Dominique Fabre - Guys Like Me

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.