She walked a few steps away and then turned around and faced me again. “And besides, who knows? Maybe it’ll be published one day!”
* * *
—
After I got back to the apartment, I looked over the addresses of the editors. They were all in Paris, all right in the heart of the capital—which didn’t surprise me. I got back in my cab. There was a long way to go, but I drove without stopping. As I drove, I felt better and better. My hands lightly gripped the steering wheel as I ate up the kilometers. At last, I was doing something.
At the first editor’s door, I rang the bell, but no one came to let me in. It was past noon. I didn’t feel like waiting, so I consulted my list and chose a big name. One I’d already heard of. All the same, I was surprised to find myself in front of an entire building. The name was written everywhere on the facade—very impressive.
I was pretty low-key at reception: “I submitted a manuscript, and I’d like to find out about it.”
The receptionist pursed his lips. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. You must be patient, we receive a great many manuscripts.” He assured me that mine would be read and considered. “Very carefully,” he specified.
I explained that my case was more complicated, but he was already losing patience. “Sir, there’s no use insisting.”
I felt it rising up in me. I didn’t want it to. I asked him why they needed so much time. I said, “It’s been a month!”
I didn’t like my tone or the anger that had crept into it. The man spoke firmly: “Sir, I must ask you to be so kind as to leave.”
A woman came in. She was wearing a pants suit over a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. I noticed the way the guy at the reception desk looked at her: she was somebody important.
That was when I panicked. I interrupted the receptionist fellow and started talking nonsense. The woman didn’t understand a thing, you could read it on her face. I talked about Pierre and the hospital. She asked me if he was a character in my book. I said no, it was because of the cancer. She knit her brows. I couldn’t believe it. The absurdity of the situation shattered me. It’s hard to attend your own downfall. The words kept coming out, but they weren’t mine anymore. Things were going from bad to worse.
Suddenly, I felt ashamed. It came all at once, a feeling of indescribable shame. I turned my back on them and ran away. I put a kilometer’s worth of streets between them and me before I succeeded in stopping myself. Out of breath and empty of everything else, I sat on a bench. Nothing was left; there was no more anger and no more shame. I was simply worn out. Yes, that’s it. Too worn out. An infinite weariness was spreading all the way to my limbs. I tore up the addresses. The bits of paper floated like confetti between my legs.
2
It took me some time to accept it. Condemned to not knowing. Understanding’s a necessity; ignorance is a poison. But it was no doubt my fault.
The inquest didn’t drag on. There was only one witness, and he had simply seen “a car going too fast and then striking a tree.” Lucille hadn’t said anything and hadn’t left any sort of note. So what conclusions would you draw? Nobody could do anything about it anymore. I felt no resentment.
Whatever follows is in the realm of the imagination. Or of faith. Reasoning does no good, it never really works. Can you just stop your thought processes?
An accident. An accident. A terrible accident.
I repeated that about a thousand times. Just to smother fear and stave off guilt.
* * *
—
One day, François suggested it might have been a voluntary act. I answered sincerely: not possible, I said, I didn’t believe it. Lucille was sick, but to go from there to ending it all…
So why, then? There’s always this doubt. It hangs around, it’s everywhere; it gnaws at me a little every day. I look for evidence that doesn’t exist. And the same question keeps coming back, always, incessantly: was it my fault too?
The truth is, I have no idea. Basically, it will never really be an accident.
It won’t ever be suicide, either.
Is there something in between the two?
3
Since Pierre’s been in the hospital, I see more of François. Usually, he’s the one who initiates the call. Seeing him does me good, even though it’s complicated because my life’s in such disarray. I don’t feel much like doing anything anymore; I must be hard to bear.
I’m never up for going out, so François invites himself over to my apartment. He brings food. After the meal, he asks me if it’s all right if he lights a cigarette. I say yes every time, but he keeps asking.
He went over to the window, and I heard him strike a match. His back was to me, and I saw the smoke rising into the night.
“How’s Pierre doing?”
That surprised me. Ordinarily, he never brings up the subject himself. He waits for me, and I think I appreciate that.
I muttered something, and he shook his head. “Forgive me, Yanis…It’s just that…you don’t look so good today.”
I lowered my eyes. It bothered me to know he was worried. I had an urge to tell him how much I loved him, but the words stayed stuck in my throat. Better so; it would have sounded a little ridiculous. I don’t generally make that kind of declaration.
He lit another cigarette, and all of a sudden, I started to talk.
I told him the story of Pierre’s book. I tried to keep calm as I explained it, but the words escaped me. It was strange; I no longer had control over my sentences. It was like listening to someone else talk. I wondered if I was going crazy.
I tried to shut up; my lips kept moving. I heard my voice; it came from far away. It rose in the living room, it bounced off the walls. It grew shrill here and there, as it will when I get upset; it was deafening.
I realized that this was the same as what had happened a little earlier, when I spoke to the editor in the white blouse. The independence of my mouth, while all the rest shirked. A bridge. From my heart to my tongue. A flood of words cresting in front of me. It was close to intolerable. Did he, François, really want to hear that?
As a matter of fact, it was too late. I was sorry, but there was nothing I could do. I’d lost my grip. The source was in some other location, namely my guts. There was a force in me that chose to overrule everything else. Reticence, reserve, all those things you impose on yourself—the force didn’t want a damn thing to do with any of them. It was making my soul scream, and making me its victim too.
Then there was silence; I didn’t dare raise my eyes. I didn’t know how long I’d been talking. François was sitting in the armchair facing the sofa. A scent of tobacco wafted through the room. I saw his hands; he was playing with his wedding ring. He turned it around and around on his finger and then slid it up to the top joint. It was a beautiful ring, gold with reddish highlights. I’d never really noticed it before.
“Listen, Yanis…”
He was watching me, looking embarrassed. And hesitant. I sensed that he was holding his words back. There was a fight going on inside his skull.
“I don’t know if this can help you, but I happen to know an editor. It’s a small operation, they put out a few books a year, not very many. But anyway…I don’t know…Maybe I could show her Pierre’s book.”
I had to make a huge effort to stay calm. Everything became blurry. My heart started beating fast, the rest of me seized up. François’s eyes begged me not to get too excited. The seconds passed, I felt like dancing. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck, I wanted to hug him hard. Nothing at all had been gained as yet, but for the first time, I was being given a little hope. François was opening a door for me. Just barely, almost not at all; a sliver of light in the gap. It was like being tossed a little bitty life preserver: not much to cling to, but at least something.
Well, all the same, I held mysel
f in check. Out of a sense of decency, and out of respect for him. I asked for some details in a detached tone that reassured him. He explained that his friend worked for a young publishing house. He offered to send her the manuscript. “That way you can be sure it’ll get read.” He stared at me for a long time before murmuring, “And after all, if they like it…”
He didn’t finish his sentence. I didn’t insist. I think that if I had been in his place, I would have taken the same precautions.
Anyway, I went to get a bottle of whiskey. I had some good stuff, a twenty-year-old scotch I kept on hand for special occasions. The bottle was three-quarters full, and I told myself that my life lacked occasions. Maybe I’m too demanding.
It’s basically true that you should never wait. All those things you save for later—it’s a heavy blow to die without having enjoyed them.
4
I arrived early for my appointment. The weather was fine, so I chose to pass the time by strolling along the river. The river walk in the city center is magnificent. The buildings remind us of our insignificance. I felt hotter and hotter, and then I started shivering. It was hard for me not to think about Pierre.
I stopped in front of a plaque. To the memory of the thousands of children deported to the camps during the war. I thought about all those dead kids. Thinking about them had no effect on me.
* * *
—
I retraced my steps. I felt bad, but I was trying not to let it show. I was afraid of what would happen with the editor. When you play your last card, you shut up and wait. I kept telling myself it would be over soon. Maybe I’d be buying a round somewhere later on.
I stepped into the restaurant, and the place made me feel better. The warmth of the dining room, the inevitable exposed beams, the wooden tables and chairs. Paintings decorated the walls; a yellow submarine hung behind the bar. The pictures were for sale. Little white labels dangled below the frames.
I gave the name of the reservation. At the table, I was relieved to see that only three places were set. There would be no surprise, no witness.
I ordered a glass of white.
“A chablis?”
I said yes. I would have said yes to anything at all.
I waited three glasses. The time didn’t pass; I played with a corner of my napkin. I don’t believe I thought about anything. Pierre says it’s not possible to wait without thinking. I disagree.
They finally came in. François shook my hand and introduced me to his editor friend. I had pictured a tall, thin woman with straight hair, a little cold; she was short, round, curly-haired, and radiant. From behind her glasses, her eyes analyzed me. She said she was delighted. I thought she had the look of a former hippie.
François glanced at my empty glass and ordered a bottle. We sat down, and he asked me how I was doing. I said, “Fine.” I’ve always found that an uninteresting question.
He got the conversation going and let the editor talk. She was really amusing; when she smiled, pretty dimples showed in her cheeks. In other circumstances, I would surely have appreciated her.
She described the world of publishing to me. One manuscript out of a thousand selected—a big lottery. The numbers she mentioned made my head spin. She continued by explaining that once books were published, there was often a lot of disappointment in store for the authors. “It’s rare that good sales follow.”
I hesitated. Nevertheless, I heard myself ask, “And what about Pierre?” Her face tensed. For barely a second, but I understood.
I tried to listen to what she was saying. Some of it was good, and I wanted to be able to repeat it to my son. His manuscript wasn’t bad, it contained some fine passages; but they weren’t enough. The structure was too weak, the ending too long.
“Maybe with more work…”
Her voice trailed off. She apologized with her eyes, and I made a sign that everything was all right.
* * *
—
I can’t remember the rest of the meal. It was torture for her too. Playing the role of the good pal, François carried the conversation. I don’t know whether I talked. Maybe to add one or two banalities. I thanked the editor when she left, because I didn’t want her to feel guilty.
François ordered two cognacs. He stared at the table and said nothing.
“I can’t do it.”
Taken aback, he raised his eyes to look at me. “What do you mean, you can’t do it?”
I had an urge to cry. A terribly strong urge. Some incredible thing rose up inside my chest. I couldn’t take any more. It had to come out. It was awful that it had to fall on François, but maybe it was better so.
I explained that I couldn’t tell Pierre it was all over, his manuscript would never be published; I couldn’t tell him that he might die and that I, his father, was incapable of doing or changing anything about it. Besides, I said, I didn’t want him to die. There was no reason for it, it wasn’t fair. After all, I said, it could be me, or François, or the amusing editor. So then yes, why Pierre? Why my son, huh? No, really, I didn’t understand. Besides, since his book wouldn’t be published, there wasn’t any reason for him to die anymore. He had every right to compose a second book. After all, other writers could write as many as they wanted. And anyway, fuck fucking writers and their fucking editors, and fuck him too, François, my good buddy, who couldn’t be bothered to find me an understanding editor. Because it was true. What was all that shit about the thousands of manuscripts they’ve rejected? Me, I was concerned with only one. To them, that couldn’t be such a big deal.
I noticed that the other diners in the restaurant were looking at us. I didn’t give a shit, but I was embarrassed for François. I picked up my cognac glass and drained it in one gulp. It burned my throat.
I went out into the night and walked around aimlessly. I’d left François without another word. I saw a tobacco shop and went in to buy a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked for the past twenty years. I’d stopped cold when my son was born. It wasn’t so much for my own sake; I’d heard a report on the radio about secondhand smoke.
The tobacconist wouldn’t accept a credit card payment for less than fifteen euros. That irritated me, and I told him so. I bought three packs and left two on the counter. Pretty cool move, I thought. I heard “Fucking asshole” as I went out, but I didn’t turn around.
I didn’t have a lighter. I couldn’t see myself going back to the tobacco shop, so I waited for someone to come along. It was a Tuesday evening, but that’s the advantage of cities: you’re never completely alone. A pretty mixed-race girl offered me her lighter. I had a hard time because of the wind. I finally got my cigarette lit and gave her back her lighter, coughing as I did so. She smiled but didn’t dare laugh.
Two drags later, my head was already spinning. I forced myself to take another drag, and another. It burned, but that was nothing compared to Pierre. I drew on the cigarette with all my might and triggered a coughing fit that bent me in half. The cigarette fell out of my hand. I pulled out the pack and threw it on the ground. A homeless person appeared out of a doorway. I took a step back. He shrugged and went to pick up the cigarettes. When he saw that the pack was nearly full, he looked at me contemptuously before hurrying away.
I trudged all the way to the waterfront. I went down the stairs and walked along the river. A few bums were joyfully knocking back the contents of their bottles. I sat some distance away from them, leaning forward over the water, my elbows jammed into my thighs.
The riverbanks are even more beautiful at night. The buildings glitter on the surface of the water; it’s like looking at the stars with your head down. I realized I was crying when I saw my tears puncture the sky.
* * *
—
I thought about Pierre, about his disappointment. I told myself that I’d failed, that there was nothing to be done anymore. There were still two or three names on my list,
but I had finally caught on. The amusing editor had done her job well. Pierre wouldn’t publish. Pierre would never publish.
I was hurting myself, as I needed to do. I had an urge to press harder, the way you press on a wound. Just for the sight of blood. Had I missed something? Parents are supposed to be able to hang the moon.
I heard a cry. I turned my head but didn’t see anything. Maybe it had come from farther away, from the shadows of a bridge. I doubted it. I must have been dreaming. In any case, the humming in my ears was too loud. I could feel my temples throbbing. I wanted to plunge back into my reverie, but I couldn’t anymore. The cry had come from me. The wind was sliding down the back of my neck.
I could hear the world calling me to order.
5
I got no smile from Pierre when I entered his room. I found him pale—in fact, frighteningly white. I tried to engage him in conversation. I asked how his evening had been, and he replied that he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. “Day, night, same thing.” He appeared tense, exhausted. All the same, he eventually revealed that he’d watched a movie. “I didn’t make it to the end,” he said.
There was a silence. I knew his chemo altered his concentration. He couldn’t read for very long either.
I sat in the armchair next to him. I was surprised that he said nothing about the book. I hesitated—maybe he would just give up the idea. He’d kept his eyes fixed on the window since I came in.
“You should go.”
That took my breath away. The hardness in his voice, the effort he was making to hurt me. I knew he was mad at me, and I felt like encouraging him. I would take it on, his pain; I’d take it on with pleasure, even. If that could relieve him. Me too, I knew how to suffer. To be with him, or in his place.
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