by Louise Dean
He’d called her the night before. He had an appointment with a psychiatrist in L’Argens but he couldn’t get there. Would she be kind enough, given he was Max’s father and paid their mortgage and bills (this he didn’t say) would she be kind enough to drive him to see his shrink?
She ummed and aahed and conceded after some talk about bus routes. In the car, she explained that timetables could be had at the town hall. She’d already done her shopping for the week. She posted her letters yesterday. She would drink a coffee in the town to kill time, she’d take a turn round the shops. It was a shame they couldn’t do it up in the village. Surely there were enough alcoholics in the village to merit an ‘alcologue’. The bars were full from sun-up.
‘The price of petrol,’ he said.
‘What do you say?’
‘Petrol’s gone up.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s true. What do you mean by saying that? You’re becoming strange. I’m worried about you.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me, I promise you. I feel like I can see things clearly now.’
‘Well, don’t go thinking too much, it will make you ill.’ The car was overburdened; restrained to third gear, it groaned. ‘We saw Valérie yesterday. We were just out for a walk and we said to ourselves, we should just pop in and say hello, see Maxence, and they asked us to have a drink with them and we couldn’t refuse and then you know Guy he drank too much and it was difficult to get him to leave. Once he starts playing the harmonica and going through those stories of Marseille, you can’t get him to stop . . .’
‘Change gear, I beg you.’
* * *
The plainest table. Two chairs either side of tubular steel, plastic seated, with a small peephole to the rear of the seat. There were posters on the wall, against AIDS and alcoholism; there was a photographic image of a liver with a distressed look. Opposite him sat a woman with glasses that were slightly fashionable, slightly sexy, slightly heartless, the sort of glasses that could be whipped off or donned for effect. They were supposed to be a statement of individuality, slightly fifties, pinched-ended, eyebrowed.
He was leaning forwards, as if holding a cigarette down between his legs, but he was holding nothing but his own hands.
On her face was the expression of a slight plea.
He had noticed that morning, as he did his shopping in the
Spar, that so many articles were now labelled ‘consume moderately’. Even yoghurts. This had amused him. He had had to share the joke with an old girl. What do they expect you to do? he’d asked her. Gorge yourself on yoghurt? She had taken the product and examined it.
‘It’s bad for you to eat too much of one thing,’ she’d said, and handed it back to him.
This doctor woman was similarly humourless, it seemed to him. He tried out his old smile.
‘Well, be gentle with me . . .’
But this woman was like the man who offered Jesus vinegar-soaked bread for his thirst.
‘It is not a question of being gentle or not gentle. Monsieur
Bird.’
He nodded.
‘This is not a punishment.’
‘OK.’
‘We will be meeting just once every three months to talk, to see how you’re getting along. You might even like it, find our sessions rewarding. You never know.’
There was a bright light from the window. He could not resist it, and he looked up into it, taking his share and hers.
‘Is it for my own good then, this?’ He looked at her very expressly, to remind her that he was no child, no emasculated sad-sack, that he was at least a man.
‘Yes.’
‘Because you care about my health, you care about how I am, in my head. Or is it my heart? You care about how I’m feeling.’
‘Both. It’s the same thing.’
‘That’s good. That’s much better than I hoped for.’
He bit at a fingernail; he took his time over the operation, noting the little jagged edges that he’d left behind and treating them next to goat-like nips.
‘We’re here to talk about your drinking, Monsieur Bird. I wonder if you could tell me . . .’ He could hear her uncross and cross her legs, the soft buzz of tights rubbing. The woman’s smile was fulsome, though no teeth emerged. She was going to try a different tack. What a game it was. This could be her first psychiatric assessment; it could be her five thousandth. She had a good attitude; he could see that they’d been lucky with her. She came to the end of her speech and he hadn’t heard anything she’d said.
‘Monsieur Bird. I’m afraid time is not accommodating . . .’
‘How about you? Are you accommodating? I mean you say you care. I assume you are a Catholic, a good woman, so would you open your home to me, share your food with me, take me in, keep me until I feel better?’
She put her hands on the folder and looked through her glasses at the page she smoothed.
‘I know you’re just pulling my leg but as I said, we’re short on time. So, now, tell me, how do you occupy yourself? I see here in the notes that you are presently on sick leave for depression . . .’
The light from outside was gone, the room grey. He wanted a cigarette.
‘Do you know that outside it is one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen? That the natural world goes on and on fighting for life, while we amble along thinking only about ourselves. You see this, here, in here, it’s a state-sponsored exercise with the motive of getting people like me back to regular work, to prevent us claiming benefits, to stop us from being any kind of encumbrance, or expense. So, madame le docteur, it’s as much a nonsense for you to use the word “care” as it is for me to use a word like “free”. If there were not a table between us I would be quite afraid of you, I can tell you. You could be quite dangerous, I’m sure. I’m very glad of the table.’
He put his hands on it, and looked at it tenderly, running the palms of his hands left and right along its surface. Then he put his nose to it, then a cheek, and rested his head a moment on it, before sitting back in his chair.
‘School-days.’
The woman leant forwards on the table, causing it to creak. She put a wrist under her right breast and ran the fingers of her left hand through the tendrils of hair around her neck.
‘You’re an educated man. I know you’re not a wino. I’m not here to judge you, Monsieur Bird, but the nature of your . . .’ she checked the folder, pursed her lips, ‘drink-driving offences, and your violent behaviour, two assaults in the last month, well they seem to me to be a cry for help. Your wife has left you. I’m here to help you be happy and sober again because there is a relationship between the two, as you’ll know from your profession.’ She smiled prettily.
He put a hand over his mouth, cleared his throat. He caught her looking between his legs. ‘This is why they have women do so much these days. I take my hat off to you, I really do, you women. You have a way with words. You could sell bacon to the Jews. That’s why they give you these jobs.’
The woman coloured, looked down at her file, sucked on the end of her pen, then set it down abruptly.
‘Let’s get back to the interview. How do you spend your days?’
Masturbating, he wanted to say. He wanted to be the naughty schoolboy, to throw this stagy authority off him. But if only it were that glamorous. Lies, lies, lies in the bar at the tabac now or in the ironically named ‘Café des Amis’. He was the most drunk in any place at any time. Then when his imagination failed, he had to resort to reality. He told whoever would listen his whole sad story. And then? And afterwards? He sat on his toilet in the dark, holding the door open with his foot for street light from the windows, eating crisps.
‘Well, OK then, how are you sleeping?’ she said, after a while.
‘Not bad.’
‘OK, that’s good.’ She made a note. ‘Are you taking your medication?’
He bit his lip.
‘I am, yes. Absolutely.’
‘And how about your drinkin
g?’
‘Doing that too.’
‘About how many glasses would you say you consume a day...?’ Her pen was tick-happy.
‘Oh, just a modest amount, probably precisely the amount that’s consistent with being beneficial to my health. You know the sort of thing.’
‘How many glasses would you say?’
‘About ten. Maybe twenty. It depends on the glass. A couple of litres, minimum. You’d have to check with the Cooperative. They’d have the precise figures.’
She laid her pen down.
‘You are very sad and troubled, Monsieur Bird. Even though you’re trying to joke with me. Setting all of these pleasantries aside, in your own words, how would you describe your mental state presently? As depressed, or even very depressed? Falling apart? Having a breakdown? Please speak freely.’
‘I’ve lost everything that made me me in a matter of weeks; my wife, my son, my job, my house. And I’ve also seen that the place I called home despises me and possibly always did. Anyone would be upset. All of my so-called friends have turned their backs on me. And I’ve realized too how much I’ve let down my son. I’m not stupid nor am I saying I’m beaten, madame, but please understand that for now all I have is wine and cigarettes, and hatred.’
‘Who do you hate?’
‘I hate my wife, I hate my neighbour. I hate the ex-pats and I hate the locals. I hate your woman on reception who can’t address me like a human being. I hate shop assistants. I hate bank tellers. Because they’re all dead. Robots. I hate all of you people with your bureaucratic fantasies and your folders and charts, and I thank God for you all, because hating you is what’s keeping my heart beating.’
‘I am going to make a note that we should work on your sense of self-empowerment, your self-confidence, the way you see yourself. This feeling of hatred you have for these people, who are just doing their jobs as you put it, it’s more about you than them. But we can work on that. We can take small steps and help you lift a little of that burden of hatred. I’m sure you don’t like feeling this way.’
‘No, you’re wrong. It works for me. I’m fine with it.’
‘We will see each other next on the third of February. In the meantime, try and find a healthy occupation, try and keep the drinking down. And keep taking the meds, as they say.’
She showed her teeth, and good God, it was like a standing ovation, her big white gnashers rose from the plush of healthy gums. He was momentarily overawed.
She came round to his side of the table. Below her shirt and cardigan, she was wearing a miniskirt. All that time, sitting there with her and she was wearing that! He could not help but stare.
‘Now, you’ve heard of “humour” . . .’
‘I’ve heard talk of it.’
‘Well, sometimes we all have to remind ourselves that things aren’t so serious after all. We have to have a little levity.’ She perched her bottom on the desk, leant backwards. ‘Next time we’ll talk a little bit about your family. You said you’ve let your son down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Want to talk about him a little bit now?’
‘No.’
She stood up straight. ‘Well, that’s something I’ll have to take note of. It will slow down the process of your rehabilitation, obviously, if you don’t fully undertake your treatment.’
‘Look, I’d have preferred a public whipping to all of this shit. I’d have preferred to get a good kicking from the police like other people get.’
‘It’s in your file that you have been diagnosed with paranoia, Monsieur Bird.’
‘Who wrote that?’ He grinned.
She went back to her seat, checked her watch, made a note, definitely paranoid, assess for schizotypy . . . ‘Now we’ve really run over time, so you see we can be quite flexible when it comes to the rules after all.’
He remained seated.
‘Are you all right, Monsieur Bird?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on then, shake a leg, coco. I’ll see you next time.’
‘I don’t think it’s fair to classify me. I’ve lost a lot lately.’ He thought of his son. ‘I’m only hanging on in here because of my son, otherwise I’d throw it all in, I’d be done with it all.’
She cocked her head. ‘Suicidal?’
‘No. I’d be going home. There’s somebody in England who I care for, but it’s not just that, it’s all about going home now. I have to work some things out. About the kid. What I’m going to do. It’s a stark choice, it’s enough to drive you mad. Me or him, that’s what it is. Really I just need to be left alone by you people. It’s not like you can help me choose.’
‘I know. I know. You just want to be left alone. And we just want you to be happy.’
He got up and went to the door.
‘And, Monsieur Bird?’
‘Yes.’ He turned back, hand on the side of the door.
‘We’re going to win.’
‘You won’t,’ he said. ‘I’m not at home here. I’m not welcome. I can’t leave and I can’t stay. I’m in limbo.’
Chapter 41
No word from Rachel. He’d emailed her a timid sort of greeting, fishing to see how she felt about him but not venturing much himself, and he had nothing back. So much for that, he said to himself miserably.
Back to sex, back to the old faithful anonymous fuck. He needed contact.
He’d thought a bit about Maurice and the way he managed things, keeping love in a jar and getting his rocks off for a hundred euros in Cannes. Richard had called, but Maurice wasn’t taking his calls. He called him all through the night, every half-hour. He didn’t want Maurice’s woman’s number but she was bound to have a friend. It would have to be a woman near a station. Search engines gave you a start with the more genteel terminology — ‘escort’ or ‘masseuse’ — but you got nothing but highbrow academic stuff if you put in ‘pute’ or ‘whore’. All those hypotheses did nothing for his hard-ons. He was not taking the pills.
‘Every day, every morning, I am hard!’ That was how Guy entertained a crowd, Simone telling a different story behind his back, using one curled little finger.
He arranged an afternoon rendezvous in St-Raphaël. The seaside town, with its fin de siècle gentility, all promenade and no action, was exhibiting strolling dolly birds. He took a coffee in the bar where he’d arranged to meet the girl and viewed the passing fare; an old woman in a yellow two-piece miniskirt and waistcoat, with whistles hanging off her bells, another in stout heels, in a gauze jungle-print affair, something toga-like in its arrangement, high over one thigh, low over one shoulder. Transparent bra straps. She was over sixty, a shag pile on her head, rolls of belly. In a place where every woman looked like a hooker, what on earth did a working girl dress like? How could a prostitute get paid work when the competition was giving it away with a free dinner? They’d have to be really good at it, he thought, his hopes also rising. It was quaint really, the idea of the whore.
A young woman in jeans and a white T-shirt came to his table and offered him her hand. Lorena was slim and sweet and he bought her a tisane. She didn’t smoke or drink. They talked about her work; she complained that it was like modelling sometimes, you put yourself up for judgement, physically, and often it was hurtful. Nobody liked to be the last chosen. That was why she didn’t work in a ‘house’ any more. Now she worked through the internet, that was her shop window. He brought to mind the dark and purple photograph of her with long hair hiding her face, an arm placed to cover her nipples. A lot of men came looking for love, she said, sipping her tea, which she considered to be like going to a car dealer’s to buy a fridge.
So how did she become a prostitute?
She told him. And then there was no way he could have sex with her so he let the conversation continue for a while and then he gave her the money and wished her the best. She protested. He insisted. It had been nice speaking to her, he said. A fellow foreigner; she was Argentinian. A fellow parent; she had a teenage son. She accepted the not
es half-heartedly, asked him if he was sure, and then as an afterthought turned back and said: Look, I’m sure you won’t, but please don’t go all blue on me. You know, send me flowers or send me texts or anything like that, will you?
No, he said. I won’t do that. She’d said to him in mid-stream: I like rough sex, I like to be hurt because that was what I knew, at home. My stepfather. It gave a whole new meaning to the cliché — when life gives you lemons . . .
He’d had tears in his eyes so it was not surprising she issued her little warning. Women in her business had to look after themselves in all sorts of ways. He went back to the station thinking that he would take the pills, pretty much entirely for the side effect of the diminished sexual appetite. The prostitute had done what the psychiatrist couldn’t do.
Chapter 42
‘I told you I love you, Valérie.’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘What do you want?’
‘It could be anyone.’
‘Yes, but it’s not.’
‘You’ve changed! You’re not the same. You don’t want me the same way. You don’t hold me.’
‘I can’t hold you all day long. I have things to do. If you had things to do you’d be happier, you’d stop obsessing.’
‘I thought we’d be a family. I thought we’d have lunch together. You’re always out.’
‘Don’t I do things with Max? I don’t have my daughter any more, remember? I gave her up for you.’
‘You’ve made me into Rachel already.’
‘We shouldn’t be doing this. It’s too soon for all this. Why don’t you go to sleep?’
‘Don’t speak to me that way! I won’t be told what to do!’
‘We can’t keep going over and over the same stuff.’
‘I don’t know what to do. I am so unhappy. I thought I’d be happy. You don’t love me.’
‘You’re spoiling it, Valérie. You want so much all the time you’re spoiling it . . .’
‘It’s because I love you so much. I never loved anyone the way I love you.’