“You know, Camille, most things that happen to you depend on what goes on up here,” he said, tapping his skull. “In your head. The things that happen in the mind are full of surprises. You can’t imagine just how far your thoughts influence your reality . . . Like Plato’s description in his Allegory of the Cave: chained up in a cave, mankind creates a false image of reality, because all he knows of it are the flickering images of the things that a fire lit behind him throws onto the wall in front.”
I couldn’t help seeing the funny side of the situation, although I said nothing. I had to admit, I hadn’t expected a philosophy lecture in such cozy surroundings only an hour after a car accident.
“You’re comparing Plato’s allegory to the way our minds function? Wow . . .”
He smiled at my reaction.
“Of course; I think there’s a similarity with those thoughts that put a screen between reality and ourselves, distorting it with beliefs, presumptions, and prejudices . . . and who is doing all that? Your mind. Nothing but your mind! I call it the ‘thoughts factory.’ It’s a real assembly line. The good news is that you have the power to change those thoughts. It’s up to you whether you see the glass as half empty or half full. You can work on your mind-set so that it stops playing tricks on you. All you need is the method, a little patience, and perseverance.”
I was stunned. I didn’t know whether he was raving mad or if I should wholeheartedly applaud his incredible pep talk. In the end I did neither, simply nodding in agreement.
He must have sensed that for the moment he had reached the limit of the information I could digest.
“I’m sorry. Do you find my theories annoying?”
“No, not at all. They sound really interesting. It’s just that I’m a bit tired. Don’t take any notice of me.”
“Of course, that’s only natural. If you like, I could talk to you again about this method another time . . . It’s really been proved to help people recover a sense of purpose and rebuild a fulfilling life for themselves.”
He stood up and went over to a pretty little cherrywood writing desk. He took out a business card and handed it to me.
“Come and see me whenever you like,” he said, smiling softly.
I read:
Claude DUPONTEL
Routinologist
15, rue de la Boétie
75008 Paris
The card also had his cell and landline. I took it from him without really knowing what to make of all this yet. To be polite, I told him I’d think about it. This didn’t seem to faze him, and he didn’t insist. As a salesperson, that surprised me: Didn’t anyone who was self-employed jump at the chance to secure a new client? The fact that he was not at all pushy seemed to me to indicate a rare self-confidence. It made me feel that if I turned down his offer, I would be the one losing out.
But at that moment, I was still feeling the effect of everything that had happened that evening: the stupid accident, the stupid storm like something out of a bad horror movie . . . And on top of it all: a routinologist. I thought I’d started imagining things. In the next five minutes, the camera crew would appear and someone would shout, “Gotcha!”
The doorbell rang. But it wasn’t a cameraman or a TV presenter: just the tow-truck guy.
“Would you like us to come with you?” Claude asked.
“No, thanks so much. I’ll be fine. You’ve already been very kind. I don’t know how to thank you . . .”
“It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same. Send us a text when you get home.”
“I will. Good-bye, and thanks again.”
I climbed up into the cab with the mechanic to show him the way, taking a last look back through the truck window. I saw Claude and his wife standing on the steps arm in arm, waving a brief good-bye. They seemed such a loving, sharing couple.
With this image of peaceful happiness etched into my mind, we bumped off into the darkness, back to reality . . .
four
I woke up the next morning with a terrible migraine that lasted all day. I had spent the night tossing and turning, thinking over everything Claude Dupontel had told me. Was I really a victim of acute routinitis? Did the anxiety that had held me in its grip for several weeks now really mean I had to embark on a course of counseling? What, in fact, did I really have to complain about? I had a husband and a son and a job that offered me security. Maybe I just needed to pull myself together and stop wallowing. And yet my thirty-something middle-class discontent wouldn’t let me go. I had tried often enough to sweep it under the carpet, without success.
I did occasionally try to put things into perspective. To “see the bigger picture,” as they say in women’s magazines. I ran through the whole gamut of human misery in my mind. People in war zones. People with serious illnesses. The homeless, jobless, loveless . . . Compared to them, my problems seemed so petty. But as Claude Dupontel had said, there was no point comparing what couldn’t be compared. The scale of happiness or misery isn’t the same for everyone. I didn’t know him, and yet he seemed so well-adjusted, so centered. Yes, “centered” was the word. Of course, I didn’t believe in miracle cures that transform your life with the wave of a magic wand. But he seemed so convincing when he said that things really could change. He insisted that feeling down and stuck in a rut was not inevitable, that you can choose to be someone who does not allow daily existence to grind her down, but who lives life to the full. To turn your life into a work of art . . . It was a project that seemed pretty unrealistic at first, but why not at least try to aim toward it?
In theory, I was all for it. But in practice? “One day I’ll go to live in Theory, because in Theory everything is wonderful . . .” So, how to get started, to get beyond the stage of shoulda coulda woulda? With all this playing on my mind, I struggled out of bed. I felt as though I’d been beaten black and blue during the night. To top it all off, without meaning to, I put my left foot on the floor first. I know it’s a silly superstition, but I immediately saw this as a bad omen: the instinctive reaction of a brain swamped with negative vibes. The day was off to a bad start.
Sebastien, my alleged nearest and dearest, hardly even bothered to say good morning. He wrestled with a disobedient tie, and in between his stifled swearing I thought I made out that he was late for a meeting. So he wasn’t going to be taking Adrien to school today, either. Sigh.
Adrien, my son, is nine years, six months, ten days, and eight hours old, as he would be only too happy to inform you. I found his rush to grow up both touching and slightly terrifying; it was all moving so quickly. Too quickly. Adrien had always done everything faster than usual. The only way to have stopped him would have been to tie him to a chair. We soon had to get used to the idea that our son was an “Energizer bunny”: he never wore out.
But I did. Even though I loved him more than anything in the world, there were days when I thought he must have a mini energy-sucking vacuum cleaner under his T-shirt.
Of course, we were modern parents—we’d practically been weaned on the belief that the child is a fully-fledged individual with a right to be heard. But experience had taught us that our way of bringing him up had been far too liberal. By sticking to the ideals of dialogue and respect for a child’s personality, we had given our son far too much freedom.
“Boundaries!” my mother never stopped yelling at me.
She was right, of course.
Boundaries: that was what I had been trying to establish for several months now, in an attempt to correct our overlax attitude. I had done a U-turn and gone from one extreme to the other. No doubt I was now being too tough on him . . . but you just do your best, don’t you? I was constantly whining at Adrien in an effort to keep him in line. He would whine back but comply in the end. In spite of his rebellious side, deep down he was a good kid.
I knew I was on his back a lot—for his own good, I was sure, although at times
I felt I was turning into a real nag. I hated being like that. “Tidy your room, take a shower, switch the lights off, do your homework, put the toilet seat down . . .” I had exchanged my “good” mom approach for the “bad” mom one. And everything I had gained in neatly folded socks had been lost in terms of my relationship with him. There was a tug-of-war going on between us. We were cat and dog, as if we no longer understood each other. Then again, how could he act like such a teenager when he wasn’t even ten yet?
All this was going through my head when I walked into his room. We had to leave the house in ten minutes, and he was playing ping-pong against the wall, only half dressed. He had put on odd socks, hadn’t bothered to comb his hair, and his bedroom looked as though a bomb had gone off in it—not that he had noticed.
He looked at me with his chestnut-brown eyes and their astonishingly long lashes, as enchanting as ever. I paused for a moment to consider his round face and strong features, his well-defined mouth, which was now stuck in a stubborn pout. Even when it was this untidy, his hair was so lovely and soft it made you want to stroke it. He was a gorgeous little devil. I resisted the temptation to go and hug him and smooth it down, the rascal. I was the drill sergeant, determined to make sure he was in step.
“But, Mommmmm! What’s your problem? Stay cool. Chill out,” he replied, underlining his words with a Zen rapper hand gesture he’d learned from the latest YouTube clip.
That drove me crazy. I yelled at him and then slammed into the bathroom for a shower. I washed hastily, already dreading what was on the day’s to-do list.
As I stepped out of the shower, my reflection in the mirror only made me frown more. A deep furrow was plowed across my forehead.
I stared at this face that used to be pretty—and maybe still could be, if my skin weren’t so sallow and the bags under the green eyes that had once been so seductive weren’t so dark. Just as could my blond silky hair, when I found the time to style it properly to frame my round face. A little too round these days, due to the weight I had put on after my pregnancy and the sweet treats I had given in to in the years since then. Annoyed, I grabbed the lifeline of mother’s little helpers and swallowed far too quickly, considering their expiration date. By now I was in a thoroughly bad mood.
As I rushed back into the bedroom to get dressed, I carelessly knocked over the photo frame on the bedside table. I picked it up to put it back. It was a great photo of me and Sebastien at a time when we would stargaze and laugh all night long . . . What had happened to that handsome man with flashing eyes who knew just what to whisper in my ear to make me go weak at the knees? How long had it been since he had made the slightest attempt to seduce me? And yet, he was a good, kind man. Really kind. Thinking about the tenderness that had slowly and subtly replaced the passion of our early days, I felt vaguely sick . . . Over the years the once wild, lush jungle of our love for each other had been transformed into a formal French garden: everything neat and tidy, with not a single blade of grass out of place.
Shouldn’t love spill out, burst into flame, boil over, erupt uncontrollably?
Anyway, that was how things were now. What had been the tipping point? When Adrien had come on the scene? When Sebastien had been promoted? Who knew? Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same. Stuck in this marital mud, hemmed in by an existence that ran along too smoothly, I realized that our life as a couple had, like a piece of chewing gum you’ve chewed for too long, lost all its flavor.
Chasing away these unpleasant thoughts with a wave of the hand, I threw on the first thing I could find. Who cared about grace or elegance? Who would they be for, and why? Ever since I’d entered into a partnership for life, I was no longer of interest to anyone. Might as well be comfortable.
I dropped off my son at school, nagging him all the way to hurry. Hurrying was the huge bugbear of all our lives. It laid down the law, punished us like an all-powerful tyrant, and made us submit to the crushing power of the hands on the clock face. You had only to look at those people ready to crush others in order to cram onto an already packed Métro car because they can’t bear to wait for the next train in three minutes, or who run a red light to save a few seconds at the risk of a serious accident, or talk on the phone while they are tapping away at a computer and eating at the same time . . .
I was no different. Since I had no car after the accident, I ran to the Métro and almost went flying down the stairs.
Great idea, Camille. Break a leg just so you don’t miss your train.
Out of breath, sweating freely despite the cold, I collapsed onto a seat, wondering how on earth I was going to get through the day ahead of me.
five
When I left Claude Dupontel’s house a week earlier, I had slipped his card into my coat pocket. Every day since then I had felt it, turning it over and over, without ever making up my mind to call him. It was only on the ninth day, as I was coming out of a heated meeting where my boss had told me off in front of everyone, that I decided this couldn’t go on: things had to change. I didn’t really know how or where to start, but I suspected that if anyone did, it would be Claude.
I called him during my lunch break. My stomach was still churning from that morning’s meeting.
The phone rang several times before he picked up.
“Mr. Dupontel?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Camille . . . Do you remember me?”
“Of course. Good morning, Camille. How are you?”
“Good, thank you. Well, actually, not all that good. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Oh yes?”
“You offered to tell me a bit more about your happiness method. I’m really interested in it, so if you’re free . . .”
“Let’s see. Would this Friday at seven p.m. be any good?”
I quickly wondered what I could do about Adrien and decided that he could stay home alone for a while, just until his father got back from work.
“OK, I can manage that. Thanks so much. I’ll see you on Friday then.”
“See you on Friday, Camille. Take care.”
Take care. The words were still echoing in my mind as I walked back to the office. It was so nice to have someone be concerned about me. An ounce of kindness in a world of selfish boors—a world I knew very well, as I was the only woman in a team of eight salespeople. The insults flew round the office all day, schoolboy humor that was often cruel. I found it exhausting. I really wanted something different. For relationships to be more honest, perhaps. Of course, I was very pleased to have a job at all. Nowadays having a permanent position was a luxury, as my mother never ceased telling me.
Ah, my mother. My father had left her soon after I was born, and even if he hadn’t completely vanished—he occasionally sent her money—she had struggled to get by as a single mother and had always given me the impression she was hard up. So when the moment came for me to choose a career, there was no option except to go down whatever path she thought would be the most profitable. Something that would be lucrative, so that I would be financially independent whatever happened. I had always been passionate about drawing, but I had to put aside my creative ideas and force myself to enroll in a business studies course. I had found my career path—on the surface, at least—but inside me, something wasn’t right. Consigning your childhood dream to the garbage is a sure way to put your heart out of joint.
The day I graduated was without doubt the happiest day of my mother’s life, apart from when I was born. I was going to have a brighter future than hers. Her joy was a balm for my misgivings, so that in the end I persuaded myself that things weren’t so bad. My career started very well: I was good with other people. Then my marriage and Adrien’s birth put a brake on my ambitions. I decided to go part-time to be able to enjoy my son. I naïvely thought this was the best solution, without realizing all the drawbacks: apart from having to do in four days what others did in five, I got th
e distinct impression that I had fallen in the estimation of my colleagues and superiors. I was devalued in a way I thought was unfair.
My permanent job had coincided with a permanent relationship. Twelve years’ plain sailing—with a few ups and downs, of course, but no great storms. On the verge of turning forty—thirty-eight and a quarter, to be precise (my god, why do those grains of sand seem to slip faster and faster through the hourglass?)—I had achieved a reasonable amount: a husband who had stayed with me (I had apparently escaped the family curse of the abandoned wife, but I occasionally felt it was hanging over me like the sword of Damocles); a wonderful child (wasn’t his boisterousness simply a sign of how he was thriving?); and a job that more than fulfilled its purpose in terms of financial rewards, with the added bonus from time to time of enabling me to secure a client of my own.
So everything was more or less all right. More or less. And it was precisely this “more or less” that made me so keen to go and see Claude Dupontel. A simple “more or less” that concealed some big “why”s and brought with it a whole series of reassessments. As I was about to discover.
On the day of our appointment, I found myself outside an elegant nineteenth-century stone building with cast-iron balconies and decorated moldings. A caryatid seemed to look askance at me as I went in through a big doorway and reached a luxurious vestibule. I was so intimidated I almost crept into the interior courtyard, which was beautifully paved and filled with a whole range of stylish greenery. A haven in the urban jungle. “The first door on the left at the far end of the courtyard,” Claude Dupontel had told me.
No sooner had I rung the bell than a small, slender woman opened the door, as if she had been behind it, waiting for me.
“Are you Camille?” she asked directly, with a broad smile.
“Er, yes, that’s me,” I replied, slightly taken aback.
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