Herve Le Tellier - The Intervention of a Good Man

With the passing years and the traces they leave on his body and his features, our hero has taken to doubting whether anyone could desire him. But, oddly, as soon as a woman shows that she does, he is convinced she can but love him. He is aware of his good qualities: a degree of intelligence, a sense of humor that he manages to maintain in any situation, and indisputable gentleness. He is not a bad lover, he is also sincere, attentive, and tender. He is vulnerable and sensitive, which, in some women’s eyes, can be an asset. Lastly, if he wants to seduce or even just convince someone, he can draw on energies even he finds astonishing. Which is why he is amazed that this young woman who certainly desires him finds it so easy to resist the love he inspires and, equally, the love she inspires in him. Every indication is that she finds our hero’s feelings for her distressing. We will not take this any further at this juncture.

The rendezvous has been arranged on a main road, where the A32 crosses the S70 to be precise, beside a sign that shows the way to the improbably named “Inchnadamph.” Our hero stayed up late into the night the day before, poring over maps of the Highlands on which the A32 was marked in bright red and the S70, deemed a tourist route, was edged in green. On the Internet he consulted ten different online route finders, zooming in on satellite views until he had transformed Inchnadamph into a fog of pixels. If the map were the landscape, he would know how to find his way with his eyes closed. By matching up a local directory with the telephone number that appeared on his cell phone when she called from Scotland, he managed to find the address and first name of this mother she had come to stay with. A very Scottish first name, one our hero could never even have guessed existed. In desperation and if he hired a taxi, he could always play the trick of the guy who broke down just outside their house, which, metaphorically, would not be far from the truth.

What will be the first thing this young woman says by the roadside? Of course, not everything hangs on that. But this question provides as good an opportunity as any to close the prologue.

In which our hero becomes the victim of logistics .

A number of depressing possibilities .

We should always beware an overprepared journey, says no proverb at all. Our hero has thought of everything, except for the three-hour delay before takeoff. He has to change flights and his arrival is now scheduled for early evening. Unhappy at the airport, happy in love?

He warns the heroine he will be late, by text, then with a call (he too frequently adopts this “belt and suspenders” approach with her). He has learned that indifference and distance, even feigned, are weapons. But our hero is not a man of weapons, not calculating. On the telephone, she shows little evidence of disappointment at this hitch, and immediately proposes meeting the following day rather than that evening, however late. A subtle pause on the other end of the line does commit her to suggesting he call as soon as he lands, and to see where they stand then. He agrees. It is a short call. She does not want the conversation to go on, he has no wish to insist, or rather to appear insistent.

He hangs up. The rather false smile he forced on himself falls from his lips. He had constructed a perfectly lighthearted expression, and here he is now plunged straight back into gloom. It is nearly a week since he called her — and it is almost always he who calls her. She had asked for some time to herself, he granted it. There was her voice again, lilting and distant, its very distinctive articulation suggesting constant impatience. For a long time he could not bring himself to erase a banal message from his answering machine simply because in it, and this was too rare an event for his liking, she let slip a note of tenderness. He wishes he could listen to it again right now.

I shouldn’t go, our hero keeps thinking. Seeing me again isn’t at all important to her, it even seems a nuisance. And that is yet more proof she doesn’t care.

But, although all his logic dictates this conclusion, he would still rather cling to less regrettable interpretations: she might not have told her mother, she doesn’t want to be bicycling late into the evening, in the pitch dark, plenty of explanations that do little to satisfy him. He finds himself ridiculous and now views himself with a degree of contempt, which, in his eyes, might eventually justify the disdain felt for him. He must pull himself together. Have strength, for goodness’ sake! If he’s seeing her tomorrow, what does it matter! What will he gain by insisting on seeing her this evening, if it’s to be for a few minutes in the rain, in a rental car? The mounting absurdity of the situation is not lost on him.

Our hero goes back to his cell phone. He calls his children. No need perhaps to point out he has two: a girl of twelve, a boy of ten, utterly adorable. He has just spent three weeks of July with them, beside the sea. The day before — as is the rule — they left to vacation with their mother for the whole of August. He is not ashamed of needing the sparkle in their laughter, needing the color in their voices. Hearing them, he knows, will for a few sweet moments bring him back to the happiness of uncomplicated love, to his second life, the radiant, fatherly one. At the other end someone picks up, and the magic works. All enthusiasm, the boy talks about soccer (PSG beat Lens 2–1, epic); all exuberance, the girl describes the small swimming pool their grandparents have just had made (there’s a porthole to light it up at night, awesome). They talk about everything and nothing, his eyes are full of laughter, everything is better, everything is fine.

He hangs up and goes to find out about the refreshments generously offered by the airline. An autumnal chill is gradually pervading this airport with its military and presidential name, where no one, except for him, seems to be growing impatient. The passengers at Gate 26 are leaving for Tel Aviv, those at Gate 23 for Algiers, and those at Gate 22 for Reykjavík.

The staff of the British airline has opted for invisibility, when the scheduled takeoff time is already long gone. Will he leave before nightfall? He slips on the cotton cardigan he brought to tackle the cool Celtic evenings. The cream of his knitwear clashes with the faded burgundy of the seats in the waiting area.

In which Charles de Gaulle is a bastard .

In which our hero gets the heroine to speak .

The intervention of a good man .

Takeoff is scheduled with a five-hour delay. A relief airplane is coming in from London. Our hero can no longer soothe himself with the hope of arriving any sooner than late into the night. He has called back the young woman to let her know, and suggests one last time coming to pick her up so he can spend the night with her. She dismisses the offer, insists he call back in the morning. She argues that she would really rather not invent some lie for her mother. Our hero takes this pretext at face value and will have to make do with it. All the same, he tries — we really do never learn — to extract a few kind words from our heroine, or at least some sort of encouragement. She will not be moved but does concede that she is very sorry he is stuck at Charles de Gaulle. Then she agrees he can call once he is on the way to Braemore. She said Very sorry. It’s not much. Not much at all. To be honest, it’s enough to make you cry. But our hero is too grown up to cry.