A Slight Case of Fatigue

by Stephane Bourguignon

  She ended her tirade leaning against the dining room table, her arms crossed. The area around her eyelids and at the base of her nose had turned a pinkish hue. I used to love to watch that. What Véronique was feeling at that moment had nothing to do with the weakness she showed in talking to me about her lovers or turning my son against me. It was not animosity or meanness. It was pure sadness. A precious vein of sadness running through the rock among the grotesque layers of pride and resentment. And under the pressure of that sadness, her mucous membranes were activated, exactly as her hair would stand up from fear or her nipples would get hard from the cold. These reactions had their source in something fundamentally organic. It was enough to make you want to be human.

  “How do you expect me to answer that, Véronique? Just because I realized one day that I didn’t love you anymore, that doesn’t mean I started to hate you. I could have spent the rest of my life with you. Loads of people do that.”

  “So why couldn’t you? You thought you were stronger than other people?”

  “I’ve explained it to you twenty times.”

  “So make it twenty-one.”

  “No, not today. I have housecleaning to do.”

  I felt her delicately scented breath envelop my face. I didn’t think about germs. I looked closely at the lines accentuating her eyes, the fine down along her cheek and the vivid red of her lips that stood out ­dramatically against her pale skin. A magnificent woman.

  I wanted to tuck a loose wisp of hair back behind her ear, but I ­didn’t dare. She smiled kind of tenderly at me and we stood looking deep into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. Could I have guessed at that moment that in just a few days I would find myself in a hotel room with her?

  “Don’t forget to double my alimony next month.”

  Now that Maxime was going to live there full-time, she would be the one with all the expenses. I tried to explain to her that we ­couldn’t simply double the amount, since some of the expenses were hers. It was the other part, the expenses related to Maxime, that I had to ­double. She had been working with figures her entire professional life and no one had ever been able to cheat her out of a dollar, so she conceded that point to me.

  As soon as Véronique was out the door, I started to tremble. Since I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since the day before at Michel’s, I decided to grab a beer. As I was opening the fridge, I realized I was holding my ex-wife’s keys in my hand. How had they got there? A ­sudden flush of heat swept over me and I had to lean on the counter to regain my composure.

  Véronique reappeared at the door. I attempted to smile at her, but I don’t think the experiment was successful. She frowned and opened the door.

  “Are you okay, Édouard?”

  My eyes rolled back in my head and I felt on the verge of collapse. Véronique held out her hand, probably intending to lead me to the couch. I saw the astonishment on her face. Her lips were moving, but I didn’t hear anything. I clung to her arm as my legs gave way under me. She was the one who ended up on the floor, while I managed to grab hold of the counter. She looked ridiculous, and that made me smile. She sat up and raised her skirt to examine her knee. Another wave of heat swept over me, and this time the room started spinning as well. My muscles gave way, my hands slipped on the surface of the counter, and I spun to the ground. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on my back between my wife’s legs with my head between her knees.

  “What are you doing, Édouard?”

  I could see a bit of her panties. Panties I had pulled off and tossed away in various rooms—bedroom, kitchen, living room, bathroom, basement, attic—white panties always, white panties I had pulled down, nibbled at, torn. I knew her sex by heart. Six years of separation did not erase the memory of thousands of face-to-face encounters. That was where everything had started—love, Maxime, it had all come from there … desire, beauty, being attractive, feeling attractive again, ­bigger than life, stronger than anything, regaining a role that was so clear and so extravagant to play. Then it all went away, quietly, on tiptoe, back bent, shoes in hand so as not to wake anyone—love, desire, wonder, those globes that coloured everything, that cast their rosy glow on the world, gone away with little muffled footsteps.

  She pushed me away with her foot and leapt to her feet. I stayed lying there, my eyes rolled back a bit, trying to understand what was happening to me. She was furious. She circled me, limping and ­brushing herself off.

  “Feeling better now?”

  I could hear her voice, and I was hugely pleased that my hearing had come back. I shook my head timidly. She walked to the telephone, muttering. All this time, I was looking at the ceiling. When she came back, she opened my shirt collar to give me air. I had to talk to her, I absolutely had to say something to her.

  “No, don’t tire yourself, Édouard, another time.”

  She was visibly irritated by the whole spectacle. Circumstances were forcing her to become more involved than she wanted. This little visit definitely hadn’t turned out the way she’d intended. I grabbed her arm and asked her to listen to me carefully.

  “You’re not going to tell me you still love me, I hope. What’s got into you, Édouard? If you do that after everything you’ve put me through, I think I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  “I don’t know how you’re going to take this, it’s a bit awkward … ”

  Her face clouded with anxiety. I glimpsed her vulnerability, the deep fear of disorder against which she had very early in her life called upon figures, boxes and columns.

  “I don’t have any life insurance anymore, Véronique. I had to cancel it all. I was flat broke. If I die, you’ll have to provide for Max all by yourself.”

  A wave of relief washed over her face. Or so I imagined.

  A few minutes later, two guys knocked on the door. They came over to me and asked me a series of questions, to which I replied much too seriously with yes or no. I tried to imagine what the scene looked like from above, to float at ceiling level and see myself, the wise guy, lying awkwardly in the kitchen under the scornful gaze of my ex-wife, flanked by two ambulance attendants, like some middle-aged fool who’s decided to do everything predictably, including having his first heart attack.

  And then to go up a little higher and float above the neighbourhood, above the fabulous backyard—the shame of my son—that, despite repeated notices from the municipality, I could never bring myself to raze. To see that dense growth, that amazing thicket, that unmanageable cowlick in the well-groomed coiffure of the suburbs. To see that affront to the fashion of the century, to cleanliness, antisepsis, management and organization. To see my very first act of dissent.

  4

  “WOULD YOU MIND explaining to me what you’re doing here?” shouted Michel.

  I turned my head and saw him in the doorway. He was grinning like a guy who’s landed in the Sahara with tartufi for everyone.

  “Eddy, Eddy, Eddy … ”

  He crossed the room shaking his head—it was so pathetic!—and put an arm around me, crushing my ribs. But I had to admit that the rough skin of his face, the cloud of cologne that always surrounded him, and his wet lips on my forehead were about all I had left.

  Just then the nurse came in. She looked at us with a little smile, ­wondering who she was dealing with.

  “Oh, I see,” exclaimed Michel when he saw her. “Now I understand what you’re up to here!”

  She asked me if everything was okay. I felt like telling her that everything had always been okay and that it was precisely for that reason that I hadn’t been vigilant. But I opted for a more appropriate choice of words:

  “Yes, but if you wouldn’t mind calling security, I’d like this man thrown out.”

  “You’re the one who’s going to be thrown out. The doctor’s ­coming. He’s going to discharge you.”

  Michel took the opportunity to explain to me that he had ­managed to have me transferred to the psychiatric wing and that Véronique had offered to take car
e of my things. I pointed out that she was already taking care of them. They laughed in unison. For a second, I saw a kind of complicity between them, as if they were in collusion—Michel has slept with almost all the near-sighted and far-sighted women in the city. Finally, he turned to me, looking serious, and asked:

  “What happened with your wife?”

  “Ex-wife, Michel! Shit, after six years, you’d think you’d remember that.”

  “She was in quite a state when she phoned me.”

  I sat up on the edge of the bed, on the window side. It suddenly came back to me that a few hours earlier I had rediscovered her crotch after six years of absence, but that nothing in particular had been revived. At least not on this side.

  “I think she was afraid you were done for.”

  My clothes were there, neatly folded on the little chair: pants, a shirt, two socks and, on the floor, a pair of running shoes. As if a man had been sitting on that chair and had disappeared.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think she still loves you.”

  Then I thought of Simone. Incredible Simone, who had discreetly been placing milestones and landmarks in my life for ten years. I was deeply convinced she was the only one who would never leave me, who would never vanish. I asked Michel if he had let her know. I would have loved to see her appear in the doorway, with her sad smile, in a world of her own.

  “Yes, I let her know. But I’m talking about your wife now, Eddy. I’d really like to know what your intentions are with regard to her.”

  “He’s going to have an electrocardiogram!” said the dynamic young doctor, very happy to have gone through all those years of school that now enabled him to alleviate suffering, to save lives, and to hire guys like me to do his landscaping.

  He came over to the bed and handed me a paper with the address of a clinic on it. Everything was normal according to him, it was just a slight case of fatigue. I immediately turned and looked at Michel. I doubted that he would be able to keep his big mouth shut. And indeed, he told the doctor he suspected that I had already been in burnout for several months. The doctor smiled politely at him. That’s what they always do when someone makes a diagnosis for them. Nothing ­irritates them more.

  “By the way, your wife is very pretty. If she’d been the one who’d had this episode, I would definitely have kept her here longer.”

  And he laughed a hearty all-expenses-paid-pharmaceutical-conference-in-the-Caribbean laugh.

  “Ex-wife,” I corrected him.

  “But she still loves him,” Michel felt impelled to add.

  I buttoned my shirt, staring at the vacant lot behind the hospital. An elm half a century old, probably planted when the building was ­constructed, was growing there, all alone. I was too far away to see the traces of sawdust between the cracks in the bark, but its dry brown leaves left no doubt. It was infected with Dutch elm disease. The bark beetles, in their network of galleries, could now reproduce in peace. How can you fight a disease that has wormed its way into every ­orifice, every pore? What can you do when the sickness is everywhere?

  I wanted to be alone for a few moments, and I asked Michel to wait outside.

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby, I’ve already seen your muscular little ass! Speaking of ass, we’re going to a samba party tonight and I’d like it if you came with us. It’ll take your mind off things. Did I tell you we were taking samba lessons?”

  “No, Michel, for some unknown reason, you kept that juicy little detail from me. I’d like get dressed in peace, if you don’t mind … ”

  The door closed. I took my pants from the chair, wondering if his passion for dancing was going to last any longer than the ones he’d had, one after the other, for the stock market, timeshares and Quebec cheeses. Then the door opened again. I slowly turned my head, thinking he was coming back with more nonsense. My son was there in the doorway, his long arms reaching practically to his ankles. Like the crotch of his pants. It must be international pathetic day. Still, as soon as I sensed his presence, a hard kernel inside me broke and I felt a hot, smooth liquid spreading through my chest.

  I’m standing at the kitchen sink, covered in sweat, drinking a glass of water. Maxime is five. He’s running around the house as naked as a jaybird. Véronique, in her sun dress, doesn’t like this. She thinks he’s too old for this kind of thing.

  “Maxime, you know I don’t like it when you go around like that in the house.”

  That makes him smile. He loves it that his nudity bothers his mother. I’m here, it screams out. I exist. And I’m already starting to trespass on the grown-ups’ territory.

  “Okay then, come outside with me, Max. Outside, as we all know, isn’t in the house.”

  And we go out the door under Véronique’s disapproving gaze, and I continue my activities, hauling earth and stones in the wheelbarrow. After a few minutes, I glance around to see what Maxime is up to. I spot him squatting, still stark naked, in front of the raspberry bushes. He’s picking the tiny fruits and putting them in his mouth one by one. His fingers are stained red and so is his mouth, and he must have wiped his hands on his thighs from time to time, because they too bear the mark of his crime. This is no longer my son. He’s any child in the world, from any time. Somewhere in East Africa, three million years ago, he has spent the night huddling against his mother, nestled in the fork of a sturdy bough. And in the early morning, he eats these berries, which don’t give him a belly ache. Later he will go and dig in the ground for roots and rhizomes. And maybe, unwatched by the females of the pack, he’ll try his luck with a mushroom or two. The same concerns: to eat the world, to touch the world, to discover with hands, eyes, ears, taste buds. To make it his own. The same sensations—the cool of the wind and rain, the heat of the sun and of others’ bodies, fear—and the same ways of reassuring himself, of convincing himself he’s not lost. What was that alarming noise? What moved in that bush? Is mother nearby? Is there a place to escape to? And the same feelings—love, want, possession, fear of not being accepted, of being abandoned, of being forgotten when the troop moves on. That damn fear of being left behind.

  I walk slowly over to him. When I come into his field of vision, he’s startled, and he looks at me. It’s me, Maxime. I know, Papa, I ­recognized the shape of your body, your outline, the expression on your face, even your smell. I’ve had all this information about you stored up for a long time. And he smiles at me. Because it’s me, of course, but also because the raspberries are full of water and sugar, and this pleasure can be understood by any human being of any time, with no need for words or grunts. He picks another one and presents it to me. I squat down beside him. My thighs, my arms and my shoulders hurt. My muscles are swollen with effort, saturated with blood and oxygen. The same oxygen we all breathe, a billion times renewed. I delicately take the ­raspberry. Maxime, five years old, naked, watches me bring it to my mouth, unaware that he is taking part in an age-old drama. Then he returns to his task.

  “Want another one, Papa?”

  I lift him off the ground and press him to my chest. He wraps his legs around my waist, puts his arms around my neck and lays his head on my shoulder. This position, too, is age-old. His sweat mixes with the fine dew covering my torso, and his child’s smell with the smell of my sweat. And for a moment, we share a sense of relief: he is protected, I am the protector.

  “It was nice of you to come, Maxime. Thank you.”

  “Maman asked me to. She went away for the weekend with Philippe.”

  He stood there without moving, not knowing what to add or even where to look. His buddy Luc must have been waiting downstairs or something. I slipped my feet into my running shoes.

  “Philippe, the guy who’s allergic to chlorophyll?”

  “He’s really cool. He has a BMW and he lets me drive it.”

  There it was. In Nicaragua or Sierra Leone, children have held machine guns before they had hair in their armpits; in Angola, ­starving kids have discovered they can quiet their hunger
for several hours by sucking a gasoline-soaked rag. My son, more privileged, has had the opportunity over the years to develop an ingenious system for ­judging the basic value of a human being: how much their car is worth and whether or not they’ll let him drive it.

  “I have to pick up some things at the house. Can you lend me your key? I can’t find mine.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, son.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your things are already outside … in one or more pieces.”

  5

  I WAS RUNNING on the treadmill, my chest covered with electrodes. The heart monitor beside me was trying to make me believe I was still alive. Run, buddy, go on, run. The nurse was twenty-five at most. She had the assurance of youth and the straight back and high breasts that go with it.

  “Everything okay, sir?”

  “Yes, phew, thank you.”

  “You can stop whenever you want … ”

  I was nothing to her, I didn’t exist. A heart hooked up to electrodes. She was waiting for five o’clock. Whether you pump or stop pumping, fella, I have to go to the daycare to pick up my little sweetie-pie and then go home to my other sweetie-pie. I’m in the market of life, you understand? I’m twenty-five years old, I spend, I give, I take, I save, and I still hope to be saved.

  In the village of my childhood, there’s an eleven-year-old girl I’ve ­managed to get to come with me under the station platform for a third day in a row. But this time I’ve eluded Michel’s vigilance; he must be looking for me in the schoolyard, asking our friends if by any chance they’ve seen Eddy.

  It’s lunch hour and we’re smoking cigarettes before going back to class. Three or four a day, depending on the day, depending on the degree of our nausea. She’s beautiful. She’s not the first girl I’ve found beautiful, but this one has something more. What she has is that we’re both eleven, and that my body is more and more present in the world—it makes demands on me and it wants to make demands on others too.