“Pierre’s better today.”
Her eyes encouraged me. I replied that yes, it was true, I’d found him more talkative than usual.
“And you, are you okay?”
I had an urge to tell her no. Just once. To be honest, to stop lying. I wanted to confess it all: that I was scared, I was even terrified, I felt obsolete, helpless, overwhelmed. I wanted to say I was starting to think that this was a catastrophe, that I was a traitor, a coward. That when all was said and done, it was me, I was the one who was killing my son.
“It’s good, what you’re doing.”
I raised my eyes. Was she reading my thoughts? Or had I been speaking? That was possible; it had been a while since I’d had control over anything at all. I was elsewhere, disconnected from my own body. I got up mechanically, activated the coffee machine, and made a mistake. I pressed LONG instead of SHORT. I said “Shit,” and sat back down.
“You know,” she went on, “we talk a little, Pierre and I. He’s told me about his novel. He’s so proud…”
My stomach contracted. No, really, I didn’t want to hear that. Not coming from her. I wanted to stop her, to raise my hand and make her shut up, to tell the truth to her, at least to her, so that she could reason with me, scold me, outline the possible consequences, explain the importance of trust for a sick person, the irreversible harm I was going to cause.
Right, that was it. She would help me. I’d admit everything, and she’d know how to manage the situation. I just had to say it. Just make an effort. Have a little courage.
Someone called out to her from the end of the corridor. She wished me a good day and moved away with her coffee cup in her hand. I still had time. I could call her back. She’d turn around, it was my duty to tell her. But I did nothing. Because I’m weak. Because shame and fear had long since ruined me. I understood it in that instant. I stayed where I was, pathetic, leaning against the machine.
When I could finally move, I decided to leave. A nurse caught up with me at the end of the corridor.
“Mr. Marès?”
I turned around. It was Rosalie, the young nurse who took care of Pierre. I smiled, I think. I don’t know what effect that produced.
“May I speak to you?”
She seemed nervous, looking around in all directions. It appeared that she was choosing her words, and then she shook her head.
“Pierre’s book…”
I stopped breathing.
“It’s not really going to be published, is it?”
I froze. Literally. Then I stammered, “What are you saying?”
She avoided my eyes. She mumbled that it was just an intuition, that it wasn’t serious, but that maybe we could discuss it. She wouldn’t stop apologizing. Nevertheless, she said, it seemed to her that there could be other solutions. Wouldn’t I like to talk about them with the staff psychologist?
“That’s crazy.”
I’d said that sharply. Now she was looking at me with a sad expression that was hard to bear.
I turned around and pressed the elevator button. Several times.
“Mr. Marès…I’m…I’m sorry. It’s just that…well…I thought that it might be better to tell the truth…”
I did an about-face. There it was again, that truth business. It was echoing inside my skull. But who did she think she was? I felt my heart accelerate. I had to explain to her. It wasn’t so hard to understand. She looked intelligent, and I had some good arguments.
However, I only managed to babble a few ridiculous sentences. She wrinkled her forehead. I could see that she was making an effort too. It was such a shame. In the end, I asked her to leave me alone. My voice sounded too aggressive. I wasn’t doing it on purpose, but she couldn’t know that. And besides, my head ached too much.
The elevator wouldn’t come, so I thought I’d take the stairs. I had to get out of there. I felt like I was suffocating. Just as I started to move away, she blocked me with her arm and said, “Please wait…”
Her cheeks were flushed, and she had the shaky voice of a person who never makes waves. She began to talk at top speed. She told me it was dangerous. Sometimes, she said, people think they’re doing right, but actually they’re making things worse. I needed to pull myself together. For his sake. For mine. She said a lot of things I didn’t want to hear. Her apprehension made her voice vibrate.
She kept talking, and I suddenly felt scared. A terrible fear seized me. I imagined her standing in Pierre’s room, spilling everything. It was a sure thing; she was too young, too emotional. It could only end like that.
I went half crazy. It came surging up into my chest. Something more than anger: total panic. The need to do something. To make everything stop. She has to shut up, I thought. Reason was out the window. I wanted her to shut up.
I took a step toward her, and I could clearly see the terror in her eyes. She started yelling, and that was like an alarm, awakening me to my madness. My ears started ringing; I was too hot. I heard raised voices. I think people were coming from the end of the corridor. All the same, I had enough time to see the walls closing in around me before I collapsed on the floor.
15
I woke up under the stern gaze of a nurse’s aide. I was lying on a bed in what I guessed was an on-call room. I tried to sit up, but she stopped me.
“Wait a few more minutes.”
She offered me a lump of sugar, which I refused. Nevertheless, she pressed it into my mouth. I didn’t resist, and I let it melt on my tongue.
The doctor came in. The nurse’s aide got up, and they had a brief discussion. They whispered, but I wasn’t listening. I felt the cloud in my head breaking up.
After a few minutes, the nurse’s aide left, and the doctor came and sat down beside me. That was the instant when it all came back. My mouth spoke the words on its own. Like a supplication.
“The nurse! You have to stop her from—she’s going to see Pierre and—”
“No, no, calm down. Pierre’s asleep. Nobody’s going to see him. You have to get hold of yourself, Mr. Marès. Rosalie is an intelligent girl—she simply wanted to discuss the matter with you. She would never go to see your son and tell him anything like that. We’re professionals, we try to help our patients and their families.”
I was ashamed. I could see the nurse’s terrified eyes. What was I turning into?
I murmured, “You know, she’s right about the book. It doesn’t exist. It hasn’t ever existed.”
She didn’t blink. “No one’s going to say anything. Don’t worry.”
“You don’t think he has to be told?”
I wondered why I was so insistent on hurting myself. She thought about the question, and then she said it was none of her business. There was something reassuring in her tone of voice. Not for the first time. My circulation was starting to come back.
“I already told you: I think what you’re doing is a good thing.”
“It’s good to lie to a sick person?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On everything.”
I sighed, because I can’t stand phrases that don’t mean anything. I said that masking reality was always a rotten thing to do, and she replied that there wasn’t just one single reality. “It depends on your point of view.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t see what she was getting at. She asked me if I knew about Schrödinger’s cat. I said I didn’t know Schrödinger, so there wasn’t much chance I knew anything about his cat. She smiled. That made me happy.
She explained to me about the cat. It was a thought experiment: you couldn’t carry it out, you had to imagine it. The concept had been described by a scientist—Schrödinger—to illustrate the paradoxes of quantum physics.
“A radioactive atom is put inside a box. It’s known that this atom has a fifty-fifty chance of decaying. A distinctive feature of quantum ph
ysics is the assertion that observation affects outcomes. Broadly speaking, as long as no one looks inside the box, the atom is simultaneously intact and decayed. Do you see the idea? The particle is in neither one state nor the other, but in both at the same time.”
“I…I think I understand, vaguely…but I don’t see what that has to do with the cat.”
“I was coming to that. Now imagine that a cat is also placed in the box. If the atom decays, it kills the cat.”
“The atom kills the cat?”
“Yes. For example, you can imagine that the disintegrating atom releases a poison.”
I sensed that she was about to reach the conclusion, so I concentrated as hard as I could.
“So what does all this mean?” she murmured, leaning toward me. “If you grant, as we just did, that as long as the box is closed, the atom is simultaneously intact and decayed, what about the cat? That would mean that it’s simultaneously alive and dead!”
This time she’d lost me. I opened my eyes wide, and she went on: “Quantum physics was developed to describe the infinitely small, which is, essentially, atoms. It says that measurement, or observation if you prefer, has an influence on what’s being measured. In other words, the object, and therefore its reality, cannot be separated from the conditions of observation. And this theory is demonstrated by many real-life experiences! Do you understand?”
“I think so…”
“Schrödinger doesn’t say that this conclusion is false. He’s simply demonstrating a paradox by confronting the infinitely small with our world, the one we know. If quantum physics is correct, the cat in the box is half dead and half alive…Obviously, that’s not possible. Or, if it is, then we have to reconsider our entire conception of reality.”
I had the impression that she was speaking more to herself than to me. But I was wrong. She finally turned and looked at me.
“It’s something like the case with your son, isn’t it? If you consider that reality is dependent on the observer, then why would his be less real than any other?”
There was tenderness in her eyes. And warmth. I murmured, “Yes, I think I really like your box story…even though I’ve never liked cats.”
She laughed softly. “You know, I’m certain the Schrödinger experiment would work just as well with a dog.”
16
I was sitting in my taxi. I’d left Pierre two hours before. It was more and more painful, every time. The telephone rang, and I wasn’t surprised.
It was the doctor. She simply asked me to come to the hospital; she said I would probably have to stay the night. There was nothing else to add. I understood immediately. I liked her manner of speaking to me. It wasn’t really professional anymore.
I turned off my roof light—I could make the drive alone, without any passengers. That wasn’t important now.
I parked in the lot and went up into the building. Inside the elevator, I leaned against the wall. I took a deep breath, but I couldn’t detect any hospital smell anymore. That was normal, I’d grown used to it—I’d been coming here for four months now. The doctor greeted me outside the on-call room. She gave me a few details that I didn’t listen to. “No one will disturb you,” she said. That was the only thing I heard.
I opened the door. The room was bright, filled with the last rays of the setting sun. Pierre was lying half on his side with a plastic tube in his mouth. He looked too small. I closed the door behind me and stepped into the room. Outside, two voices were having a confrontation in the parking lot. I closed the window and the shouting stopped. I stood in front of the armchair. I’d spent so much time in that chair during the past few months; it was sucking me in. I pulled it close to the bed and sat down.
I turned my eyes on my son. I took my time; I wanted to examine him in detail. He was breathing with difficulty. There were long pauses between his breaths. He looked beautiful to me, there on his bed, an incredible dignity about him. He had a fight going on inside. I could tell by his creased forehead, by his drawn features: an indescribable rage, a great clash. One last blow for honor’s sake. And my Pierre, he was a general. A war chieftain of uncommon valor. To the death. From where I sat, I could hear his cry.
I shivered. I realized that I was proud of him. This kid was my greatest accomplishment. What he was made my life a success. I thanked Lucille, barely moving my lips. They didn’t produce the smallest sound, but it was important all the same. I took his hand. He blinked slightly, and I told myself that maybe he could hear me. Or he could feel me. That was enough. Then I started to talk.
I told him the story of his life. The whole story, all the way. I told him how he’d finished his studies and become a biologist. And then that girl, how crazy that had been. The shock in his chest when he’d met her. Beautiful as the night, she was, a kind of miracle. Their happiness when they’d moved in together. And their son too. My pride when he’d placed the baby in my arms. Me, a grandfather. Do you remember, Pierre, do you remember how moved I was? I also told him about the hard times, because life never turns out exactly the way you wanted it to. And about how they’d overcome every problem. He’d been battered, but he’d picked himself up. And in time, he’d become an extraordinary man. A good, decent, brave guy.
And then I told him about his writing career. Oh yes, of course, what a writer he’d turned into! The books he’d published, his happiness every time, and every time the same. We were all so proud of him. His wife, his children, and me. When all was said and done, life hadn’t been so bad. Had it, Pierrot? And then, about when it came time for me to go. His terrible sorrow. And how I’d consoled him, how I’d told him it was normal, it was in the order of things, and it was best that way. And how I was leaving happy, because I had had such a son.
I talked without stopping. I told him everything, explained everything. I gave him back his life. Somebody had to give it back to him.
Night fell. It came upon us like that, just as we were making up for all the lost time. It settled in silently, and I think it was listening too. It let me put things back in their proper places, without saying anything, without looking at me funny. When I finished, it got up. It stretched infinitely, smiling as one does after a good story. It saluted me discreetly. And then it left with my son.
17
In the morning, I got into my car. I hadn’t slept. I had the feeling that I was floating alongside my body. I drove fast. It was exhilarating. I thought that Lucille must have felt the same sensation before she missed her last curve. The idea pleased me. I saw flashes of light, but they weren’t important.
I reached the edge of the water. The sky was gray, the sea covered with metal. There was no wind and barely a hint of a swell. I rented a Zodiac for the day. I could see that the boat guy was suspicious. All the same, he gave me the keys. He must have told himself it wasn’t his problem.
The motor was powerful. It took me only three hours to reach the Island. I stopped in the middle of the cove. My inflatable boat was gently rocking. I dropped the anchor. The water depth was twenty meters. I lay down for a moment to clear my head. It was hard, because everything was scrambling around inside there. Too many images. Pierre. Lucille too. I breathed slowly, and I felt my rhythm, in spite of everything, slowing down. I wanted that to last awhile.
I slipped into the water, one hand on the rope that ran the length of the Zodiac. The weight under my ribs was pulling at me. I’d put twenty kilos on my diving belt. I was wearing neither a wetsuit nor flippers. I felt cold, but that quickly passed. It was as though a magnet was drawing me down. When I let go of the boat, the result was immediate. I plunged into the void, descending in a straight line to the bottom. Little by little, my descent slowed. The pressure reclaimed its rights. I decompressed, and the belt became lighter. It took me almost a minute to reach the sea floor.
* * *
—
I’m lying on my back. The column of water is crushing me, bu
t my body gradually grows used to it. The descent cost me no effort, so I’ve still got some time. The light above me started to fade after the first few meters. There are too many particles in suspension.
The sky is white. Strange. It’s been so long since I raised my head. To my right, a shadow passes. I shift my eyes and spot the anchor. It’s a few meters away. The chain drags along the sea floor and then rises up to the surface. At the other end, the Zodiac is calmly drifting. Seen from down here, the boat’s a big blur. The surface distorts its proportions. It looks as though a seagull has landed on the back of the boat, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s the motor, which I’m seeing from an unusual angle. In any case, I’d rather it be the motor. I’m not crazy about seagulls.
Beyond twenty meters of water and dust particles, the world seems to expand. It swells up, it hesitates. I’m not really a part of it anymore. I observe it disappearing, and it’s as though I could invent it. Because I can no longer see it, I make of it what I want. I can draw parallel lines from here. I watch them heading off into the infinite, and it’s beautiful enough to gouge out your eyes. I see flashes of white. There’s no more seagull, no more motor. I feel fine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Éléonore, Soazig, and Vanessa for their invaluable support.
Thanks to Alexis and Rosalie for having brought the hospital to life.
Thanks to Aïda, for all the rest.
Schrödinger's Dog Page 10
