“Hello, I’m Paul Vermeiren, I don’t know many people. It seems you don’t either.”
“I’m Agnès and this is my husband, Marco. I read in the paper that Thierry was . . . well . . . he had left us. I wasn’t even sure if it was the same Thierry. It was such a long time ago . . .”
Paul would have liked to hold Agnès’s hand in his for a moment, just long enough to wind the clocks back.
“We were neighbours in Juvisy. How about you?”
Your bra opened at the front. You already knew how awkward boys were. You had a way of saying “oops . . .” when my hands ventured into still forbidden territory.
“We still live in the suburbs, it’s better for the children.”
I loved blowing on your forehead to mess up your fringe; you hated it. You let me watch you washing; I dried you, the towel wrapped right the way round you.
“We never saw each other again.”
The two of us devastated one morning, and our tragedy had a name: thrush. There was a lot more about “always” than about love in what we said to each other. We didn’t actually love each other, we just made a point of adoring each other.
“We’ve got quite a way to go and then we have to get the babysitter home. Tell me, do you mind my asking, is Thierry’s wife here?”
Agnès wanted to see what she looked like, her childhood sweetheart’s wife. Paul had just experienced the same curiosity seeing the tall man on her arm.
“She was meant to come, but I can’t see her here.”
“Never mind. Well, thank you, Monsieur . . .? What was your name?”
“Vermeiren.”
Her husband put their glasses down, looked for his keys and checked with Brigitte how best to get back out of the city to the south. Agnès took this opportunity to shake Paul’s hand again; he felt a sort of caress in her palm. She looked him right in the eye and communicated her uneasiness to him.
“Shall we go, darling?” asked the giant.
Goodbye, little one.
Brigitte reappeared with a tray of canapés.
“Would you like me to introduce you to someone?” she asked him, attentive as ever.
She would never have guessed that he had something in common, however brief, with each and every one of them.
Nathalie Cohen, his sometime opponent in tennis. A far superior player to Thierry, her superiority more than compensating for his physical strength. Nadine and M. Cohen would watch them play for a while and then slip away to go and drink a Coke while she made him sweat as no other woman ever had.
Michel Bonnemay, his dentist, had come with Evelyne. Blin never paid for his treatment, reimbursing him with framing jobs. No one knew exactly how their accounts stood. They found the whole thing very funny and it certainly made the bookkeeping easier. Like Brigitte, Paul wanted to thank them one by one, all these people who had taken the trouble to come. Were they a mosaic of Blin, of his human interactions? Could they between them write the story of this dear friend who had left them? Mme Combes, who was very much making herself heard, would have been happy to take on a whole chapter.
“He was adorable, but you had to be careful – what a man he was! He liked to keep his customers in the frame, he really did!”
Blin had prompted her with that pun, and she had not got it at first.
“And I can tell you an anecdote. Oh, when I think of that day . . . You may remember, it was while I had that ear infection which wouldn’t go away, but there were compensations! I can admit it now, I told everyone that I was deaf and most people believed me. That way I only heard what I wanted to. Well, one day, this was just for a joke, you know, I was in his shop to pick up a frame. He told me it came to 600 francs. Quick as a flash, I gave him a 200 franc note, thanked him and walked out. My God, it was funny! You should have seen him running after me and yelling ‘600 francs!’ in my ear.”
A few people smiled round her, the odd polite laugh. Paul remembered the incident; the night before he had seen a film in which the central character was a framer whom no one ever paid, not even a little old woman who pretended not to hear him and gave him half of what she owed as she thanked him with a beaming smile. Mme Combes had also seen it and had taken a good deal of inspiration from it; the scene had taken place just as she had described it except that Blin had not chased her along the street as she claimed, but had settled for letting her go like the hero in the film, saying: You’re very clever, Madame Combes. He had lost 400 francs, but just for a minute he had seen himself as a character in a film, and it was cheap at the price. If Blin had been buried for real, Mme Combes would have been the one making a collection for the wreath. On behalf of all his friends in the street.
One anecdote always raises another. Paul soon felt overwhelmed.
“I also remember a day when . . .”
“So do I, listen to this . . .”
Unable to catch them all, he missed half of what was being said, which was awful!
“And crafty with it . . .”
“Tortured in a way, you could tell . . .”
One at a time, for goodness’ sake! Let me make the most of this, I do have a right!
“Well, I remember his shop better than I remember him,” said the bookseller. “Going to the framer isn’t like nipping to the butcher. Sometimes I would go for no reason, to chat and have a cup of tea, to listen to that strange silence punctuated by the sound of his rasp, to smell the varnish. In the summer, it was always cooler in there. Time passed in a completely different way from everywhere else in the area. And he moved slowly himself. While he was working we could stay like that in silence without either of us feeling embarrassed. It was like a serene backwater, cut off from the rest of the world, and when you came back out there was all the commotion of the streets of Paris.”
“He liked encouraging people to do what they wanted. If you’ve always wanted to go to Nepal, do it! If you want to set up in business on your own, do it! If you want to lose twenty pounds, it’s all up to you! He thought that everything came down to determination, and he was right. You only had to talk to him on the phone to feel better.”
Paul was tempted to believe them but he tried to think it through: these people were meant to say nice things about the friend they had lost, that was just the point of the gathering. There was nothing exceptional about Blin; anyone else would have been entitled to the same treatment.
“He had a strange combination,” said a voice which carried over the others, “of sensitivity and a sort of distance from things.”
The man was very talkative and his baritone’s voice gave resonance to his charisma. A solid little body, deep set eyes, a very lined face, an unfamiliar figure who had intrigued Paul since the beginning of the get-together.
“Setting such high standards for himself that he could do the same with other people.”
It was definitely the first time he had ever seen this man in his life.
“The word ‘ethical’, which is so bandied about nowadays that it doesn’t mean anything any more, still meant something to him. The word ‘honour’ did too.”
Isn’t someone in this room going to get around to asking him what the hell he’s doing here, in God’s name?
“I’m sure I can tell you this now that he’s no longer here, he always used to say: ‘You see, René, I feel nostalgic for the existence of God. Life would be so much simpler if I were a believer. I wouldn’t stop to think about so many things.’”
How long are you going to let him hold forth like this? This man’s an impostor! He’s never met Blin in his life!
“Once, by chance, I saw him at the cemetery in Montmartre, standing thinking over Stendhal’s grave.”
Madman! Murderer! Brigitte, turf him out! He must do this every day, it’s a hobby, a skill, a perversion or something like that. He reads the deaths column in the papers and comes and puts on his little performance! It’s not even the word “drink” that motivates him, it’s the word “memory”’!
Nadine’s
arrival attracted people’s attention, and they lowered their voices. Even the impostor. On her own, looking pretty good, dressed rather extravagantly to show that she was anything but a widow. Here too, Paul would have paid a high price to see what the new man in her life looked like, or the man in her new life. Like his clients at the Good News Agency, he was curious about his successor’s face. Nadine kissed almost everyone, poised between smiles and seriousness. After all, she had a part to play. He wanted a real test and here she was at last, in the flesh. He was going to have to face this woman he had lived with for five years, a woman who had cried in his arms, who had cared for him when he was ill. Brigitte introduced her to the few guests she did not know, including Paul.
“Nadine Larieux.”
“Paul Vermeiren.”
She said hello and moved onto the next person, just like that, taking him in her stride. He would never have guessed that she had such a firm handshake.
. . . Nadine? Tell me it’s not true . . . Nadine, it’s me!
“Hello, Michel, hello, Evelyne.”
Yes, me . . . the guy who took off all your clothes in those deserted woods, in broad daylight, because he liked the idea. And you did too, I have to say. Hey . . . Nadine?
“Hello, you.”
“Hello, Nadine.”
The one who asked you to wear those leotards which opened between the legs. Yes, it’s me, come on, have a look at me for goodness sake!
“How are you, Didier?”
The one who used to gag you with his hand when you sometimes made too much noise. Doesn’t that mean anything to you any more?
“Well, are we going to have this drink, then?” she said.
Another round of drinks was served while everyone chatted and laughed. Paul Vermeiren had just found what he was looking for: the right to exist, to put together his own memories without needing Thierry Blin’s. Feeling very reassured, he was about to leave when Brigitte asked for a bit of quiet.
“I’d like to thank you for coming here today for Thierry.”
People reacted, raising their glasses towards her. She shook her hand to show that she had not finished.
“To be absolutely honest, that’s not the only reason I asked you to come here this evening. As you may know, the investigations into Thierry’s disappearance have officially been closed, for want of clues. I’ve spent hours talking to the police about it, and they have to follow procedures. But I’m not satisfied with that version of the truth. I can’t accept it.”
Everyone was caught on the back foot. The punch had barely awakened their consciences, the mood of reflection had given way to a warm ambiance, the witnesses to a life had become guests looking forward to an evening together. And then Brigitte had drawn their attention to a tragedy.
Hers.
“I thought that, if I assembled everyone who knew him, we could piece together what we know and get information the police don’t have. If we all try to remember the last days before he disappeared, we might be able to pick up some clues, even tiny ones, which could reopen the enquiry. There’s not much left to hope for, but I’ve got to see this through. I wouldn’t forgive myself for the rest of my life if I didn’t try.”
There was silence in the room.
Brigitte looked at them expectantly.
No one knew how to respond to what she had said and the silence persisted, disturbing and uncomfortable. Paul felt overcome, and went and sat down by himself for a moment.
So it was her.
Brigitte.
She had been the one to contact the police, she had waited for the results of the enquiry, she had given and hoped. There was no doubt now that she was the one who had reported Blin’s disappearance. Why had she done so much? Blin was nothing more than a client of hers. He did not remember one single ambiguous moment, not one of those looks that inadvertently passes between a man and a woman, like a tacit code. He did not remember looking at her legs once, or peering down her blouse. Or dreaming about her. He had no memories of any little play of seduction. To him, Brigitte was charming, adorable, attentive and radiant. That was quite a lot, but that was all.
*
Before leaving, each of them said what they could to help Brigitte, even the impostor. Even though she did not admit it, or even formulate the idea, Anne did not like to think that Blin was alive. Too irrational, too unrealistic. Blin did not have the makings of one of those news stories. Paul felt almost hurt. Luckily, the general tendency was to be pessimistic, as if people wanted to dampen Brigitte’s hopes and prepare her to accept the worst. She had become the sailor’s wife, still waiting for a miracle even after the shipwreck had been announced. A woman who would have given anything just to be sure. Blin meant that much to her. It was almost touching seeing even Nadine come over to comfort her.
“He’ll go on living in our memories.”
“If he’s dead, may he rest in peace,” said Didier.
“If he’s alive, let’s respect the choice he’s made,” ventured Michel.
Paul crossed his fingers in the hopes that it would stay at that. When the last of them had left the room, Brigitte had a false air of widowhood about her. Paul picked his leather jacket up from the back of a chair, and she ran over to him.
“Stay a bit longer, I’m going to see the others out.”
An order. Gentle and shy but still an order. Right up until the last handshake and the last thank yous, Paul felt his heart beating in his chest fit to burst. He was afraid that Vermeiren’s mask had not stood up to scrutiny from a woman in love.
Paul had almost believed in Blin; Agnès had kept a place for him in her memory, the barber felt a better man thanks to him, even the impostor had managed to describe him as a pure spirit. And had this marvellous man really been so blind that he failed to notice Brigitte’s affection?
Now they were alone in the large room, which suddenly felt very quiet and empty.
“I was afraid this gathering wouldn’t do much good,” she said, “but I couldn’t not do it.”
“I understand.”
“Are you in a hurry? Shall we have one last drink? Not to remember, I don’t mean that.”
He was not sure what she did mean, but he agreed, hypnotized by eye contact from this woman who had managed to hide her love like some romantic heroine. She took out a bottle of whisky and immediately poured two glasses. Blin used to do it for her to celebrate finishing the tax return and other forms like that; a ritual she had kept up.
Mademoiselle . . . How could I have guessed what you felt for me? You should have given me some sign. It might have changed everything, who knows?
“How could he have done this to me, after everything we went through? I wasn’t just his accountant you know . . .”
Paul listened expectantly.
“Well, I can tell you, we had a relationship.”
He swallowed hard.
“No one ever knew anything about it, not even Nadine. We were discreet . . . we were brilliant!”
Still, he said nothing.
“More whisky?”
“Perhaps you should slow up.”
“We used to make love in the workshop, he would lie me down on the long table, near the bench, in amongst the wood shavings and the pots of varnish. Unforgettable!”
“Brigitte . . .”
“In his arms, I felt like . . . it’s hard to say . . . I saw myself as . . . ‘Mademoiselle’. A woman who existed for his eyes only, the woman I became when he came near me . . . I want to be ‘Mademoiselle’ again . . .”
He watched her in silence.
“Find him for me.”
“. . . I’m sorry?”
“I know he’s not dead. I’m absolutely convinced. I can tell he’s there, not far away, that he’s played a dirty trick on us.”
Paul waited anxiously.
“I’d like to hire you officially. That’s your job, isn’t it? Where the police have failed, I’d like you to make it your mission.”
“Don’t you think
the others are right, that it’s better to forget him?”
“I can’t help it. Until I’m given formal proof that he’s dead, I’ll look for him. When he sees everything I’ve done for him, he’ll fall in love with me.”
“If he’s still alive, it could take years!”
“If you won’t do it, I’ll take on someone else, and someone else after that.”
Panicking at the thought of this, Paul tried to find a definitive argument, and only came up with a pathetic: “It’s going to be very expensive!”
“Never mind that. Will you take it on or not?”
He closed his eyes and searched, deep inside himself, for the strength not to break down in tears.
Nicolas Gredzinski
This Other him was emphatic: leave her alone. The notes that he left for Nicolas in the early hours of the morning were beginning to sound like dictates. For once you’ve met someone who’s not asking for anything except that you don’t ask her anything – don’t go and ruin it all. The reasoning sometimes changed, but the message remained the same. Nicolas was offended by it: while his double was writing these fevered words, Loraine was close to him, warm and beautiful, devastatingly present, just a caress away. It was easy enough for the Other to beg him to be patient, he did not have to live with the unbearable doubt which dogged Nicolas all day long. If she was hiding something too shameful to mention, he had a right to know; a right because he was in love and he was suffering. Why go on with this extraordinarily cruel game? The Other came back time and again to the word “trust”, but did Loraine trust Nicolas? Surely the poor man had successfully passed all the tests? Surely he had been patient enough? As time went by, he interpreted Loraine’s silence as suspicion, and this suspicion took on an air of contempt.
Someone Else Page 22
