Uselessness

by Eduardo Lalo

  I had to cut short my study hours to go see Marie in the middle of the afternoon. The hospital was far away, outside of the Paris municipal jurisdiction, in one of the peripheral suburbs. I got off at the last station of the metro line and entered through imposing doors. One had to walk a long ways to the hospital pavilions. After asking at several counters, I located her room. I was seeing her for the first time in several weeks and expected a dramatic change. When I came in, I found her sleeping. Her face was pale but amazingly peaceful. An intravenous line was connected to her right arm, and on her left hand and wrist was a bandage with a dark bloodstain.

  I couldn’t stand the atmosphere. For the first time, the seriousness of the act she had committed was clearly evident. I fled to the inner courtyards seeking air and found steps to sit on, beside a pillar in the shape of a lion. The day was cold and cloudy, matching my mood. I thought how it was like so many days in Paris. Here death was dark and clammy, very different from the way it was under the sun of the tropics. I went to a lounge with dark, stained walls to get a big cup of café au lait. I smoked slowly, having to light the cigarettes I rolled again. The dirt on the walls, the voices of the nurses, the melancholy, the linear coldness of the garden, Marie’s deceptively peaceful face, her calm and breathing body, the body she had wanted to deprive of life—all seemed unreal to me. I spent some hours there, sipping a coffee that had arrived lukewarm and had been ice cold for a while. I couldn’t make sense out of what was happening. I was simply there, witnessing events that went beyond me.

  When I got back to the room, she was awake. They had brought her a tray of food; it was on a table next to the bed. Upon seeing me, she turned her eyes away ever so slightly, conveying more desolation than she could have with any other gesture. I sat in the only chair and realized I hadn’t brought her anything—not flowers or fruit or even a book. Empty-handed, I didn’t know what to say, how to take in that look that was lost somewhere on some point in the wall.

  I went to speak, but Marie lifted a finger and put it in front of her lips. Down her cheeks rolled two tears.

  The rest of the afternoon was horrendous. Marie’s mother arrived after a while with huge bouquets of flowers, complaining that she couldn’t open the window adequately to air out the room. She began to dash to and fro in her usual overbearing way without taking into account that the room was so silent that you could hear a pin drop. She gave me a significantly slow greeting, with a short and intense look that indicated that afterwards we needed to talk. We had never liked each other. She had very clear ideas about what her daughter should be and do. In New York she would arrange dinners where there were always a couple of eligible Frenchmen among the guests to serve as bait. Her insidious violation of all personal boundaries had failed, and the only thing she accomplished was to make Marie suffer. When push came to shove, her mother and I had managed to put up with each other, but I knew that if she’d been able to, she would have eliminated me from the scene long ago.

  I witnessed her overwhelming chatter, which never managed to include Marie beyond a monosyllable and a few furious nos. She insisted on pretending that everything was perfectly fine, and that her daughter, instead of trying to kill herself, had twisted her ankle. I looked at my watch, calculating how much longer the torture would continue and wondering where Sandrine was.

  It was a relief to see her in the doorway. She was bringing another bouquet of flowers. Marie’s mother greeted her with an effusiveness that felt false. Her social poise consisted of this: she could seduce with a smile and good manners, keeping to herself, for later, the judgments she would act upon. After a few minutes, Sandrine gave me a look behind the mother’s back, invoking my complicity. The grand lady couldn’t hide her discomfort. In her world people didn’t commit suicide, period. There was a certain pleasure in imagining the versions of the facts she would invent on both sides of the Atlantic.

  Finally, when loudspeakers announced the end of visiting hours, we could look forward to a change of scene. Even then, Marie’s mother detained us at the door for a few more minutes, insistent upon arranging the improvised flower vases, asking her daughter about minute details, and going over to cover her and giving the room a once-over as if it were a dining room before the arrival of guests. Outside, Sandrine offered me a cigarette so I wouldn’t have to roll one in front of the mother, who I am sure would have added this habit to the long list of my defects.

  A taxi took us back to the city. Her mother had made a reservation in a restaurant on a street near the arcades of Rue de Rivoli. The moment we arrived I realized I was not dressed appropriately. My budget did not allow for visits to this kind of establishment. And besides, I didn’t feel comfortable with the subservient pomp and ceremony of the waiters, which mimicked in its fashion the practices of the ancien régime. The immense menu had, inside its leather covers, paper with an intricate and elegant typographical design. I ordered one of the few dishes I recognized, filet of cod, which came covered with a thick sauce and a salad that was supposed to be delicious. The mother, whose husband shared her tendency toward conspicuous consumption, did not even suggest the house wine.

  It took time to get to the point. Sandrine and I listlessly answered questions about our work or studies, recent vacations, family, or the future. We saw how she let the dinner drag on, peering over our heads at the other diners and playing with the crust of the bread. We had to wait, according to her elegant protocol, for the arrival of the desserts in order to mention Marie.

  She began by saying that we had to understand the worries of a mother. What had happened could not be taken lightly, and she was ready to exercise her natural right. Marie had not explained anything concrete, had not offered any cause, and therefore, her mother had to resort to us as sources. If this didn’t work, she would have no other choice but to go to the authorities in order to initiate an investigation. Like an imperial ambassador, she was delivering her ultimatum. Either we collaborated with her, violating all loyalty to Marie, or we would have to face the police.

  I attempted one last strategy I thought might work.

  “We cannot know, madame, what you yourself do not know either.”

  “But what is this? You’re my daughter’s boyfriend. You doubtlessly must have seen some sign, some display of fragility.” She always addressed me formally as vous to make it amply clear that I didn’t belong in her circle.

  “Not anymore. We broke up months ago.”

  “You don’t say?” She received the news with equal doses of suspicion and satisfaction.

  “Well, this must have something to do with it. Tell me, what was the nature of the breakup?”

  “I wasn’t the one who wanted to break up. It was Marie.”

  “Ah, bon. How’s that for news? My daughter never tells me anything.”

  “That’s the truth,” Sandrine intervened. “During the crisis, he spent several weeks in my house.”

  “What happened then? What was the crisis?”

  “A breakup is always painful,” said Sandrine. “I know that Marie loved him and was sad, a bit depressed then, but it wasn’t anything unreasonable or unnatural. After all, she wanted to end the relationship. She wanted to spend some time alone.”

  “I don’t understand,” said her mother. “Why did they separate?”

  “I don’t totally understand it either,” I said. “As I’ve said, I’m not the one who wanted to part.”

  “But really, tell me, why does someone take a kitchen knife and cut her wrist? You can’t imagine how her voice sounded on the phone, the horror I lived, how helpless I felt being so far away. What you’re saying doesn’t explain anything. Either you’re idiots or you are lousy friends.”

  “Madame, we cannot be responsible for Marie’s actions. Even though I didn’t want to stop seeing her, I accepted what she wanted, went to live at Sandrine and Eve’s house, and then got my own apartment. Obviously I didn’t see much of your daughter after that time, and when I did, it wasn’t in the same way a
s before, for reasons you can easily understand.”

  “What you’re saying is that you abandoned her.”

  “Madame, for God’s sake, that’s ridiculous.”

  “One is loyal to one’s friends, forever.”

  “And so I’ve been, but Marie wouldn’t have accepted such supervision. I was her partner, not her father.”

  The sorbets had melted. Silently we ate spoonfuls of the delicious, sugary liquid. She offered no coffee or herbal tea but rather signaled the waiter to bring the bill. Marie’s mother didn’t want us to accompany her to the hotel. She hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address less than two minutes away. She said good-bye, shook my hand (I was no longer anything to Marie; she didn’t have to continue pretending to be affectionate), and kissed Sandrine, bending her torso forward to separate her body as much as possible from hers.

  We walked as far as Châtelet, relaxed in each other’s company after so many uncomfortable hours. We sat in one of the cafés in the plaza. Warm weather already allowed for the permanent installation of tables on the sidewalk. The visit to Marie followed by that awful dinner with the mother had left us exhausted, no energy left even to talk about it. We sipped our beers observing the tourists who had begun to invade the city in droves. From time to time we exchanged a comment, something ironic about the mother, which made us smile. We mentioned Marie only a few times, conscious of the fact that we shouldn’t say anything further for the moment, that neither of us really wanted to reveal what we were thinking.

  We assumed the mother’s threat would not be carried out. Marie was more of a concern. Now, far away in the hospital room, she could be lying wide-eyed, reliving a sort of hellish rerun of her crisis. The bits of information we had were not enough to help us understand. My mind kept replaying our evening with the mother. I told Sandrine this, as she raised to her lips the glass of beer, without presuming she’d understand, without wanting to explain.

  A little later, dog tired, we walked to the taxi station. We agreed to meet at the hospital the next day.

  So began the drama that would last for weeks and that, in the end, would never really be resolved. Marie didn’t speak, didn’t eat, and even urinated and defecated in bed. Visits were unbearable. Her body lay, as if all the rest of her was absent, almost always on its side, facing the wall or the night table, with the room submerged in the nauseating smell of the bouquets the mother would bring every day. Sometimes, sitting in the chair, waiting for visiting hours to pass, I would realize that she was looking at me. This would make me shift my position. I didn’t know what to do except to take her hand, always lifeless. Later, I’d have the ten minutes walk to the metro, the long trip changing trains, dinner at any old café, and the uselessness of sitting as time passed in my room. Sometimes I tried to forget her with the radio, my books, or with the one or two letters I’d rarely carry to the post office.

  I had taken the last exam of that summer session, but I was not planning to return to my country. I wanted to spend the summer in the city and to save my family the cost of the trip. Independently of whether my presence would be helpful, I also reasoned that I shouldn’t leave Marie alone. Besides, ever since I had moved to the apartment on the Impasse de l’Astrolabe, the city had become my home. It was no longer an alien landscape.

  My birthday was coming up and I decided to organize a dinner at home. Sandrine, Simone, Eve, Sylvie, the religious pioneer who was Simone’s cousin, and Hamed, her Moroccan boyfriend, told me they would come.

  On the afternoon of the day of the celebration, I went by the hospital a little earlier than usual. Nothing had changed. It was the same silent routine. At the end of the hour I went over to her to say good-bye. When I was going toward the door, I heard a word that sounded like an explosion in that world of shadows.

  “Happy birthday.”

  I turned around so surprised that Marie couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “Yes, I still know how to speak. I also know what day it is, but don’t tell anyone.”

  I hugged her with emotion, with a joy I have seldom felt.

  “You’re better. You’re going to get well?”

  “We’ll see. Go now and have a nice day. Make sure to come back when Mom isn’t here and I promise you we’ll talk.”

  “You know I love you.”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  “Your voice has been the best gift.”

  “Thank you. Go now.”

  “Till tomorrow then.”

  “Yes, till tomorrow. Don’t go falling in love tonight.”

  It was like I was walking on air to the metro. Uplifted by her voice, I felt a bright burst of energy. That night, in a city where I had suffered so much, I enjoyed the luxury of happiness. At my party gifts were heaped upon me (Simone brought seven, they were playful silly things: a bag of marbles, four or five stamps, a packet of Gauloises without filters, a roll of North American toilet paper). The guests missed the last metro and took a taxi to spend the night at Sandrine and Eve’s place, since it could accommodate them. Before going to bed, I had a last glass of wine, enjoying the cool night air coming in the window, which I could finally leave open.

  The next day, I went to the hospital. In my pocket I had Neptune’s novel to lend to Marie. As I didn’t want to run into the mother, I decided to spend a little time in a café after I got out of the metro. The city was dressed in its summer best. Few things could compare with the pleasure of a European season when everything vibrates, bathed in a rich yellow light. After a half hour or so, with real anticipation, I entered the great doors and walked to the hospital pavilions. When I reached the corridor where Marie’s room was, I realized that one of the male nurses was looking at me strangely. I went to the door, knocked and entered. The bed was empty and her stuff had disappeared. On the floor were petals and leaves that had fallen as the room had been emptied.

  I went over to the counter of the nursing station to ask.

  “They transferred her this morning, monsieur.”

  “Where? To another hospital?”

  “We can’t tell you. You would have to speak to the doctor or the family.”

  “Where do they transfer cases like this? To which hospital in the city?”

  “I’ve told you that we are not allowed to give out that information. Besides, usually they are not transferred: they are usually discharged, or locked up.”

  “And was she locked up?”

  “I told you, she was transferred.”

  I went back to the café and looked up the telephone number of the hotel where her mother was staying. They told me she had left that morning. Then I took the metro to Invalides. There was no one at Sandrine’s apartment. I killed time in a park before going back and finding that she had not returned. Then the only thing I could think of doing was to walk over to the steps of the Seine, to the place where, months before, I had felt the weight of my misery. The season now made the area less lonely. A woman had set up her easel next to the wall and was painting river barges; a few couples were amusing themselves on the benches; an elderly couple was walking along the river’s edge. The afternoon was extraordinarily beautiful, but my delight in it had vanished. I smoked without pleasure, my mouth feeling irritated and dirty.

  I knew Marie’s mother wouldn’t have the decency to let me know what she had done with her daughter. She could always use the excuse that she had no way to call me. I was hoping that she might be more bighearted with Sandrine.

  When I returned to the apartment, Sandrine had just arrived. I told her what had happened and she was puzzled. She hadn’t heard anything either, but she did have, in her address book, the number of Marie’s aunt.

  She dialed immediately. Besides the usual microphone and receiver, French telephones have a little handpiece for a third party to listen in on the conversation without participating. I had always found this idiosyncratic form of espionage surprising. Armed for the first time with this prop, I listened in on the conversation.

  The aunt w
as following a script. Her cordiality and surprise were too cloying. She promised to find out what had happened and to call us as soon as possible. We waited almost two hours before dialing the number again. We listened to her evasions until Sandrine forced her to say more by pretending to be worried to death. The mother had managed to throw her weight around enough to have Marie declared mentally incompetent. At that moment, they were on their way to New York, where a room for Marie was reserved at a psychiatric hospital. She didn’t know which one, but she was sure it was the best. Her sister treated her daughter like a queen. She either didn’t know or couldn’t say anything more. She ended by insisting that Sandrine never let anyone know that this conversation had happened.

  “But madame, why didn’t she let us know?”

  “Well, there were more important things to do.”

  “At the very least, it’s not right.”

  “What can I say? My poor sister is going through hell.”

  “But we are Marie’s friends and we were always with her. We have a right to know, at least to be notified.”

  “I have nothing to do with this, but my sister must have her reasons. The two of you, though I understand your situation, are in no position to make demands.”

  She quickly said good-bye and hung up.

  Sandrine pushed the phone away, cursing at her. She suggested a few courses of action to me but knew we could do nothing. Marie had vanished. Someday, when she could escape her mother’s clutches, we would have news of her again. Now it was clear that we had lost her. It was all over now, no extenuating circumstances, no hopes. All this had actually happened quite a while ago, but the occasional contact with her, not to mention my pain, had kept me from accepting, digesting, or getting over it. I recognized once again the grip of loneliness, the void in which Marie (even the distant, crazy Marie) was leaving me. I dined joylessly with Sandrine. Then I walked home feeling certain that for the first time I was truly alone.