Monsieur

by Emma Becker

  Those were the dark days when Monsieur had stopped answering me, despite the clear signals I sent him. I was going against everything I had ever learned about men. If ever I interrupted my endless stream of communications, even for a couple of days, I was terrified that Monsieur might believe I no longer loved him. So I typed another text, hating myself more with every passing second, thinking I could fool him if I restricted myself to sex, but my words were incoherent with pain. And while I struggled hopelessly with the story the world continued to ignore, I had to face Andrea and my family. I explained to my mother that my bad mood was due to the students’ strike, which went on and on. I found excuses not to visit my aunt, to avoid the memories of that birthday dinner and the fact that my uncle knew Monsieur, having worked with him for fifteen years. I couldn’t even look at my uncle without thinking of Monsieur. I feigned concern when Andrea cancelled one of our dates, and joy when he rearranged it, dreamed up amusing texts to prevent him becoming suspicious. I thought only of my silent mobile phone on the bedside table when we made love. I concealed my broken heart from them all as if it was a contagious illness. Sometimes, in the car with my mother, I would feel a confession rising up my throat, making every single breath a stab of pain. I had to tell somebody how bad he was and that, despite my mistakes, I didn’t deserve to suffer like this. I could see myself ditching everything, the beautiful Mandiargues edition in my room, telling my mother about the Wednesday when she’d thought I was playing poker at Timothée’s while Monsieur touched me up at the clinic, all the times I’d scampered away from home with a bag of food and lingerie.

  But I always summoned the strength to bury the confession because I knew how hurt she would be, and by the time my mother looked at me again, I had fabricated a neutral, or falsely cheerful, face. Those smiles literally splintered me in half. I would return to my small room where the sheets had remained untouched since Monsieur’s visit, still displaying the traces of my catastrophe, to my silent mobile, my empty in-box. I lived in a museum dedicated to his glory. And time ticked on.

  How I hated the lonely moments when I was overcome by the need to ask myself so many unanswerable questions. As if there was the slightest chance of getting to the truth, I kept blindly assembling clues that might help me understand why Monsieur had gone silent. I was tearing my hair out. I didn’t know how to behave with him now, how to know if he had lied to me and, if so, to what purpose. While a part of me began to believe that he had fled to protect me, another part was hanging on to the hypothesis that he was just another arsehole who enjoyed exercising his declining powers on a defenceless girl. It was awful to think I might have fallen into such a clumsy trap – but the truth was childishly simple: Monsieur had had enough of me. And when he felt like that, he just went silent. Over and over I told Babette: ‘I should have seen it coming. I should have known nothing could ever be so simple.’

  And Babette, who had been aware of this from the very beginning, would never confirm in words what her sighs meant. What could she have said? The whole world could legitimately mock me. There was a boring logic to laughter.

  I remember one morning when I was getting home after a too-long night with Andrea. Still sleepy, I was walking like an automaton along dirty underpasses, when I was sharply assaulted by a trace of Monsieur’s fragrance. I had stood motionless for ten minutes, trying to determine where it was coming from, what man, what shadow. I was hurting. I was hurting so much. Smells can be so treacherous. A thousand souls will smell like your beloved. Unknowingly, they walk past you, brush against you, apologize and leave you rooted to the spot, blood draining from your face. Empty to the point of tears, invaded by a battalion of memories, his heartbeat and the softness of his skin.

  One Saturday morning, everything went wrong. After weeks of uncertainty, I had concluded that I no longer played any part in his life. I had resigned myself to the fact that he wouldn’t answer me again. How had we moved from one extreme to the other in just a few days? How could he ignore a person he had once called ‘my love’? Why could he not explain it to me? All I wanted was to understand. And if Monsieur was determined to forget the whole story, why had he sent me, in response to my break-up monologue, this message: ‘Please, please, don’t stop writing Monsieur’?

  Of course I had to continue. He was bound to encourage the writing of a book that was all about him. How gratifying to know that a young woman on the edge of despair was exercising her small writing talent in the service of a man she could no longer have.

  It was when I received his message that I began to hate myself, to find my lack of dignity contemptible. If I was capable of writing for the love of it or had ambitions to be published, Monsieur had swept them aside, leaving me with only one goal: I had to finish the book so I could see him again. Full stop. The pages I was scribbling were just a pitiful form of bait, an outlet to praise and hate him. So, at the end of the day, there was no longer any difference between the novelist I’d thought I was and those others who found writing cathartic. Writing was a way for me to see Monsieur again; a man who was too much in love with himself to resist the lure of two or three hundred pages devoted to him.

  On that particular Saturday morning, while I was humming along and trimming the red roses’ stems (the only time I felt alive was when a thorn dug deep into my hand), one of my co-workers approached me, on her way to dropping some cash into the till. She whispered: ‘Any news? Has he called you back?’

  ‘Who? Andrea?’

  She gave me a quick look and I understood that, alas, she was referring to Monsieur. Of course. It had been ages since a call from Andrea had been a thing of note. At the peak of my relationship with Monsieur, when I’d stood behind the counter at the weekend, frantic with the prospect of seeing him the following Tuesday morning, I had told her about the married forty-six-year-old surgeon, his passion for erotic books and our romance in an obscure Pigalle hotel. Naturally, when the situation had begun to upset me, she had also known. I no longer looked forward to Sunday with excitement. In fact, all I was looking forward to was for work to end so that I could barricade myself into my room, smoking joints with girlfriends or faking happiness in the arms of other men.

  ‘The medic!’ she confirmed, her voice hushed, as if the subject of Monsieur was labelled ‘Confidential’.

  I stared at my dirty hands. ‘Nothing’s happening,’ I said sadly.

  ‘You should drop him. You’re better than his sort.’

  She was the sort of person who mostly expressed herself in platitudes, but she was often right. ‘You’re better than his sort’ was something she no doubt believed, and because she was not big on compassion or sympathy, I felt myself unwillingly overcome with warmth – unwillingly because if I’d heard those words from someone else, I would have been annoyed. For a brief moment I felt as if only she understood me: she knew my story and was Monsieur’s age, thus familiar with men and their ways. Also, she was standing beside me. I just had to speak to someone or I’d explode. So, I opened up: ‘Yesterday, he sent me a text and . . .’

  I paused to catch my breath and looked into her eyes. She had stopped sorting the buttercup bundles and was listening intently to me.

  ‘. . . I mean, it’s been ten days since I’d heard from him, so I was fed up and sent him a message to tell him it was over, even if it was the last thing I really wanted to do. He must have thought I was testing him and that basically all I wanted was for him to change his mind and come back to me.’

  In her eyes, I could see she had known from the outset that the whole thing was bound to end like this. That I was too young and vulnerable to hold on to a man like Monsieur.

  ‘He still hasn’t responded,’ I continued, my voice now shaky. ‘And yesterday night, around eleven, I had this text, just the one . . .’

  Ellie, shit, you’re not going to start crying over this guy! Please don’t cry over him. She put a hand on my shoulder – not the sort of thing I appreciate when I’m on the edge of breaking down. I was find
ing it hard to swallow. I was holding onto the counter, white-knuckled, with all the strength I could muster, thinking that if I concentrated hard enough my chin would stop quivering.

  ‘. . . just one message in over ten days to say please don’t stop writing my book, because I happen to be writing one about him and—’ My voice broke, as if something was blocking my throat, and my eyes filled, but I kept trying to speak, my whole body shaking, tears streaming. With all the energy of despair, and ignoring the little old lady who was bringing her cat litter towards my till, I cried, ‘The only thing that could force him to answer me is this book I’m writing, singing his praises, right bastard he must be. What a fucking bastard!’

  She nodded to me, indicating the arrival of our two co-workers to take over the till for the lunch break and I fell silent, sniffing, eyes lowered to my hands, still clutching the dark wood of the counter. They all asked me what the matter was, but I mumbled that I was all right, just tired. That wasn’t entirely untrue: my nerves were on edge, even if I seemed to be sleeping all the time.

  ‘Calm down,’ she said, pulling her Marlboros from her handbag. ‘Let’s go outside for five minutes and have a fag.’

  I wiped my nose on the moth-eaten sleeve of my pullover, and we went out to lean against a tree, smoking in silence, while in the shop they speculated aloud about what had made me cry.

  (So, Babette, when I once told you I’d never allow a bastard like him to make me cry, I was wrong. That day I did cry, and sitting beneath my tree, smoke rising from my cigarette, I swore on everything I held dearest that I would never allow it to happen again. To this day, I have kept that promise.)

  Shortly after, I had arranged to spend an evening with Valentine in her top-floor apartment in the fourth arrondissement. I’d just left the shop and was writing part of Monsieur, sitting in front of her building, waiting for her to get home. It had been so long now since the main character had shown any sign of life that the whole story was like a waking dream. At times, it felt like a painful wound, as memories flowed back. Valentine hooted to attract my attention.

  ‘Get in, kiddo. I have to find somewhere to park.’

  ‘Around here on a Gay Pride Saturday night, when the weather’s good?’

  ‘I know some places,’ she said, and I sat down next to her, grumbling.

  For Valentine, unpunctuality was a way of life, but she would never apologize. We lit our cigarettes and swapped stories while she manoeuvred her little Fiat through the narrow streets around the Île Saint-Louis, glimpsing parking spaces as faster drivers stole them. In rue François-Miron, the café terraces were full, the pavements flowing with slow-moving tourists. Valentine could accept the crowds with a very Parisian serenity, punctuating her speech with muted swear words whenever someone blocked her path.

  ‘What about Monsieur?’ she finally asked, as we sat waiting at a red light. ‘Any news?’

  ‘No change.’ I sighed. ‘As I told you, the last time I heard from him was when he told me not to stop writing the book. As if I ever would.’

  ‘What a bastard,’ she said promptly.

  ‘Total radio silence since then. Of course I think of him all the time. But he’s so unpredictable. He might still make an appearance some day when he feels like getting down and dirty again.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur . . .’

  From her detachment, I sensed that Valentine wasn’t interested and was crushed – she was such a close friend. Before I’d met Monsieur and paid the price, it wouldn’t have bothered me. But right now I wanted to talk about it – to a wall, if I had to.

  ‘You’re still writing?’ she asked me.

  ‘As you see,’ I answered, jerking my chin at the black notepad I’d put down above the glove compartment.

  ‘Cool.’

  Is it because she was so radiant with happiness that she didn’t want to listen to my anguish? Instead she brought the conversation back to her own life and loves, and I kept silent for a while, nodding at intervals, torn between the sadness I felt at finding we were almost strangers now and contemplation of this part of Paris, which she happened to share with Monsieur. I’d just realized that, and was frantically watching the façades of the buildings we passed, as if he might suddenly appear at a window.

  ‘Fuck, this is hopeless,’ she decided, sprinting away from the traffic lights. ‘I’ll just have to go to the car park and move it later tonight.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Anyone else would have settled for that ages ago.

  The narrow ramp of a Vinci car park opened in front of us and I caught sight of its hoarding and felt what was left of my heart break into a thousand pieces: ‘Vinci Pont-Marie Parking’, in bold white letters. In my one-track mind I could read the subtitle: ‘Darling, I’m about to enter the Pont-Marie car park – the signal might break up. I’ll call you back.’ Blissfully unaware, Valentine was whistling off-key, a song by Queen.

  ‘This is where he parks,’ I whispered, my voice a thin rasp.

  ‘Oh? Shit.’

  ‘Well said.’

  It was nine in the evening, the time when Monsieur would likely be on his way home, or had maybe already arrived, and the car park was at risk of turning into ‘Where’s Wally?’. Nose squashed against the window, I allowed myself to be driven across every level of the underground car park, my heart jumping each time we passed a black four-door saloon similar to his. So many people slamming doors, locking their vehicles, and none of the anonymous silhouettes happened to be his. He must be around here right now. He couldn’t be anywhere else.

  With a rush of perspicacity Valentine, manoeuvring round an awkward corner, said: ‘If he lives around here, maybe he has a reserved resident’s space.’

  At that moment we were gliding past the residents’ bays. Fortunately, most were concealed from us by a high wall. For a few seconds, I scanned registration numbers, my heart pounding, then gave up with a deep sigh of resignation. Just the thought of an evening with Valentine made me want to open the car door and run away, like a thief, to go and nurse my pain in one of the gardens around Notre-Dame, where I could imagine Monsieur and his family enjoying a stroll. Alone, I might be able to bear the idea that he climbed those filthy stairs in the car park every day of the working week or took the lift when it wasn’t out of order; that, like every inhabitant of the Île Saint-Louis, he paid his outrageous dues to the Vinci guys. While Valentine went on incessantly about her perfect boyfriend, I couldn’t mourn in peace. She had a rare mischievous talent for breaking into my daydreams, whether it was with the revelation that her feet hurt or that it would be such a pain in the arse coming down at midnight to move her car from the expensive car park, or how Frédéric, the BF, gave her multiple orgasms. All I could manage was a series of grunts.

  We emerged from the subterranean area. Outside, the quai des Célestins was bathed in orange light, which didn’t offer me much relief. It was like a stage full of minor characters, waiting for the protagonist. And Valentine kept chatting away, stopping every hundred metres or so to dig in her handbag for fags, keys, mobile phone overflowing with messages. Couldn’t she move any faster? Did she really have to show off her happiness and linger so long in this area?

  ‘Oh, Fred’s just called me!’ she babbled, after a needless halt in the rue du Prévot. ‘Do you mind if I call him back for a couple of minutes?’

  ‘Fucking hell, Valentine,’ I spat. ‘We’ve been chatting for half an hour and you haven’t even noticed how upset I am.’

  Holding her mobile, she turned to face me, expectantly.

  ‘I mean, for weeks now my life’s been so full of shit. I just want to see Monsieur. I’ve lost at least four kilos, and you, who’ve known me for ten years, you haven’t noticed anything. What the fuck are we doing now?’

  Valentine didn’t move. She just looked at me as I stared at her, my cheeks red, wondering what she would say or do now that she was no longer unable to ignore my pain, Monsieur or the way my jeans hung loosely around my waist.

  ‘Sh
all we go and get drunk?’ she suggested.

  ‘I go to bed pickled every night and it’s no help.’

  ‘What do you expect from me? A solution?’

  ‘Nothing – from you or anyone else. But I have no wish to spend the next three hours listening to you talk about how supremely happy and blessed you are while I happen to be totally miserable. I’d understand if you stayed away from me, but I’ve always believed – strongly believed – that friends should at least pretend to be interested when someone close is unhappy. I’m not expecting anything from you except maybe some compassion and the willingness to listen. I’ve always been there for you in the past when our roles were reversed.’

  ‘Ellie, I do care.’

  We were facing each other on the street, the crowds angrily parting around us.

  ‘It’s just so difficult for me to understand what you have with Monsieur. Tonight is only the second time I’ve seen you since Alexandre dumped you and you’re already in the midst of a new relationship. I’ve never seen you so unhappy because of a man. Of course I noticed, but what could I say?’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to say anything, Valentine.’