Underground Time

by Delphine de Vigan

  For the moment, she doesn’t move. She can’t move. Her body has abandoned her for a few seconds, become disconnected.

  When Patricia Lethu came into the office, Mathilde handed her the letter without saying anything. The HR director opened the envelope and looked stunned. Mathilde asked her to sign where it said ‘receipt acknowledged by’.

  During Patricia Lethu’s silence, Mathilde thought that compassion only occurs when you see yourself in the other’s shoes, when you realise that everything that is happening to someone else could happen to you, exactly the same, with the same violence and brutality.

  In this awareness that you’re not protected, that you too could sink so low – and only there – compassion can arise. Compassion is nothing but a fear on your own behalf.

  After a few moments, Patricia Lethu signed where Mathilde had indicated.

  ‘If tomorrow or in the future you want to go back on this decision, I will consider that I have never had this letter in my hands.’

  ‘But you have had it and you’ve just signed it.’

  ‘But you’re exhausted, Mathilde. You need to rest. We’ll find a solution. I’ll speak to him. At least wait until I’ve talked to him.’

  ‘I need you to take this letter on board. To regard it as final and irrevocable.’

  ‘As you wish. But let’s talk again. You look very pale. I want you to take a taxi home. And call an emergency doctor. Make yourself stop for a few days, a week. You’re at the end of your tether.’

  ‘I’m taking the train.’

  ‘Take a taxi and charge it. You’re in no fit state to go home on public transport.’

  ‘I’m going to take the train.’

  ‘OK. But promise me you’ll call a doctor as soon as you get home. Mathilde, you need to stop. Promise me. You’re not going to be able to keep going.’

  ‘I’ll call a doctor.’

  The two of them stayed like that face to face in silence. Mathilde didn’t have the strength to get up, she needed to wait till her body adjusted, till it found support. The offices were half-empty, the noise around them had faded.

  After a few minutes Mathilde asked: ‘Are we responsible for what happens to us? Do we always get what we deserve?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you think a person becomes a victim of something like this because she’s weak, because that’s what she wants, because, even if this seems incomprehensible, she has chosen it? Do you believe that certain people, without knowing it, mark themselves out as targets?’

  Patricia Lethu pondered for a moment before answering.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I think it’s your capacity to resist that marks you out as a target. I’ve been in this business for thirty years, Mathilde, and this isn’t the first time I’ve encountered this sort of situation. You’re not responsible for what’s happening to you.’

  ‘I’m going home.’

  Patricia Lethu gets up. Her bracelets clinking together sound like little bells.

  As she goes to the door, she repeats: ‘Call a doctor.’

  He drove onto the Tolbiac bridge. Halfway across, stopped by a red light, he turned to look at the river, at the metallic colour of the water sparkling in the pale light. The geometry of the other bridges shaded off into the distance, a sequence of long or rounded shapes, light and pure, as far as the eye could see.

  There were moments like this, when the city took his breath away. When the city gave, asking nothing in return.

  A few minutes later, on the quai François Mauriac, he passed the brand-new building where he had his next appointment. The address belonged to an international consultancy firm. Unless he used the company car park, he had no chance of finding anywhere to leave the car. He drove round the block as a matter of principle and then went down into the tunnel that led to the first underground level. He explained to the attendant that he was a doctor and had an appointment. The man refused to raise the barrier. No one had informed him. Only visitors he’d been told about with a pre-booked parking place had access to the car park. Thibault explained the situation again. He wouldn’t be long, there was nowhere else to park within half a mile. He made a point of breathing after each sentence so as not to lose his temper. The attendant shook his head.

  That was when Thibault wanted to get out of his car and drag him out of his box by his collar and press the button himself. Suddenly he could visualise himself doing exactly that: hurling the man on to the middle of the concrete ramp.

  He closed his eyes for just a second. He didn’t move.

  He turned off his engine and demanded that the man call his patient, who as it turned out was one of the company directors.

  Ten minutes later – by which time there were several cars stuck behind him – the man finally opened the barrier.

  Thibault gave his name at reception. The receptionist asked him to fill in a visitor form and to be so kind as to leave his identity card.

  As she was very pretty, he didn’t get annoyed.

  As he noticed that she was very pretty, he told himself that he wasn’t dead yet.

  While the young woman was letting Mr M. know that his visitor had arrived – exactly as though Thibault was some tradesman – he turned his phone to silent. With a polite smile, the receptionist handed him a badge with his name on it.

  A man in a dark suit was waiting for him in a vast office full of designer furniture that looked as though it had just been unpacked. The man, who had a pallid complexion and dark-shadowed eyes, came over to shake his hand.

  Thibault reflected that some men of his age looked worse than him. That was reassuring.

  ‘Hello, doctor. Do sit down.’

  The man indicated a black leather armchair. Thibault remained standing.

  ‘I’ve had a very painful throat infection since yesterday. I need antibiotics. I respond well to Amoxicillin, or Zithromax if you prefer.’

  Every week he sees overworked managers who have emergency doctors come to their offices so as not to waste a minute. It’s one of the ways in which his job has changed, along with the ever-increasing rise in stress-related conditions: lumbago, neck pain, intestinal and gastric trouble and other musculoskeletal problems. He knows these people by heart – the over-performers, the high-flyers, the competitive ones. The ones who never stop. He also knows the opposite, the flipside of the coin, the moment when things slide, when one knee goes down, the moment when something creeps in which they hadn’t foreseen, when something kicks off that they can’t control, the moment when they go over to the other side. He sees these ones every week too – the men and women who are exhausted, dependent on sleeping pills, like blown bulbs or drained batteries. Men and women who call on a Monday morning because they can’t take any more.

  He knows how weak and fragile the border between the two states is, and that a person can crumble more quickly than they would believe.

  He’s happy to be flexible. Make an effort.

  He’s happy to spend ten minutes negotiating with a stubborn parking attendant in order to get into a car park and ten minutes more waiting for a plastic badge that he won’t wear to be printed.

  But he cannot bear people who want to tell him what to prescribe.

  ‘If you’ll allow me, I’d like to listen to your chest.’

  The man can’t suppress a sigh.

  ‘Listen, doctor, I’ve had a fair number of throat infections and my next meeting starts in four minutes.’

  Thibault forces himself to stay calm. But his voice, he realises, betrays his irritation.

  ‘Sir, most throat infections are viral in origin. Antibiotics are useless. As I’m sure you know, misusing antibiotics increases resistance, which poses a serious health risk both to individuals and the general public.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a damn. I need to be better in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘You won’t get better any quicker with an inappropriate treatment.’

  He couldn’t stop himself raising his voice.
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br />   The last time he refused to prescribe antibiotics, the guy threw his case out the window.

  Thibault looks around: here, thanks to the air conditioning, the windows don’t open.

  Why does he dislike this man so much? Why does this man make him want to get the better of him, to have the last word? Why does he want to see this man give in?

  This is what he has sunk to, at 6 p.m.: an excess of testosterone, all puffed up like a little cockerel.

  He’d like to go home and lie down.

  The man is standing in front of him, challenging him.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Thirty-four euros.’

  ‘That’s a lot for a three-minute consultation and no prescription.’

  ‘Listen, sir, I won’t write a prescription without listening to your chest.’

  Mr M. isn’t used to giving in. He folds the cheque and drops it on the carpet at Thibault’s feet.

  Without taking his eyes off him, Thibault bends down and picks it up.

  As he goes to the lift, he thinks: I hope he croaks in his office.

  She looked up the emergency doctor’s number on the Internet. She told herself that she would call before she left and get a doctor to make a house call after 7 p.m.

  She dialled the number. Just as the operator answered, Éric went past her door. Mathilde was afraid he’d hear her conversation from the toilets. She hung up.

  She waited a bit. Just as she redialled the number, her mobile rang. She hung up again and picked up the other phone. She was tired. An operator from Bouygues Telecom wanted to know why she had changed service provider a year ago. She could no longer remember. The operator wanted to know when her contract with her new service provider ended and in what circumstances she’d consider returning to Bouygues Telecom. Just as the operator was getting ready to run through various offers so that she could choose the one that appealed the most, Mathilde began to cry.

  Émilie Dupont read out response number 12 as fast as she could: Bouygues Telecom thanked Mathilde for her kind attention and would call back at a more suitable time to suggest some new offers.

  It was raining when Mathilde left the building, a light rain made dirty by the nearby factories, a rain soiled by the world’s waste, she thought. The pavement seemed to give way beneath her, or else it was her legs which were folding under the weight of having given up. It was as though she were imperceptibly subsiding into the ground, as if her body no longer knew how to remain upright. At one moment she could see herself collapsing on the asphalt through a sort of short-circuit. And yet she didn’t.

  That song came back to her, the one she and Philippe loved so much. ‘On and on, the rain will fall, like tears from a star, on and on, the rain will say, how fragile we are, how fragile we are . . .’ She thought how she was a grey shape among millions of others, gliding over the tarmac. She thought how slow she was. Before, she would have practically run to the station, even on four-inch heels, hurrying to catch the VOVA at 6.40 p.m.

  The brasserie was closed. From outside she could see the smooth, empty counter and chairs on tables. She wondered if Bernard had maybe gone on holiday. Everything seemed so clean. She had seen him that very morning and again at lunchtime. Maybe he’d told her and she hadn’t been listening.

  At the same moment a man was coming towards her, he was getting off his scooter. He removed his helmet. He wanted to ask her for a drink or a coffee. He was persistent. He said: ‘Please. You’re wonderful!’

  Suddenly Mathilde wanted to cry. To cry again without holding back in front of this man so that he would realise that she wasn’t wonderful at all. Quite the reverse, she was nothing but rubbish, a faulty part rejected by the whole, a piece of residue. He kept on at her: ‘The way you look, your hair. I’d really love to ask you for a drink.’

  The man was handsome. He was smiling.

  She said, ‘I’m not in great shape at the moment,’ and he replied, ‘Well, there you are then! It would do you good, it’d take your mind off it.’

  She kept walking, with him following her. He ended up proffering his card and saying:

  ‘Call me. Some other time. When you feel like it. I’ve seen you around. I know you work nearby. Call me. You’ve got all my numbers.’

  She slipped the card into her pocket. She made an effort to smile. She left him there.

  He was holding his helmet in his hand, watching her go.

  Since Philippe’s death she’s met other men. A few. Perhaps you only love once. In love there are no refills. She read that sentence in a book once a long time ago and scarcely paused over it. A tiny resonance. But the phrase came back to her each time she broke up with a man she’d thought she loved. For ten years she’s had affairs in the margins of her life, just on the edge, without her children knowing. And ultimately she couldn’t care less about the affairs. Every time the question of sharing their furniture and their time has come up, of following the same path, she’s left. She can’t take it. Maybe it could only happen in the heedlessness of being a twenty-year-old: living together, in the same place, breathing the same air, sharing the same bed every day, the same bathroom. Yes, maybe that happens only once, and afterwards nothing like that is possible. You can’t start again.

  Mathilde gets to the station and looks up at the electronic display. She’s just missed the train. The next one’s been cancelled.

  Of all the lines in the Île-de-France, line D on the RER probably holds the record for technical failures, industrial action, mad passengers, gallons of urine, incomprehensible announcements and wrong information.

  She’s going to have to wait half an hour. Standing up.

  She goes up the stairs to platform B. The waiting room was demolished several months ago. On the ground you can still make out the footprint of where it once stood.

  SNCF has got rid of all closed shelters throughout the Île-de-France to stop the homeless using them. That’s what someone told her.

  A bit further down the platform a sort of giant toaster was installed at the beginning of the winter. Its red, burning elements gave out heat three feet all around. When it was cold, passengers gathered there, holding out their hands to warm them. On this spring evening, through some sort of strange conditioning, they are clustered around it even though it is turned off.

  Mathilde has just resigned. She is feeling neither regret nor relief. Perhaps a sensation of emptiness.

  Mathilde is standing by herself, watching people, the tiredness on their faces, that look of upset, the bitterness in their lips. The FOVA has been cancelled. They’re going to have to wait. It seems to her that she shares with them something which other people are unaware of. Nearly every evening side by side they wait for trains with absurd names in this giant rush of air. And yet this doesn’t bring them together, doesn’t create any link.

  Mathilde takes out the card which the man gave her a short while ago. His name is Sylvain Bourdin. He’s in sales and marketing. He works for a company called Pest Control. Under the logo, in italic letters, the company mission is spelled out: ‘The eradication of pests, bed bugs, lice, cockroaches, mice, rats, pigeons. Insect extermination. Disinfection.’

  Mathilde feels laughter in her stomach, like a wave. But it stops at once. If she weren’t so tired she would laugh heartily, uproariously. The man on the twentieth of May is a professional exterminator who gets rid of undesirables.

  She didn’t recognise him. She went past him. She refused to go for a drink. She didn’t stop.

  It’s not that simple. Every time he gets into his car, Lila’s perfume turns his stomach. Even though he’s left the windows half open since this morning. When he leans over to the passenger side, the perfume is even stronger, it’s ingrained.

  He’ll get the inside of the car cleaned. Next weekend.

  He remembers that night when he went over to Lila’s place very late. She’d called him around midnight and asked him to come, right away. He was hardly through the door when she started undressing hi
m. They made love without speaking. And then they lay down on the bed side by side. In the darkness the whiteness of her body seemed phosphorescent. Lila’s breathing had grown calmer little by little. He thought she was asleep. Once again he felt dispossessed, dispersed. Alone.

  And then by some strange instinct in the silence he touched her face. Her face was wet with tears. He held her hand on top of the sheet.

  He didn’t know how to love her. He didn’t know how to make her laugh, to make her happy.

  He loved her with his doubts, his despair, he loved her from the darkest part of himself, the heart of his fault lines, in the throbbing of his own wounds.

  He loved her with the fear of losing her, all the time.

  The message from the base mentioned a thirty-two-year-old woman with mild neurological symptoms. The appointment was classified as moderately urgent.

  Thibault wasn’t sure where the street was. He got his map out of the glove compartment. It was 6.35. With a bit of luck, this would be his last appointment. It took him nearly twenty-five minutes to get there. In front of the building, a delivery space had just been vacated as he arrived.

  He took the lift and walked along an endless corridor with rendered walls. He looked for the right number among the ten or so doors on that floor. He rang the bell.

  The young woman is sitting in front of him. He notices her long legs, the strange lopsided way she has of sitting on her chair, her freckles and the few strands which have escaped from her pinned-up hair. She possesses an unusual beauty which moves him.

  She told him the story. From the beginning.

  A few days earlier, when she was working on the computer, her hand suddenly stopped working. Her hand was on the mouse and she could no longer hold or move it. And then it went back to normal. Later that evening, again while she was working, a black veil obscured her vision. For a few seconds she couldn’t see anything. She wasn’t too worried. She put it down to tiredness. Two days later she missed her step on the stairs, exactly as though her body were disconnected from her brain for a split second.