A Life on Paper: Stories

by Georges-Olivier Chateaureynaud

  Rain can be a friend-even a gray city rain. It can settle on your hands and forehead like a caress. Evening can hover in the air like a perfume, and the modest lights of daily life give off a glow like lanterns at a festival. Despite being unknown, Sweet Street was still lively and bustling. Without a care for the shower, a relaxed crowd thronged the sidewalks, clustering about the shop windows. The owners of a large fruit and vegetable stall praised their product in stentorian tones. Moe had to admit he hadn't seen apples that beautiful since… He tried to find something to compare them to, but all he could come up with were things he'd read. No apple in his memory could equal them except the golden ones from the Garden of the Hesperides, in a little book of stories from Greco-Roman mythology. Taken all together, the jumble of fruits and vegetables on display recalled to him the cornucopia on a banknote long since out of circulation. Right away he bought a small bag of apples and another of tomatoes for Maria and the girls. A few yards down, a baker right out of an operetta, plump and tempting as a cream puff in her white apron, sold him an archetypal loaf that seemed to have come more from an artist's brush than a breadmaker's hands. He brought his purchases back to the car before heading off again in search of the street sign the sight of which would alone settle the disbelief that continued quietly to haunt him.

  He struck out toward where his fare had vanished: the far end of the street. He soon passed forty-two and had reached sixty-four when he stopped again in surprise. In the lengthening shadows, the street that appeared on no official city maps, which he himself had never heard of before tonight, was in fact quite a long one. He kept walking. The shops went by one after the next. Pigs' and calves' heads in the butchers' windows-their eyes closed, their nostrils stuffed with parsley-seemed to be laughing contentedly in a dream. Before a scene of garter belts and gauzy stockings, thongs and the lace-eyeleted brassieres in a lingerie boutique, he stopped, filled with wonder like a child before a nativity scene. Just as he was tearing himself away from his examination, a human projectile shot out from a porch and ran straight into him. He went hurtling backward. His skull smashed into a lamppost, and he collapsed, taking a scooter parked by the sidewalk down with him as he went.

  He woke to find himself in a chair, in the neon glow of a pharmacy. An assistant was tapping his right hand while another bandaged the wound on his left. An older woman, also in white, was dabbing at his head with arnica. Their kindly faces were pressed together before the window, in the sign's green light. Right in front of Moe, her skateboard under her arm, a girl in a hot pink tracksuit with green stripes was watching Moe with relief.

  "At least you're not dead! That's good, less trouble for me that way."

  "Yep, the troubles would all be yours. I wouldn't have any more."

  Once he'd thanked the pharmacist and apologized for the inconvenience, the girl dragged him firmly off to her parents' cafe just across the street. Her father, the owner, had a round, lumpy head, crooked teeth, and was generous to a fault. Her mother was of composite elegance-50s beehive, 60s pancake makeup, and a 70s short skirtand an outstanding human being. The cordial they offered Moe to help him back on his feet soon turned very cordial indeed. From pear liqueur (under-the-counter) to plum spirits (from the back), he soon found himself singing an old folk song in an ambience of fellowfeeling that now and then drew a tear from his eye. Later there was couscous at an Arab place nearby, impromptu dancing in the back room of the cafe, cha-cha and slow dancing with an older sister, a nightcap at her place, and then it was late, so late…

  At the crack of dawn, Moe staggered off to his car. A truck had broken down a few yards ahead, blocking the street, leaving him the choice between a long way in reverse or a difficult U-turn, given the narrow street. Moe went for the reverse. Though his head didn't hurt that badly despite the plum, the pear, and the Boulaouane he'd had with couscous, he couldn't remember the name of the girl in pink, nor that of her sister, with whom he'd… And what about all those nice people he'd spent the evening and part of the night with? He saw their faces again, heard their voices and laughter, but their names eluded him as a piece of cork in a glass of wine eludes the spoon. He shrugged. He'd be back. For now he had to get home. Maria was probably worried. In five years of marriage, he'd never spent the night away. She'd probably called the hospitals, the police. Moe didn't feel guilty. He was bringing back marvelous fruit, bread just like they used to bake it. When he reached the foot of Sweet Street, he reflected that he was going to have to tell a lie, and forgot to lift his gaze to the name of the next street he took.

  He told Maria some unbelievable story about a childhood friend he'd had to keep from suicide. She believed him, or pretended to. The girls bit into the apples and tomatoes and found them delicious. The bread, toasted with jam, was astounding. Life resumed it course.

  In the days and even weeks that followed, Moe searched for Sweet Street like a man possessed. For a while, his quest began to look like an obsession. He circled the city like a beast in a cage. He sought information from the roads administration, the land registry, the police, the tax authority… all in vain. Against his fellow citizens' conclusive unanimity, he had but his personal conviction. Sweet Street was real, because for a few hours he'd been happy there. Had he lived centuries ago he would've plunged his hand into hot coals and sworn to it. Thank God no one asked him to do anything like that. Besides, he was careful not to assert that the street existed. All he'd say was, "I heard about this Sweet Street… Is there any chance you…?" He pretended to side with whomever he was talking to: if a street had a name like that, we'd all know, right? Right? Right. But no one knew. The name meant nothing to anyone.

  He'd kept his story to himself. Telling Maria about it would have upset her. After all, he'd cheated on her with neither hesitation nor remorse. The other cabbies were too caught up with soccer. They wouldn't have understood. That left his godmother. He thought too late to ask her if she'd ever heard of Sweet Street. She had to die someday. The dead each take a piece of us with them when they go. Summer came. At the Breton shore where he and Maria took the kids every summer to give them memories of wind and drizzle, the smell of cow dung and fallen fruit rotting in the orchards, he had the feeling of not quite being entirely there anymore. When they came back from vacation, the memory of Sweet Street already troubled him less. Bit by bit, though he never entirely forgot it, the episode melted back into the hazy mural of dreams that we walk beside all our lives without really noticing, except in furtive glances. Months, years went by. Moe was graying at the temples; the wrinkles deepened around his eyes. A streak of white parted Mania's dark hair. His daughters' minds and bodies changed. They didn't want to hear anymore about sea breezes and abandoned orchards, swearing instead by the sun of the southern coast and the huge mirrorballs of dance clubs.

  Moe had bought a new car. He'd gone with the same foreign brand. This time he'd gone for a model with enough under its hood to take him to Mars and back. He still toted around, in that magnificent vehicle, his pitiful books. These days he dipped mainly into the 19`f' century, which had no shortage of bores, either. Sweet Street was a distant memory. He began to dream of a house for later on, in the wind and drizzle, with at least one apple tree he'd leave partly unpicked, leaving some fruit to rot at its foot. Preferably at the far end of the backyard, because of wasps.

  And then one night a man got into his taxi and asked him to take him to Sweet Street. Moe's heart started pounding. Over time, he'd stopped believing in it. He looked at the man in the rearview mirror. It was the same one. Well-the same, but older. His hands and forehead were spotted. The flesh of his cheeks shook when he spoke. His head trembled almost imperceptibly. Out of reflex, Moe felt his own forehead, his own cheeks.

  "Sure, mister. Number forty-two?"

  The man leaned forward to peer at Moe, then let himself fall backward in his seat. "Number forty-two, of course."

  "You'll have to give me directions, 'cause-"

  "Don't worry, just drive! Head for the
old Granary Hall…"

  They chatted about the nineteenth century and romanticism. Now and then the old man stopped to give directions. Moe tried hard to memorize the route, but entertained no illusions. He knew the ins and outs of all the streets he drove. He could've drawn a complete map of the city from memory. He knew that Sweet Street began and ended nowhere, that to get there you had to leave the map… And one way or another, that was what happened. After fifteen minutes or so, they were there. The last sign he'd seen before arriving was Guardicci Avenue, but it might just as well have been any other, Delaunay Lane or Mathieu Chain Boulevard. It was random, Moe thought. His throat tightened. Time had gone by. What would he find?

  The gentleman paid and got out. Moe hesitated. Wouldn't it be wiser to leave right away and return to a simple life, the lukewarm yoke of happiness and the sleep of days just like the sleep of nights? No, he'd waited too long for this moment. He stepped out of the car and locked the doors with the remote. He turned around to look for the fruits and vegetables vendor, the shop window with the beaming calves' heads, the pharmacy where he'd been cared for, the cafe where he'd danced… It was all there, but closed or decrepit, as though stricken by disaster. The stall had nothing to offer but overripe fruit and shriveled greens. In the entrance to the bakery, between the lowered grille and the glass door, soggy wrinkled flyers, old social-security letters, and court notices lay in a heap. He crossed the street and entered the cafe. The crowd was sparse: a few regulars clung crablike to the bar, watched over by two old harpies. A woman was drying glasses like in some sad blue-collar ballad. Moe recognized the little girl in pink, but she no longer shone. She looked wan and six months pregnant. He ordered the first thing that came to mind. A red wine spritzer. She served him without a word or a second glance.

  "Don't you recognize me? You ran me over in the street with your skateboard. It was… a while back. They patched me up at the pharmacy across the street, and then you brought me here. Your dad offered me a pick-me-up, one thing led to another, and… remember?" Moe heard the pleading in his own voice. He tried to control himself. "You were what, ten? You were wearing this hot pink tracksuit with apple green stripes. You were so sweet, and really sorry about knocking me over. Remember?"

  She stared at him a few minutes with a doleful look, then, slowly, shook her head.

  "C'mon! You had a sister, I even danced with her. What was her name again?"

  "My sister's name was Dora. She's dead now."

  Dora. How could he have forgotten that name? They'd loved each other for a night, and now she was gone. He didn't dare ask how, or how long ago. All he said was, "That's awful!"

  The girl nodded and went back to drying glasses.

  "What about your parents?"

  He was happy to hear they were doing well, aging gracefully out in Brittany, where they'd bought a small house in the middle of an orchard overlooking the sea.

  "Great, great, good for them…"

  He left some coins on the counter. She put the glasses away. She said good-bye without looking up.

  Night had fallen. Blackest night, with a few stars here and there as if to say, this is the sky up here since there are stars in it, though perhaps it wasn't the sky at all. Everything was quiet. Moe remembered the first time, the hubbub of voices and laughter, jokes ringing out from all sides, the impromptu dance music, Dora's kisses. Dora was dead. He wondered if he was dead, too. Were you ever sure? You lived step by step. What makes us think we're alive and nothing's happened is continuity. But as soon as that was shattered, you knew nothing, you could very well be dead and keep right on going same as ever for a while, like a ball dropped down a flight of stairs. It might bounce from step to step, but finally it was bound to stop. He chased these outlandish ideas from his head. He was alive, period. He resolved to walk all the way to end of the street this time, like a mustachioed explorer from a past era tracing a river to its source, all the way to the initial rivulet trickling out from between two rocks, to know once and for all, to dispel all doubt. As he moved forward, the night began to look like soup separating as it cooled-thin in spots, thick and clotted in others. The sidewalk rang hollow beneath his feet. He glimpsed a cat between two trash cans, a stroller chained up in a vestibule, an old abandoned refrigerator against a wall like a disused sarcophagus…The street was almost real. Behind its facades, families were having dinner, men and women were yawning in front of TV sets, bickering, embracing, or sleeping in all too believable ways. He thought of Dora, who'd pulled him with her to the other side, behind the scenes. He had difficulty recalling her face. He'd never seen her in daylight, only beneath the muted lamps in the back room of her parents' cafe, and then in the darkness of her bedroom. Above all he remembered her warmth, her perfume. He stopped suddenly, letting out a cry of fear. Before him yawned a chasm into which he'd almost disappeared without a trace. He stopped himself just in time, catching hold of the last lamppost at the edge of the abyss. There was nothing at the end of Sweet Street. No lane or avenue, alley or boulevard, bridge or crossing. Only pitchblack nothingness. He froze, gazing on it for a moment, breathless, heart pounding, before finding the courage to let go of the lamppost and move back. After a few shaky steps, he managed to break into a run, then fled toward his cab. He started it up, sweating blood and tears to make a U-turn in a street too narrow for his huge sedan. He finally gave up and threw it into reverse, afraid some vehicle might come up and block the entrance to the street at any minute. None did. This time, he deliberately looked away from the sign showing the name of the street he'd backed onto. He didn't want to know. He was done with Sweet Street. He'd send the next fare who asked to go there packing. Ten minutes later he was back home. The soup was on the stove. The girls were mooning over the bleached highlights of some TV pretty boy. Maria had her tongue stuck out in concentration, painting a small bouquet of anemones on a napkin ring of blond wood.

  Palaiseau, February 2002

  The Bronze Schoolboy

  he apple of the world is not yet ripe…" or "There's no such thing as chance-perhaps…" Dorsay loved tossing out these sorts of phrases before select audiences, in his fine poet's voice. Yes, he had a fine voice. A bit finer, and it might have been an actor's. But it had too big a string section and not enough brass for it to carry on stage. Yet, like an actor, its owner knew how to dramatize a silence. When he said, "There's no such thing as chanceperhaps… he was careful to leave the perhaps hanging over a pool of silence, like a line from a fishing rod.

  Dorsay numbered among those men for whom a life of obscurity was no life at all. Not so much full of himself as uncertain of his own existence, he needed the stares and attentions of others to confirm it as often as possible. Of course, he took care to draw these stares, these attentions, and fasten them to himself. In this game-so vital to him-his fine voice and the effects he plied from it were far from his only assets. He'd declared himself a poet at quite a young age. And indeed-tall, erect, slender, with a face at once manly and childlike, and the somewhat vague expression of a man whose life wasn't as simple as it seemed-he was the very semblance of a poet.

  What-or perhaps whom-did he resemble? The idea of a poet, let's say.

  It would be a mistake to look on him and see nothing but a poseur. His aphorisms and insinuating questions weren't mere verbal grenades thrown into conversation. He had given thought deep and true to the world's hypothetical unripeness. He'd quite honestly wondered if the word "chance" ever concealed anything besides our intrinsic inability to untangle the knot of causes and effects. Since no step we take can ever be completely inconsistent with those that came before, it is written from our first stumbles as rug rats that we will one day cross the threshold of this church, that nightclub, that museum, or any other place where we set foot, unremarkable as the sight of it may seem. On such things Dorsay reflected readily, and his reveries nourished his work.

  It was work few concerned themselves with. He knew as much, and usually spared himself the attendant suffering.
As he saw it, humanity was headed right down the tunnel of the future without a lantern. Soon, no doubt, it would fall into an abyss, and that would be just too bad. While waiting for the apocalypse to prove him right, he put out a collection every two years, on a subscription basis. Sowing words on costly paper. Even free, verse was no longer possible. But the word remained: raw, naked. He used them like unmixed colors. He stopped with the word, just as they'd stopped, for a while, with the atom in sundering the universe: because you had to stop somewhere, cling to something to catch your breath for a minute in all this metaphysical slicing and dicing. Of course, since the days of Epicurus and Leibniz, the atom had had its share… Was it time to dissect the word now? Dorsay couldn't bring himself to do so. Perhaps someday he'd take that step. Then it would be his turn to venture forward without a lantern.

  The world: well, there always came a time in every life when you gave up trying to save it. And man? A runner who set out at a sprint and, after a while, slowed to a jog and was satisfied. Dorsay jogged along at the center of a small crowd of close comrades. Old friends, former mistresses, vague hangers-on. He usually printed three hundred copies of his collections, twenty on Japan imperial paper. A good village baker did better with his apricot tarts on any given holiday. Dorsay had come to see himself as just one more little maker of poems. Just one more poet, husband, lover, and father. He had come to this humility fairly early, all things considered-at the stroke of forty. A secret, shameful humility, for he'd been careful not to admit it. Would others ever admire us if we didn't throw them a line? In reality, if he kept on pretending to the uniqueness of an artistic temperament, it was to avoid disappointing his faithful flock. They needed him, he thought, as he needed them. Many people draw a powerful sense of comfort from the feeling of being close to another consciousness. He vampirized them without their knowing it, sucking the warm blood of their presence from them through painless, invisible bites. Predator and shepherd to his insiders, he didn't like any thinning of the ranks, even if these days he rarely added to them. The death of one grieved him as much as it aggrieved him.