A Slight Case of Fatigue

by Stephane Bourguignon

  “Do you have a girlfriend right now, or do you think love and sex are overrated?”

  “No, I don’t have one.”

  “Could you elaborate a bit?”

  “There’s nothing to add.”

  “Are you gay then? It would be fine if you were gay. We could have a big scene where I’d show you I love you anyway, that I accept you as you are, and it would be a really moving moment between us, don’t you think? All those years when we had lost touch with each other, we could pretend it was because you thought I would react badly when I found out. And then you’d throw yourself in my arms weeping and I would nearly have an accident and I’d make an emergency stop on the shoulder and we’d have a good laugh.”

  “I’m not gay. It’s just that the girls I like aren’t interested in me.”

  I sneaked a glance at him. I was rather surprised that he’d just come out with it like that. I looked back at the road, a bit stunned, and turned toward him again.

  “But, uh … what about … what was her name, the little brunette —or was she more auburn?—that you were seeing last year?”

  “Melissa. I went out with her five times … ”

  “No, it went on for months!”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I told you.”

  I was seeing cars everywhere, white lines whizzing by, road signs rushing past at the edges of my peripheral vision, and my brain ­couldn’t sort out what it was supposed to register and what it should ignore. Unable to keep up, I moved out of the left lane. The guy who had been about to climb onto my back bumper passed me with a rude gesture. Once I was in the centre lane, I was able to slow down still more.

  “Too bad, she was pretty, that girl.”

  “You never met her.”

  What was he talking about? Of course I’d met her. What planet was this kid from, with his gangly arms and pouty lips? Max turned toward the border of hardwood trees streaming by endlessly on his side. I blinked a few times to try to focus my attention on the back of the car ahead. It was no use, I couldn’t do it.

  “Which ones did I meet, then?”

  “You only met Nadia.”

  “Can you tell me why all the girls your age have names ending in a? It really complicates things.”

  He didn’t laugh. I let the guy in front get a bit farther ahead of me. If he were to hit the brakes, I couldn’t be sure the message would get to my foot on time.

  “Only Maman met the others.”

  What did that mean? Why did “Maman” have a right to that, and not me?

  “I have an idea, son, let’s you and I use this weekend to work on something. I think it could make your future relationships with girls easier.”

  He was wondering if I was serious or if I was going to hand him some kind of bullshit. I thought I could see distress in his eyes. Strangely, it didn’t keep me from continuing.

  “Repeat after me, okay?”

  He looked at me uncomprehendingly.

  “Say ‘M’man.’”

  “M’man?”

  “Yes, son. If I were a Vanessa or a Laura—or even a Magnolia, for crying out loud—and I heard a tall, good-looking guy of eighteen say Ma-man in two distinct syllables, honestly, I think I’d give him the number of a psychologist. Or a massage parlour.”

  “Why don’t you ask why I didn’t introduce you to the others, why I didn’t dare invite them to your wonderful house, why I didn’t want to run the risk of you coming out with one of your hilarious remarks that put everyone at ease?”

  I placed both hands on the steering wheel the way they teach you to do in driving school, the left hand at ten o’clock and the right at two o’clock. I wanted to maximize my chances.

  Maxime is five years old. For a few weeks, he’s been waking up once or twice a night, and every time, he calls out “Papa?”

  The final a hasn’t finished sounding and I’m already awake. Worn out from my workday, I drag myself laboriously out of bed and walk to his bedroom like a rusty machine.

  “What is it, Maxime?”

  And he goes back to sleep without answering, instantly, right in front of my eyes. He doesn’t need anything, except the knowledge that when he calls, “Papa” in the dark, he triggers a chain reaction that makes me appear in his bedroom, terribly big, terribly imposing, with the ­particular texture of my voice and my smell from under the covers. And the aloneness is gone, the immensity of the world shrinks in a ­single stroke and takes on tolerable proportions.

  One hand at ten o’clock and the other at two o’clock. That’s the method I’d used in my family life. I had held on to the steering wheel so hard for so many years that my bones still hurt. The tailspin I was in since I lost my grip was priceless. Every second of this painful disintegration must be worth its weight in gold. I would come out of it stronger, more human. If I came out of it, that is.

  I asked Maxime why it was so important to have a well-maintained house like all the neighbours. Was it completely off-the-wall to ­imagine creating your own codes and your own laws precisely to add a ­little variety to the landscape? At any rate, as far as I could recall, and even according to my more recent observations, lots of children dreamed of having an eccentric, defiant father like me.

  “Not me,” he said simply. “And I think you’re making it more romantic than it actually is.”

  To be or not to be like everybody else, that was a very human question, especially during adolescence. I can’t say it had ever crossed my mind that I could be harming my son by neglecting appearances. But I also knew that, even beyond that difficult age, conformism was still the most common way to counter loneliness. And the most pathetic one, too. I hadn’t asked much of Maxime during all these years, and I had even provided him with an example that could be useful someday. But maybe it was a matter of perspective.

  “Maxime?”

  I looked ahead of me, gripping the wheel, my eyes squinted and my mouth twisted. How would I manage to stay on the road seeing so little?

  “I’m sorry, Max.”

  He was so surprised that he let out a little gasp. He waited for what would come next—a joke, a slight, an insult. It was at this moment that I felt the full extent of the disaster: I had passed down to my son two terrible diseases, cynicism and disenchantment—and it was ­precisely because of this that I found him so hard to take.

  My father is on his deathbed. Every part of him is giving out. His skin is as thin as rice paper. The complex network of his circulatory ­system is visible, as in an anatomy course. His broad forehead is like a band around his head and his hollow eyes now look inward. His dry, drooping mouth opens only to let in tubes.

  I sit. I stand. I walk. I circle the bed. I hold my head in my hands. I look out the window. I love him. I hate him. I shout, “Kill him!” I comb his sparse hair, wondering why I’m doing it. What has he ever done to deserve such attention? I’m pathetic, I hate myself, I order myself to leave, but I stay. I circle the bed like a seagull circling a fishing boat. I’m hoping for scraps. I’m waiting for a bit of gut, something he might let drop that would resemble meaningful words about the two of us. Something I could interpret as I wish, and could cling to. If he’s still alive tomorrow morning, I’ll give him a shave. I like to watch the blade moving through the lather, tracing a clear path, neat and clean—and healthy? I especially like to confront him with the tenderness I’m able to show to him. I know that makes him suffer. I’m so full of kindness. And one day I’ll return home with a shaving brush and a razor in a little paper bag. And everything that should have ended will actually only be beginning. Instead of being able to drop the ­personal megastructure that enabled me to survive till then, I’ll have to rebuild it. Reinforced concrete, tempered steel and cast iron to ­consolidate and fortify my inner skyscraper until I’m strong enough to be able to get rid of it again, like today.

  Papa, there’s something I have to tell you. On the way here, before, I saw a man lift a c
ar. There’s life everywhere outside, you can’t ­imagine! A woman was watching, holding her son by the hand. The child’s mouth was round with wonder. It would have made a great photo. Can you imagine how strong that guy must have been? And the kid, just think of the story he’ll be able to tell. And the sun rises every ­morning. It spends the day patiently tracing its arc in the sky. And the rain, you should see the rain bouncing off the trees, running along the ground, streaming to the gutters and then cascading to the river. Do you see the river against your eyelids? Can you imagine it?

  You’re the one at death’s door and I’m the one who’s dying, I’m the one turning my mouth to you asking for a little water. You’re amazing. Lifting a car is nothing—crushing an entire family is a real feat.

  I know you’re in agony. And I know this suffering comes just at the right time for you. It’s so good to see the pain finally embodied in your flesh, it’s so reassuring to feel it leave your head. It brings the ghosts to life, don’t you think? It materializes the enemies. I’m dying of something tangible, you could say. It has nothing to do with the sixty-five years I’ve spent with a steel stake in my throat and a necrotic heart. I’m sick, I’m suffering in my body for the first time. And above all, I don’t want to come out of this suffering, because I remember the other kind all too well.

  “Max, I’ve got a sixty-four dollar question for you. Do I disgust you?”

  He turned toward me, looking rather confused. I knew he hated it when I touched him, but did I really disgust him? Did the idea of putting his hand on me really make him nauseous?

  “Listen, it’s not complicated, tell it to me like it is. I can listen to anything. Do you feel contempt for me?”

  He shook his head, disconcerted, almost indignant, and then he turned away. That was enough for me. In the rear-view mirror, I saw that the left lane was free. I pushed down on the gas, put on my flasher, checked my blind spot and took my place in the traffic again.

  “Do you think Maman will like the surprise?”

  18

  PHILIPPE GOT UP FIRST. The alarm clock read exactly 4:15 P.M.

  “Want me to run you a bath, Véro?”

  We had left the balcony door open while we made love. From the bed, I could see the lake stretching out in the distance, perfectly framed by the mountains.

  “Yes, please, honey.”

  Philippe was a conscientious sexual partner. Tender and gentle, he lavished caresses the way they teach you to in how-to guides for the perfect lover. The problem was that he couldn’t let himself go. We made love calmly, almost always the same way, which I imagine would have looked to an observer like a relaxation session, or sex for octogenarians. I’m joking, of course, but still … Every time—and for me this was perhaps the best thing about it—we fell asleep immediately after, very calmly.

  “I’m going for a swim. You’ll keep your eye on the bath?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  If I compared the men in my life—which you have to do from time to time, it seems to me—I had to admit, even though I hated to, that Édouard was the one who, sexually at least, came out the winner. After a few minutes of warm-up, he could reach such a level of power, as if every one of his cells were totally male, as if every tissue, every fibre of his body were pointing in the same direction, as if he were freed of all weakness, all cowardice and fear, and nothing could stop him. It made me crazy. His strong, muscular body, his smell of mingled sweat and earth, his solid mass on top of me, in me, ploughing, opening me up, reducing me to a heap of hot, electric flesh, I had never experienced that before and I’ve never experienced it since. Who can say which way is better?

  His eyes and his hands had a disturbing power over me. He could make me go weak in the knees just with the power of his gaze. And he only had to put his hands on my hips and I was done for, my faculties, my judgment, my composure immediately evaporated. With Philippe, I never flew very high. And if I gripped the sheets or bit my lips, it was to contain myself, to resist the desire to move faster, more violently. Philippe was always so tender. If I asked him to let himself go, he would come immediately—while I’d only had enough to whet my appetite. So he remained “polite” through the whole session, and I got nothing at all. With Édouard, I got everything I wanted and, in spite of that, I couldn’t help asking for more. I demanded he enter me and sow disorder everywhere, in my body and in my head. I wanted him to take possession of me, to commandeer what was most secret in me. And he was the only one to whom I gave everything. For some reason I don’t know—or for all these reasons—he took me to a ­radiant place every time, an ethereal world that was pure and sublime in a way I’d never known and still find impossible to describe. Another world, with its own set of codes and perceptions, another image of life. I liked to think it was the world of love.

  I’ve never accepted that reassuring idea—reassuring for both men and women—that penis size doesn’t matter. For example, when Édouard pressed against me and I felt his hard cock through his pants, the effect wouldn’t have been the same with ten centimetres as it was with eighteen. It was the measure of his desire for me, of my power over him. He never made a fuss about the size of his penis as so many men do, nor about the fact that he could have a second or a third ­erection. I was the one who felt proud. Every time, I had the feeling of taking part in a miracle. I forced him to acknowledge that my body, my person, had the potential to generate powerful impulses and this was how I contributed to the energy of the world.

  Philippe was kind of average: fifteen centimetres max, I’d say, and a bit spindly. It didn’t matter, he was so attentive and so tender. And so easy to contain. I don’t know why I’m using this word, I could just as well say “understand, read and anticipate.”

  I put on the bathrobe provided by the hotel—which Philippe had been kind enough to put out on the bed—and I went out on the ­balcony for a little air. Although the day was passing smoothly and the night before had brought the expected calm and serenity, I was still thinking about what I had left behind. A few motherly thoughts for Maxime … Was he eating properly? Was he keeping the house tidy? Would he be careful if he went out with friends? And a few totally ­disinterested thoughts for Édouard … Was he getting better? Who was taking care of him?

  I could see Philippe when he got to the beach. I must admit he had a special quality. If you examined him part by part, there was nothing terribly impressive about him, but as a whole, he was striking. Was it simply his confident manner? Whatever it was, I was proud to be with him. He did everything so conscientiously. Caressing me, running my bath—I knew the temperature would be perfect—choosing a wine at a restaurant, buying a cigar for a special occasion, and, now, putting his towel on a chair, walking toward the lake and diving in gracefully. The fact that he was the head of a prosperous company and had been featured in certain trade magazines didn’t hurt either.

  Of all the men I could see on the little beach at this time, he was unquestionably the most elegant and the most sophisticated. Of course, it was a superficial assessment, I was a bit far to make a definitive judgment. But let’s say that the way he held his head and his gait gave him a certain nobility. There was also another man further away, sitting ­quietly on the sand, who drew my attention, I don’t know why, but except for him, of the fifteen or twenty males staying in the hotel, ­nothing. I was thus once again perfectly sure of my choice.

  I went to check the bath water—the temperature was indeed ­perfect—and returned to the balcony for a last breath of air. The man sitting on the sand seemed to have noticed my presence. Then again, it was hard to be sure, given the distance between us. Maybe he was just looking at the hotel. Philippe was swimming toward the shore, he was just about to come out, and the guy waved at me. I politely returned the wave, and went back inside to escape the confusion that was ­coming over me. I took off my bathrobe and stirred the bath water a bit to spread the bubbles over the whole surface. But my mind still wasn’t at ease. I put on the robe again and went
back out on the balcony. Philippe, his towel wrapped around him, was going over to the man.

  Just then the telephone rang.

  “Maman?”

  “Maxime? What is it, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing, I don’t want you to worry … ”

  “What’s the matter? Where are you?”

  “At the reception desk.”

  I went over to the window, the telephone in my hand. Alerted by the presence of my son, I finally recognized the man sitting on the sand. And I realized uneasily why I had felt a vague sensation of heat when I saw him earlier.

  The nonchalance, the feline quality, the quiet power of my ex contrasted sharply with the rigidity and self-importance of Philippe, who was standing with his arms crossed, his knees locked and his feet planted solidly in the sand, while Édouard, more relaxed and supple, had his arms at his sides, expressing a certain openness.

  “Papa is armed,” said Maxime.

  “What?!”

  “He brought me here at gunpoint.”

  For a second, I imagined the effect a bullet would have going through Philippe’s bare belly … a neat little red hole instantly appearing on the tanned skin.

  “He didn’t hurt you though?”

  “No, but I think he looks weird. And his lip is swollen.”

  “Did he tell you what he intended to do?”

  “No.”

  I kept my eyes fixed on them. Philippe was expressing himself freely, laughing and gesticulating. He was pointing to the lake, the mountains, the sky. Édouard was listening to him with what I imagined to be a little smile, knowing that he was in complete control of the situation.

  “Okay, come up right away.”

  I hung up and went out on the balcony. Both men turned toward me and immediately waved. How could Philippe be so gullible? I waved back as naturally as I could, and gestured to Philippe to come back up to the room. His only response was an invitation to join them on the beach. I tied my robe securely and went out into the hallway just as Maxime was stepping out of the elevator. I kissed him on the forehead and ordered him to stay safely in the room. He asked if it wouldn’t be more sensible to call the police or warn the hotel people. The police station was thirty minutes away, and the hotel staff consisted of four women in their sixties. In any case, I had always been able to reach Édouard, so I was probably the best one to deal with him and his ­intentions. Whatever they were.