Dominique Fabre - Guys Like Me

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.

I SAW MARIE TWICE THE FOLLOWING WEEK. SHE 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.