Still With Me

by Thierry Cohen

  Jeremy didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the windows of the house. Did Victoria still live there? She’d probably moved to get away from all the places that reminded her of her painful past. Jeremy walked to the front door and checked the name on the mailbox. Victoria’s parents’ names weren’t there anymore.

  He went to his mother’s apartment, hoping to see her. She must have been seventy-nine years old, and age and the trials of living would surely have taken their toll. He walked all the way to Faubourg-du-Temple Street and stopped in front of the building. Traces of his happiness were everywhere: on the front of the building, on the sidewalk, the benches, and the doorway. He moved toward the walkway and noticed sadly that they’d made renovations. The wooden mailboxes, where children had carved their names long ago, had been replaced by aluminum lockers; the old tile with marble slabs.

  Jeremy scrolled through the names on the intercom. His mother’s wasn’t there. He tried to calm his fears by thinking of her letter. Four years ago she had been alive. But the past four years didn’t have the same meaning to an amnesiac and an elderly woman.

  Lost in a story in which he had no role to play, Jeremy wanted to be alone with his pain. He noticed a small hotel up the street. The kind of place you would only enter out of necessity.

  The room he checked into was filthy. Dirt smears marred the peeling paint. Pale light filtered in through sticky curtains. But Jeremy barely noticed the grim decor. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

  An hour must’ve gone by when Jeremy heard a knock at the door. He didn’t react. He wasn’t expecting anyone—didn’t exist for anyone.

  He heard a few more knocks, as whoever it was tried again. Then the knob turned. Jeremy saw the door open slowly and made out a shadow and then a face. A man looked over at him. He hesitated for a few seconds on the doorstep and then moved into the light of the room. Then, despite all the forgotten years, Jeremy recognized the person staring down at him. It was Simon.

  Jeremy sat on the bed facing him. They weren’t speaking. On the hard, unforgiving face of his son, Jeremy could see traces of the child he’d barely known. He had a hard beauty. His features were perfectly even. Jeremy was both joyful and disappointed. He didn’t expect Simon to run into his arms, but even so, his icy coldness wounded Jeremy.

  Simon spoke. “I came to ask you a question, sir,” he said firmly.

  The formal tone hurt Jeremy. It expressed the conflict that had made them enemies and pulled them apart to the point where they were no more than strangers.

  Jeremy knew what Simon had come to ask. He sighed to demonstrate his helplessness. “I can’t give you an answer.”

  Simon clenched his jaw.

  “You came to ask me why I did what I did to your mother…and to you,” Jeremy continued. “You want to know what I’m going to do next. But I don’t know any of it.”

  “You don’t know?” Simon repeated angrily. “That tells me something already.”

  “No. I don’t know anything about it because I can only guarantee my feelings and actions for today. Tomorrow, I’ll be another man. A man I only know by his cruelty and who I can’t control.”

  Simon rushed his father and grabbed him by the collar. “Listen to me,” he said, shaking him to stress the importance of his words. “The prison administration warned us about your release, and for weeks my mother has been terrorized. She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t eat. I’ve been following you since you got out. I saw you go to my grandmother’s house. I don’t know what you’re up to, what you’re looking for, but know one thing: if you come close to my mother, if you have any intention to hurt her, I promise you I won’t hesitate to…to make you regret it. My mother has suffered enough. I don’t want her to die from fear or grief like my grandparents. I won’t let you destroy her. I swear to you.”

  Simon relaxed his hold and threw Jeremy onto the bed roughly. His face reclaimed its dry beauty and symmetry. He walked toward the door.

  “Wait!” Jeremy shouted.

  The tone of his voice surprised Simon.

  “What did you say? My mother is…Mom is…”

  Simon looked confused but kept his guard up. “You already know that. She died two years go. And it was your fault. She died of grief. She’d lost her husband after losing her son. She let herself die. She didn’t eat. Our love wasn’t enough. She wanted yours.”

  Jeremy slid to the floor. He felt a terrible pain burning in his chest, and each heartbeat pushed the liquid lava deeper into the remote folds of his consciousness, the infinitely small muscles of his body. He was a searing flame. He would burn himself out, be reduced to ashes, mixing with the dust in the room that muffled his tears and rasping sobs.

  Jeremy cried for a while, and then, when he felt empty, he sat up and leaned against the wall. “I didn’t want any of it, Simon,” he moaned. “I wanted a normal life with your mother. My life could’ve been so wonderful…if I hadn’t gone crazy. If there wasn’t this monster in me ready to sacrifice everything and everyone to his own pleasure. I don’t know what you’ve suffered, Simon. All I know is that I’m never myself. Only a few clear days here and there let me glimpse the damage I’ve caused.”

  “On your birthday?” Simon asked calmly.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mom told me.”

  “So she believed me.”

  “Yes…I mean…She always said she couldn’t trust you because you always lied. But when you gave yourself up to the police for those drugs, she was pretty stunned. Just like when you sent the letter about…Pierre’s wife. Then the warning about that guy, Vladimir. She told me all that, and I wanted to believe.” Simon spoke each word slowly.

  “I thought about the day you took me to the hospital. You seemed different that day. You weren’t the man Thomas and I knew. Of course, the next day, Thomas started hating you again; me, I started forgetting you.”

  “I didn’t want any of it, Simon,” Jeremy repeated.

  Silence fell. Then Simon spoke again.

  “If I admit…” He paused to consider his words. “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. You hate me, don’t you?”

  “I can’t make a distinction between the person you are today, the one you were yesterday, and the one you’ll be tomorrow. It’s too difficult. Anyway, it wouldn’t do any good.”

  “I understand,” Jeremy said. He got up and stood face-to-face with his son. “Take care of your mother. I’m going to get the scum that I am as far away from here as possible.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll find a way. Believe me. It’s better to forget the things we can’t control.”

  For the first time, Simon lowered his eyes.

  Jeremy wanted to take him in his arms and hold him, as much to reassure Simon as to feel, through contact with his son, a little of the affection he so badly needed. “I know what you want me to say. Don’t worry. Go on now.”

  Simon was about to leave when Jeremy added one last thing. His voice was almost broken. “Simon, I have to ask…Victoria…your mother…did she start over?”

  Simon gave him a wan smile. “It’s better to ignore the things you can’t control.”

  The evening stretched out before him. Jeremy was eager for it to be over so he could leave this world of pain. He had a good hour in front of him to come up with a plan that would help him keep his promise. Commit a new crime and go back to jail immediately? That solution was quick and easy. An attempted burglary would suffice.

  More than anything, Jeremy thought of Simon. He admired his courage. And he was satisfied knowing he had shaken his son’s hatred for him just a little. He thought of Victoria as well. She knew he existed too from time to time—the Jeremy who loved her. She was right to flee. But every year on his birthday, she must’ve thought of him.

  Suddenly, he heard the doorknob turn. Simon was coming back! Jeremy and his son were going to talk things through, try to understand each othe
r, take advantage of these few moments of clarity. For the first time that day, Jeremy had a reason to smile.

  The door opened, and three men stormed in, their weapons drawn. The burliest one spoke first. “Don’t move, you son of a bitch. Don’t even twitch or I’ll finish you.”

  His fierce canine looks made him terrifying. His torso was stacked on top of two large, powerful thighs, and his enormous head, shaved and dotted with small, cruel eyes, seemed to sprout directly out of his shoulders. Next to him stood a tall blond man with a long, gaunt face. He looked like Curly, one of the Three Stooges. The third man was smaller. He had short brown hair with thick eyebrows hanging over two big black eyes and thick lips that made his mouth look almost feminine. Calmer than his companions, it was enough for him to stare silently at Jeremy.

  Curly and the Dog stood on either side of the bed, gun barrels pointed at Jeremy. The short brown-haired man put his weapon away and sat on the table.

  “You see, Delègue, we found you,” he said quietly. “We took our time. Did you think we would just forget?”

  Jeremy quickly realized who the men were, but he wasn’t afraid. This part of his life didn’t concern him at all. He even had to smile; the solution he was looking for may have spontaneously arrived.

  “Nothing to say, Delègue?” Stako asked threateningly.

  What could he say? These men didn’t belong to his meager reality. They had shown up on the wrong day.

  “You better start talking. Tell me everything. From the very beginning.”

  Jeremy remained mute. No explanation would satisfy this man.

  “Okay, then, I’ll talk for you. First let’s talk about how you betrayed me, when was it? A few years ago now. So, tell me why you handed our coke over to the cops. What were you aiming at? Trying to get that little jerk wad, Marco? We took care of him. Nobody plays games with our merchandise. But you know what? I don’t think that was it. You would’ve found some other way. You’re so fucking smart. They tell me in lockup you even got the officers and a few important inmates on your side. So…why?” He looked at Jeremy and waited for an answer.

  “So then,” he continued, “you cook up a plan to kill my brother. Vladimir was going to do it. But a day or two before, you screw your friend over. Me, I don’t get it. You did thirteen years courtesy of the state. Now you’re all alone, no one to help you, pockets empty…No really, I don’t get it. And I hate not getting it. You’re going to have to explain.”

  Jeremy said nothing. He even felt compassion for this man who must’ve wasted hours on developing unlikely hypotheses. The Dog smacked him with the barrel of his gun. The impact stunned him for a moment.

  “So, Delègue?” This time it was Curly who clubbed him on the cheek with the butt of his gun. Jeremy felt a warm liquid flow in his mouth.

  Yet he felt no fear and no anger. This violence was meant for his double.

  Another blow to the head knocked him out. When he woke up, the three men were talking. Curly nodded toward Stako, who turned to face Jeremy. “Oh, here we go. Are you up? Good morning! Let’s pick up where we left off.”

  He slapped Jeremy with record force. Jeremy thought he lost consciousness. But he also realized that the blows weren’t the only source of his suffering. He was about to fall into the chasm of time. He recognized each symptom. His body went limp, and his pain disappeared.

  Stako looked at him with a nasty smile. “You’re pretty hard, Delègue. No screams, no reaction at all…It’s in your interest to speak up, though. Because if I find out why you did all this—if I believe you did one for my brother by getting rid of Vladimir—then I’ll be lenient. If not, I’ll have to make an example of you to show that nobody, nobody, can challenge our family with impunity. That’s the way it works around here. I have to show that even after all these years, anyone who fucks us is going to get fucked.”

  He interrogated Jeremy with a look. After a few seconds he sighed, resigned, and gave a signal to his men. With incredible brutality, they fell upon Jeremy and beat him without restraint. Jeremy closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath.

  When the beating stopped, Stako leaned over him. “So, Delègue? I’ll give you one more chance to talk. You know, the more I see you resist, the more you win my respect, and the more I want to know the truth.”

  But already there were a few moments of delay between the movements of Stako’s thick lips and Jeremy’s hearing his words. He felt the chill invade him; his arms and legs grew stiff. He was going to vanish altogether from this gruesome, B-movie scene. Stako’s image faded. He heard the men’s voices flow together.

  Then, soon enough, he heard another, more familiar voice. The prayer had begun. He turned his head slowly and saw the old man. He was on the left side of the bed, bent over his book, rocking to the rhythm of his chant.

  Jeremy saw a shadow approach. He concentrated all his attention on this form, and so he wouldn’t pass out, tried to suck down a breath of air through the blood running in his throat. He could make out Stako’s silhouette a few feet from him and saw him aim the barrel of his gun. The old man increased the intensity of his prayer, emphasizing each word with a wave of his fist. The prayer he recited was finally right for the circumstances. Jeremy heard the blast and a flash of light blinded him.

  EIGHT

  “Mr. Delègue, wake up. It’s your big day.”

  Jeremy didn’t move. He stayed still, eyes closed, hoping to go back to sleep in an instant and accelerate the pace of these absurd fragments of his life.

  “Come on, Mr. Delègue. You’re so lazy. Okay, I’m going to start getting you ready,” the woman’s voice spoke again.

  Jeremy wondered what her words meant. He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a bed, completely nude. Leaning over him, a nurse moved a gloved hand over his legs. He tried to lift the sheets to hide his naked body, but his hands refused to move. And when he tried to protest, a garbled sound left his throat. He was powerless to make even the most minor movements. His body lay inert and as heavy as an old piece of wood.

  Terrified, he redoubled his efforts to move, but only his right arm shifted. Eyes bulging, he watched the nurse handle him like an object.

  “Oh, calm down, Mr. Delègue. I’m only washing you. So stop the fuss. And don’t bother looking at me like that. He’s a piece of work, this one. He can be calm and charming one minute, and then out of nowhere, you’d swear he wants to kill you.”

  Jeremy looked for whomever the nurse was talking to. On the other side of the room, he saw a nurse peacefully washing another old man.

  “There. You’re clean. I’m going to put your pajamas on and a housecoat. Maybe you’ll get a visit today.”

  Jeremy was horrified. This episode presented him with a new nightmare, more terrifying than any he’d experienced before.

  After she finished putting his clothes on, the nurse shaved his beard quickly and brushed his hair.

  “You’re looking good now, Mr. Delègue. I’ll show you.” She held a mirror up to his face.

  Jeremy automatically closed his eyes. What would he discover? Did he really have to face a reality that offered him nothing but cruelty? Curiosity, however, proved stronger than his own will, and he opened his eyes to face the surface of the glass. He regretted it immediately. An elderly man’s face looked back at him. An old geezer. Wrinkled skin, sunken features, hair almost completely gray. And on his forehead was a round, swollen scar.

  This vision was an absolute horror. It showed the years he’d lost but also his lack of future. What could he hope for now—impotent and nailed forever to this bed?

  Prisoner in his own body, Jeremy tried to calm himself and think. This outcome—didn’t it represent a total victory over the other Jeremy? He had won his duel. Now he’d have to deal with the consequences.

  The nurse leaned closer. “Okay, we’re going to eat now,” she announced, placing a bib around his neck.

  After eating, Jeremy was granted the privilege of a walk. Then at the end of lu
nch a nurse’s aide led him to the cafeteria. She brought him a cake with one lit candle on top.

  “Happy birthday, Mr. Delègue,” she sang, proud of his attention. “There wasn’t enough room for seventy candles, so I just put on one. Let’s pretend.”

  Jeremy registered this information with complete indifference. Seventy years old, he thought. He looked much older. He had made a twenty-two-year jump in his life. Twenty-two years without waking up. So what? He was close to death.

  The nurse got the attention of the other retirees in the room. “We’re going to sing for Mr. Delègue. Come on, everyone together.”

  All the people—old, lucid, lost, happy, sad, crippled, and paralyzed—started singing. Jeremy looked at them in horror. Life was mocking him. He wanted to ignore it, resolved to be indifferent until his death, but life kept harassing him, clever and cruel. He was a young man of twenty years imprisoned in the body of an old invalid. All around him absent faces, well-meaning or hallucinating, sang to him about the time that had passed. So he started to laugh, hysterical laughter, choked by a throat he couldn’t open. A mad laughter, a lunatic’s laughter he couldn’t explain.

  I’m among the living dead. Right where I belong. I don’t have a family anymore. I’m alone. How unhappy the one who destroyed my life must be! Stuck in a wheelchair, he eats with a tiny spoon and sings with madmen!

  Jeremy was calm. A nurse had led him to a patio, and the sun caressed his skin. He appreciated this moment of solitude in a gentle breeze. He wanted to die right then, soothed by this feeling of well-being. He closed his eyes, hoping to go to sleep and hasten his end.

  “Happy birthday,” came a voice that Jeremy recognized immediately. Simon was standing in front of him with a gift box in his hands.