my friend; it’s eighty-four for women because they’re more intelligent. This means you should have thirty good years ahead of you as long as you follow my low-fat diet. Your sugar level is 133 mg/dL, uric acid is 9.1 mg/dL, and triglycerides 236 mg/dL. Too much fat, too much booze, too much sugar. You have to find some other way to get your kicks beyond eating and drinking: travel the world, fuck whoever you like as long as you use a condom, read books, go to the cinema, to the theatre—think old school! Most importantly, forty minutes daily exercise will lower your risk of cancer by 40% by releasing 1004 protective molecules. But don’t work yourself to death. Are your audience ratings still good?”
“Three to five million a week.”
“That’s not bad.”
“We get more when I throw up on set.”
“Do you have to take the same pills as your guests? All this substance abuse isn’t exactly recommended by the medical establishment.”
“Don’t worry about the pills, I only take them when we broadcast live. Then I spend the following week drinking mineral water and preparing the next programme. I’m not trying to kill myself, you get that, Doctor? Either through work or through play. These days, I’m as keenly aware of death as a stag at a fox hunt.”
“You’re the only hypochondriac I know who pops pills without knowing what’s in them.”
“Look, I’m pretty careful. I track every possible symptom, any suspicious pains. I bought myself a BP monitor so I can take my blood pressure morning, noon, and night. I look stuff up online. I know the best specialists for every part of my body. These days I spend more time hanging out in pharmacies than in swanky bars. Every day, the chemist on rue de Seine greets me the way Alan, the bartender, used to do when I was propping up the bar at Castel! The cash I used to fritter away on vodka and Coke is now invested in vegetables and vitamins.”
The doctor to the stars clearly thought I was a halfwit, something he signalled by nodding slowly and gazing into the middle distance muttering “Oh là là.” And the Academy Award for Best Feigned Emotion goes to … Doctor Frédéric Saldmann. He listened to my lungs with his icy stethoscope. He peered into my ears and my throat with his penlight.
“Look. I’ll be blunt with you. I consider any death before the age of a hundred and twenty as premature, but I need you to work with me. When you get to fifty, life is a shooting gallery. We can’t carry on like you’re thirty. You’re slowly killing yourself. Even if I freeze and store your stem cells so I can transplant them later, it won’t be enough. You have to cancel your Chemistry Show. If you’ve got a problem with that, then there’s nothing I can do for you. If you have to, let your guests pop pills, and you can just pretend. You’ve got no choice. Pop a Tic-Tac or an M&M, screw your face up and people will fall for it.”
“I’ve already tried that, but everyone can tell something’s wrong if I’m not off my face. The show has no spark. People who don’t work on TV assume being a presenter is easy. Then again, maybe you have a point, I could finish this season and then take a year out.”
“Maybe you could use the time to see a shrink, too, so you can work on your death wish. I really enjoyed the show you did about death. I particularly enjoyed the moment when the founder of Google swallowed his earphone.”
“Generally, death doesn’t get a spike in ratings. But that one time, we hit the jackpot.”
“Maybe because it still affects most people. As for you, the situation is very simple: you either quit drugs or you quit living. The choice is yours.”
“I feel like popping something now just so I don’t have to hear what you’re saying.”
“In that case, I’d like to buy your house.”
“Really?”
“Yeah—for a life annuity.”
Being a “doctor to the stars” has its privileges: you’re entitled to more gallows humour than the national average. It was June: the TV season had just ended and I had more than enough money in my bank account to quit working for a year without it impacting my lifestyle. My only worry was whether the production company would pick up the show again the following year, or whether I’d have to produce it myself. A sabbatical year was a good idea. I could travel the world with Romy; Léonore and Lou could come and join us at the more relaxed destinations. I was going to save all our lives. I could take on Doctor Saldmann as my agent. He gave better advice than my producer, whose plan was to have me work myself to death until the final triple bypass.
“Can I be honest with you?” he went on. “You need antioxidants. Eat radishes, raisins, quinoa, clementines, and grapefruit. Give up the pills, the hard liquor, the barbecue, saucisson …”
“Oh no, not saucisson … So, all you are saying is give peas a chance?”
I apologize for the terrible pun. At least on my chat show, the warm-up act forces the audience to laugh to drown out clangers like that. It’s nice to have a cushion of applause when you flop. Unperturbed, my bestselling author-cum-doctor carried on, à la Michel Cymes. (Michel was a great guest on my show, he ate the bunch of flowers on set, gave backstroke lessons in an inflatable pool, and said positive things about sodomy.)
“Eat garlic, almonds, lemon, melon …”
“With serrano ham?”
“No sir, and no ham. Ease up on the meat, butter, cream, cheese, fries. No foie gras, no grilled meat …”
“Aaargh!”
“… carrots, tomatoes, broccoli, fennel, leeks, courgettes, aubergines …”
“Listen, if you’re going to tell me that I have to be vegan in order not to die, I didn’t need to see you, I could just have read the latest issue of Men’s Health. You don’t need to worry, I’ve already tried this grim diet. For example, I only eat the green crocodiles in Haribo Starmix.”
“Look, you ask me a question, I give you an answer. It’s not me talking, it’s science. And you don’t need to go vegan, you can eat fish. Sardines are animals, aren’t they? But for god’s sake, give up the Haribo Starmix, they’re full of pork gelatine. And not a drop of Coke. That stuff’s poison! Drink tap water instead. Drink lots of water, it suppresses the appetite and no one has ever found anything healthier for the stomach.”
“Shit … So, no sweets and snacks?”
“Pistachios, dark chocolate, and honey are okay. And not too much salt either.”
“Jesus … And no booze?”
“Make your mind up. You want to be immortal or a wino? Drink wheatgrass juice!”
“I’d rather die.”
“Just as well, since you probably will.”
“It’s just a turn of phrase. Don’t worry, I regularly eat acai bowls, I drink matcha latte. I’m guessing I shouldn’t spend too much time in the sun?”
“Only if you’ve smeared your body with Factor 50. But a little vitamin D is very good for your health.”
“So you’re saying, in order to live longer, you can’t be Basque or American. Pity: they’re my two favourite nationalities.”
“Oh. One last thing—how did you get here.”
“On a scooter.”
“Well, stop that right now, you idiot! It’s by far the most dangerous thing you’re doing. It’s suicide on two wheels. You get distracted for a split second and ciao.”
“That’s funny, I’ve just realized why the model name of my old moped was Ciao. Fine, I’ll walk home.”
“You don’t seem to realize: this is the dawn of a period of amazing medical progress; you just have to hang on for thirty or forty years. I’m studying a rodent from East Africa (Somalia, Ethiopia, Kenya) called the naked mole-rat—an animal that’s immune to everything and lives for thirty years, in comparison to the common mouse, which lives for two to three years. It’s the equivalent of humans living for six hundred years in perfect health
. The naked mole-rat never contracts cancer or Alzheimer’s or heart disease. Its skin and arteries don’t wear out, it remains fertile and sexually active to the end. Researchers have tried implanting it with aggressive cancerous tumours, its body rejects them. The same thing happens if it’s exposed to chemical carcinogens. We’re talking about an animal that holds the secret to eternal life. All you need to do is hang in there until help arrives.”
(After Googling “naked mole-rat” to see photos) “What a hideous animal!”
“Immortality isn’t like choosing Miss World.”
“But we’re talking about an animal that’s unfuckable!”
“You’re right, I forgot one essential point. Sex is crucial to longevity. It’s estimated that having sex twelve times increases life expectancy by ten percent. If you can get your leg over twenty times a month, you reduce your risk of prostate cancer by a third. Essentially, you need to replace the blow-outs and the booze with a lot more fucking: doesn’t sound like such a bad deal.”
“So an orgasm a day keeps the Grim Reaper away?”
“Right. I’ve got to go, I wish you a happy resurrection. Do you mind taking a selfie with me so I can impress my wife? She’s a huge fan. She loved the episode where Depardieu and Poelvoorde decided to neck all the pills at the same time.”
“Yeah, that worked out well, it was a brilliant idea to stay on air until they had their stomachs pumped at 4:00 a.m. live from the Hôtel-Dieu. How much do I owe you for the check-up?”
“Send me some of your foie gras at Christmas!” (derisive laughter)
Outside, the summer was obscene. Being in mourning for your life is a great excuse for a public meltdown. I disparage death but I tolerate disintegration. I often cried for no reason; perhaps it was the particulates floating in the Paris air. As Salinger said, “Poets are always taking the weather so personally.” I sniffled as I passed a blonde mother pushing a pram. Looking at the green plane trees against the grey backdrop. Gazing up at a sky the colour of fatty liver. My celebrity doctor had just brought illness into my life. I was feeling sorry for myself and my own decline. Whatever you do, don’t pity me. I’m capable of blubbing to order. Sometimes, when one of my guests says something poignant, I shed a tear just for the feels.
I’m jealous of the clock on the Place Vauban that is never out of order. As I wandered the bleak streets of the 7th arrondissement, I bought a bunch of violets. A storm was brewing in the air. The shops were closing, a bell tolled. I didn’t even notice night drawing in. I went into a lighted church, St. Pierre du Gros Caillou, which looks like the Acropolis but in better repair. The smell of incense made me light-headed; I was afraid I might faint. I set down the violets on a purple altar; they clashed, which is embarrassing in a place of worship. I lit a candle for my father and my mother. I didn’t want to suddenly be the next to face the final curtain. The candle flame set a shadow dancing on the stone wall. It gave me courage. Churches save hundreds of atheists every day. I emerged into the Paris night. I called my producer to tell him that I was cancelling the show: the advantage of voice mail is that no one can try and convince you (once again) to stay. I felt a surge of relief, like a man who had almost, but not quite, been crushed by a Boeing 747. I should cancel things more often.
In the dark sky above the treetops, planes flickered. I felt as though they were sending me a signal in Morse code, but I didn’t know what it said. “Get the fuck out,” maybe?
That evening, I took Léonore, Romy, and Lou to eat French fries at L’Entrecôte—a nutritionally incorrect restaurant. The children were overjoyed, and because they were, so was I. Despite my ailing liver, I felt we were much more alive than usual.
-
3 MY DEATH DEPROGRAMMED
“Old age ain’t no place for sissies.”
BETTE DAVIS
-
THERE IS A memory that haunts me. It was after Gérard Lauzier’s funeral at the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés in 2008, I was having a beer at the Café de Flore with Tonino Benacquista, Georges Wolinski, and Philippe Bertrand. Just for the hell of it, I posed the question: “So, which of us is next?”
We all looked at each other and laughed. Two years later, I saw Benacquista and Wolinski at the funeral of Philippe Bertrand, dead from cancer at sixty-one. I had just delivered a eulogy at Montparnasse Cemetery. I tried to be light-hearted: “So, who’s next this time?”
We didn’t laugh as loudly.
On January 7, 2015, Georges Wolinski was slaughtered during an editorial meeting at the offices of Charlie Hebdo. He was eighty years old. Back in Montparnasse cemetery for his funeral, Tonino and I did not laugh at all.
We eyed each other, like Charles Bronson and Henry Fonda in Once Upon a Time in the West.
-
INCREASINGLY FREQUENTLY, WHEN out in the street, I run into people I know, but when I go to kiss them I remember they’re dead and realize to my horror that I’m about to kiss a doppelganger. It’s pretty unsettling, having to stop yourself saying hello to the dead.
“Hi Régine!”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re … you’re not Régine Desforges?”
“No.”
“Oh fuck, I’ve just remembered, she died three years ago …”
“It’s obviously not me.”
“Are you often mistaken for her?”
“Sometimes—it’s my red hair. People also mistake me for Sonia Rykiel …”
“She’s dead too! Does it bother you, being the spitting image of all these dead redheads?”
“Does it bother you that you’re not as funny in real life as you are on TV?”
You have to hurry if you want to talk to the living. A worm lives for eighteen days, a mouse three years, a Frenchman seventy-eight. If I consume nothing but vegetables and water, I’ll add ten years to my life, but I’ll be so bored it will feel like a hundred. Maybe that’s the secret of eternal life: an ocean of tedium so vast it slows time itself. The statistics are unarguable: in France, in 2010, there were 15,000 people over the age of a hundred. By 2060, there are expected to be 200,000. I’d prefer to be a transhumanist superman to a vegan old-age pensioner: at least a transhumanist superman can gorge on saucisson and booze, provided he has his organs regularly replaced. All I want in life is for someone to repair me like a machine. I dream that in the future doctors will be called “human mechanics.”
I made an urgent appointment with Madame Enkidu, my psychoanalyst. I hadn’t seen her for ten years; she helped me deal with my cocaine addiction and get over my first two divorces. Her consulting room near the Place de l’Étoile was still painted magnolia, a box of Kleenex still lay in ambush on her desk. The box of tissues in a shrink’s consulting room is the modern-day equivalent of the sword of Damocles. There is no sofa in Doctor Enkidu’s office: she and her patients talk face to face. Then, face buried in Kleenex. Her bookshelves are full of psychoanalytic monographs with convoluted titles: theses on suffering, dissections of grief, cures for melancholy. Ring binders full of scientific articles dealing with the struggle against depression and suicide.
“When all’s said and done, psychoanalysis is just badly written Proust,” I said.
My psychiatrist nodded politely.
“It’s weird,” I added, “I’m paid to talk to millions of viewers, but you’re the only person who listens to me.”
“Because you pay me.”
“Anyway, the reason I’m here is that I’ve decided not to die.”
Her pitying look had not changed either. She had a few more crow’s feet, the bags under her eyes were darker, her hair probably dyed. Spending all day listening to a torrent of human misery is clearly not the secret to eternal youth. When she saw me, she looked startled. I probably looked a lot older too. She never watched television; if she had, she wouldn’t have been surprised at the grey in my beard.
“Not dyin
g is a wise decision.” Her eyes twinkled sardonically behind her half-moon glasses. “It makes a change, I have to say. Last time I saw you, you seemed intent on pursuing a very different goal.”
“I’ve never been more serious. I am not going to die, full stop.”
“And when did it occur to you, this resolution?”
“Oh … My daughter asked me if I was going to die. I didn’t have the courage to say yes. So I told her that, from now on, no one in our family is going to die. Does that make me a bad father?”
“A good father is one who worries that he’s a bad father.”
“That’s clever. Is it a quote from Freud?”
“No, it’s a quote from you. You said those words in 2007, probably to reassure yourself when you were cheating on her mother. At our very first session, you were already talking about your fear of getting old. It’s the Peter Pan Syndrome, very common among Western men in their forties. Fear of old age is a fear of death dressed up as latent hedonism.”
“I wasn’t aware hedonism was an illness. Pretty soon, our society is going to be locking Epicureans up in asylums. These days, pleasure in every conceivable form is punishable by law, while being promoted by advertising. It’s a paradox that produces millions of schizophrenics. You have capitalism to thank for that—without it, you might have to shut up shop.”
“Please, you’re not going to give me that middle-class libertarian spiel, are you? We’re not on TV. You can check: there’s no hidden cameras.”
I suddenly remembered why I stopped coming to see this dour therapist: I hated her clear-sightedness. I’ve always been frightened by intelligent women, ever since my mother. But it was my fault: I’d just had a cardiac CT, and now it felt like I was having a brain scan. I felt like an archaic libertine in a world where hedonism was dismissed as the perversion of dirty old men. To think that, when I was young, people felt they had to at least pretend to be swingers if they wanted to be cool. We used to make up stories about things we’d done at Les Chandelles, the swanky Paris sex club. These days, Dominique Strauss-Khan has made orgies seem sordid, and the word libertine conjures up images of doddery old men in stained kimonos, like Hugh Hefner (also dead). We’re living in a time of extraordinary sexual regression. You might even call it the sexual counter-revolution.
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