Emmanuel Bove: Henri Duchemin and His Shadows

The stranger walked with his head bowed. I watched him. We didn’t know where we were going.

On a bench, a poor man was eating a bit of bread with a slice of meat. One always wonders, where do people who eat outside sleep? The stranger looked at him with pity. Oh! Don’t think I was jealous. Not at all; it was a great joy for me to see that, in spite of everything, there were men on earth who felt compassion for the wretchedness of others. No, I was not jealous. I am not jealous of actual beggars, of people whose poverty does not surprise them, who desire nothing and don’t notice when someone feels sorry for them. The man eating on his bench was not a schemer. He did not even exchange a look of complicity with the stranger. He was truly a poor man, the sort of poor man I like.

We were still walking without saying a word. It’s so pleasant to walk next to someone who is well dressed, whose thoughts you don’t know, who will perhaps change your life—someone you sense to be powerful.

This stranger was almost a father to me. I felt a protective strength in his gait, in his silence. Even as a child when I went out with my father, I never had this same sense of security.

From time to time, the stranger turned to me and stared, shaking his head. And, imbecile that I am, I did not know how to look at him. To look meekly would have been ridiculous because he was the stronger man; coldly, impolite; submissively, undignified. So I carefully avoided his gaze, which I sensed skimming over my worn-out clothes, my shoes too big for my feet and, what was particularly painful, over my collar.

We were nearing the exit. In a few seconds, it would be necessary to speak. How I longed for us still to be in the center of the park.

We stopped. Near the gate was a park keeper’s hut painted the same yellow as the iron chairs.

So it was over already! We were going to part.

I shivered. Luckily the stranger was not looking at me just then. It was hot. When I lowered my eyes, I could feel that my eyelids were damp.

Though his face was covered with sweat, the stranger did not wipe it off. This inattention pleased me. I attributed it to his extreme shyness and his immense fondness for me.

For the first time in years, I had the impression that at long last I had a friend.

The stranger pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, one that had not yet been unfolded and, before wiping his face, he asked:

“Where are you having lunch?”

“I don’t know, monsieur.”

I sensed that there was probably an answer that would have been more advantageous to me, but I am not quick and I did not have time to come up with it.

“Would you like to eat with me?”

A lunch is such a small thing; it’s over so soon. Still, if you only knew how this invitation filled me with joy.

Unfortunately, I never have the courage to accept what is offered to me. I’m always afraid of accepting too quickly.

“No, thanks, I would only be a bother to you,” I stammered.

“Come now. I invited you, didn’t I? Let’s go.”

I thought neither of the heat nor of my poverty. I forgot my life. I saw the blue sky above me, the park to my right, the street to my left. It was all so immense.

“Oh, monsieur, all right. Yes.”

Yes—I had said yes. If only you knew how difficult it is for me to say yes. I have never said yes. I don’t know how to say yes. It seems to me that yes means freedom, happiness.

* * *

The stranger lived on a mezzanine floor. Maybe it’s because I’ve always lived on the attic floor or perhaps for some other obscure reason, but I know even if I were rich I could never live on a mezzanine floor.

When we arrived on the landing, even though he was returning to his own home, the stranger did not look in his pocket for the key. He rang. A maid, young and innocent-looking, but probably stubborn too, opened the door.

“Come in, my friend,” said the stranger, motioning toward the foyer.

I obeyed, but without wiping my feet because the loose sole of one of my shoes might have caught on the carpet. I was about to remove my hat when the stranger said:

“Don’t trouble yourself. Leave it on. You’re at home here.”

I could say at this point that these words humiliated me because they were no doubt addressed only to people like me, but what good would it do? There are so many things that hurt me, it’s best not to draw attention to them all.

I removed my hat anyway. I took two steps forward, looked at a stuffed animal mounted on the wall, and waited.

The stranger had left me in the foyer. He returned a few moments later.

“Come. Let’s go into the dining room. I’ve asked for a place to be set for you.”

I followed him.

“Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

The stranger looked at my hands, then said: “You must be wondering, my dear friend, who I am. I shall tell you. My name is Boudier-Martel. I am fond of those whom life has treated harshly. I could see that behind your timid appearance you have a pure soul. That’s why I wanted to get to know you, to be of help to you, to encourage you. Don’t let your pride suffer from this. I could be your father. You have a friend in me. Every time I am able to make someone’s life a little less painful, I do so. You are someone who is worthy of being looked after.”

I listened to these words as if they were spoken by the perfect being about whom I had thought so often. I listened without trying to understand them because I was afraid some of them might displease me. I focused my attention on the words I love: dear friend, help to you, pride. I could not believe the friend I had been seeking for so long was there, in front of me. And yet, there he was, and I felt how ill prepared I was to speak to him.

“You mustn’t think, my friend, that I have a cold heart. I do everything in my power to make life a little less difficult for the needy. I know nothing greater than turning one’s attention to the misfortunes of the meek.”

These words soothed me. It seemed as if the chair on which I was sitting had no legs, that my heels were no longer resting on the parquet floor, that I was living in a dream. A new life was about to begin for me. I had a friend. With all his gifts, with his heart, he was coming to me.

“Oh, monsieur, how happy everything you are saying makes me!”

“Yes, yes, I thought as much. Come now, let’s eat. And then, on Sunday, I’ll come see you in your little room. It is a little room on the top floor, isn’t it?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“If only you could understand how well I know you. I can picture your whole life. You wake up and get out of bed, then go for a little stroll. You are very fond of animals. You eat lunch; you stroll about some more; you eat supper; you go to bed. Alone. You are alone, completely alone. No one bothers you. By the way, what do you live on?”

“My annuity.”

“Of course! You have a small annuity. You are happy. You are wise. I admire you.”

I will remember that lunch my whole life. There was so much trust between Monsieur Boudier-Martel and me, so much solicitude, that I can hardly believe nothing remains of it today.

* * *

Sunday came at last. Monsieur Boudier-Martel was to arrive at four in the afternoon, after the heat of the day had died down.

I spent the entire morning getting ready. I bought wine, a tin of biscuits, some lemon soda. My room, tidied up, seemed larger than usual. I sat down on my bed, at the spot where there is a big hole in the quilt, and I waited. The window was open. The blinds are broken, so the harsh light from outside flooded the room.

I was in that contented state in which you find yourself when you’ve just finished a thousand little chores that are so easily forgotten. There were just the two glasses that I had not yet washed. I knew it. I was saving that task so I would have something to do when Monsieur Boudier-Martel arrived.