Hector and the Secrets of Love

by Francois Lelord

  Gunther looked at Clara stretched out beside him, her face hidden behind an enormous pair of sunglasses that gave her an inscrutable air, her adorable body tanning in the sun. She was clearly still angry but that did not prevent him from realising that the true reason for his sudden trip to Asia was to be able to spend some time alone with her, or almost alone with her.

  He was desperately in love. What was happening to him for heaven’s sake! Was this an effect of ageing? He was twelve years older than Hector, and had noticed that some very young women didn’t look at him the way they used to; he sensed they no longer imagined him as a potential lover – it didn’t even cross their minds – and as a result they were far more friendly and relaxed in his company. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be – he could feel it – and if that little wild cat lying there next to him sensed it she would start ripping him to shreds.

  Gunther the Downsizer was in danger of being downsized.

  Unless . . .

  Professor Cormorant’s potion. What if he made the little wild cat take it? She would refuse of course, but she didn’t have to know. According to the latest report, the attachment drug came in liquid form, easy to slip into someone’s glass without them realising.

  Gunther felt his hopes soar. This research, which had cost so much money and caused so many problems, might be about to have its first positive result: binding Clara to him forever.

  At the same time, he sensed such an action would torment him. Gunther’s strict upbringing had taught him always to win fairly. The thought that he might be capable of cheating gave rise to an unfamiliar feeling in him: guilt. But, after all, he could easily find a psychiatrist to help him get over that.

  HECTOR IS A GOOD DOCTOR

  ‘PELLÉAS didn’t mean it, ouch!’

  ‘Don’t talk too much,’ said Hector. ‘Just concentrate on breathing.’

  It was a piece of advice Professor Cormorant found difficult to follow, even though the pain was a sharp reminder every time he tried to talk. He was lying on a mat in the dark in Chief Gnar’s house. The chief was gazing at him apologetically because a chief feels responsible for the well-being of his guests, however foolhardy they may be. Other men from the tribe were standing around the injured man, solemnly discussing what had happened. At any rate, that is what you would assume if you weren’t familiar with the languages of Upper Tibet.

  Not had slipped a tapestry cushion under the professor’s head and was lovingly holding his hand. Vayla was sitting next to him fanning the air above his face with a big leaf. Except for the professor’s ashen complexion, they made a charming picture for anyone nostalgic for the Orient.

  Hector and Jean-Marcel moved away a little so they could talk.

  ‘He looks dreadful.’

  ‘The pain is making it hard for him to breathe.’

  Hector was concerned. Professor Cormorant had just told him he only had one and a half lungs, the result of a Jeep accident in his youth, when he was doing his military service. He had broken the ribs on the side of his good lung, which fortunately hadn’t been punctured. Hector had checked this by examining him thoroughly, but the professor’s already diminished lung capacity had been even further reduced.

  Jean-Marcel, normally so well prepared, had only a few ordinary painkillers in his first-aid kit, and these didn’t seem to do much to ease the professor’s discomfort, even though his chest had been tightly bandaged, on Hector’s instructions. The pain would probably remain severe for the next forty-eight hours. Taking the professor by car to the nearest town seemed impossible, because the bumpy road would be agonising for him. Evacuating him by helicopter was feasible, but it would take time to organise and, more importantly, they would need to obtain permission to fly over a zone of uncertain nationality.

  Hector noticed that Vayla and Not were talking to each other excitedly. Then they turned to Chief Gnar, who could speak a bit of their language because he sometimes went down to the neighbouring valleys to do business.

  ‘I think they’ve found a solution,’ said Jean-Marcel.

  A few minutes later, Gnar went to the back of the house and returned with a small canvas pouch. After another few minutes, the professor found himself lying on his side gently sucking on a long bamboo and ivory pipe. Kneeling down beside him, Not was heating a small greyish ball on the wide-mouthed pipe bowl, and the professor, clearly soothed by this pleasant sight, breathed, or rather sighed, normally. His cheeks had gone back to their usual pink colour.

  ‘Ah, my friends, the power of chemistry . . .’ he murmured.

  Hector reminded him he should try not to talk.

  Hector was aware that this wonderful traditional painkiller was known to impair the breathing. And so he must make sure the benefits gained on the one hand were not lost on the other. He crouched down next to Professor Cormorant in order to monitor carefully the colour in his cheeks and the regularity of his breathing.

  Chief Gnar must have misinterpreted his intentions, because Hector suddenly saw a pipe being handed to him, as well as to Jean-Marcel.

  ‘Do you think . . .’

  ‘This is something you don’t refuse,’ said Jean-Marcel, ‘this is something you don’t refuse.’

  And the two of them found themselves lying down near the professor, whom Hector was keeping an eye on while he watched Vayla’s sweet face, illuminated by the lamp’s amber glow, as she prepared his pipe.

  Hector is a psychiatrist, don’t forget, and he was observing himself as he inhaled the sweet cloud. The professor’s antidote must be a bit like this, he thought. After the first pipe, he had the impression he could enjoy Vayla’s company but he wouldn’t suffer if she wasn’t there. After the second pipe he could think of Clara as a wonderful memory, and he wouldn’t have cared whether she came back into his life or not. Vayla was about to prepare a third pipe for him, but he gestured to her not to.

  He wanted to stay alert in order to watch over Professor Cormorant, who was now sleeping like a baby.

  He offered his pipe to Vayla with a questioning look. She laughed, shook her head and stroked his cheek.

  They went on staring into each other’s eyes, while he felt love spread through him, a very serene sort of love, like blue sea under a hazy sun.

  Of loving at will, of loving till death, in the land that is like you.

  HECTOR AND THE FIFTH COMPONENT

  AND morning came, and the forest awoke, and the sun made the dew sparkle like diamonds, and Hector saw that it was good.

  He had slept as never before, after leaving the professor in Vayla and Not’s care and telling them to wake him if necessary.

  Vayla and Not had watched over him all night long, because he was defenceless under the influence of the drug. They themselves had drifted off to sleep only at dawn, and there they were, two sweet little doves sleeping next to the cormorant. Hector went over to make sure the professor’s cheeks were still pink and that his breathing was regular.

  He went back to his contemplation of the forest and then Jean-Marcel came to join him.

  ‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Jean-Marcel.

  ‘Not something you should do every day,’ said Hector.

  ‘That’s the problem. It’s very easy to fall into the habit. It’s just a couple of pipes every now and then, or that’s what you tell yourself in any case, and then you find yourself smoking fifty a day and you weigh seven stone.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem to happen to the Gna-Doa.’

  ‘No, but then it’s part of their culture, like red wine is for us. Its use is socially controlled. If someone begins to overindulge, they deny him opium and if necessary lock him up for a while.’

  ‘But where does the opium come from?’

  ‘It’s best not to ask that kind of question . . . You may have noticed I’m not the only one here with a satellite phone; good old Gnar has one, too,’ said Jean-Marcel, smiling.

  ‘And then it all ends up on our doorstep.’

  ‘To be fair, we’re the ones who
got them growing it back in colonial times . . . It’s known as a backlash.’

  Hector realised that whenever he went off on a trip somewhere across the world, he encountered drugs and prostitution. Was this because they were so prevalent everywhere or because he had an unconscious attraction to those two shadowy worlds? He resolved to go and talk about it with old François when he got home. Remembering his colleague made him think of his emotive speech about love back on the island, and then immediately of Clara. He knew the opium had worn off because he felt a little stabbing pain in his heart when he thought of Clara.

  ‘Tell me how things have improved between you and your wife,’ said Hector.

  ‘I think we’ve both made some progress,’ said Jean-Marcel. ‘She has accepted that our love has inevitably changed over time, and she no longer resents me not being the man of her dreams, like in the beginning. As for me, I’ve promised I’ll go home. Stop spending so much time abroad. This will be my last trip, or at any rate my last long-term one.’

  ‘Won’t you miss it?’

  ‘Yes, but everything has a price. I think I love my wife more than my trips abroad. And, you know, it might also be a question of age. I’ve reached a point in my life where adventures and affairs are no longer as exciting to me as they were before I turned forty. Also, it’s time I saw more of my children, who are growing into adults. So, there you are.’

  Hector thought of two phrases he must write in his notebook.

  Seedling no. 25: Love is the ability to dream and to know when to stop dreaming.

  Seedling no. 26: Love is resisting temptation.

  But were we necessarily rewarded for it?

  ‘Oh,’ said Jean-Marcel, ‘this came for you on the internet.’

  It was a letter from old François. Hector went back to the house to read it in peace and quiet.

  He sat down close to Vayla, who was still asleep.

  Dear friend,

  Thank you for your note on the components of heartache. I really like your categorisations and the truth of your observations. But, allow me, as your elder, to tell you that you have left out a fifth component. Adopting your system, which I have fallen for, I have set it out below.

  The Fifth Component of Heartache

  The fifth component is fear. Fear of eternal emptiness. The feeling that the rest of your life will be devoid of emotion now that you have lost the loved one’s companionship. You realise that events or experiences which before would have moved, thrilled or saddened you now leave you cold. You have the impression that since the loved one left you, you no longer really feel anything. This is when you begin worrying about the fifth component. You wonder whether this numbing of your senses might be permanent. Naturally, you will go on working, meeting new people, experiencing new things and having affairs. You might even marry someone who is in love with you, but all this will only vaguely interest you – like those television programmes we watch because we are too lazy to decide to do something else. Your life may still be varied, but it will interest you about as much as a variety show, that’s to say very little. And still you will have to endure every dull moment of it, day in day out. By now, of course, the other components of heartache will gradually have faded: you will no longer feel you need the other, just as drug addicts who haven’t used for a long time no longer need their drug. Sometimes, a place, a tune, a scent will stir the memory of the loved one, you will feel a sudden rush of neediness and your friends will notice a momentary lapse in your concentration. They will have the impression from looking at your face that you are passing through an invisible cloud. Some people will understand and quickly try to distract you or lead you away, in the same way that you avoid leaving a recovering alcoholic in front of a bar for too long. In fact, you will have become like those alcoholics who manage to overcome their addiction by drinking only water, but who confess that their lives were more intense, more colourful, more fun when alcohol was their companion. You may confess to being bored with your life now, and the truth is sometimes you will make quite dull company, while still being pleasant enough. The fifth component’s only advantage is that it will enable you to deal more calmly with life’s everyday adversities and upsets, like a sailor who has braved the Roaring Forties and keeps his cool in a squall that would make other men tremble. So that is one reassuring thought, which you will be at pains to cultivate: what happened between you and the loved one will eventually have made you stronger and calmer, and you will even end up believing in the value of this calmness, achieved at great cost, until the moment when a place, a tune, a scent . . .

  Hector understood why old François sometimes had such a melancholy air. He folded up the message and resolved not to think too much about the fifth component, which he had already felt stirring in him several times.

  Then he saw Vayla wake up, looking almost surprised to find herself there, and as soon as she saw him, she smiled.

  HECTOR IS FLABBERGASTED

  HECTOR had brought Professor Cormorant’s big metal briefcase over to him and opened it in front of him.

  ‘It’s all in here, you see,’ said the professor. ‘The results of all the experiments, the three-dimensional characteristics of the molecules, the thousands of pieces of compressed data. I have been careful to leave nothing lying around.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked Hector.

  He was pointing at the other half of the case, which was full of test tubes and reactive strips and looked more like a chemistry set.

  ‘The samples,’ the professor said. ‘And a few little nanotechnological machines for modifying them, but you have to know how to use those.’

  ‘What about the antidote?’

  ‘As soon as I start feeling better I’ll make some up for you; I have all the necessary components. Incidentally, how do you feel? With Vayla, I mean.’

  Hector said he felt a deep attachment to Vayla and an intense desire for her, but he also felt a great need for Clara.

  ‘At the same time?’

  ‘No, not at the same time, it’s true. When I’m in Vayla’s arms, Clara recedes. But when she appears Vayla disappears.’

  ‘Interesting, very interesting,’ said Professor Cormorant. ‘I would very much like to study your brain!’

  This remark didn’t make Hector feel any better.

  The professor went on, ‘To watch your brain as it consumes glucose and to see the difference between the areas that are stimulated when you think of Vayla and the ones that turn orange when you think of Clara. We would be able to distinguish anatomically between the areas associated with the different types of love! Ouch!’

  In his enthusiasm, Professor Cormorant had forgotten about his fractured ribs.

  ‘If only I had a functional MRI here,’ he sighed, ‘this would be the perfect place to do my research, not to mention the orang-utans!’

  ‘What was it you gave Pelléas and Mélisande?’

  ‘Something that creates an attachment.’

  ‘But they’re already so attached; I thought that was supposed to be their strong point.’

  ‘Yes, they’re attached to one another, but not to me.’

  The professor explained that his intention had been to create in Pelléas and Mélisande a strong attachment to him, which would then have made it much easier to study them.

  ‘But for that to work I would have had to stay with them while the product took effect, and because they ran away it failed. They will just become more attached to one another, if that’s possible.’

  A little further away, Vayla and Not were watching the television Chief Gnar had had brought up to the room to keep the professor amused. It ran on solar-powered batteries – Gnar certainly was a very resourceful fellow.

  Suddenly, Hector heard Vayla cry out.

  He approached the screen.

  It showed the two pandas again, embracing each other tenderly, then a still photograph of Hi, startled by the flash, like a mug shot. Hector listened with horror to the commentary.


  He saw that Vayla hadn’t understood, but from the dismayed look on the presenter’s face, she could tell the news contained some tragedy.

  ‘Noblem?’

  ‘Little blem,’ he said.

  ‘Blem?’ she said, worried.

  ‘Noblem for Vayla and Hector.’

  She seemed reassured and said something to Not. Then they switched to a music channel, as though to chase away the small cloud they had felt passing over.

  Hector went back over to the professor. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard, and yet it was true.

  ‘Hi has eaten Ha,’ he announced.

  ‘Really?’ said Professor Cormorant, with a pensive air. ‘It doesn’t surprise me. That sample was adulterated, and, you know, the centres of the brain that control attachment aren’t so very far from those governing appetite. In fact, the desire to eat the other in order to appropriate him or her is quite a common fantasy of people in love. In literature . . .’

  ‘Professor Cormorant, this isn’t literature! Hi ate Ha! Do you hear me! Hi ate Ha! Does this mean I am going to eat Vayla?’

  Hector was getting ready to shake Professor Cormorant despite his fractured ribs, and the professor knew it.

  ‘There’s no danger of that, my friend, no danger at all!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . What I gave you two was . . . a placebo.’

  HECTOR IS MOVED

  JUST as Hector was trying to decide whether to shake the professor until his teeth rattled or ask him for further explanations, Jean-Marcel arrived with the translation of Vayla’s letter.

  Dear Hector,

  At last I can speak to you, or write to you. I’m not very educated – I’m a simple girl – and I’m afraid you will be disappointed now that you can understand me. Sometimes I tell myself you prefer me to be dumb, that for you I am just a pretty doll, which you will leave, like we put away a doll when we have finished playing with it. But, at other times, I have the feeling you love me as much as I love you and that what is happening to us is a miracle. Of course, there are Kormoh’s drugs, but I don’t believe in all that; I don’t believe I can be this much in love just because of a white professor and his magic tricks. You were different from the others. You don’t know what it is to be stared at by men who sometimes only want to use you for their pleasure, Asian men as much as white men. The first time we met, when you asked me about Kormoh, I sensed you thought I was pretty, but also that you respected me and didn’t take me for a girl who would roll over if you asked her to. And I noticed you didn’t like it when the hotel manager who spoke English looked down his nose at me a bit, me the lowly waitress. So, you see, there are moments when I feel you are very close to me and at the same time so far away; we are worlds apart, and that makes me feel sad sometimes. I say to myself if I learn to speak your language it will bring us closer, but I also wonder whether it won’t drive us apart because we come from such different worlds, and I have hardly had any education.