Schrödinger's Dog

by Martin Dumont

  When he saw me coming toward him, he got to his feet. He held my shoulder and shook my hand. He does that every time; he says it’s more ceremonious, government ministers do it on TV, and there’s no reason not to imitate them. I think he does it mostly because it amuses him. François has always loved playing the clown. That’s doubtless the reason why I appreciate him so much.

  I sat down and asked for a beer. I could see his surprise, but he made no comment. That was good. I had no desire to justify myself. I wanted a beer, so that’s what I ordered.

  “Well, have you had a lot of fares?”

  I took a sip of the lager the waiter had placed in front of me. I shook my head no, and he sighed. “Yeah, same with me. The weather’s too nice. People are walking or riding bikes.”

  I hadn’t paid much attention to the temperature. François is always looking for explanations. What makes a guy raise his arm when he sees us passing by? Why do certain nights go better than others? I don’t think there are reasons for everything.

  “One more bad night…”

  He’d picked up a couple. Thirty years old at the most, both of them. They’d spent the whole ride fighting with each other.

  “Especially the girl. Did she do some yelling at him! I could tell he was embarrassed. He kept giving me little headshakes. But look, he didn’t just sit there and take it either. You wouldn’t believe the way he answered her!”

  François interrupted himself to finish his coffee and then took up where he’d left off: “So, they were yelling and yelling. They had even totally forgotten I was there! She hollered that she was going to get out—I believe she was half crying—and he went her one better. He told her, very distinctly, to go fuck herself. And then they started over again. And again, and again. The tension kept mounting, I was sure they would come to blows any second…”

  I sighed and nodded, because that sort of thing happened to me too. I never dared to tell my passengers to get out of my taxi. I asked him, “So what did you do?”

  “Me? Oh, nothing. We still had a ways to go, I was afraid the babe would tell me to stop. You understand. I didn’t want to give up on the fare…”

  “Yeah…”

  “To tell you the truth, they didn’t bother me. I couldn’t say why, but I didn’t think it was serious. Funny, huh? They’re just about to start duking it out, and I’m up there thinking they look like they’re crazy in love.” He scratched his head. “What could have made me think that? I don’t know. Instinct, no doubt. Maybe after seeing so many people pass in and out of my cab…”

  As I listened to his tale, I remembered Lucille telling me once that we were “the privileged witnesses of the human condition.”

  “Basically,” François went on, “that was just an impression. I mean, it’s simply my vision of them. I told myself, ‘They love each other,’ but maybe they were hardly out of the car before they broke up for good…Go figure. Every time you take on a fare, you imagine a whole bunch of things. You pick up a guy, you two chat a little, and you say to yourself, ‘This guy must be a good family man, a good father.’ But then he goes home, and for all you know, he beats his kids and he rapes his wife! It’s always the same. Well, yes, sure, the real pricks, you learn to see them coming. But sometimes I tell myself that my taxi is a world all its own. A kind of magic box, you know?”

  “It’s true that your cab’s looking more and more like a box…”

  “Stop being an asshole, that’s not what I mean.”

  I looked at François. He was staring at the empty cup in front of him.

  “That’s what I find most frustrating,” he added, pinching his lip. “It’s frustrating because all you get are tiny chunks of life. You judge people on the basis of so little…Even with all my experience, when I watch my passengers leave, I can’t help wondering whether I’m wrong about them. All you have is what you see.”

  I had felt that before myself. The people in the back seat of my cab, I don’t pretend to understand their lives, and so I try to guess. Which is certainly not much of an achievement, I know, but it seems just about as accurate as anything else.

  François had fallen silent. He was eyeing my beer enviously.

  “I went to see Pierre in the hospital,” I said softly.

  He raised his eyes. “How’s he doing?”

  I sighed. It was hard for me to find my words.

  “All right…He’s gradually recovering from the operation. I’d like for the treatment to start, but the folks at the hospital say he’s still too weak. I—I don’t know. I think the sooner they get started, the better it is, no?”

  François hesitated. “Uh…yes, yes. Absolutely. But then, you have to trust the doctors. They’re the ones who know what’s best for Pierre.”

  “The doctors. You know, I don’t often see doctors. Mostly it’s nurses. They’ve very nice, but they can’t really answer my questions. The oncologist comes in in the morning, I think. I’ve only seen her once.”

  “The oncologist?”

  “A cancer specialist. Pierre’s her patient.”

  He whistled between his teeth. He didn’t like hearing the word “cancer.” At some point, I thought I’d understood him to suggest that his father had died of it.

  “Don’t worry, Yanis. They’re going to cure your son for you.” As he said that, he planted his eyes deep in mine.

  “Yes,” I said, grimacing, and then I finished my beer.

  13

  I hardly sleep anymore. I can’t stand waiting for the day, so I work until morning. At ten o’clock, I drop off my last fare, and then I come to the hospital. I’ve been starting to go back on duty earlier and earlier, sometimes right after I leave Pierre.

  In the beginning, I was surprised. I thought things would get complicated, I wouldn’t be able to keep it up. But as it turns out, it’s not so hard. I can’t close my eyes anymore. I’m tired, of course, but that’s different—lying down wouldn’t change a thing. And obviously, there’s a price to pay: I’m pale, and I’ve lost weight. François often points this out to me.

  This morning, I knew from the moment I entered the room that today would be different. Maybe it was the look in Pierre’s eyes, which were brighter and more determined. Or maybe something else, something in the atmosphere. It’s difficult to explain.

  I sat beside him. He stared at me like I was a hallucination. His chemotherapy medication is so strong it wears him out. He spends half his time lost in a fog I can’t pull him out of. It breaks me down to see him like that.

  Gemcitabine, once a week, in an infusion that lasts for half an hour. I watched the liquid running down into his veins. Into my son’s blood. A terrible molecule, a lethal agent charged with eliminating undesirable cells. A poison. “A good poison,” as a nurse once said to correct me.

  He hadn’t lost his hair. That surprised me. That was all I knew about chemotherapy: you go bald. Obviously, it’s more complicated than that; but me, I’m no specialist. Cancer and I had never met. The word scared me, it scares everybody, but its echo was too far away. A muffled threat, a vague danger. Like the thermonuclear bomb or a nasty hernia.

  * * *

  —

  “I tried to work.”

  I didn’t grasp his meaning right away. He’d sat up a little as he spoke. I said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

  “It’s…it’s hard. You know, I have trouble concentrating because of the…the medicine…I’m so tired.”

  I felt my stomach tighten. I was afraid. The week before, we’d clashed over the subject of his treatment. He wanted to cut back on it—the chemo made him vomit. He was suffering from diarrhea and losing weight. “My friends don’t recognize me anymore! I can see it in their eyes…”

  He’d tossed that at me as if it was my fault. I remember the frustration I’d felt. The injustice, too.

  So then I’d started yelling. It wa
s ugly and I was ashamed of myself, but he had to understand. The medicine would save his life. I shouted that at him with all my might. I also screamed that he was young, and that it was fortunate that he was young. That the doctors had told me so. And that he would get well, because we would try everything. I’d ask for the heaviest drugs, I said. Even experimental ones. He was in good shape, he could take it. He’d stick it out. Getting well was mostly mental. And he’d be well advised to fight, because I was bound and determined to bring him back.

  I had yelled all that at him, standing above his bed, my eyes drowned in tears. It was strange, because he was crying too. He bleated, “Okay, Dad, okay! Okay!” But I couldn’t stop. I needed to be sure, to drive my point home. So that he’d never again ask to back off his treatment.

  That’s why I was afraid. Listening to him talk that way…I didn’t even feel strong enough to get worked up.

  I didn’t answer. He leaned forward to pick up a folder from his night table. “It’s my book,” he said. “I’ve finished it, I think.”

  I felt heat surging through my chest. Relief, and happiness too. Seeing him go back to his projects—that was unexpected. I asked if I could read it, and he smiled and handed me the manuscript, saying, “Yes, of course.”

  Then he hesitated a moment, choosing his words. I gave him an encouraging look.

  “I’d like you to send it to some editors.”

  I took the folder and opened it. It contained a stack of pages covered with lines. On the first sheet, the title appeared in capital letters. And just below it: “Pierre Marès.”

  I said I couldn’t wait to start reading it. Hoping to please him, I spoke about his theater piece. A hint of sadness crossed his face. I apologized, but it was too late. Beyond those walls, life was continuing on its way. Without him. And I’d just reminded him of that.

  To change the subject, I asked him for some details. I wanted to know about this pitch to the editors. He told me I should start by copying the manuscript. I was supposed to send it out just about everywhere; he’d prepared a letter to accompany it.

  I had trouble grasping everything. The idea upset me, but I wasn’t able to articulate why. I knew nothing about such things, but it seemed to me that a first draft wasn’t enough. Wouldn’t it be better to wait? Surely there would be some corrections to make, some details or outside opinions to consider.

  That impatience bothered me. It wasn’t like him.

  All the same, when I left him, I promised I’d try to do what he wanted. Did I have a choice? He was right, no doubt. It was his thing, his passion. Surely he knew what was best.

  I had the folder under my arm. In the corridor, two nurses were bustling around the doorway to a room. I asked if Dr. Ward was there. They answered that she was scheduled to drop by the unit and suggested that I take a seat in the waiting room. A young woman who was sitting in there greeted me as I entered. She was tall and dark-haired; she looked like she might be a foreigner, but I wasn’t sure. Her black hair was tied up; a few escaped strands fell down to her shoulders. She was beautiful, almost intimidating.

  She was looking through the window at the parking lot. Her face was serious, dignified, and yet very sweet. Her eyes looked red to me. I didn’t dare stare at her, so I settled for quick glances. She was young, not yet thirty. I told myself that she was like Pierre, she had no business being here. I tried to imagine her outside, happy, laughing. Yes, that was better. I often made the same effort for my son. The idea was to get him out of his room. There was still life out there beyond those white walls. It was reassuring to keep repeating that.

  I wanted to go and sit beside her. Maybe someone ought to tell her, I thought. Misfortune wasn’t everything; it would be enough to whisper that to her. I couldn’t, of course. Maybe there was a time when I could have, back when Lucille was around. What had made me change so much? I was nothing but a coward anymore. That’s growing old, I guess.

  A nurse tapped on the door and announced, “He’s ready. You can go in.”

  The young woman nodded slowly and followed the nurse. I remained alone, wedged into my chair with some stupid regrets.

  * * *

  —

  An hour passed, maybe more. Everything’s too long here; that’s what it’s like in places where you don’t want to be.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  The oncologist had come in. I had an urge to speak to her about my long wait, but I didn’t dare. She stayed on her feet, so I stood up too. We were face to face, and I realized she was barely shorter than me.

  I asked her about Pierre’s chemotherapy. I wanted to know how far along it was. I didn’t understand why he hadn’t shown any improvement. “When am I going to be able to bring him home?” I asked. “He’s been here nearly a month!”

  She hesitated—it took her several seconds to respond to me. I imagine she was weighing her words.

  She told me that the situation was more complicated. The operation had weakened Pierre. He was taking little nourishment and not sleeping well. “Right now he’s affected as much by the treatment as by the disease.”

  It wasn’t possible for him to leave the hospital anytime soon. Not desirable, either. “Not for him, not for you.”

  So when, then?

  I lost my temper. Was anyone finally going to tell me what I could expect next? They were physicians, surely they had some ideas in their heads. Some leads, at least, some percentages, some statistics, stuff like that. How did things go in other, similar cases? “Listen,” I said. “I just want to know when he’s going to recover.”

  She lowered her eyes. Not long, a fraction of a second.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Marès. In your son’s case, we can’t really talk about a recovery.”

  I took the blow without trembling and without loosening my lips. The violence of the shock. I hadn’t realized. Or then again, yes, I knew already. Yes, that was it. A vague specter, an icy breath. A truth that had been following me everywhere. It was there, crouched behind me, hidden in my shadow. I had just turned around to look it in the face.

  The oncologist gave me the best explanation she could. She was sincere, I could feel it. There were no more things unsaid, no more innuendos. It was too late for them now. She told me that chemotherapy made it possible to slow down the evolution of the disease, in some cases even to stop it. They were trying to gain as much time as possible. And it could be a lot, after all. Some people live for decades with cancer. But there was one thing I had to understand: there was no recovering from a metastasized tumor.

  I was planted on my two legs. I tried to drive them into the floor. I was afraid I’d start shaking; I couldn’t have people thinking I wasn’t up to the ordeal.

  I asked, “Does Pierre know this?”

  She nodded. “He’s assimilating it, little by little. Accepting the disease takes time. A psychologist has been working with him. He hasn’t told you?”

  “No,” I mumbled. Then I thanked her and went out. In the corridor, I tried to keep my head high. Pierre’s folder was still clamped under my arm. I squeezed it as hard as I could.

  PART TWO

  1

  In the past few days, I’ve received three negative responses. Form letters, no explanations. Just “No,” accompanied by a few polite phrases. I wasn’t surprised; I’m waiting for the others, the responses to the rest of my twenty-five submissions. It’s already been a month. Is so much time really required? Yesterday, a journalist I was driving to the train station tried to give me an explanation. According to him, there are too many manuscripts. The waiting time is long because people send in any old rubbish.

  In the hospital, Pierre checks for updates every morning. I haven’t been able to tell him about the rejections.

  I dropped by to see him today. He was in a bad mood. I felt his frustration vibrating in the silences, like a seething liquid. No matter how hard I tried,
I couldn’t get him to unclench his teeth. At one point, I sat down right next to him. I felt like taking his hand, but I didn’t dare. He was white, with dark circles around his eyes. A lump was climbing up my throat. I wanted to help him; there was nothing I wouldn’t have done. I had the impression that he was slipping away between my fingers. I tried to make eye contact with him, but it was becoming too hard. So I left the room.

  In the corridor, a nurse came up to me.

  “Sir, is everything all right?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to answer her.

  “I’m Rosalie. I often take care of your son.”

  I thanked her. She was young; I wondered if she was the same age as Pierre. Probably not. It wasn’t very important.

  “You’re leaving already?”

  I muttered that I’d be back. “In the afternoon,” I said.

  I wasn’t proud. Did she think I was abandoning my son? I murmured that he didn’t want to see me, that he was too tired.

  “From working on his book?”

  I must have recoiled, because she caught me by the arm. She told me not to worry. Pierre talked constantly about his book, she said. Everybody on the staff knew about it.

  “It’s often that way with this type of disease. The patient gets fixated on something. It’s a kind of self-defense. His brain turns away from his suffering.”

  I didn’t reply, and she went on. “Sometimes the patient’s family and friends complicate things. In your son’s case, his manuscript fixation often tends to put him in a bad mood. But it’s important. Even essential. It gives him a goal.”

  She smiled at me again.

  “It’s crucial, you see. It allows him to escape.”

  And again, I didn’t know what to say. Escape. That sounded good.

  One of her colleagues called her, and she made a sign that she was coming. But first she said to me, “Don’t worry. Come back this afternoon, I’m sure he’ll be doing better. And don’t neglect this manuscript question. It’s too important to him.”