The Man of Their Lives

by Françoise Bourdin

  Alix lunged to her feet. Attacking her twin was the best way to make her furious.

  “Did we have a meeting scheduled, Marc? You know, I’ve got tons to do right now.”

  She came around the desk and pushed the producer out the door.

  * * *

  It took everything for Frédéric to keep from laughing. He’d noticed what Francine was so inept at hiding, and he took full advantage of the situation. All he had to do was talk about his father—no matter what the topic, she was always interested—to avoid a good chunk of the tutoring session. If she heard the sound of a car, she couldn’t help turning to the window. And when Louis showed up at the end of the hour, her skin changed.

  He’d simply come into the small living room, an envelope in hand, said hello with a distracted smile, and she lost her cool.

  Adults behaved that way too? Frédéric thought. Wasn’t there an age when you finally got rid of your shyness?

  “You want to walk Ms. Capelan to the door, Dad? I really have to call my buddy Richard before he leaves for his tennis lesson.”

  Magnanimous, Frédéric gave his teacher the opening she’d obviously been waiting for. After all, she was a pretty good-looking woman for her age. Some of his buddies actually whistled when they saw her wearing a shortish skirt to school. He ran right upstairs to his bedroom and hid at his window behind the drapes. He never thought his father was an attractive man, but maybe he was after all. A couple of times he’d overheard his Aunt Alix talk about some women who were never invited to Neuville House. With Francine Capelan, at least he’d have a front a seat to the show.

  Frédéric had no trouble hearing what the two downstairs were saying and he couldn’t believe how lame it was. Even when she tried to compliment him on the house, his response was as curt as it was insignificant. When they both turned toward the house, he moved away from his hiding place, but soon went back to it.

  “See you soon, I hope,” she said. “I’m always very happy to spend a few moments with you...”

  At least she’d made an effort. He could’ve been a bit more receptive! Extremely intrigued by now, Frédéric saw that she rested a hand on his father’s arm just a couple of seconds too long. She was a little clumsy but quite charming in her attempt to seduce him. You’d have to be blind not to notice anything.

  When his teacher’s car was gone, Frédéric leaned out the window and said, “Dad, did you take a vow of celibacy or something?” And he burst out laughing.

  Louis raised his head toward the second floor, surprised.

  “You really can’t see what’s going on or she’s not your type?” Frédéric said.

  His father signaled for him to come downstairs, and Frédéric climbed out the window, grabbed the large branch of the cypress tree leaning against the house, and landed on the ground in no time.

  “You’re going to break your neck one of these days...So, you were spying on me? You want me to hit on your teacher so that she’ll give you good grades?”

  “She’s the one doing the hitting, Dad!”

  “Ms. Capelan?”

  “Please, call me Francine,” Frédéric said, imitating his teacher. “She gets all weak in the knees as soon as you show up. It’s hilarious! Last week, I left the door open on purpose yet you didn’t come by. But we could hear you play the piano, and poor Victor Hugo was forgotten for the longest time.”

  “You’re kidding me. I didn’t notice anything.”

  “It might as well be written on her forehead it’s so obvious.”

  The teenager took a couple of steps back and gave his father a head-to-toe look.

  “You know,” he finally said, “you don’t look so bad. Lots of my friends, their dads have a beer gut or they’re bald or whatever. But you… For an old man, I mean..”

  Everywhere Frédéric went, houses looked small to him and the people seemed bland. For a boy his age, Louis was a very cool dad. It wasn’t only because of his job—he always had to repeat what his father did as people couldn’t believe their ears—but also because of the way he looked. He seemed to have quite an effect on some women, judging from Francine’s reaction towards him.

  “Since Mom... I mean, after Mom... You haven’t... If it’s because of me, you know...”

  Why was Frédéric talking to him about that now? Louis had promised himself that he’d bring up the topic, eventually. Laura had often urged him to do so but at the last minute he’d always back down.

  “Yes,” Louis said softly. “Don’t worry about that.”

  Frédéric also must have been scared of the topic. What memory did the kid have of his mother, apart from a few photos? Pictures of a young woman smiling at the camera…

  “You’ve never loved anyone else, Dad? You haven’t met another woman that… that you’d like to... have a life with?”

  Frédéric had such a hard time formulating his questions that Louis was moved.

  “No, not yet,” he said. “But I didn’t sacrifice anything because of you, Fred. It didn’t happen, that’s all.”

  “Still... There’s been... girls, right?”

  “Sure. Girls, like you say. But nothing serious or important.”

  “And are you still sad when you think of Mom?”

  Obviously, Frédéric wanted to know what was going on in his father’s head. Careful, Louis tried to remember the discussions he had with Hugues about that, the mistakes he’d have to avoid.

  “What I feel is more... numbness than pain. I loved your mother and we got along great. I had a really, really hard time after she passed away. But with time things get better. Thank God, you know? If one day I do fall in love with someone, I won’t be afraid to let you know about it. Okay?”

  Frédéric nodded in silence without taking his eyes off his father. He tried to imagine a woman in his arms. He wasn’t sure he liked it, and he wondered why that was.

  “Now, as for your French teacher,” Louis added, “I don’t even know the color of her eyes.”

  “Blue.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Are you pulling my leg, Dad?”

  “Yes, I am. Her eyes are pale blue.”

  He grabbed his son’s shoulder and directed him toward the house.

  “So,” he said in a casual manner, “what are we going to eat tonight?”

  “Pasta. We could eat outside on the veranda. It’s so nice out.”

  “I don’t know. As soon as the sun goes down it’s going to get pretty cold, and the table and chairs are filthy…”

  “You boil the water and I’ll take care of the rest!” Frédéric said before running toward the kitchen.

  * * *

  Grégoire removed his headphones with a huge sigh of regret. He’d given himself one hour, no more, because he had to go on his daily walk through the Jardin du Luxembourg. If it were up to him, though, he’d stay listening to music in front of his bedroom window. Louis’s melodies, which he knew by heart, took him to distant and strange lands, and invariably made him shed tears. And he wanted to listen to them full blast--the brass instruments exploding and the violins wailing with all the rage and strength his son had put into the composition. Hence the purchase of those headphones, so that Laura wouldn’t think he was going deaf.

  Laura! Such the good daughter, both stubborn and caring. She was the one who’d come up with the idea to move in with Grégoire with her husband and daughters in tow. She claimed her father shouldn’t be living alone. But what was so damn horrible about solitude? For all her psychoanalyst gobbledygook, Laura had come back to live with her father, spent her weekends at her brother’s, and took refuge within the womb of her family like a fetus.

  No, that wasn’t fair. That was mean. When he did become too old to live by himself, he wouldn’t be able to count on Alix to take care of him. Besides, this apartment was so vast that Grégoire didn’t feel cramped. He never would’ve been able to afford this place by himself, and he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. So Laura was helping him and they all li
ved together. It was a good deal for everyone. On top of that, his daughter was a great cook. Actually, her food was a little too good; his arteries would wind up completely clogged. Were he to live alone, he’d be happy surviving on a slice of ham or a boiled egg and some fruit.

  He took the CD out of his Discman. He’d bought three one day, two he gave to his granddaughters. It was an effective and elegant way of reducing the cacophony around the apartment. But, as he told the building’s super, all that noise and movement kept him young.

  Leaving his armchair, he stretched out his legs and back. At sixty-eight, he had no health problems except for some minor arthritis. And he hoped that things would stay that way for a long time. He was still willing and able to assist his children in any way he could,. Unless they asked him to console a little boy who was crying because he lost his mom. He’d never forgotten that day, and Frédéric had become his favorite right away. Well, apart from Louis, naturally. Louis was his oldest child—if only by a few minutes — his only son too. He was a genius with an artistic sensibility that no one understood. He’d wound up a widower at the age of thirty, such a horrific thing, and he’d had no real choice than to throw into his music part of the pain he was feeling.

  “And this is only Thursday,” Grégoire grumbled while putting on his raincoat.

  Forty-eight hours to go before he’d be back in Notre-Dame-de-la-Mer, surrounded by his family. The property was beautiful, even though no one really took care of the lawn. He’d been the one, thirty years earlier, to plant lilacs, cherry trees, and magnolias.

  Before going out he went to the kitchen for a couple of slices of bread. He liked feeding pigeons in the park, though he thought they were disgusting birds. He enjoyed being able to sit on a park bench, throw crumbs of bread in front of him, and not look like he was actually watching the pretty women go by. And on days when the urge was too strong, he knew exactly where to go for a good time. His children probably thought he was too old for that kind of stuff. Ha!

  * * *

  The bar, as always, was filled with smoke. The thirty or so teenagers there didn’t hesitate to roll joints under the eyes of the rather blasé owner. Frédéric and Romain were involved in a hotly contested game of darts. It was Frédéric’s turn to play. With boisterous backers urging him on, Frédéric threw the dart, but failed to tie the score.

  “Alright!” Romain shouted. “You are down for the count, dude.”

  He waltzed over to Élise, kissed her on the cheek, and he and a couple of his buddies headed for the bar to get a beer.

  Frédéric seized the opportunity to go over to the girl. Smiling broadly, he said, “You’re still going out with that moron?”

  Élise said nothing, just smirked.

  “How about a game of pinball?”

  Élise was in most of his classes so he saw her every day. He knew he shouldn’t be hitting on her, but just because she’d preferred that jerk Romain, didn’t mean he’d stop being attracted to her.

  “Sure,” Élise said. And the two made their way to the back of the bar.

  Frédéric put a few coins in the 1950s-style machine and stepped aside. “Ladies first,” he said.

  Élise threw her hair back in the offhand way all girls did. She could feel Frédéric right behind her, way too close, and his insistence amused her.

  “That’s an old geezer’s game,” Romain said, barging in on Frédéric’s right side.

  “Shit,” Élise said. She’d lost control of the metal ball, her score dismal.

  “You’re messing up her game,” Frédéric said to Romain. “I think you should take a hike, asswipe.”

  Since that December evening, Frédéric had been dying to tell off Romain and he finally felt relieved. He didn’t even know Romain’s last name, and yet he considered him a personal enemy. Since grammar school, no girl had turned him on more than Élise, and he had no intention giving up on her. Romain, who was taller, looked down at Frédéric, not sure what to do.

  “Stay the hell away from my girlfriend,” he finally decided to say. He grabbed Frédéric’s sleeve.

  The gesture was more show than aggression. Élise, worried, tried to step between the boys.

  “Enough of that!” she said. “What’s wrong with you two?”

  She’d raised her voice, and the boys became the center of attention. Frédéric yanked his arm free and heard fabric tearing.

  “Oh no, look at that,” Romain said. “I messed up your nice shirt.” H tone was sarcastic, lacking any regret.

  To him, Frédéric was a mama’s boy. Worse, a rich kid. He was always wearing expensive clothing and showing off on his swanky scooter on campus.

  “I told you to get lost,” Frédéric said, without moving this time.

  Élise had no idea what to do. She was stunned to see Frédéric tackle Romain. They both ended up under a table. What followed was a scrappy exchange of kicks and punches, with a bunch of kids watching the fight until the owner rushed over and managed to separate the boys. Two of Frédéric’s friends took him to the exit, while Romain was trying to catch a glimpse of Élise. She was standing by the pinball machine and looked downright furious, disgusted, even. She turned on her heels and headed for the ladies’ room.

  * * *

  The executive producer, a big title that meant little to Louis,was soon on Louis’s nerves by displaying his utter incompetence. The director, Jocelyne, felt helpless and exasperated. A hour ago when she arrived at the television studio for the meeting she’d felt very confident. The score that Louis had composed for the series was exactly what she’d hoped for. They had both spent some time together sitting at the piano and she’d explained to him what kind of mood she wanted the music to create.

  “It’s a bit... sad,” the executive producer said. “Teary. Know what I mean? This music will be used for the trailer, and I’m afraid it might scare off our target audience. You know how people are. They want to be entertained. They want to laugh, not cry.”

  “But it’s a sad story!” Louis said. “I’m no filmmaker, but if the story is sad, I can’t compose something like ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ for it!”

  “Now, now,” the executive producer said, rolling his eyes. “There are some very nice, light moments in the show, uplifting scenes. And you... you’ve come up with some sort of Requiem.”

  Jocelyne put a hand on Louis’s arm to prevent him from getting up. She played the CD again, and the three of them listened to the intro in silence.

  “This theme is uplifting,” Jocelyne said.

  “I don’t know,” the executive producer said. “Sounds kind of dark to me…”

  “If you want the Pastoral Symphony,” Louis said, “just go ahead and use that, and you won’t have to pay a cent in rights—it’s in the public domain!”

  This time, he got up and buried his hand in his jeans pockets.

  “Right now, I want to know who I’m working with,” he said. “You or Jocelyne?”

  He’d composed the music with her wishes in mind. He was certain that she had the last say on all aspects of her movie, since in the world of cinema, the director is king.

  “Things are a little different in the TV business, Mr. Neuville...”

  The executive producer’s condescending tone made it clear that he thought Louis was just some spoiled musician. The director’s darling would have to play by the rules of the network, whether he liked it or not.

  “Think about what I told you and let’s meet again in, say, two weeks?”

  Resigned, Jocelyne took out her appointment book while Louis peered at his watch.

  As they left the office, she said, “He’s a moron. Those suits are all morons, but they have to justify their existence. He can’t tell you from the get-go that your work is perfect because then he wouldn’t have any role to play. You understand? I love what you did. Change a bar or two and it’s going to be okay. He won’t even know the difference.”

  Louis was so upset he waited until he was in the elevator
to explode.

  “I don’t know how you can put up with such bullshit, but I sure as hell can’t! This was the last time!”

  “You think so? Listen, I can go to the next meeting by myself and take the tape to him, but you won’t be able to get rid of him so easily. He’s going to be in the recording studio during mixing, Until the very last minute he’s going to continue to spew conflicting advice with that know-it-all mug of his.”

  She laughed and he finally calmed down. Once in the network’s parking lot, he shook Jocelyne’s hand and headed for his car. He checked his watch once more and realized he had to hurry to get across town. He never should’ve made a date so close to this stupid meeting. Arriving late for a first lunch date would be a major screw up. What a dumb idea it had been anyway to invite this woman in the first place! Sure, it was easier in Paris. They were certain not to run into her colleagues or their own sons. What a strange coincidence that they’d run into one another two days before in line at the supermarket. They were both sullen and tired until they saw each other. When she mentioned, perhaps innocently, that she was planning on spending the day in the city to shop, he’d jumped on the opportunity. “Would you like to meet for lunch?” he’d said. “And I’ll drive you back. It’ll be more pleasant than the train, especially if you’re carrying shopping bags.”

  The speed at which she’d replied “Yes” revealed that she was waiting for just such an invite. Frédéric was right, he thought.

  As the Alfa Romeo dodged traffic, Louis was thinking how stupid, naïve, and vain he’d been to agree to his son’s challenge. Winning Francine Capelan’s heart was no great feat, far from it. She wasn’t particularly beautiful or young. And she was no doubt lonely.

  On Rue de la Pépinière, Louis found a parking spot quickly. He looked at his watch one last time—he was almost thirty minutes late. Surely, she was there already. He hoped that she had decided to sit in the smokers’ section of the restaurant. Relieved, he found her at the very back of the room with a glass of kir and an open magazine.

  “I am so terribly sorry,” he said, standing next to her.