Hector and the Search for Lost Time

by Francois Lelord

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Hector.

  ‘In a place from your religion,’ said the old monk.

  ‘But in my dream too,’ said Hector.

  ‘Who knows?’ said the old monk. ‘By the way, I read your time exercises. They’re interesting. You’ve come a long way.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hector. ‘But I feel as if I haven’t got to the big picture.’

  ‘That’s to be expected,’ said the old monk. ‘You’re still so young . . .’

  They both sat down on a stone bench in the shade of a giant hydrangea.

  ‘There are two levels,’ said the old monk.

  Hector was very happy, as he had a feeling that the old monk was going to tell him some important things.

  ‘The first level,’ said the old monk, ‘is what you practise in your civilisation back home. It all comes down to organising your time better, not wasting time and, of course, doing everything you can to stay young for as long as possible. You have hundreds of books to help you.’

  ‘Are they helpful?’ asked Hector.

  The old monk gave the little laugh Hector was so fond of.

  ‘Until you manage to get past that level, you might as well do it the best you can,’ said the old monk.

  Hector said to himself that Paul, Marie-Agnès and lots of others would be glad to know that the old monk didn’t think their efforts were ridiculous.

  ‘Of course,’ said the old monk, ‘it doesn’t necessarily prepare you for growing old and dying, which you can’t avoid anyway.’

  ‘What about the second level?’ asked Hector.

  The old monk smiled.

  ‘Do you remember your last exercise? Experience the present as eternity. Because it’s always today for us.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hector.

  ‘That’s a way in,’ said the old monk. ‘But it’s not for everyone . . .’

  That was something Hector loved about the old monk: he didn’t want to force anyone to see things the way he did.

  ‘. . . and also, by wanting detachment at all costs, you can end up getting too attached to detachment . . .’

  That reminded Hector of what he’d said to Éléonore about wanting to try to run away from time, which in itself became another prison.

  ‘So?’ said Hector.

  ‘I really liked that saying about changing the things that can be changed, accepting the things that can’t and knowing the difference.’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ said Hector.

  ‘Yes, I know, but it’s a very good exercise. To be done every day. Detachment, but not inaction.’

  Detachment, but not inaction! said Hector to himself. Here was an excellent motto to round off his little exercises.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ said the old monk.

  Blast, thought Hector, he still didn’t have his conclusion for coping with the passage of time.

  ‘So?’ asked Hector.

  The old monk smiled.

  ‘You need to think it over a little more, my dear friend. Take action, all right, but why? Why not do nothing?’

  Hector didn’t know the answer.

  ‘Well, time to go – see you around, I’m sure,’ said the old monk.

  And the old monk went calmly on his way. Hector saw that he’d left his little notebook on the bench. Hector picked it up and wrote:

  Detachment, but not inaction.

  As the old monk had suggested, he kept thinking it over.

  Take action, but why?

  He began to think about Édouard. He’d become less impatient by working with the Inuit. Then he thought of the photo of Trevor and Katharine surrounded by little children in the jungle. He remembered Éléonore, always happy to take people places in her plane. And Ying Li too, who looked so happy watching her little boy, or seeing her mother and her sisters in a nice house.

  ‘The second level! I’ve got it!’ he shouted.

  ‘Are you talking in your sleep now?’ said Clara.

  Later, Hector realised that he’d forgotten the end of his dream. He couldn’t remember the idea that had made him shout ‘I’ve got it!’ any more.

  But if you’ve read this book properly, you’ll already have guessed.

  AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am grateful to my father and Hélène for listening and offering advice.

  Thanks also to my friends from the two deltas, with whom it is always a pleasure to spend time.

  Not forgetting, of course, Odile Jacob, Bernard Gotlieb and their teams for all their hard work on this latest instalment of Hector’s adventures.

  LELORD ON HECTOR

  When authors are asked to explain what made them write their books or come up with a new character, they always want to give worthy reasons. Voltaire might have said he wrote Candide to criticise the Ancien Régime, religious intolerance, Leibniz and utopian ideals in an amusing and entertaining fashion. All of which would be true, but you need only read the book to understand why Voltaire really created Candide: he had fun writing about his adventures! Much more than he must have done working on his epic poems and tragedies, which have become tedious for modern readers, and were no doubt already tedious at the time, to the extent that I wonder if Voltaire himself was not bored writing them.

  If you were to ask me why I created Hector and his adventures, I might reply that I wanted to tackle psychological and philosophical themes in an entertaining way; to revive the French tradition of philosophical contes, or fables; to both move and enrich my readers, and so on.

  None of this would be untrue exactly, but as a psychiatrist I am generally suspicious of people giving me good reasons for having behaved in one way or another, so I ask them to tell me about the circumstances leading up to their actions.

  These were the circumstances: it was winter and I had gone along on a trip to Hong Kong with an art dealer friend of mine (I am not very good at holidays, so I always try to accompany friends who have a purpose). I was meant to be writing a serious book on happiness for my French publisher (my own idea, no less), but every time I sat at my computer and wrote a few lines, I was overwhelmed with indescribable boredom. This book on happiness was making me unhappy. On top of that, I was going through a period of questioning and doubt – Was I really going to carry on practising psychiatry until I could no longer get out of my chair? Would I still be a roving bachelor when the only women interested in me had serious unresolved father issues, if not grandfather issues? My friend sensed something was up and tried to cheer me up by showing me the highlights of the city-state by night, but it was no use.

  Then one morning while brushing my teeth in a freezing-cold bathroom – a remnant of the British colonial era? – Hector was born! I could picture him clearly, younger than me, somewhat naive, full of good intentions – I have a few of those myself – and trying his best to understand the world and help his patients. I knew straight away that telling the story of Hector’s journeys would be a joy, that I would not have to hold his hand but rather it would be him carrying me along on his adventures, drawing of course on my own experiences and those of my patients, as well as dreams and books I had read.

  As for the form it took, the conte, I would not dare compare myself to Voltaire, but many readers of the Hector series have urged me to re-read Candide. Doing so alerted me to the deep impression it must have made on me as a boy, and the extent to which it continues to influence me to this day.

  So thank you to Voltaire and Hong Kong, Hector’s ‘parents’, and to my readers, who have encouraged me in letting me know I am not the only one entertained by Hector.

 

 

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