A Slight Case of Fatigue

by Stephane Bourguignon

  There was a crowd in front of my house. For a second, I thought I had been found dead and the news had spread through the neighbourhood. In fact, three municipal employees were razing the area between the house and the street, to the shouts and applause of my dear neighbours, who were gathered there to witness the victory of common sense.

  I parked a little distance away so that I too could appreciate the fabulous spectacle. Clouds of shredded vegetable matter were rising into the hot air, while the smell of sawdust and crushed greenery slowly spread. The noise was infernal. My neighbours were taking advantage of this event to renew their ties and give voice to six years of repressed frustrations. They were pontificating to each other on the code of ­conduct for living in society and they let out a collective oh! of joy each time one of the tough stems finally yielded to the assault of a chainsaw.

  My neighbour three doors down, the one I’d affectionately nicknamed Franco, and who, in a report on the TV news on the ravages of the heat wave, had boasted of watering five times a week against the municipal regulations … well, this Franco, who had put on an undershirt for the occasion, was now trying to convince one of the ­employees to give the backyard the same treatment. I slowly got out of the car, holding on to the door and keeping my legs as wide apart as possible, since the thawing phase had begun.

  It would be untrue to say that my arrival didn’t dampen the ­festivities. Some people discreetly disappeared and others backed away a little or pretended to be there by chance, just chatting with a friend. I greeted them with a smile. I was quite conscious of having deeply disappointed these people. I really had betrayed them. It should be recalled that there was a time when I was their idol, their mentor, the one they’d come looking for with an oak leaf covered with blisters and a worried look on their face. Or the one they secretly watched when he unloaded his Brassica oleracea and Amaranthus gangeticus, which would overshadow their carnations and geraniums. Today they were vindicated; I hadn’t yet rejoined their ranks, but at least I had been ­punished. They had assembled to let me know loud and clear that I had been wrong about everything. Here, in my village, in my country, the blade of grass that didn’t grow at the same rate as the others was quickly cut down to size. I was in the process of being rehabilitated.

  The engines were turned off, one by one, and silence fell on the ­little suburb that had just experienced a major moment of excitement.

  “Thank you, everyone, you’re very kind, you can’t imagine what a perfect time this comes at.”

  “We want the back! We want the back!” chanted Franco.

  “Yes, we want the back! We want the back!” I shouted in turn.

  Everyone looked at me in stunned silence. The municipal employee explained that he couldn’t make that decision, he was only following orders. And orders, like sorrows, come down from who knows where or why. That didn’t stop him from handing me a bill. I shoved it in my pocket and thanked him.

  “You’re going to have to put a front door on your house.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think it’s legal like that.”

  “In that case, I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”

  He looked relieved. Perhaps he’d thought I would give him a hard time. His buddies were waiting for him in the truck, it was nearly lunch time, and he turned and left.

  The fruits of their carnage were lying on the ground—branches, flowers, leaves—shredded, chewed up, torn. There were beads of white or translucent sap on the fresh wounds. Ants were swarming around their trampled, exposed nests. The passers-by were quietly leaving the area, satisfied … but only to a certain extent. As if there were still something lacking in their happiness. Where did this inability to get satisfaction come from? Why was it that joy and happiness never completely overcame everything else? The days boiled down to a feeling that was impossible to name, like a latent state of depression running through the substratum of their lives. Or maybe they were simply disappointed by my performance and would have preferred to see me fall to my knees howling with pain at the sight of the massacre. What they didn’t know was that I had no balls anymore.

  Only Franco remained there, standing motionless in the middle of the driveway, surveying the backyard greedily.

  “Sorry, not today, Franco.”

  “I got your front, I’ll get the rest.”

  It occurred to me that if all the energy wasted on pointless things all over the world were put to good use, this planet would get a damn good housecleaning. But that won’t happen any time soon.

  “Franco, just wait till I send you some Bruce spanworms. You have no idea the kind of damage they can do. Those little buggers are insane. They’ll eat anything—maple, poplar, beech, hazel, birch, cherry, oak, ash, elm, linden—they’re really amazing!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “That’s what you think! You wouldn’t believe the larvae and fungi I’ve been growing in my basement. If I were you, I’d stock up on ­pesticides, because, if you keep up this bullshit, I’m going to wage ­genuine biological warfare against you. Every last one of you.”

  As soon as I had spoken those words, I realized it was the old me who was talking. I’d had a kind of relapse, if you can call it that. I reassured Franco, giving him a slap on the shoulder and swearing that I was ­joking. I invited him for a cup of tea, but he was afraid I might poison him or something.

  “Well, perhaps another time … ”

  I skirted the pile of furniture under my son’s window, and climbed the stairs up to the patio. Two little birds had ventured into the house, and were pecking crumbs under the kitchen table. They looked at me as if to ask, “What the heck is this guy doing here?!” I had to wave my arms to chase them away. In panic, they circled the living room twice looking for an exit, until they spotted the dining room window and darted out.

  “Filthy creatures!”

  23

  FILL A COCKTAIL SHAKER half full of ice, add one part coconut milk, one part cognac, two parts pineapple juice and two parts white rum. Season with salt, sugar and a dash of Angostura bitters. Shake thirty seconds and strain into chilled glasses. Those who, like me, don’t stint on effort or expense serve it in a hollowed-out pineapple shell and add small pieces of pineapple.

  I went back out on the patio under my son’s astonished gaze. I had bought myself a two-hundred-and-eighty-dollar designer shirt and tried a new hair stylist for the occasion, one who was very young, very hip and totally gay, judging from the look of his shop.

  “I want to be in style,” I had said, planting myself in his designer chair.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know, use the shirt for inspiration.”

  He got started, glancing at himself in the mirror from time to time. He seemed to consider his work a kind of ballet in which he was the star. I found it reassuring that he had such a strong aesthetic sense. The cut hair was falling on my shoulders and torso, and I felt new blood coursing through my veins. While I was at it, I asked him for some ­gossip about the arts scene. He told me a whole bunch of stories. The names of stars fluttered around me like snowflakes, and I watched them with the fascination of a child seeing his first snowfall. Life could sometimes be so marvellously simple. Placing his tip on the counter, I announced that there was going to be a little party at my place that evening and he was welcome to come if he liked. His expression clearly indicated that I had transgressed some unwritten law. I’ll have to make an effort to study human relationships, I said to myself as I left his shop, wondering if the wind was going to ruin my new hairdo.

  “You haven’t told me what you think of it … ”

  Maxime was still in shock. I could understand why, and I didn’t want to rush him. Obviously the transformation was a bit drastic. And I’m not just talking about my hair. The day after my vasectomy, I had gone to the nursery for a chat with Bertolini’s son. After a great show of remorse, flattery, slaps on the back and promises of eternal life for him and
his mother, I had managed to get myself taken back on a ­probationary basis. I have to say I didn’t come empty-handed—and I’m not talking about a revolver, that was a thing of the past. Bertolini had finally agreed, although he’d threatened me with unspeakable atrocities if I strayed even once from the straight and narrow. The next morning, I went to the site of the contract I had offered my beloved boss as a gift: my own backyard. Three employees of the company came with the necessary machines to give me a hand razing, uprooting, spreading a layer of earth and rolling out the strips for a huge carpet of lawn. It was like a big, green, freshly watered skating rink. It smelled good, the green, green grass of home.

  That was the biggest shock for Maxime.

  “You were right, son, it was pretty grim here.”

  He looked up at the house. I looked in the same direction. Yes, I had to admit the work wasn’t finished. I still had to replace the doors and windows, repair the roof, cut down the vines, exterminate the ­spiders and get rid of the bats. But the backyard, the backyard was so perfect, it blended in so well with its neighbours.

  “I’ll take care of the house starting tomorrow. And what’s new with you? All set to go back to school? Any girls you’re interested in?”

  He smiled a funny little smile. I knew right away I was on target. I let him go on about the girl of his dreams for a while and I made him promise to come and introduce her to me as soon as possible if things went well. I added that the house would be fixed up by then, cross my heart. I pushed the pineapple in front of him before it could get warm. I was anxious for him to taste it.

  “I’m very glad you accepted my invitation. I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize. It wasn’t too smart putting you through all that, especially waving the revolver in your face.”

  Actually, he had kind of enjoyed the experience. At least the part featuring his mother and Philippe. I was relieved to hear that. Philippe had shown himself to be a jerk. A friend of Maxime’s had had a smoke in his BMW and, in spite of the fact that the windows were open, Philippe had detected the smell the next morning. He had called Maxime immediately to tell him he would lose the privilege of ­driving the car for two weeks, and that if a thing like that happened again, their agreement would automatically be void. I thought this was the ­perfect time to tell him I was planning to buy a new car—to show off my shirt and haircut—and that I was going to give him my old clunker. Although it wasn’t much compared to a BMW, I think Maxime could already see the freedom it would give him glimmering like a mirage on the asphalt on a hot summer day.

  “I could have it repainted if you want.”

  The shocks were adding up, and Maxime was speechless.

  “Go ahead, drink.”

  He held the straw in his fingers and took a first sip. His face lit up and he gave an unequivocal, “Mmm.” I was delighted. I was enjoying every second.

  “You think Maman will come?”

  To my great surprise, Maman did come. I’d had to insist quite a bit on the phone. She’d thought I must have some hidden agenda. “No, I swear to you, Véronique, I’ve had it with this whole business, I just want to bury the hatchet. If you don’t come for me, at least do it for Maxime.” I had the impression I was catching on pretty fast to the ABCs of ­emotional blackmail and manipulation. So Véronique came with her Philippe at her side. I welcomed them with the smile of a man of sound mind, and with a certain awkwardness—totally calculated—the most normal thing in the world between a man and his ex’s new flame. Philippe held out his hand. Instead of my own friendly paw, I gave him a pineapple shell filled with my concoction. I kissed Véronique on both cheeks, inhaling deeply. She still hadn’t changed her shampoo, and it was good, it was marvellous, and it was over. The episode in the hotel room had never happened. No allusions, no shared secrets, no tender glances. She surveyed the yard with a triumphant smile and what I suspected was a touch of nostalgia. She must have missed the glorious years, but certainly not the years of disintegration. There was a hint of disappointment perhaps related to me, the man she had known and loved. I think she found the changes I had gone through a bit sad. But this superb lawn demonstrated my mental health as well as my ­ability to live in the adult world, and it was enormously reassuring to the woman who still had to put up with me as the father of her child. Not to mention the fact that common sense had again prevailed, which was always good news to ordinary mortals. As for Philippe, he seemed less convinced. He examined me closely, followed my every gesture, and studied my words, searching between the lines for clues that would betray a ruse. After all—and I certainly would have granted him this had he had the courage to say it to my face—I might very well have invited all these nice people here to herd them into the yard and shoot into the crowd, revelling in their cries of terror.

  But since I had no intention of tolerating any unhappiness whatsoever on my property, I placed a firm but affectionate hand on his shoulder.

  “If you’d like to see the basement or the garage, let me know … Véro, can I get you a drink?”

  My fascist Franco and his sweet wife arrived soon afterwards. He and I had become the best of friends. In a few days, I had gone from a pariah to a respectable neighbour, and today, judging by the energy in the handshake he gave me, I could practically consider myself his son. The proof of that was the young lilac bush about ten centimetres high they had brought for me.

  “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  “I don’t need to tell you how to take care of it,” he joked.

  My neighbours, my family and I had a good chuckle. Our ­laughter soared high in the suburban air, tracing the shapes of the decorations on our houses and the patterns of our wallpapers.

  “How can I thank you? Perhaps by offering you a nice frosty Piña Colada?”

  Franco was dreaming more of a cold beer, but his wife was ready to experiment. They knew Véronique and they had seen Maxime grow up, and they joined them on the patio while I went inside to do my thing with the shaker. A compilation of techno hits purchased ­especially for the occasion was playing inside the house. My ass was ­moving on its own, inspired by the happiness around me. How reassuring it was to fall back into line with everyone else—the air was less ­rarefied and the skies bluer.

  Michel, Claire and Juliana—I had insisted that they invite her since she was now part of the family—were next to arrive. Simone wasn’t with them. I could see why she would be angry with me. She hadn’t heard from me since we made love, and there I was calling her out of the blue to invite her to a garden party.

  “Simone, it’s Édouard!”

  “I don’t recognize your voice, Édouard, what’s going on?”

  “It must be my cell phone.”

  “You bought yourself a cell phone?”

  “Yeah, it’s a great gadget. You know, you can phone from anywhere? Like right now; I’m in a chemical toilet on a construction site. Are you free tomorrow evening? I’m having a garden party.”

  She said she would think about it, but the tone of her voice wasn’t promising. I was trying to follow the example of my contemporaries and limit introspection to a minimum—my stress and anxiety had dropped spectacularly—so I didn’t worry too much about it.

  Michel was covered up to his ears in spite of the sweltering heat. Claire and Juliana were making an effort to smile, but their hearts weren’t in it, they were worried about their man. As for me, I was keeping my emotions in check. It wasn’t the time or place—I had guests to entertain. Michel had lost weight and his face was horribly changed. His legendary strength and his stentorian voice had disappeared, ­vanished. Everything about him was hesitant, his steps, his movements, the way he looked from one thing to another.

  I headed toward him. We had known each other for such a long time. Claire and Juliana, who were standing on either side of him, both moved away slightly. Michel stood waiting for me with his arms hanging limp. He looked as if I were the only person left that he could count on. He was imagining that I, who been the
re for every second of his glorious life, could give him back what he’d lost—his power, his invulner­ability. I put on a bullet-proof smile inspired by Michel the eye doctor.

  “Who said you were sick? You look in fine form!”

  That completely stunned him. He turned his gaze pitifully toward his wife.

  “What you need is a drink, buddy!”

  “No alcohol with the medication,” said Claire.

  “Oh, these women! If you change your mind, give me a shout … ”

  I gave him a slap on the shoulder and went back inside to prepare the trays of chips and raw vegetables. With all these people here, I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. I traded the shaker for the blender, even if it meant a sacrifice in terms of texture. When I stretched to get a serving platter down from a cupboard, I felt a sharp pain in my right testicle. I had been noticing a slight discomfort for a few hours, but this was something else altogether, it was excruciating. I had perhaps resumed my activities too soon. My doc, that hero, had said to take it easy for three days, but being in a hurry to start my new life, I had plunged into rebuilding my little patch of pasture the very next day. I stuck my hand in my underpants and observed some swelling. At the same time, I thought to myself that I should consider getting it on with a married woman one of these days.

  Soon after, Claire came in. She walked up to me and slapped me. I had never seen her in such a state, she was usually so reserved, so totally taken up with calculating her calories, her head stuck snugly in the sand.

  “Would you like to hear some news about your childhood friend?”

  “Which one?”

  “What’s got into you, Édouard? What’s the matter with you? He’s in a depression, and you come out with that crap!”