Dominique Fabre - Guys Like Me

I let the phone ring for a long time, he couldn’t have been at home. I kept remembering without wanting to. While minding my own business, my mother used to say. Why did I remember that? I went out to buy bread, there was a line of people waiting to buy cakes for Sunday. I made myself some vegetable soup. I like it, and when I get back late from the office all I have to do is heat up a bowl of it. Finally, I called Myosotis, what a dumb handle she had. But she had a nice voice, I found, and she was funny too. What was I doing, playing cat and mouse? It’s that username, I said, don’t you have a real name?

“Marie, my name’s Marie. Is that better for you?”

She had a kind of laugh behind her voice. We talked for a while. Had she had any dates? Yes, of course, but I surely wasn’t calling her to ask her that? I hung up an hour later, I hadn’t been aware of the time passing. I almost felt like calling her again and telling her that no guy like me could call Myosotis again, that was for sure. We’d see each other soon, of course, if you like. You know where to reach me. I found another book by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It wasn’t the one with the second act, it was the story about the guy who’s always asking if he can pull down the curtain. I told myself that one day I wouldn’t be able to stand Sundays anymore.

THERE HE WAS, IN FRONT OF ME, IN MY OFFICE. I’D HAD A call from the switchboard to announce him, by that time I’d forgotten all about him. He was sitting in the hallway behind the picture window, a guy quietly waiting for his appointment. I suddenly thought of him as an intruder, though I couldn’t quite get used to seeing him in that light. His case between his legs, a picture of defeat. But in my head that day there was sunshine, and I was in a good mood. I showed him in without waiting. Then I closed the door behind us.

“Hi. I was in the area. I wanted to see where it was, to get an idea.”

“Come in, you did the right thing. Have you heard from Marc-André?”

I pointed to a seat. Often, in our lives without second acts, especially in the office, it seems to me that lots of guys like me imitate soap operas, but how to do otherwise? He put his black case down on his right, like earlier in the hallway. His eyes, still as blue and tired of looking.

“Yes, he sent me a note, and then he called to ask for my e-mail.”

He was looking around him with a curious, almost cheerful gaze. That he didn’t feel this place was completely devoid of warmth made me want to smile. Plus, I was pleased with myself.

“By the way, look, I have this for you to do if you’re interested.”

The translator my firm usually called was on maternity leave. It was a legal contract, forty pages long, nobody had the time to do it here. It wasn’t very complicated, at least I didn’t think it was.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, will it be OK? Is it up your alley? I have some documentation to help you. You can re-use a few things.”

He opened the folder like a guy opening a book telling him the main events still to come in his life. He nodded as he looked through the pages, as if he’d already guessed them.

“I know these things, it isn’t the first time I’ve seen contracts like this.”

His fingers were long and white. He seemed pleased, but no more than that. Did I want to get rid of him now? You’d like to help, give them a chance, but really, when it comes down to it, you want them to go, as far from you as possible, and, in such cases, if they cross your path again, you barely have time to say hello, all bright and breezy, you promise to meet again soon, lunch, a drink, whatever.

Outside, there was only a little sunshine, I asked if it’d be all right. Yes, it’d be all right. When was it for? He told me he was sorry he’d just showed up like that, no, no, I was going to call you about this anyway. The office returned to the forefront as soon as I passed him the technical documentation for the previous contracts. He wouldn’t actually have many new things to translate. So, when was it needed by? He stood up. We talked mainly about Marc-André and Aïcha, he knew her, he thought, from an office where she’d temped while finishing her psychology studies. It’s a small world. Those were my glory days, he murmured. He made me smile, with his dumb expression. He put the file and the documentation away in his case. He’d emptied it since the last time in the café. He probably made it ready every day. He closed it as if an important secret was hidden in it, one that he was taking home with him. He held out his hand.

“Thank you. It was a good thing I dropped by.”

“Yes. That’s true.”

I don’t know why I had the impression at the time that I’d done something really stupid, for no reason. I walked downstairs with him, and watched him leave, he was in a hurry, his head bent as if there was too much wind. I smoked a cigarette. The week passed quickly.

I saw Benjamin on Tuesday evening, coming out of work. We had dinner together in a crêperie in Montparnasse, Anaïs was currently temping in the area. She finished at ten o’clock. These days, the hours I spend with my son, even the best ones, are limited. Actually, they have been since our separation. She herself was always late, which was why we often had arguments, but from the start she’d wait for Benjamin to come back with her eye on the clock. I’d receive registered letters about that, right from the start of the separation. One day, I wanted to tell my son, you know what I’d really like? I’d like us to spend a week together, with Anaïs if she’s OK with it, and we could go anywhere we liked, we wouldn’t have a set time and we wouldn’t be waiting for anything in particular. We wouldn’t be stressed by you having to pack your bag, like when you were a child and you had to go and we’d realize at the last minute you’d forgotten things. Do you remember? Anaïs came out of the offices in the tower, we chatted for five minutes. It was too late to go to the movies, and besides she was hungry. We’ll talk on the phone. Yes, ciao .

I’d stopped thinking about Jean. Marc-André had called him to clarify a few points. He had a new e-mail address, he went to check his mail in an internet café in Colombes, not far from the station. By the way, was I free on Friday? Yes, I was free. Of course I was free. He told me he might have some good news for him, but it wasn’t really certain. Should we invite him on Friday too, then the three of us would be together? Yes, why not? Friday arrived without mishap. He’d called me at the office, but I had an outside meeting, I think, visiting clients. Marie didn’t go online every evening, I wondered if she was sulking, but because of what? I even wandered onto the other sites, where could you find love after the age of fifty? Nothing in the newspaper. Nothing on the cork noticeboard at work either, nothing anywhere. I burned the songs she’d sent me and listened to them in my room in the evening. Cesaria Evora. They were really beautiful. A woman who lived near Place Clichy was haunting my dreams. Well, why not? I read F. Scott Fitzgerald, around ten at night, when I wasn’t too tired. A few pages. Do you mind if I pull down the curtain? I didn’t worry all that much, behind my open shutters, they were never closed. I was feeling quite good that week. I thought about Marie, which just goes to show. The weather was gradually improving. I even slept all night and woke up with an erection in the morning. What woman could I have been dreaming about? When I was a teenager, I thought I’d be able to talk about these things, but when it came down to it, they were always going to be there, floating in front of me, and I’d never be able to grab hold of them, never be able to escape them. A whole lifetime.