Guys Like Me (4 page)

They're an old man's thoughts, Benjamin says. I know he's right. I've never told him that they've been lurking inside me ever since I was a child. Who else could I have told them to? I went to see a shrink not long after my divorce. It was because I'd heard so many bad things said about me … I'm joking, obviously. In fact, I just wanted to understand why, after I'd let things go for many years, after I'd accepted that life I was so ill-suited to, based on lies and convention. There are no second acts. But I still believe there are, from time to time. I wouldn't have the courage to go out this Saturday, the office had tired me out too much, I might do some shopping late in the afternoon. I'd pass guys like me, you also see us, younger ones, waiting at the ends of platforms, in large stations, at the beginning and end of the school vacations. What was the name of the guy I hit it off with, so to speak, the year Benjamin and his mother spent in the south, near Marseilles? She'd found a job with an open-ended contract and had decided to put as much distance as possible between her and me, and particularly between Benjamin and me, I think. That wasn't a good time for me.

I tried to distract myself, I might have a phone call or else what? I switched on the computer, checked the world news on the home page, then went on the dating website. I really should change my photo, I told myself. Years spent on that thing, it's not so easy to have a real date. You talk, you get excited, and the next day you're really not sure who it was. I looked at the new members. Some people subscribed to different sites, I wondered what the point of that was. You recognized their photos, even when they had different usernames. Of course, there was an enormous loneliness there, it was like a kind of ocean, the messages people sent each other hummed with it. These last few years, I'd met two or three women who were real culture vultures, and I'd run away after the sixth exhibition or the fifth museum. There had also been a woman I liked, ten years younger than me, but she'd taken off after three dates, and I couldn't blame her. She sent me a long recorded message two weeks later, the gist of which was that she was looking for somebody better than me, a younger guy who could be the father of her children. Three women I'd slept with, without hope or despair, just like that. I've often hurt myself thanks to the computer. I've probably hurt others too. But what else can you do? I chatted for an hour, thinking about Marc-André. He'd been braver than me, he'd been strong enough to start all over again from scratch. It hadn't been hard for him to decide when he met Aïcha. I closed the computer after an exhausting conversation about the musical tastes of a woman who told me how to download the pieces she liked. She had a really dumb username, Myosotis, she worked in the medical field. Goodbye, Myosotis. I wasn't likely to see her again with a handle like that. I still hadn't made up my mind to go out. I didn't get a phone call until six in the evening. I read for a while, and then, from my little balcony, I watched a few lights coming on down on the street three floors below. I saw people going out for a stroll because it had stopped raining and they were taking advantage, the time often passes for no reason.

Benjamin called me. I was pleased to hear from him. Twice in these last few years, we've had an argument and stopped seeing each other for six months: those were some of the hardest times in my life. He was doing OK. They were doing OK. Nothing new since the previous week. How about you, what have you been up to? I told him I was resting, oh, no, everything was fine. Nothing to worry about. We chatted some more. They were going to go on a long trip, he and Anaïs, they were thinking of the United States. How is Anaïs? Oh, she's fine. That was all he told me about her. One thing leading to another, we ended up talking about books, what was the name of that guy? That book where he says there are no second acts? Don't you remember? I sensed him thinking at the other end of the line, as if it was important to him not to disappoint me. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Oh, yes, that's it, F. Scott Fitzgerald, thanks. Why are you thinking about him? Benjamin asked. I don't know, I replied. It just came into my mind, no reason. Oh, right. He paused for a moment, then talked again about their plan, in two years' time they might drive along Route 66 with some friends of theirs, or else they'd rent a van, set off from San Antonio, take two weeks, go all the way up to the Great Lakes.

“How did you choose those particular places?”

He gave a low laugh. “I've just been looking at the map.”

He wasn't alone with me anymore.

“All right, say hello to her for me, Ben. Speak again?”

“Sure, during the week.”

“Bye, have a good Sunday.”

I put down the phone and sat on the couch. There are no second acts, you know. Did he want to know why? You're smoking a cigarette, do you love me? Yes, I love you, I wonder why he asked me that. Hey, are you listening to me? Yes. Of course I am. I'm listening to you, kiss me. One Saturday evening. When I was able to stop thinking, I closed the door of my apartment, I left the lights on in order not to come back in the dark later. It's totally dumb, but I've never liked it to be dark when I get home.

I walked to the river bank. There were quite a lot of people about, and outside the florist's on the boulevard the cars were double-parked, people were stopping to buy bouquets of flowers before going to see their friends. I almost never take my car now. I have an old Renault 5, but don't dare take long rides in it. I like buying flowers from time to time. A guy was waiting in a Citroën CX, smoking a cigarette and turning the dial of his car radio. Was it that pretty brunette he was waiting for? I'd felt better since my son had called me. In ordinary weather, I'd have turned around once I got to the river bank, but now I carried on walking, there was nobody waiting for me at home. Sometimes, you're so alone you think you're talking aloud even when you haven't said a word. I walked for at least an hour and then stopped for a drink. I didn't stay long in the café. This Saturday was one of those days when I hadn't really lived, I'd just basically bided my time. Waiting for what? Tomorrow? Outside, there was laughter, loud voices, reflections. The line outside the convenience store that was probably used by people who lived in the apartment block opposite, a little way back from the road that ran along the river bank. I could probably have gone to the movies as a way to face Saturday evening, but I didn't really feel up to it, not even something as reliable as the movies. I generally chose particular theaters rather than particular movies. I liked to go to the places we used to go, I mean the places where we used to meet as friends, all those years ago. I'd go to the Pasquier Saint Lazare and the Ciné Caumartin, the one where they used to show porn movies up until the early '80s … I was living too much in my old memories on Saturday evening. There are no second acts. But over the past few years, what have I still had left of all that time? I tried not to think too much. When you're alone it's hard not to think about all that. I left quickly, as soon as I finished my beer. Sunday. Sunday and then Monday.

I had to run to pick up the phone.

“It's Jean. Am I disturbing you?”

“No, I just got in. Is everything OK? Wait, let me close the door.”

I grabbed the receiver again.

“What's going on? Is anything wrong?”

He didn't answer at first. “No, everything's fine. I just wanted to thank you.”

His voice seemed to come from very close by, completely isolated from the world, if you can say that.

“Don't mention it. I was really pleased to see you.”

“Me too.”

Two strangers, sometimes, who compete at seeing who can be most attentive and polite, try to meet, and never say goodbye again. I should have stopped him once and for all. Of course, I knew: no second acts, I'd been thinking about that on the way back from the river bank, and I didn't like the idea. Yes, I was sure we could meet this week. Hadn't we already talked about that in the café? I had a few people in mind for his résumé. He seemed to be on the verge of telling me something. But in the end he was evasive, just as if he'd called me to reassure himself, to count me among those he could call for no reason. I didn't tell him about Marc-André. Just as abruptly as he'd called me, basically to say nothing, he said goodbye and I didn't even have time to reply. I switched on the computer. I went on the dating website, and then changed my mind, Myosotis, what a handle, really! I switched to Google and typed in F. Scott Fitzgerald. I'd loved his work when I was young, I think I'd read it in school. There are no second acts. He had a tendency to drink to excess, and he was jealous of Ernest Hemingway, they were two guys com-paring their bank accounts, their successes with women, and their masculinity. He was bad at spelling and he never gave up. He believed in happiness, he never spared himself. He died at the age of forty-seven. I printed out his biography. I was going to re-read his books. I ate an apple standing up in the kitchen, I took a couple of pills, I wasn't tired enough yet. Most of the lights in the windows opposite were off by the time I went to bed. It was two in the morning.

I have nothing to say about the following day. The sky was gray, with a little sun. I went to see the Seine, which is often my friend on Sunday mornings. It was gray and didn't seem angry with me. I went for a walk around the old places, I saw the little park where Benjamin took his first steps. Square Max de Nansouty, it's called. There were young parents and children with snotty noses. Smiles and black, green, blue eyes. I saw the windows of our old two-room apartment, and to my surprise I didn't feel anything. Was that my first act, that period? At least I no longer resented my ex-wife. Now she was only the mother of my son, she'd stopped being the woman who'd done everything to deprive me of him and to screw me out of everything she could get from me. I'd forgotten precisely what it was that had made the two of us so unhappy. Back to the park. I used to go jogging along the river bank. A cardiologist had advised it. I'd stopped that fall, I was pissed off at always being overtaken by people who were faster than me.

At home, I looked for someone to call, I didn't want to disturb Benjamin, I took a shower and wondered what to do. I looked at the computer, it was gathering dust on the low table. I caught myself hoping that one day, one day, it would finally be time for me to put it away in my desk, it would merely be an accessory in my life. I knew so many guys like me, who had met women like them and deluded themselves it was real. I thought about him, about our childhood. Was it because I'd been walking in the old places? His mother and he had left for Marseilles, I think it was for one year, they'd both changed. She was a concierge. Then, after high school, he'd left for Ham-burg, and I continued my studies at Paris University. One day, you can't go on, all you know is that time's passing, that life's too short, and that there are no second acts. In general it grabs hold of me very late at night, when I can't sleep and I don't have the courage to get up. I do my ironing if I have any. My shirts are often neat, my pants properly creased. When I'm older, in a few years, I'll have to find a few clubs to join, to keep myself occupied. I didn't want to spend Sundays alone any more. Then I thought about him. There were a few things on his résumé I found hard to understand. Any employer would probably feel the same.

I let the phone ring for a long time, he couldn't have been at home. I kept remembering without wanting to. While minding my own business, my mother used to say. Why did I remember that? I went out to buy bread, there was a line of people waiting to buy cakes for Sunday. I made myself some vegetable soup. I like it, and when I get back late from the office all I have to do is heat up a bowl of it. Finally, I called Myosotis, what a dumb handle she had. But she had a nice voice, I found, and she was funny too. What was I doing, playing cat and mouse? It's that username, I said, don't you have a real name?

“Marie, my name's Marie. Is that better for you?”

She had a kind of laugh behind her voice. We talked for a while. Had she had any dates? Yes, of course, but I surely wasn't calling her to ask her that? I hung up an hour later, I hadn't been aware of the time passing. I almost felt like calling her again and telling her that no guy like me could call Myosotis again, that was for sure. We'd see each other soon, of course, if you like. You know where to reach me. I found another book by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It wasn't the one with the second act, it was the story about the guy who's always asking if he can pull down the curtain. I told myself that one day I wouldn't be able to stand Sundays anymore.

2

T
HERE HE WAS, IN FRONT OF ME, IN MY OFFICE.
I'
D HAD A
call from the switchboard to announce him, by that time I'd forgotten all about him. He was sitting in the hallway behind the picture window, a guy quietly waiting for his appointment. I suddenly thought of him as an intruder, though I couldn't quite get used to seeing him in that light. His case between his legs, a picture of defeat. But in my head that day there was sunshine, and I was in a good mood. I showed him in without waiting. Then I closed the door behind us.

“Hi. I was in the area. I wanted to see where it was, to get an idea.”

“Come in, you did the right thing. Have you heard from Marc-André?”

I pointed to a seat. Often, in our lives without second acts, especially in the office, it seems to me that lots of guys like me imitate soap operas, but how to do otherwise? He put his black case down on his right, like earlier in the hallway. His eyes, still as blue and tired of looking.

“Yes, he sent me a note, and then he called to ask for my e-mail.”

He was looking around him with a curious, almost cheerful gaze. That he didn't feel this place was completely devoid of warmth made me want to smile. Plus, I was pleased with myself.

“By the way, look, I have this for you to do if you're interested.”

The translator my firm usually called was on maternity leave. It was a legal contract, forty pages long, nobody had the time to do it here. It wasn't very complicated, at least I didn't think it was.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, will it be OK? Is it up your alley? I have some documentation to help you. You can re-use a few things.”

He opened the folder like a guy opening a book telling him the main events still to come in his life. He nodded as he looked through the pages, as if he'd already guessed them.

“I know these things, it isn't the first time I've seen contracts like this.”

His fingers were long and white. He seemed pleased, but no more than that. Did I want to get rid of him now? You'd like to help, give them a chance, but really, when it comes down to it, you want them to go, as far from you as possible, and, in such cases, if they cross your path again, you barely have time to say hello, all bright and breezy, you promise to meet again soon, lunch, a drink, whatever.

Outside, there was only a little sunshine, I asked if it'd be all right. Yes, it'd be all right. When was it for? He told me he was sorry he'd just showed up like that, no, no, I was going to call you about this anyway. The office returned to the forefront as soon as I passed him the technical documentation for the previous contracts. He wouldn't actually have many new things to translate. So, when was it needed by? He stood up. We talked mainly about Marc-André and Aïcha, he knew her, he thought, from an office where she'd temped while finishing her psychology studies. It's a small world. Those were my glory days, he murmured. He made me smile, with his dumb expression. He put the file and the documentation away in his case. He'd emptied it since the last time in the café. He probably made it ready every day. He closed it as if an important secret was hidden in it, one that he was taking home with him. He held out his hand.

“Thank you. It was a good thing I dropped by.”

“Yes. That's true.”

I don't know why I had the impression at the time that I'd done something really stupid, for no reason. I walked downstairs with him, and watched him leave, he was in a hurry, his head bent as if there was too much wind. I smoked a cigarette. The week passed quickly.

I saw Benjamin on Tuesday evening, coming out of work. We had dinner together in a crêperie in Montparnasse, Anaïs was currently temping in the area. She finished at ten o'clock. These days, the hours I spend with my son, even the best ones, are limited. Actually, they have been since our separation. She herself was always late, which was why we often had arguments, but from the start she'd wait for Benjamin to come back with her eye on the clock. I'd receive registered letters about that, right from the start of the separation. One day, I wanted to tell my son, you know what I'd really like? I'd like us to spend a week together, with Anaïs if she's OK with it, and we could go anywhere we liked, we wouldn't have a set time and we wouldn't be waiting for anything in particular. We wouldn't be stressed by you having to pack your bag, like when you were a child and you had to go and we'd realize at the last minute you'd forgotten things. Do you remember? Anaïs came out of the offices in the tower, we chatted for five minutes. It was too late to go to the movies, and besides she was hungry. We'll talk on the phone. Yes,
ciao
.

I'd stopped thinking about Jean. Marc-André had called him to clarify a few points. He had a new e-mail address, he went to check his mail in an internet café in Colombes, not far from the station. By the way, was I free on Friday? Yes, I was free. Of course I was free. He told me he might have some good news for him, but it wasn't really certain. Should we invite him on Friday too, then the three of us would be together? Yes, why not? Friday arrived without mishap. He'd called me at the office, but I had an outside meeting, I think, visiting clients. Marie didn't go online every evening, I wondered if she was sulking, but because of what? I even wandered onto the other sites, where could you find love after the age of fifty? Nothing in the newspaper. Nothing on the cork noticeboard at work either, nothing anywhere. I burned the songs she'd sent me and listened to them in my room in the evening. Cesaria Evora. They were really beautiful. A woman who lived near Place Clichy was haunting my dreams. Well, why not? I read F. Scott Fitzgerald, around ten at night, when I wasn't too tired. A few pages. Do you mind if I pull down the curtain? I didn't worry all that much, behind my open shutters, they were never closed. I was feeling quite good that week. I thought about Marie, which just goes to show. The weather was gradually improving. I even slept all night and woke up with an erection in the morning. What woman could I have been dreaming about? When I was a teenager, I thought I'd be able to talk about these things, but when it came down to it, they were always going to be there, floating in front of me, and I'd never be able to grab hold of them, never be able to escape them. A whole lifetime.

I made some phone calls on Friday afternoon. I'm well known in the business, but most of the guys I contacted were surprised I was calling them, especially on a Friday. Yes, they were already in the loop. Marco had called them. Or he'd called them himself, and with some of them their voices turned a bit too grim when they told me that, and what about you, how are you?

“I'm fine, thanks anyway, how about you?”

“I'm fine too, a few ups and downs, especially downs, anyway, mustn't exaggerate, it goes in cycles.”

We'd see each other soon enough. The trade fair is held at the Porte de Versailles at the beginning of June. I hate going to it but it's part of my responsibilities. That's where we all see each other, most of us anyway, every year there are fewer of us. Sometimes we look for someone and they've stopped coming, and each of these disappearances, real or supposed, prepares us in a way. I'd thought about that when I saw him that first time. Where had he drifted in from, to be on Rue d'Amsterdam with a long face like that? Then I called Benjamin, who was leaving for the weekend with Anaïs. He'd repaired his scooter all by himself, like a grown-up. He'd always surprised me like that, I'm barely able to do anything with my hands. Then, on Friday evening, I too left home, the way I used to do sometimes, a few years ago, when I'd go spend the weekend in a country hotel. I met quite a few guys and we'd exchange addresses, but the people you meet there aren't really all that eager to follow through. Most of them are there having illicit weekends with female work colleagues, or else they're trying desperately to live the kind of life they've never really known, or loved. And then, on Sunday evening, they drive back along the A6. The wind-shield wipers don't wipe out anything, and when they get back home they don't recognize anything, in fact they've never recognized anything. They end up telling themselves their best years are behind them, and sometimes they envy those who have the strength to pull down the curtain completely, like in the book I'd just finished.

“I'm going to take a shower, I'm exhausted.”

“Yes, you look it.”

I'd read him four times, I think. As a teenager, then in my first tiny studio apartment, then soon after my divorce, and now. I wouldn't have so many opportunities to read him again in this life. I deleted my profile, and then started to regret it. I hadn't made love in two years. The last time I'd paid a prostitute, a woman who wasn't very young anymore but wasn't ugly, she'd held me in her arms. Is that all, wouldn't you like me to give you a blowjob? No, thanks, no, no, it's all right. She didn't want to rob her customers. She'd give me a discount if I came back, just for that. But no. I wouldn't have been able to, how long had it been? And now Marie had sent me her photos, she'd described the places she often hung out, and in some part of me I didn't want to know more for the moment, she'd already told me too much. I really have to get rid of my computer. Who could I give it to? I knew lots of guys who spent their time inventing lives for themselves, and then, when when they were in over their heads, they found themselves chatting with their Myosotis and they didn't really care anymore, in a way, whether they loved or didn't love anymore. I went home early.

At seven I took a shower and changed for my dinner with Aïcha and Marc-André. He'd be there too, in their apartment in Levallois. I was sure he'd make a point of giving me the translation I'd assigned him at the beginning of the week. Having had a bit of time, I now remembered when the three of us were fifteen. He used to love languages and traveling, I admired him for that. Marco was the only one of us living with both parents. I don't know where it leads sometimes, I'm fed up with remembering, starting to talk to myself without being able to do anything about it. I didn't regret living alone, though, I wasn't desperate. In fact, I felt better than I had before. I went out. There were buds on the trees in Levallois. How things had changed around here. The town that had once had two hundred cafés, the headquarters of Hispano-Suiza, and a whole heap of body shops, was unrecognizable. The Hauts-de-Seine had been colonized by the hard right for about thirty years. It was no longer my world, no longer my home, not for me or for guys like Marc-André, who was obliged because of his job to talk with quite a lot of town councils in the area. Sometimes, I had a strong desire to leave, even though I'd spent my whole life here. But to go where? The trees didn't give a damn, obviously, although they'd been trimmed a bit too much on my street. All the plane trees and chestnut trees near Louise Michel had been punished for their appearance. We had Irish pubs, business restaurants, head offices, a swarm of municipal cops, and surveillance cameras all over the place. Benjamin used to count them on the street on his way to see me when he was in high school. I didn't buy any flowers from the shop near my apartment. I went and had a walk over toward Porte d'Asnières to kill time. For a moment, I had the impression I was being followed, and the guy who was following me was surely a guy like him, a guy like me. Except that when I turned around, there was nobody there.

I bought a bottle of Bordeaux, a very good one, I couldn't remember if Aïcha drank it or not. I've often made errors in tact without realizing it. The trees in the Eiffel neighborhood lining the beltway had also been trimmed. When had they even been planted? Who'd made that decision? I had an old man's thoughts, as Benjamin always said. I had an old man's thoughts, but I was still fed up with it. I walked as far as Sainte-Odile, which is one of the ugliest churches in Paris. I lit a two-euro candle. I don't tell anyone I do that, but I do it all the same, because I'm superstitious. I stood looking at the candle, next to a very beautiful African woman in a denim miniskirt and high-heeled shoes. She was very straight-backed. She was smiling at the flames. Her eyes became bright in the candlelight, I met her gaze. I guess I was disturbing her? We don't always need to look for reasons. Finally, I sat down on a bench near Porte Champerret. The cars were going very slowly where I was, the traffic system was being rerouted. It was good, right then, to have gotten through another week's work and to be going to see my only friend. Tomorrow, I would figure out what to do, spring was on its way. I waited until it was after 8:30 and then walked to their place. I walked quickly, pretending, the way all guys like me do, that I was a man in a hurry, a man who'd never begged for love or anything like that.

He was already there, sitting on the couch in the living room. Aïcha opened the door for me and I don't know why, but when I saw her, I felt a pang in my heart, I don't think she noticed. I don't trust my emotions, because of my solitude, because of my job, because of everything and nothing, both together, all mixed up.

“Ah, there you are!”

She smiled and gave me a hug. We kissed each other on the cheek. Marco took the bottle out of my hands, oh, it's a good one. Jean murmured something I didn't hear. When he went into the kitchen, I noticed that the tail of his shirt was sticking out of his pants, that surprised me coming from him. Aïcha sat down, she's about forty. She's a child psychologist, she does lots of other things too, she's traveled a lot for her work. She's at ease wherever she goes, I think Marco admires her for that too. She knows it, but doesn't exploit it. You get the feeling they've never hidden anything from each other, but I'm not sure. We exchanged a few words and I found myself facing Jean. He gave me his big, slow, tired smile. He stood up, a bit like a fifty-year-old teenager, his hand seemed too long when he held it out to me across the coffee table. Without meaning to, he kept it too long in mine, and then Marco suggested we have a drink.