Emmanuel Bove - Henri Duchemin and His Shadows

In the end, all this only confirms what I think about the world. Let her do as she pleases, it’s all the same to me. As for Paul, I pity him with all my heart, for it seems to me that, however this story turns out, he will not be happy.

* * *

When I left my friend’s wife, it had stopped raining. I took a few steps before I was entirely sure. Then I looked up. The sky, deep and black like marble not yet dry, was filled with stars. In the distance, the long, furrowless cloud that always floats along after it rains was low in the sky. The stars twinkled in the translucent air as if threatened by a celestial breeze. The street was still damp, but there was no mud as there is after a storm. And the white, ethereal moon rose unexpectedly high on the horizon.

I returned to Paul in the little café. He was watching for me through a curtain, sitting the way children do, sideways on a bench.

As I approached, he turned around and, hands on the table, looked straight at me. He was trying to guess what had happened before I spoke. He did not dare ask me. There was such distress in his eyes that they appeared about to close. It seemed his eyelids would droop at the slightest puff of air, that they were folded open only because his eyes were so round, and that if he were to look off to the side they would slip down.

“Paul!”

“So?”

I was incapable of pronouncing a single word. The despair into which my friend was about to plunge frightened me. I was expecting so much pain, so much shrieking when I told him his wife’s decision that I could not bring myself to give an account of my visit. I was waiting for him to infer Fernande’s attitude from my silence.

“Jean, what did she say?”

“She wants to leave.”

“She wants to leave?”

“Yes.”

My friend seemed not to comprehend. He was trembling, but his face remained impassive. It was as if only his body had understood. I was overcome with pity. I sat next to him and, my arm around his shoulders, attempted to console him.

“You’re young, Paul. You have your whole life in front of you. Be strong. You’ll see there will be more moments of happiness for you. That woman did not know how to appreciate and love you as she should have. I could see from her behavior that she was too fickle for you. Believe me, later she’ll regret what she did, she’ll never find another man with all your fine qualities. Let her go, and if one day you should meet again, be distant. Nothing can hold her, so at least have the strength to pretend not to care about her. That’s all it will take to humiliate her deeply. Without you in her life she is a lost woman. You were not only a husband to her, but also a father. One day she’ll understand that, you can be sure. Unfortunately, it will be too late. She needed a man like you to be happy. She did not understand that. It’s a shame. As for you, you loved her too much not to suffer from her behavior; you loved her too much not to miss her. I know. But you have to do something! Slowly, you’ll forget her. And then, who knows, one day you’ll meet another woman, more beautiful, more intelligent, who will love you with all her heart.”

As I spoke, Paul was gazing at me with an astonishment I could not explain. His half-open mouth and his furrowed brow made him appear stunned. From time to time, he would turn his head away sharply, then stare at me again with an even more surprised look in his eyes. Despite this odd attitude, I continued speaking.

“I have suffered, too, Paul. Two years ago I was with a woman who, like Fernande, left me for no apparent reason. Well, I got over it. Not without long months of suffering. But one has to live and most of all not become discouraged. Fernande wanted to remain ignorant of your generosity. She imagined you wanted to bully her when all you wanted was to make her happy.”

Suddenly Paul shoved the table away so that he could get out.

“Come, let’s go, I can’t stay here anymore.”

We started down a deserted street, half white from the moonlight, half dark with damp stone, and we did not cross to the sidewalk that was bathed in light, as we would have done during the day to move from shade to sun. We walked past the houses. The streetlamps lining the sidewalk were all that lit our way. An echo made it seem as though two other passersby were in front of us and, bizarrely, they seemed to have more energy.

“What’s to become of me?” Paul whispered.

My friend’s voice was so plaintive when he said these few words that I feared he might resort to the most drastic measures. He was so depressed that if the idea of a crime were to enter his head, he would not have pushed it aside. Still, I wanted to try to comfort him.

“Paul, be strong. That woman is not worthy of your suffering. Don’t think about your unhappiness any longer. Think of the future. Think that you have your whole life in front of you. Come on, make an effort. Let’s go. I’ll walk you to your door. You’ll go home, go to bed, and tomorrow you’ll come back and see me.”

“Go home?”

“Of course, you must go home. It’s late. You need to rest. You need to recuperate.”

We were on a wide avenue. The moon, which had risen higher now, seemed even colder because the sun gives off more warmth when it is in the same spot. Trees cast shadows on the sidewalks. We were stepping on a thousand drawings of intertwined branches. I had a vague, childish desire to place my feet only on blank spaces, but I would have found no pleasure in it.

“Paul, we absolutely must go home.”

My friend took me by the arm, leaned over to see me better and, hardly opening his mouth, whispered:

“You’re leaving me?”

“I must. It’s late.”

“You’re going to leave me alone?”

“We can’t stay outside all night!”

His lower lip trembled then. The sweat already beading on his forehead flowed out of the wrinkles and dripped below his eyebrows. He released my arm and leaned against a wall, either so he would not fall, or else in order to feel something solid.

I realized how difficult it would be for me to leave him. Although my friendship for him was strong right then, it seemed ridiculous to spend a night consoling him. If it could have eased his pain, I would have done it. But, with me or without me, he would be just as miserable. And if he wanted me with him, it was not because he hoped I would be able to comfort him. He knew that all my words could not change his wife’s decision in the least.

“Come on, Paul, we have to leave each other.”

“You want to leave me?”

“Yes, what do you expect!”

“No, Jean, please, don’t do that. Alone, I don’t know what will become of me. I’ll kill myself. Oh, I don’t know.”

He seemed completely distraught. He was not moving at all. It was as if he were no longer suffering, as if he had stopped fighting his pain, as if he were letting himself slip into unconsciousness.

Seeing him like that, I wondered if he was really determined to kill himself or if some sort of resentment was making him think I was the sole cause of his suffering; or perhaps he was trying to make me feel remorseful.

“Yes, I’m going to end my life,” he murmured.

I, too, have suffered. I too have thought about killing myself, yet I never did anything about it. Why should I have taken his threat seriously? In a few days, he would cheer up. In a few days, we would both laugh about this episode.

“See you tomorrow, Paul. Be brave.”

These few words that, in my opinion, should have left us in the same situation in regard to each other, brought him out of his dejection.

“So you’re not my friend?”

“Of course I am, but what can I do for you right now? Show some fortitude. Only you can overcome your pain.”