He slowed and parked his car on the Avenue de la Republique. Everything was just as he remembered it. It was all clean, quiet, and peaceful: residences of dressed stone, wrought-iron gates painstakingly painted slick black. Here a concierge might dust a hard-to-reach spot at the meeting of two iron volutes. Here the vestibules smelled of wax polish and fresh flowers. Here was here, the only real here Blandeuil could imagine, every other place on earth never having been anywhere but elsewhere.
Blandeuil tugged the bell on a town house. An unfamiliar concierge came to the door. At the sound of the bell, Blandeuil's parents appeared on the landing atop the flight of steps in the inner courtyard. He lifted his gaze toward them (the landing was high; at that moment Blandeuil remembered there were fifteen steps). He told himself he could predict his parents' every act down to the last detail. He'd often amused himself with this little game as a boy. He'd spy on them, then bet in his head: in a minute, maman will take off herglasses and scratch the tip of her nose, then say, "In the end, f you weigh both sides… "And Papa won't let her finish her sentence. He'll say, "My poor dear, your scales are off, I'm afraid!" And he'd be right: Madame Blandeuil's reckonings were always off. Reckonings material and immaterial alike. Her food was inedible, and she was as tone-deaf to logic as some were to song-that is to say, irremediably.
There, raising his gaze to the landing, Blandeuil made a silent bet he was sure to win. They wouldn't come down to meet him; theyd show their joy some other way, their way: Hugging each other, shoulder to shoulder, as befit parents witnessing the return of their eldest son. Martian would bring a hand to her head (That's right-whatever was I thinking? I had an older boy, and here he is.') while papa would lift his left arm up partway and wiggle his limp fingers a bit, as if stroking an invisible horse.
Blandeuil's parents matched his expectations exactly. Far from being annoyed, he was grateful, for once, that they'd stayed so much the same, and he only just managed to hold back his tears.
At dinner that night, they didn't bring up his little adventure, and he was grateful to them for that as well. At least there was one place in the world where he could forget it ever happened, where no one threw it in his face. Oh, strictly speaking, people weren't trying to be mean. They thought they were being nice by reminding him of his amorous exploit. Nor would they have minded had he given them exclusive details. How she'd been in private, the starlet, that most beautiful of all women, and to start with, was she as beautiful up close as they said, was she really perfect? After all, she had to be like the others, sculpted from the same clay, the same flesh. Softer-silkier, probably. Still, in the end he'd merely held a woman with a finer finish than the others in his arms…
He tried to keep a game face during all this chatter. He'd dodge questions like punches, and at the first opportunity break off the conversation, fleeing with his unsharable memories.
Whether they'd planned it jointly or not, his parents never broached the torturous subject. They only discussed his career, which they'd followed from afar, like the path of a star of the umpteenth magnitude.
"But really," his mother exclaimed yet again, "why ever did you pick that instrument?"
"Maman, can I help it if the dolceola only reaches a limited audience? God himself put it in my hands. He made it, so someone has to play it. There were only two dolceola virtuosos and, ever since the other one died, I'm the best the greatest! All these years I've given concerts in all the capitals of the world!"
It was true: he'd given a concert in every capital, in front of thirty people.
That night, while dining on his mother's disastrous fare, he suffered not from having once held the most beautiful woman in the world in his arms, but from being henceforth the uncontested virtuoso of a somewhat ridiculous instrument. Bah! When one wound closes, another opens: cest la vie! He'd poured himself a full glass of margaux, and was about to gulp it down in compensation when his parents informed him of Xenia's death.
Around one that morning, Blandeuil woke up again and got dressed in the half-light of his rediscovered childhood room. How could he ever have thought he'd sleep as if it were just another night, no more or less peaceful than any other, when Xenia was dead? He didn't even know how she'd died. His parents hadn't said, and it made him suspect the worst. Suicide, or something like that… He began biting his cheeks again. Suicide was suicide. Had Xenia committed suicide because of him? No. Surely not. To begin with, he didn't even know the date of this supposed suicide. It must've happened before the papers announced his affair with Lola Balbo. Even if it had happened aftereven if it'd happened the same day-what would that have proved? Quite simply, he wasn't worth suicide. The observation reassured him so much that he continued with this train of thought. He was just another guy-why hide it? — a loser, even. That gratifying adventure with Balbo had been sheer accident. She'd kidnapped him! She'd been taken with him the same way a very rich woman, weary of mink and ocelot, one day dons a rabbit fur coat on a whim. His naivete had entertained her for three weeks. Then she'd sent him back to his dolceola. He hadn't really been the worse for it; the whole time he'd been away from Eparvay, he'd had it in the back of his mind to come back to Xenia one day. But Xenia was dead.
In Blandeuil's memories, nights in Eparvay smelled of lilacs, and the air was often soft as a lover's stole. That night, he thought to sense beneath the sweetness and softness the whiff of roadkill. He shrugged it off. He'd always been too sensitive; it was one of his countless tragedies. On his too-tender soul, everything immediately left a mark. He urged himself to be tougher. All women were mortal. He hadn't seen Xenia in ten years, and it hadn't made him shed a single tear. He'd thought about her, vaguely, from time to time, when he felt a little too lonely. In Kuala Lumpur, for instance, before going on stage. Through a gap in the curtain, he'd looked out at the vast, almost empty room, a face with almond eyes surfacing now and again from an ocean of plush crimson. He'd thought about Xenia there.
Blandeuil let his steps carry him along. Ten years had gone by. Most of his friends were probably tucked away in orderly slumber right now, one hand on a wife's breast. Most, but not all. There had to be a few left drifting from bar to bar, like in the good old days.
The Parrot was closed, and the Blue Rabbit now little more than a brothel, but at the Nautilus, Blandeuil found Javier sitting in front of a gin and tonic. Odds were he would've found him there on any of the three thousand six hundred and fifty nights that had slipped by since the last time they'd seen each other.
"Well, look who it is!" Javier murmured. "You son of a bitch…"
Lola Balbo, no doubt. Blandeuil regretted not staying in bed. This drunk was going to congratulate him for seducing Lola Balbo. He'd probably use a different word. But the salacious gleam in Javier's eye winked out as though doused by a breaker of gin and tonic.
"So… how's the dolceola going?"
Relieved, Blandeuil replied that yeah, it was going pretty well, tours and concerts… "How about yourself?"
"Me? Ahhh… The gin-and-tonic makers can rest easy as long as I'm around!" Javier guffawed. Then: "Did they tell you about Xenia?"
Blandeuil nodded. Javier said no more.
There was a party at Bordenave's that night. Javier wouldn't have gone alone-Bordenave annoyed him, with his airs of a man who'd worked and succeeded-but with Blandeuil, why not? Everyone would see that he hadn't come to nibble from Bordenave's hand, but to keep Blandeuil company. Bordenave had moved; the former stockbroker now lived atop Belvedaire-that's right, old pal!
They bought two bottles of gin and left the Nautilus. They were in no hurry, stopping every hundred yards or so to knock back a swig of liquor.
At the foot of the hill, right before attempting the steep hill up Belvedaire, Blandeuil felt on his cheek the cold breath that came, winter and summer alike, from the nearby chasm.
"Remember how scared we were as kids?" he asked Javier, pointing to the old fence overgrown with Virginia creeper that blocked off access to the rift.
Javier nodded. "We'd climb the railing, and whoever went the farthest down…"
"Yeah… Bordenave was the best."
"You think? Anyway, that's where."
"That's where what?"
"Xenia. She beat out Bordenave! She went all the way down, headfirst."
Blandeuil's breath caught for a split second. At last, he knew. So it was here, in this chaos of rocks and moss, at whose bottom roared an underground river they called the Tartarus. He relived their games on the edge of the abyss. It could've been yesterday. It was. Ten years, twenty, the blink of an eye, and an entire lifetime were the same. He saw the gaping rift, its lips half-hidden by a mess of roots, vines, and tiny trees clinging to the walls; heartened, defying the vertiginous jungle, he saw them all again, Xenia in ankle socks and ponytail, Javier already pale and jaded, Bordenave the brave, and all the rest, even himself, awkward as though he'd had his dolceola in his arms all his life.
Bordenave greeted Blandeuil warmly and Javier less warmly; Javier annoyed him, with his airs of a man who drank and went slowly to seed. A small circle soon formed around Blandeuil. His childhood friends asked him about his trips and his concerts, but he could tell quite well they had something else on their minds. He listened to them with half an ear. They inspected him in light of the articles that had been in the papers a few years back. So this was the face-that build, those shoulders? hardly impressive, really-that Balbo had favored? That mouth, those hands had traveled the thrilling, trembling body of a star? Blandeuil grew flustered and wound up stopping in the middle of a sentence. There was a terrible silence. All eyes were on him, his audience hanging on his every word, as though the tale of his triumphant tour in Tierra del Fuego actually interested them. And then someone, God knew who, said Xenia's name. The circle broke; his listeners scattered, leaving him alone in the middle of the living room. He realized that, the whole time, he'd been holding the bottle of gin he'd started. It had seemed to him a casual, fashionable accessory. Suddenly it seemed vulgar. He looked around for Javier, to see what he'd done with his bottle. Javier had vanished. Was he sleeping it off in a corner? Or had he already headed back for the Nautilus, the cozy nest of his dereliction? Who knew? Blandeuil was really alone now, bottle in hand, cheeks burning, in the middle of a no-man's land of waxed parquet flooring. He brought the bottle to his lips, and, not really knowing whether he was doing it to look composed, or to put a finishing touch on the disaster, he took a long swallow of gin.
Later, sprawled in a lounger in the corner of the drawing room, he was finishing off the bottle when Philomena came to talk to him. Philomena, pretty Philomena! More beautiful than Xenia, maybe even more than Lola. Blandeuil wondered which of his friends had had the privilege of marrying her. He didn't have to think hard; it was probably Bordenave, a phoenix among hosts in this neck of the woods.
"W-well, p-pretty Philomena…"
She laid a ringed hand on his wrist, encircling it almost tenderly.
"You know, we often talked about it with the others…"
She fell silent, watching him from the depths of her eyes.
"Huh? About what?"
"Xenia. You. And we all came to the same conclusion: that you should join her."
"Join her? But-"
"What are you doing here? Not here, at our house, but here on earth, I mean. What are you doing? What do you think you're doing?"
"Heil! P-playing my music!" Blandeuil objected. "You're looking at the best do-dolceola player of our generation!"
"Poor thing! No one needs your dolceola; you can't even dance to it! But Xenia needs you-clown t ere.
Panicked, dumbfounded, Blandeuil tried to pull his arm back, but Philomena was strong, infinitely stronger than he.
"Down there?"
"There, at the bottom of the chasm, on the dark banks of the Tartarus, where she wanders, weeping. ."
Philomena pulled him to his feet and forced him across the room. As they passed the buffet, he left his empty bottle there. Bordenave and several guests-Xenia's closest friends, and perhaps his own, he thought in the drunken haze where he wandered-fell in behind them. They left the villa and started down the slope. Wasted as he was, Blandeuil never knew where he found the strength to break free of Philomena's grip. Still, he got away and started to run. Behind him rose cries of disapproval, but no one came after him. What, and break an ankle? No thanks! The Bordenaves and their guests shrugged and headed back for the villa, exchanging cynical comments. Blandeuil, however, reached the bottom of the hill, out of breath but intact. He let himself fall to his knees before the fence around the chasm. He was so weary, so drunk, that he fell asleep right there, his nose in the creeper, as though an avalanche of sleep, pouring onto him from the heights of the Belvedaire, had buried him.
The cold, redoubled in the wee small hours, woke him. Eparvay was still asleep. No one saw him cross town hunched over, trembling, spitting, and coughing. When he reached his car, he saw he'd left his dolceola out in the open on the backseat all night, and he hadn't even locked the doors. Luckily, Eparvay was such a safe place… and who would go to the trouble of stealing a dolceola? He sat down at the wheel and started the car. He turned halfway round to brush the dol- ceola's scratched leather case with his fingertips. He hadn't waxed it for a long time. Too long. He had to take care of it, as he did the instrument inside. Did they still make them? He wouldn't have sworn on it. And when the day came for him to retire, would there be another to play it after him? He entertained the idea of opening a school for the dolceola. He'd reached the point of wondering who'd help finance such a project when the absurdity of it hit him. A dolceola conservatory! Why not an Egyptian embalming institute, while he was at it? He couldn't keep back a chilled little laugh that turned into a coughing fit. He needed a nice hot coffee. The cafes would be open in the next town over by the time he got there. He cranked the heat up all the way and drove off slowly. The roads were clear, but it would have been stupid to get into an accident now, at the very moment he was leaving Eparvay forever.
Lozere, October 1992
The Pest
'd known him forever, but I never knew his name. He was neither brother, cousin, nor friend to me, oh no, least of all a friend, despite the insufferable, nauseating expression of tenderness that lit up those piggish little eyes whenever his gaze settled on me.
Time and again, he'd ruined my life. I'd even made an attempt on his, but his filthy little fingers clung tight and fast to his filthy little life. He got away every time and came back to taunt me with it, with his repellent potbelly, his teary eyes, his incurable acne, his falsetto, his grubby rags, his inevitable shopping bag bulging with old oysters and plastic conches.
It was his fault I'd become a pariah. Every time a chance had come up for me, he'd chased it off, or embarrassed me so much I couldn't seize it, mired as I was in him and his grotesque notions. How many women had withheld their smiles, how many potential investors their trust, how many taxi drivers their services in the pouring rain-and all because of him? Oh, how well I understood them! I would've done the same: a man who knows, or is known by, someone like him is obviously disreputable.
Let's be honest: not everything in my life was that hopeless. Sometimes he was here one day and gone the next. It so happened that he'd leave me a few months or even years of respite. Disbelieving at first, I'd rejoice suspiciously. A day without him was already a blessing. Two, three-I wouldn't yet dare believe it but bit by bit regained my confidence, I straightened up, I sneaked peeks at women passing by: he wasn't there to elbow me and loudly pronounce the crudest commentary on this or that aspect of their physique. A week went by, the skies cleared, my smile came back, I whistled, I hummed, I snapped my fingers, I laughed out loud alone in the street, I began making plans for the future again!
Now and then I had the chance to get these plans underway and, more rarely, to see them through. That's how I managed to start several businesses and two families… alas! He always wound up coming back, unb
ridled, more monstrous and destructive than ever. In a few days he'd reduced it all to nothing. My wife would chase me out. My business would collapse. The mailman would hurl my mail at me from far off, as though at a plague victim, and if I were so imprudent as to protest, my own dog would take the mailman's side and bark at me. I'd find myself homeless, ruined, and riddled with debt, alone… no, not alone, that would've been too good to be true! There he'd be, obnoxiously loyal and loving.
Once I tried to place myself under the protection of the law. Still reeling from a incident more unpleasant than usual, I walked into a precinct and asked to speak to the desk sergeant. A patrolman greeted me. I launched right into my tale: "Officer, I'm the victim of harassment."
"I see. What form does this harassment take? Insults? Infringement of civil liberties? Death threats? Insistent, unwelcome sexual advances?"
"No, no," I replied. "He doesn't lay into me so much as people I meet… He annoys them, shocks them, frightens or disgusts them, and their contempt and disapproval reflect on me."
"But you're not the one harassing them. It's him, right?"
"Absolutely! But you have to understand, he's not really harassing them. He's happy just acting like a lout, while treating me in such a friendly and informal way that my acquaintances can't doubt our closeness. A closeness I formally refute, officer!"
A Life on Paper: Stories Page 7
