Lie With Me

by Philippe Besson

  * * *

  I don’t know at the time that the writer Hervé Guibert will become an important writer for me. Six months later, I will discover The Remarkable Adventures and the passage about the desire to merge with his lover will annihilate me.

  I will discover that these books speak to me, and speak for me (and will become aware of the power of literary minimalism, the neutral voice that’s closer to reality). Six months later, Guibert will announce he’s dying of AIDS. I’ll wonder then if The Wounded Man was a premonition or if, on the contrary, it showed the last glimmer of free love—a love shown without constraint or morality or fear—before the great massacre.

  I also don’t know then that I will meet Patrice Chéreau one day and work with him. He will adapt one of my novels, a story about brothers and illness and the body as it approaches death. It will be like a circle closing twenty years later.

  * * *

  As this winter of 1984 is coming to an end, the film I’m dying to see is Coppola’s Rumble Fish, a sequel of sorts to The Outsiders, which came out a few months before. I loved that tale of idle youth, the strength of the bonds forged in adolescence, its freedom, starring all the young male actors who will go on to define eighties Hollywood: Tom Cruise, Patrick Swayze, Matt Dillon, Rob Lowe. I loved these bad boys with their slicked-back hair, who were really the little brothers of the boys in Rebel Without a Cause. Most of all, I loved C. Thomas Howell, who played Ponyboy. I remember with confounding precision the physical sensation of the “love at first sight” that hit me. It would take me weeks to get rid of this feeling and acknowledge how perfectly absurd it was. Incidentally, I realized after the fact that Thomas looked like him (I wondered if it was my unconscious talking but immediately dismissed the thought). When I tell him that Rumble Fish was filmed in black and white, he says: We can’t see something like that. We aren’t our parents.

  * * *

  Instead, we buy tickets for Brian De Palma’s Scarface, even though it got terrible reviews. It’s gratuitously violent, with unnecessarily coarse language and a flashy aesthetic. But of course it’s Thomas who’s right. The film is a masterpiece, a vicious fable about the corruption of money. While the credits roll he says: That scene with the chain saw was great, wasn’t it? I look at him and joke: Yeah, I almost grabbed you at that moment. He smiles back at me and I receive his smile like a gift. There weren’t many times Thomas smiled at me like that. It wasn’t his way.

  * * *

  He remembers a line. I say: Which one? He says: I have hands made for gold and they’re in shit.

  * * *

  Some time later, he and I will find ourselves again in the same place, surrounded by other people, but this time it’ll be unintentional, and that will make all the difference.

  I was invited to a birthday party. I hesitated before going. I didn’t care for celebrations or parties (I’ve barely changed in that regard). The previous weekend I had caused a scandal because of my dislike for supposedly festive gatherings.

  It was a wedding, and one of my cousins was the groom. First, everyone had to go to the church and listen to the bon mots of a sweaty priest, pose for pictures during the walk, scribble best wishes for the family’s eternal joy on glossy paper, and then head to a poorly heated multipurpose room to drink cheap wine from white plastic cups and consume peanuts purchased in bulk. Everything reeked of savings—not poverty so much as mediocrity, which struck me as less forgivable. Later the pack moved to a dubious bar in the middle of nowhere, in a county where my father had once taught. I remember the greasy laughter, the screaming conversations, the sweaty brows and stained shirts of my uncles—all this bawdy, overcrowded frivolity. There were the games that still make me feel ashamed even now when I think about them. With her eyes blindfolded, the wife tried to recognize her own husband by feeling the calves of five random men, or another game where she pushed an apple across the floor with a banana dangling down between her legs by a string tied around her waist. The absolute vulgarity of it horrified me. Sitting next to me at the table was one of my cousins, barely fourteen years old, who was recounting his (presumably imaginary) sexual exploits to one of his prepubescent friends. He kept prodding me to share the exact details of my own sexual conquests. (I was tempted to say, I suck cocks, what else do you want to know?) Later the wedding singers, dressed like mechanics out on the town or salesmen who’ve been a little heavy-handed with the brilliantine, bellowed out old love songs, butchering the classics beyond recognition. At the stroke of eleven, the forty-year-olds started to shimmy to the sound of “The Duck Dance” while the ageless widows contemplated them with smug smiles. I had only one desire: to escape. And that’s exactly what I did. I went to find my father and asked him to take me back to the house. My tone must have made an impression because, probably not wanting to create a scene, he did what I asked without argument. On the way home, I swore to myself that I would never be in the same situation again.

  A teenage birthday party is far from a wedding, but you can easily slip into triviality or boredom; age doesn’t matter much in that regard. I know that what I’ve written has probably given the impression that I was a haughty young boy, a bit too delicate for the world (and no doubt I was, at least in part). But looking back on it, I think it was simply a fear of crowds, their movements, the inherent potential to transform into a mob, that pushed me toward this misanthropy.

  * * *

  This particular night was basically a gathering of high school students. I recognized a few faces. A pretty, popular girl who was friends with Nadine was celebrating her eighteenth birthday (the moment when one becomes of age, that critical milestone that says you are now officially grown, as if before this you were insignificant—a noncitizen. I’ve always been amused by these artificial frontiers). It was actually Nadine who’d insisted that I come with her, telling me that I wasn’t social enough, that real life was not lived in books, that there was nothing wrong with a little lightness, a little carefree partying. She was right. Maybe if I’d listened to her a lot earlier, I wouldn’t have missed out on my youth.

  * * *

  Here’s the scene: A newly constructed house on the road that leads to Cognac. A large dining room with the furniture taken out, beige tiles, crepe paper hanging from the patio doors and light fixtures, a strobe light. But apart from all that, the atmosphere is fairly subdued. The outdoor lighting in the back garden makes the lawn look even more green. There are more than thirty boys and girls, a few with bleached blond hair and cropped jeans and ankle socks; some are in sweatshirts, others in jackets with epaulets and jodhpurs. Swaths of fluorescent color mix with goth looks. While the soundtrack plays, everyone dances to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham or “Footloose” by Kenny Loggins. We all sing along to “The Very First Time” by Jeanne Mas and slow-dance to “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper. Someone throws in a little unexpected but welcome melancholy with Nena’s “99 Luftballons.”

  * * *

  It’s during the dying notes of this song that Thomas appears. I didn’t see him come in, but all of a sudden he’s there in the middle of the room. From then on he occupies all the space, claiming it for himself. You would swear that the light went out on everyone else, or at least dimmed. (It reminds me of a screen test I saw once that James Dean did for Rebel Without a Cause. All the kids are gathered in a room; they’re healthy and attractive, their faces lined up like they’re in an El Greco painting, and then Jimmy walks in. Through the lens of the camera he looks smaller than the others, a little stoop shouldered and bookish, with a slight smirk on his face, and you can’t take your eyes off him. He makes everyone else disappear. I’ve probably embellished the scene in retrospect, though I do believe that there are certain men who eclipse everyone else in the room and leave you breathless.)

  * * *

  I didn’t expect Thomas to be there, and my first reaction to seeing him is surprise. I didn’t even know that he was invited (but why on earth would I have been warned? Who would have
warned me?). When I saw him the day before, he didn’t say anything about this birthday party (but then again he doesn’t owe me anything; our relationship was founded on this absence of obligation). I didn’t mention anything to him either. Obviously if we knew, one of us wouldn’t have come. The truth is, I never expected to see him at this kind of thing. He is so unsociable and aloof at parties, so out of place in that kind of setting. There’s something off, uncomfortably incongruous, about seeing him here.

  * * *

  He hasn’t spotted me yet, still not having quite joined the party. He casually lights a cigarette, looks around, and is quickly joined by a couple of friends from his class I noticed earlier. They shake hands in a lazy way, the way you do with close friends with whom you have nothing to prove. Immediately it makes me think of the world I’m excluded from, the friendships he’s developed, all the ordinary days that have nothing to do with me. The friends, the handshakes, crystallize it. I’m from a world that is underground, unique and invisible. Ordinarily this would make me feel happy, but tonight it makes me feel like a fool.

  * * *

  All the same, there is often a staggering intimacy between us, a closeness beyond imagining, but the rest of the time our separateness is absolute. Such schizophrenia could bring even those with the strongest equilibrium to the edge of reason, and let’s admit it, I didn’t have much equilibrium to begin with.

  There is the insanity of not being able to be seen together. An insanity that is aggravated in this case by the unprecedented situation of finding ourselves in the middle of a crowd and having to act like strangers. It seems crazy not to be able to show our happiness. Such an impoverished word. Others have this right, and they exercise it freely. Sharing their happiness makes them even more happy, makes them expand with joy. But we’re left stunted, compromised, by the burden of having to always lie and censor ourselves.

  This passion that can’t be talked about, that has to be concealed, gives way to the terrible question: if it isn’t talked about, how can one know that it really exists? One day, when it’s over, when it finally comes to an end, no one will be able to attest to what took place. One of the protagonists (Thomas) will be able to go so far as to deny it if he wants to, to insist that such nonsense was invented. The other (me) will have nothing but my word, which doesn’t carry a lot of weight. And besides, that word will never come. I will almost never speak of it.

  * * *

  We are there at the party when suddenly, a young girl throws herself at him. She has emerged from the shadows, as if drawn to his light. She’s putting a lot of energy and exuberance into flirting with him. The sight wounds me because her gestures don’t seem impulsive, they just seem natural. Thomas seems a little surprised, maybe even disconcerted, but he lets it happen, accepting her familiar affection. He gives her a kiss. While I could perhaps see it as the feminine version of the camaraderie I observed earlier, the jealousy that invades and overwhelms me makes me perceive the scene quite differently.

  * * *

  Jealousy, though not an entirely unknown feeling, is nevertheless somewhat foreign to me. I’m not possessive, figuring no one should have exclusive rights to someone else, as if a lover were a piece of property. I respect everyone’s freedom too much (probably because I can’t bear to have mine undermined). It seems to me that I am capable of good judgment, even detachment. These are qualities that have been attributed to me, even at that age.

  Besides, I have always found the spectacle of “the tease” in either sex to be tiresome, it never made me envious. Except all my beautiful principles crumble in a second, the second this young woman throws herself at Thomas.

  Because this scene not only shows a life lived outside of me. It hurtles me back to a void, to nonexistence, really, in the cruelest way.

  Because it shows what is usually hidden from me.

  Because it shows the charm of this mysterious boy and how many attempts must be made before one can get close to him.

  Because it offers an alternative to Thomas the disoriented one who feels torn in different directions.

  I cannot stand the idea that he could be taken from me. That I could lose him. I discover for the first time—poor idiot—this stabbing pain of love.

  * * *

  (And when you’ve been hurt once, you’re afraid to try again later, in dread of enduring the same pain. You avoid getting hurt in an attempt to avoid suffering: for years, this principle will serve as my holy sacrament. So many lost years.)

  * * *

  Right after the hug, Thomas turns in my direction (one must not see here any cause and effect, no expression of the unconscious; it’s only chance, his movements are slow), and his gaze finally lands on me. Never have I seen such a strike of lightning before. Yes, that’s exactly it: it’s as if a lightning bolt strikes him. First because my presence has been revealed. Then, I presume, because of the picture he is presenting at this moment, that of the boy seduced, having casually placed his hand on the girl’s hip. Hard to do worse. He has the paleness and rigidity of a corpse. The girl doesn’t notice anything, she continues smiling coyly, and shouting things in his ear because of the loud music and also no doubt to accentuate their closeness. He’s no longer paying attention but she doesn’t realize it. Only the friend next to him seems intrigued by the change in his facial expression, in the position of his body. But the friend doesn’t deduce anything, it seems, since he does not look at me. He doesn’t understand that I’m responsible for this transformation.

  * * *

  And what do I look like? I must not look much better. The pain must disfigure me, adding a mixture of spite and sadness to my expression. Nadine comes back holding two cups of punch. She sees everything, knowing me too well. Years later, she’ll confide in me that she understood everything that night. Seeing my discomfort, she understood the love I carried for the dark-eyed boy and understood, too, my general love for boys. She had this revelation there, or rather the confirmation of it. As if she’d known before that moment, but the knowledge hadn’t yet reached her consciousness. There, in the dim light of a birthday party, it became clear to her. At the time, she says nothing. She hands me a plastic cup. I take it as if in slow motion.

  I drink an inordinate amount of alcohol, throwing back the punch all night. I keep going back to serve myself from a large bowl with ragged pieces of blood oranges floating in it.

  I talk to strangers, asking questions, pretending to be interested in them, and maybe I really am interested in them. It’s just another way of not thinking about Thomas. The next day, some will go so far as to say that I’m a nice guy, so much better than his reputation.

  I dance too even though I still don’t know how to dance. I’m ashamed of my body and its weakness. But so what, we dance on volcanos, as the expression says. And anyway it’s not fear of ridicule that’s killing me.

  I go out into the garden, hang out on the lawn. Some guys are smoking cigarettes in a corner and I ask them if I can have a drag. They laugh at my drunkenness but offer me one and I immediately start coughing. I’m definitely no good at it.

  I ask where the bathroom is and I rush in and vomit. I stay in there for a long time with my head bent over the toilet. There’s knocking on the door.

  I get back on track. I dance again, forgetting my body, forgetting my humiliation.

  Thomas and I avoid each other.

  I say to myself: Basically, what’s new? Don’t we already spend most of our time avoiding each other? Missing each other? I smile at the double meaning—an unsightly, tragic smile, of course.

  * * *

  Later in the night, I’m seized by the desire to kiss him, to break from the crowd and go to him. Alcohol has lifted all my inhibitions. All except this one. Even in my current state of abandon I remain obedient to him, aware of the mortal risk I’d run. I decide to leave the party.

  * * *

  After, I remember walking home for a long time on the edge of the road in the cold, coming at last to the depre
ssing gleam of the lampposts that signal the entrance to the city and twisting my ankle in a crack in the pavement. A dog barked, waking my parents. (The light went on in their room upstairs. They must have looked at the clock and whispered to each other.) I collapsed on my bed without even undressing. I had the time to think all the way home about how affairs of the body are so much more preferable to affairs of the heart, but that sometimes you don’t have the choice.

  * * *

  When I see Thomas, two days later, I vow not to mention this evening, this shipwreck. He too doesn’t say a word on the subject. We make love. It seems to me that there is a little more tenderness than usual. However, when our bodies are lying next to each other, eyes turned to the ceiling, the words we were not supposed to say all spill out. They are the cause of our first crisis. My jealousy erupts. My childishness. The explanation is stormy and awkward. Thomas lets me speak. At the end, he says: It’s like that, there’s nothing to discuss (to negotiate, I think he even says). If you prefer, we can stop. Right now, immediately, if you can’t stand it anymore. I say: No, I don’t want to stop. The terror of losing him outweighs any other consideration.

  * * *

  The clandestine meetings resume as before. Kisses on the body. Love in my bedroom. Everything in this room that belongs only to us. Everything that is incommunicable to the rest of the world.

  * * *

  One time, only once, do we face the unthinkable. My mother comes home unexpectedly. She didn’t feel well and asked her boss to leave the office early. She slips her key into the front door but we don’t hear her from the attic. She enters the house, drops her purse and things, thinking she’s alone, and is surprised to hear echoes of conversation emanating from my room, since no one was supposed to be there. Worried, she calls out my name, but there’s no answer. We are in a postcoital daze. Since she doesn’t get an answer, my mother heads upstairs, her worry intensifying with every creak of the stairs under her feet. We hear the creaking and freeze, petrified. What can we do? Do we jump out of bed, running the risk of convincing her that something isn’t right and thus hastening her up the steps, or do we not move and get discovered like this, stretched out naked in bed? She repeats my name, and I understand that it’s my mother who approaches, that she will be there any minute, on the other side of the door, one foot away from seeing her world collapse. She is about to push the door open, it’s inevitable now (but why is she not afraid? Why doesn’t she run?); I say: Yes, I’m here, working. She says: But you are not alone, I heard talking. I say: I’m with a friend, we have a class that was canceled, and we came here to prepare a presentation. She says: Ah, well, I won’t bother you then. She doesn’t dare to push open the door. In the end we are saved by my ability to invent plausible lies. Then she says: But if you want a snack, I’ll fix you something (she still prepares snacks for her seventeen-year-old son). I say: Thanks, but it’s okay. I add: How are you? Why did you come back so early? (Thomas scolds me with a furious whisper: Why do you push it? She was leaving! I tell him: It confirms that I haven’t done anything wrong, that there is no “wolf,” I know how lies need to be cloaked.) My mother describes her migraine to me and the accompanying chills, still through the door, and finally says: I must be coming down with something. And then she goes back downstairs. Later, when Thomas and I appear in the kitchen as well-groomed high school seniors, cleansed of our sins and above suspicion, she looks at us without guile. Thomas walks over to shake her hand, respectfully. That evening she says: He is well brought up, your friend.