He kept talking nonstop, and I could barely see him. I was floating, I swear I was floating, we were both floating. There was no more bed, no more cancer, no more plastic tube. He talked about his book, and I believed in it too. That book existed. At that moment, in that room, between ourselves. It wasn’t his dream anymore, or my lie. It was a book. Like he’d said. With “Pierre Marès” under the title. And a dedication inside.
I don’t remember the rest. I left when they came in to get him ready for the night. I was groggy, dazed with happiness. I barely heard the nurses. Someone put a hand on my shoulder, gently. I kissed Pierre. He was laughing, I’ve forgotten why. I went out backward, so I could enjoy the sight of him as long as possible. When I crossed the threshold, he called out, “See you tomorrow.” I went down the corridor. As I got in the elevator, I was still laughing. I saw an orderly approaching, so I blocked the door with my foot. He was going to the ground floor too. I pressed the button. He gave me a sidelong look, and I could sense that he was uncomfortable. I was still laughing, I couldn’t manage to stop. I told him that I was sorry, that I understood his discomfort. It wasn’t polite to giggle like that in a hospital. He frowned. He asked me if everything was all right. I asked him why, and he placed a hand on my arm.
“You’re crying.”
8
I saw them too late. I already had one foot in the room, and they turned toward me. It would have been ridiculous to go out again, but I was tempted. They surely must have noticed the little pause in the middle of my step.
Lucille’s parents were there, looking at me without saying a word. I held out one hand to the grandfather and waved in the old lady’s direction with the other. Pierre was asleep, lying on his side, with one corner of the bed covers wedged under his right shoulder. The silence was heavy and thick. I think we were all waiting for someone else to decide to talk. My eyes were riveted on my son, and that made me feel as though I could remain silent. A nurse came in. We moved aside so that she could change the IV bag. As I watched her work, I told myself I could seize the opportunity to escape.
“We don’t often see one another.”
It was the old man who’d said that. It didn’t sound like a reproach. I paused for a while before replying.
“I…I work a lot. And then, with Pierre and the hospital, there’s not much time left.”
I hated myself for explaining that to him. Justifying yourself is admitting you’re wrong. I had nothing to prove to him.
“Yes, of course. Forgive me.”
Hearing him apologize made me uneasy. Pierre wasn’t waking up.
“He fell asleep shortly after we arrived,” the old man informed me. “We haven’t seen a doctor. Is there…is there any news?”
He raised his eyes. This time, nothing showed in them but the pain he was feeling inside.
“No, not really.” I swallowed quietly and peered out the window. “It’s not looking too good…”
The end of my sentence dissolved into the whiteness of the walls. I had the feeling that I owed the old couple more—they had a right to know. But I didn’t have the strength. I jumped when he said, “And you? You okay?”
I said I was fine, I was bearing up. It was easier to talk about me, and so I did. I told him about my taxi, the night shifts, the price of parking at the hospital. I grumbled, and that relaxed him.
A nurse announced that visiting hours were over. I kissed Pierre on the forehead and joined the old couple, who were waiting for me outside. We walked down the corridor, three abreast. I wondered if tragedies brought people together. I thought not: it was just what people called “empathy”; it was just that being nice to the father of a sick person was viewed as proper behavior. I had an urge to be alone in my taxi, to drive around without any passengers.
“Will you come and have dinner with us?”
I had almost reached the car when he made that proposal.
“I’ve got to work, I—”
“Come on, let’s go. Just for an hour. My treat.”
It was only about a ten-minute drive. I had the feeling he was familiar with the place he was leading me to. Since Pierre’s hospitalization, I’d managed not to run into them, but Pierre had told me his grandparents came to see him. That was good, I thought.
I followed them into a restaurant parking lot. It was one of those big chain restaurants, the kind you often find by the side of a highway. I got out of my cab and went to open the grandmother’s door. She didn’t thank me. She didn’t smile, either—I don’t remember ever seeing her smile.
The interior of the restaurant was all red velour. The floor, the seats, even the chair backs. Balloons attached to strings were floating more or less everywhere.
A waiter pulled two tables together and we sat down. They were both facing me. I thought it looked like an interrogation.
We dived into the menu because that was a way to avoid conversation. I ordered steak tartare and a draft beer. The old lady struggled to decipher many of the menu items. I observed her and thought she resembled her daughter. The eyes, maybe the nose—and a bit of everything else, no doubt. The more I studied her in detail, the more it stuck in my throat. I wasn’t sure I wanted that. The emotion, the memories. I asked myself what I was doing there.
Finally, when the waiter came back a second time, she ordered a salad. She laid her menu aside, and I was reassured to see her face return to its usual glumness.
We waited. I could see that I had no more excuses, so I asked about the dog.
“He’s just fine.”
I sighed. I wondered if he was doing it on purpose.
“He’s getting pretty old, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes, yes, of course, he’s tired a lot. But he’s hanging in there!”
He’d said that almost joyfully. I promised myself to finish off that dog next time I passed by their house. All I’d have to do is run over him and play innocent.
There was a brief silence, and then the grandfather’s face brightened. “Pierre told us about his book. That’s really good news!”
This landed on me like a punch. Of course Pierre had talked to them about his book—he talked to everybody about his book. I scrutinized the old man. His eyes were glistening.
It suddenly occurred to me to wonder if he knew. Had he brought up the subject to embarrass me? He put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. It made a strange impression—as if they were now not two, but one. My pulse quickened. I was afraid, I took a deep breath. No, that was stupid, he couldn’t possibly know.
“Yanis? Are you okay?”
I jumped. I drank a sip of my beer and tried to put on a good face. “Yes, yes, forgive me. You’re right, all this news about Pierre’s book is fabulous. But you know, he deserves it!”
The grandfather nodded, and it seemed to me that the old lady was smiling too. That made her look like Lucille again. But what got into me? I fixed my eyes on my glass and started talking at top speed.
I told them it hadn’t been easy. In the beginning, I said, Pierre had asked me to submit his manuscript everywhere. The wait had been interminable. First there were letters of rejection. And then, one day, bang, we had a winner! How it had happened was incredible.
“A woman called me up to sing Pierre’s praises. Like he’s already a great writer, the book’s going to be a hit, that sort of thing. I have to say, his book really is very good! I think a lot of editors will be kicking themselves…”
They were both staring at me and looking fascinated. I realized that I had an untouched plate in front of me.
“And when is it going to come out, this book?” the old man asked.
I hesitated. “I…actually, I’m not sure. Publication is a very long process, you know.”
“Pierre…a writer!” he gasped admiringly. “It’s a shame Lucille’s not here to see this!”
There was no more anim
osity, no more anything. I was rattled. I told myself that maybe the situation we were in didn’t allow us to replay old grudges. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that I couldn’t measure up. Tears came to my eyes. All on its own, the question sprang out of my mouth: “How do you do it?”
The old man looked me over for a moment. “How do we do what?”
“About Lucille.”
I told them about my doubts, about the hours I’d spent torturing myself. In a shaky voice, I confessed that there had been nights when I’d fantasized about the police calling to say yes, they finally had proof, she had intended to die. I talked about the other nights too—the times when I’d wished for the opposite. I confided to them that I was fine with suffering, I could take it, but suffering normally, in a way already marked out by others. I didn’t give a damn if she’d killed herself or not; what I wanted was to know, just to know, because not knowing was driving me crazy.
Silence fell again. I was already regretting my words and feeling ashamed. I was about to get up from my seat when the old man murmured, “Lucille died in a tragic automobile accident, Yanis. It was none of your doing, it wasn’t your fault.”
I shook my head. “No…It’s not that…Pardon me, I shouldn’t be talking to you about it. It’s just that…it’s so hard…”
I was afraid I was making them feel sorry for me. I didn’t want that.
The grandfather’s eyes were glistening. A sob escaped his throat when he tried to talk. His wife put a hand on his arm and leaned toward me.
“It’s like a box, Yanis.”
There was something in her voice. A hint of tenderness. The same tones as Lucille, I think, but I’m not sure.
“What’s like a box?”
“This whole story,” she replied. “This story is a box you can’t open.”
The old man sat up straight again. He’d recovered his calm.
“What she means, Yanis, is that the truth died with Lucille. Forever. Now there are only some suppositions. Some maybes, and the weight you decide to give them.”
I tried to pull myself together. I was hot, sweating under my shirt.
“Right, I agree,” I said nervously. “We’ll never know. That much is true, no doubt about it. But how is it possible to live with that, damn it!”
I had practically shouted. My words were addressed to him, but it was the old lady who answered me: “You choose.”
I stared at her, uncertain whether she was mocking me. Her dour appearance remained unchanged, and I found that impressive. Her eyes, however, seemed to be getting rounder.
“How do you mean?”
“You choose. Or, if you prefer, you invent the truth.”
“What?”
I couldn’t grasp her meaning, but I had the feeling she was talking down to me. Frustration was making me numb.
“The box is closed, Yanis. Forever.”
Enough with the box! That outburst was seething inside of me, but I kept it there. I didn’t want to get upset in a restaurant.
“It’s closed,” the old woman repeated. “You can’t spend your life wondering what’s inside! No one can live like that…and that’s the reason why you have to choose. There’s no other solution.”
She had raised her voice. I’d never heard her talk like that. I tried to concentrate, but my head ached.
“You want me to decide what reality is? No…I can’t do that…”
“Of course you can! You’re already doing it for Pierre…”
She hadn’t looked at me when she said that. I got up, left some bills on the table, and walked out.
9
I had almost reached my car when the old man caught up with me.
“Wait, Yanis. I’m so sorry. My wife meant no harm.”
He grabbed my arm. I jerked it to shake him off, but he tightened his grip.
“Listen, I know it hasn’t always been easy between us, but you can believe me about this: Lucille was our daughter, we suffered at least as much as you did. For her mother, it was atrocious. So all this stuff about the box, you see, that’s her trick, that’s her way of muddling through. Others may find it absurd, true enough, but I think I understand her. After all, not knowing, that may be a kind of luck. There are so few things in life you really choose…So why not decide for yourself, just once? Decide on reality, your reality, the one you’ve chosen? It won’t be worth less than any other one, don’t you think?”
As I didn’t reply, he moved closer to me, murmuring, “We just want to help you, Yanis. Both of us. What’s going on with Pierre must be—”
“Thanks. It’s nice of you, but I don’t need anything.” I jerked my arm abruptly. He released me, and I got into my cab.
I drove without stopping. My hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that I could feel the rigidity in my muscles at every curve. I thought about the old woman, about Lucille, about the box-and-reality business. I thought about Pierre.
The taste in my mouth was complex, hard to define. A terrible bitterness that wouldn’t go away. I took a stick of chewing gum out of the pocket in the door and chewed with all my might.
I parked in front of the all-night bistro where I knew I’d find François. His team was playing a European Cup match, and he never missed such a contest. One day, accompanying his words with big gestures, he’d told me, “Other matches, I can listen to them on the radio, but not those! They’re too important.”
I stepped inside and there he was, sitting with his elbows on the bar in the best spot for viewing the screen bracketed to the wall. He was drinking a half-pint of beer. I ordered the same.
“Hello, old pal!” he exclaimed when he saw me.
“Hello.”
“You’re here to watch some soccer? You won’t be sorry—we’re already ahead, one to nothing.”
I didn’t say anything. He went back to concentrating on the match. I still had that knot in my stomach, and the old lady’s words echoing inside me.
“François?”
“Hmm?”
“You think there’s such a thing as a good lie?”
He didn’t take his eyes off the screen; the ball he was following flew over the crossbar. He said, “A good lie?”
“Yeah. I mean, do you think there are situations where it’s better to tell a lie?”
“Like when you’re trying to score with a girl?”
“No, no.”
“Hustling a customer?”
“No, not that either. A situation where you lie because it’s better for everybody. So no one gets hurt, for example.”
“Ah…”
Once again he sat up straight, his nose pointed at the screen. He froze for an instant, and then he sighed. “Shit…pretty close.”
I felt like getting out of there. He turned to me. “Sorry, Yanis. So, useful lies, is that it?”
Useful. I didn’t like the word. I had said good.
“You haven’t told Lucille’s parents about Pierre’s cancer, is that it?”
“What? Of course I have! They know all about it, I swear!”
He looked reassured. I rubbed my eyes. Deep down, I was no longer sure of what I meant to say. I tried to explain, and he shrugged. “It’s complicated…,” he murmured. “Maybe you have to ask the question the other way around.”
“The other way around?”
“Well, you see, what you’re telling me, I understand what you’re getting at. You want to spare other people, is that it?”
I nodded.
“Okay, when it’s said like that, of course it sounds fine. But if you turn the thing around? For example, do you like being lied to?”
I muttered that it depended, that it wasn’t the same thing.
“That’s what you have to ask yourself,” François went on. “Would you, in the same situation, prefer to hea
r the truth? Me, I wouldn’t want people telling me fibs…no matter what the circumstances were! It’s a question of respect, you see.”
I murmured a “yes” as I massaged my brow. I had a headache that wouldn’t stop.
“What is it, Yanis?”
“Huh? Nothing.”
He was staring at me, a stern look I’d never seen on his face before. I stammered, “Nothing, nothing, I swear.”
“If there’s something, I’d rather you told me.”
I repeated that there was nothing for him to worry about. I don’t think he believed me, but he didn’t insist. “Come on, old buddy,” he said, turning back toward the TV. “Don’t worry about things so much. Here, check out the match: we just scored a second goal!”
10
After I left François, I drove over to the train station, looking to pick up a fare. I love the city at night. There are certain streets that aren’t very well lit at all. Shadows drift along the sidewalks. I’m not afraid; the interior of my cab reassures me. I feel safe, sheltered from everything outside my little world.
The sky clouded up and rain began to fall. Lights bulged and dimmed. At an intersection, I watched through the windshield as a stoplight turned into a reddish smudge. That reminded me of an August night I’d spent with Pierre—he must have been eight at the time. We’d rented a boat for a week, an old sailboat named Mojo. We’d go sailing along the coast, and in the evening we’d anchor in a cove and do a little diving. That was a fabulous week. There was nobody but the two of us—isolation is the main advantage of boating. Time stretches out; there’s never any real rush.
On our last day, Pierre insisted on sailing at night. I wasn’t wild about the idea, but he pleaded with me. I could feel his excitement growing. I yielded, because I don’t know how to say no. I decreed that we should both wear our seatbelts, and he promised, sighing, that he would.
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