Guys Like Me (6 page)

“Great, you're coming, then? Be careful on the road.”

I switched off the computer and left a message on Marie's answering machine, I waited a while, then said it was really nice to meet you, something dumb like that, thanks for this afternoon. See you soon. Do you mind if I pull down the curtain? No, go ahead, why not?

My son and I wanted to go to the pizzeria, but in the end we went to Place Voltaire. My head was too big for Anaïs's helmet. What was that Italian movie where a guy visited Rome on a scooter, with the music of Keith Jarrett over images of the city as he rode through it? I asked Benjamin when we came to a red light. Nanni Moretti! Oh yes, that's right. We reached the couscous place on the other side of the Seine, at Asnières. We were almost alone in the restaurant. It wasn't yet nine in the evening. We had the Royale, which isn't expensive. It was a place I used to go, occasionally on my own just to treat myself, I know the guy who runs it, from having been so often. Since my divorce, the Kabyle man and I had both aged, there were times now when he wasn't there. But whenever we saw each other, we always shook hands, how's the family? Fine, and yours? And I'd never leave the restaurant without saying goodbye, even if I had to go through the kitchens, where the radio was always playing with the volume way down. Benjamin was exhausted. He had exams and he was working with some friends on a complicated project. I tried to follow his explanations, but I could hardly understand a word of what he told me. I'd already heard so many stories like that, it was something he'd wanted to do since the age of ten or eleven. And how's your life these days? His eyes are very bright, sometimes he's like, here's the answer, what was the question? He was fine. Everything was really fine. His mother always said you never know with him, but I didn't find that. We finished the couscous, I thought it was very good, and we had quite a bit of time after that to do what both of us liked the most, we looked around the room without saying anything. It was pretty much always the same around here, guys on their own, regulars from Place Voltaire and the surrounding area. I really had to buy a scooter so that I could get to the places I liked more easily. We had a mint tea with pine nuts. We smoked, and I realized that a day like this, an evening like this too, like a whole lot of other evenings really, shouldn't be forgotten. I was quite emotional about it. I asked him are you coming, shall we go? Ben didn't ask for his change. It was almost a month since we'd last seen each other in the flesh, Anaïs was always telling him to invite me over for dinner, but most of the time he was snowed under with his research in the lab. The Kabyle man wasn't there. Say hello to Slimane for me. No problem, see you soon!

We rode along the Seine. It was the route I took every day when I was a teenager, on my moped, with Marco and Jean and a whole bunch of other guys I'd stopped seeing. After a while, I tapped him on the shoulder. Step on the gas! He didn't seem to understand, but we did eighty on the section of the road running alongside the river over toward Tour Bellini. Finally he came out and drove nice and gently in the opposite direction, toward Pont de Levallois. I wanted to give my son a hug, but instead we just talked about the following week. We turned left, in the direction of Louise Michel, and I felt very happy and very old at the same time, that evening. I didn't feel like going to bed, I wouldn't be able to sleep.

“Are you coming up?”

“No, I'm going home, I'm exhausted. So long, call me!”

She hadn't left any message on the answering machine. I didn't turn on the computer. I was pleased that I didn't, who could I say that to? The best thing would still have been not to have to say it at all, not to want to talk to another guy like me. I still had the music from the
Köln Concert
by Keith Jarrett in my head and the images from the movie by Nanni Moretti, that movie didn't mean much to Benjamin. Barely a childhood memory.

He'd taped a floppy disk onto a sheet of cardboard. I read a few passages, a complicated transfer contract, it made my mind go numb, it was very boring, I went to bed. I skimmed through the pages. It seemed OK to me. He hadn't given me any invoice. Surely that was the most important thing? I'd had a good day. I tried to revisit Rome in my sleep, to go all the way to Ostia, but I wasn't very successful. That was my first trip when I was eighteen, Marco and his girlfriend, the girl who would become my wife, and me. I decided I couldn't wait any longer, I was going to buy myself a scooter. I'd wanted one for a long time. And besides, for a guy like me, who almost never goes on vacation, I could go for rides in my suburb, my whole life was in that area. I dreamed about someone behind me, I had her hair on my neck, she was holding me very tight. I even remembered her perfume. Who was it? I didn't have many dreams like that these days. When I woke up it was after eight.

3

I
SAW
M
ARIE TWICE THE FOLLOWING WEEK.
S
HE OFTEN
had things to do near the Opéra, so we ended up meeting in that area. We quickly got used to each other, I think. I had the impression she was making an effort. Sometimes she seemed to be looking for something in my eyes, a trace of what, I wondered? I didn't know the name of it. Had I ever known it? Nobody could tell me. I liked those first dates, we kissed, we laughed like kids. She liked it too, the old teenager in the photo, anyone would think that was me. In any case, I made some good resolutions, even though for several years I've been trying to avoid mirrors as if they were the ones cheating. I'd finished the book, put the computer back in its place, on the desk in my office, not on the coffee table in the living room. I don't remember when I called him about his invoice, I hadn't received it. He replied in a flat voice, exactly the voice you'd expect from the lost guy I'd met a few weeks earlier, that he didn't pay much attention to things like that. I'd spoken with Marco on the phone, he was snowed under with work. All the same he'd taken the time to set up a meeting for him, now it was in his hands.

“How's Antoine?”

He hadn't been to see him, usually he went every week.

“I haven't heard from him. Listen, I'm in a hurry, see you soon.”

The weather was nice now, people went out with colorful umbrellas, there were showers almost every day. On those days, it was as if people were off to discover the world in the morning, and then, how beautiful the world is, when they're on their lunch break. As soon as I got his invoice, I took it to accounts myself to make sure he'd be paid quickly. I insisted, he'd done us a great service, I called him to tell him. It looked like there might be a storm, the windows in my apartment were open. He picked up after the second ring, as if he'd been waiting all day by the phone, and in his case that wasn't just a figure of speech. Yes, he'd spoken with Marco. He'd tell me if he had the slightest problem. When I hung up, I felt like shaking him from afar. But after all, who was I to get irritated by his attitude? He didn't always seem to be all there, that was all. I felt very tired, I remember. I closed the windows. I looked at myself in the closet mirror, full face, then profile, then three-quarters, that belly I couldn't completely pull in, because I was fifty-four. I felt sorry about how things had gone for him, but that was it. He might have a job again thanks to Marc-André's intervention. On Friday night, I took Marie out to dinner, I'd gone home beforehand to take a shower and change. I'd hesitated like a young man, she didn't like guys from offices dressed like penguins. So I was in a real fix. I put on a pair of jeans and looked at myself in the closet mirror. I could have spent three whole days of my life looking at myself in the closet mirror, trying to decide if it was OK, or if it wasn't OK, and it still wouldn't have given me the right answer.

We talked for a long time, she and I. We had time to drink a bottle and I saw her home. She lived not far from Brochant, in a little three-room apartment she'd had for a long time. She'd paid next to nothing for it at the time. Sometimes she seemed lost in thought. I looked at her without knowing. We made love, we'd both been wanting it for a long time, since the e-mails and the last few weeks. We'd simply waited a while, we'd needed time. Do you mind if I switch off the light? We did it gently, for a long time, I didn't have any difficulty in getting an erection. I liked the way we both lay there afterwards, without moving, holding each other tight. There was more noise at her place than in my building in Levallois, and besides, it was Saturday. I went to buy some croissants from the bakery on the corner. When I went back upstairs, Marie was already dressed, I didn't know what to expect.

“Are you OK? I've brought some croissants.”

“Yes, I'm fine, how about you?”

We kept looking at each other, on the sly, I'd say. We sometimes smiled at each other without saying anything.

“Marie, are you sure you're OK?”

“Yes, I'm fine. Would you like tea or coffee?”

She had to go to work in the afternoon, she was the nurse on duty. She wanted to be alone for a while before that, we'll speak on the phone tonight, OK? I felt pleased to be going home, I went down the boulevard as far as Porte de Clichy. I knew the area quite well, I looked at the people curiously, eyes wide open. I walked to the Cité des Fleurs, I'd spent some time not far from there in the '80s in connection with a job, it was a private street, with houses on either side, a well-preserved place, with birds in the trees and very clear clouds in the blue sky. Marie. I had no regrets this time. Maybe in the life of a guy like me, there was still room for a few good years? I hadn't had my fair share, to be honest. I'd screwed up without realizing it. I crossed the Maréchaux and found myself in Clichy, after the Lycée Balzac, the service stations, and the entrance ramp to the northern beltway. For almost a quarter of a mile, there are Arab shops and used car lots, and then, as if I was a prince or something, I raised my hand to hail a passing taxi. It took me home in less than ten minutes and

I was happy about all that. Another life. Again. I only had to wait until tonight to talk to her. Another life. For free. Yet another life. It's a gift. She often looked worried, I thought. I wondered why. After all, she was very popular. I went to the library in Levallois, and then I changed my mind, I decided I'd rather buy F. Scott Fitzgerald's other books. I did a bit of shopping at the Monoprix near the town hall, surrounded by other guys like me. I went back home and waited for her to call me.

“I know almost nothing about him,” I said to Marco.

We were both sitting in his living room, the picture window wide open at the end of April. It was as if the trees had spread the word, the ones beside the Seine seemed incredibly green, as if they weren't yet used to it. I remembered how when my father, who I hadn't known very well, died, I was twenty-four at the time, the sun came through a stained glass window in the transept of the church of Notre Dame de la Croix in Ménilmontant and hit my forehead.

“I remember a bit,” Marco replied. “Don't you remember how friendly he was to us?”

“Yes, it's true.”

We were sitting side by side, with the sun facing us. He told me you couldn't see anything when the sun shone, that he'd been wanting to put in blinds for a long time, but his sadness had nothing to do with that, when it came down to it.

“What time are we supposed to be there, shall we go?”

“We have time, you've already asked me twice,” he said.

We drank another coffee.

“I hadn't seen him for about a year, I think. I didn't know it was so serious, what he had.”

“He never said, he didn't want anybody to know,” Marc-André murmured. “He didn't want it, you know. Did you tell the people in Asnières?”

“Yes, everybody I could remember.”

We talked some more about guys, old friends we'd lost touch with, after a while it became painful to live with too many of these memories, it's age, Marco said. And time. You can't do anything against time. Finally we left for the ceremony.

Jean hadn't arrived yet. He'd found a little job thanks to Marc-André. We went along a row of seats that wasn't too far back. A woman in front, much younger than him, I wondered if it could be his wife, or else his sister. He had a daughter the same age as Benjamin, Élise, I think, I saw her when I went for a meal at his house, many years earlier. She had very white skin, like him, her tears were flowing, by themselves, should I kiss her and give her my condolences? There were also a few guys from the last place where he'd worked, I recognized some of them from the branch I'd been fired from nearly ten years ago. I couldn't put names to the faces. Sometimes it's the other way around, Marc-André and I had talked about that. Sometimes you search for a face to match the name.

Marie wouldn't be at my place in the evening, and I probably wouldn't be going to Brochant, unless during our phone call I felt like she was asking me to, without saying anything, the way she did most of the time. I'd figure it out without wanting to, already. I don't like that word: already. It was cold in the church, April never comes in churches. Jean arrived five minutes after us, which let the light in through the left door, I turned around in the direction of the noise. He was moving forward on tiptoe, as if, even in the anonymity of a funeral, he didn't want to disturb anyone. The priest started droning on about this guy, who'd never even set foot in a church, I turned to Marco and saw that he was crying and making no at-tempt to hide it. We took each other's hands, I wanted to wait outside for the priest to finish his stupid speech. But actually, no, he was looking around, with his blue eyes and his weary air, as if he was on a visit somewhere. There weren't thirty people in all. Maybe other people would be coming to the cemetery, I held out that hope for him, and for all the guys like him, I made a few promises to myself at that moment. We stood in line behind, and waited for the family to pass. He ended up in front of me, he said something I didn't hear. I approached in turn and put my hand on the coffin, that was the way it was now, we saw each other in church, I didn't like to think about it.

I went to wait for Marco, the family lined up in front, his wife, his daughter, it was definitely them. We went out, there were trees all around the square, Marc-André had only half an hour, I didn't have much longer, in the end we wouldn't be going to the cemetery. Jean joined us. All the time that the guys were putting the coffin in the hearse, he stayed quite close to them, watching with a stunned air, as if he'd never seen anybody doing that before, which I thought was unbelievable, and then he came toward us. Marco was smoking a cigarette on a bench at the side of the square. Later in the day, I remembered lots of other squares with little parks in them, like the one where I used to take Benjamin when he was little, Square Max de Nansouty in Asnières. One day, dulled by alcohol and pills, I decided to check who he was. I'd always assumed he was a great explorer. He was a mechanic, I think. Then Marco stepped away to make a phone call. He had to call Aïcha. When he hung up he looked at his watch.

“We could go for a drink if you like. Do you have time?”

We set off in search of the nearest bar. Jean placed himself between Marc-André and me, and although he walked too slowly, he managed to keep up with us. We talked a little about him, it had happened very suddenly, maybe he hadn't suffered? Jean was nodding his head, vaguely interested, he was looking around him without touching his coffee. I saw something in him again that I'd been aware of since our schooldays, the way he had of hearing you without seeming to, like children you scold and who wait patiently for you to finish before going off to play. He didn't seem any more moved than that.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “it happens.”

“What do you mean, it happens?” I asked him.

Marc-André and I looked at each other, I think I even felt like laughing at that moment, but he insisted, it was one of those things that happened.

“You remember Nazim?”

Yes, of course, why? He told us that Nazim had died within two days, he'd climbed on a stool to change a light bulb and felt bad, and that was it, he'd had a quadruple bypass, but it was no use. He died two days later. Marco lit another cigarette, he held out the pack to us, gradually resuming the attitude he'd always had since our teenage years, a kind of friendly gang leader, always ready with a joke, but he was a lot more than that for me. I'd known that ever since my separation and those years of solitude, and also, as he'd pointed out to me, as only he could because I probably wouldn't have accepted it from anyone else, those years of suspicion toward women, I'd had to rid myself of that in order to carry on, to hope that I could get something going again. He asked him, but how do you know that? Jean put on that smart-ass look of his, how do I know? I just know. Nazim had lived in Bois-Colombes, right next to the station, he had a little painting and decorating business, he'd gone to see him for a bit of moonlighting, after two years without a job.

“By the way,” we asked him, “how's your job going?”

He looked at us for a long time, just as he had looked at the coffin on its way to the hearse, that's the impression I had, it's OK, he murmured, everything's fine, thanks. Thanks, he said again to Marc-André, in a flat voice, but in fact we'd already changed the subject, we'd probably be in touch during the week. Maybe we'd spend an hour together, maybe go have a meal, to say what we'd felt about this.

For some years now, what with all the people we knew who'd left us, the women who'd haunted our dreams, the women we'd loved in our suburb who'd later suffered cancer or depression, we'd had very few opportunities to talk to each other. When it came down to it, you had only the memory of that absence in front of your eyes, when night falls. He insisted on paying for the coffees, we said thanks, that's nice of you. He took a ten-euro bill from his pocket, as if it was parchment. He handed it to the waitress. Marco and I looked at each other, she gave him his change. He put it in his wallet with slow, measured gestures, and the three of us left.