Serotonin

by Michel Houellebecq

  * * *

  I had made a mistake, a terrible mistake; moving through Gare Saint-Lazare had been painful enough, but mostly I had the image of Camille running along the platforms before breathlessly rushing into my arms, and this was worse, it was much worse; it all came back to me with hallucinatory clarity even before I reached Bagnoles-de-l’Orne, but as soon as I drove through the state forest of Andaines, where I had gone for a long hike with her, a long, interminable and in a sense eternal hike, one December afternoon; we had come back breathless and red-cheeked, so happy that I can no longer entirely imagine it, and had stopped off at an ‘artisanal chocolatier’ who had offered us a terribly creamy cake that he called ‘Paris-Bagnoles’, as well as some fake Camemberts made of chocolate.

  It continued like that: I was spared nothing, and recognised the strange little tower with the white-and- red chequerboard pattern on top of the hotel–restaurant La Potinerie du Lac (speciality tartiflettes) and the curious Belle-Époque house made of multicoloured bricks that stood almost next to it; I still remembered the curved little bridge that straddled the end of the lake, and the pressure of Camille’s hand resting on my forearm to make me look at the swans gliding on the water; that was on 31st December, at sunset.

  * * *

  It would be untrue to say that it was in Bagnoles-de-l’Orne that I started loving Camille; as I said it started at the end of platform C in Caen station. But there is no doubt that something had deepened between us during those two weeks. I had always felt within myself that my parents’ conjugal happiness was out of reach to me, first of all because my parents were strange people – uncomfortable on this planet, who could hardly serve as an example for a real life – but also because I felt that that marital model had somehow been destroyed; my generation had put an end to it, well, not my generation – my generation was incapable of destroying, even less of rebuilding, anything – let’s say the previous generation, yes, the previous generation was certainly at fault; either way, Camille’s parents, as an ordinary couple, represented an accessible example, an immediate, powerful and strong example.

  As things stood, I walked the short hundred metres that separated me from the newsagent’s and tobacconist’s. On a Sunday afternoon, and on 24th December, it was obviously closed, but I remembered that her parents’ flat was just above it. The flat was lit, brilliantly lit, and obviously I had a sense that it was joyfully lit; I stayed there for a length of time that is hard to gauge, probably brief in reality, but which seemed to me to stretch to infinity, and a thick mist was already rising from the lake. It was probably starting to get cold, but I only felt that for moments at a time and in a somehow superficial way; the light was on in Camille’s room too, then it went out; my thoughts dissolved into a series of confused expectations, but I remained aware that there was no reason for Camille to open the window to breathe in the evening mist, absolutely none, and besides I didn’t even want her to; I only became fully aware of the new configuration in my life, and also, with a certain unease, of the fact that the purpose of my journey had perhaps not been solely commemorative; that that journey was perhaps, in a way that I was going to be able to elucidate very soon, turned towards a possible future. I had a few years left to think about it; a few years or a few months, I didn’t know exactly.

  * * *

  All in all, the Spa du Béryl made an execrable impression on me. I had made the worst of all the possible choices (and there was no shortage of them, in December, in Bagnoles-de-l’Orne); its architecture, among the ravishing Belle-Époque houses, was already the only one that shamed the otherwise harmonious shores of the lake, and I didn’t have the courage to tell my story to the receptionist, who had responded to the sight of me with surprise and even open hostility – what the hell was I doing there one might actually wonder; having said that, solitary clients on Christmas Eve do exist, everything exists in the life of a receptionist, and I was only one particular form of unhappy existence; almost relieved by my status of anonymity, when she held out the key to my room I merely nodded. I had bought two whole andouilles and midnight mass would probably be shown on television, so I wasn’t too badly off.

  * * *

  After a quarter of an hour I had, in reality, nothing left to do in Bagnoles-de-l’Orne; but having said that, going back to Paris the very next day struck me as imprudent. I had cleared the hedge of the 24th, but I still had to jump the one of the 31st – which was tougher, according to Dr Azote.

  * * *

  You plunge into the past, you begin to plunge into it and then it seems as if you’re being engulfed by it, and nothing can put a limit on that engulfment. I had heard from Aymeric occasionally during the years following my visit, in essence news of births: first Anne-Marie, then three years later, Ségloène. He never spoke to me about the health of his farm, which led me to suppose that it was still poor or indeed that it had got worse; among people of a certain upbringing, no news necessarily means bad news. Perhaps I too belonged to that unfortunate category of well-mannered people; my first emails after meeting Camille were overflowing with enthusiasm; but I had refrained from talking about our break-up; then contact had ceased completely.

  The website of Agro alumni was now accessible on the Internet, and nothing in Aymeric’s life seemed to have changed: he still had the same job, the same address, the same email, the same telephone number. And yet as soon as I heard his voice – weary, slow, he had terrible trouble finishing his sentences – I understood something had changed. I could drop in whenever I liked, even tonight why not, and he could easily put me up, even if the nature of the accommodation had changed; well, he would explain.

  * * *

  It was a slow, very slow drive between Bagnoles-de-l’Orne and Canville-la-Rocque from the Orne to Manche, along deserted, foggy minor roads – it was, I should point out again, 25th December. I stopped quite often and tried to remember why I was there, but I couldn’t quite do it; banks of fog floated over the pastures, and there were no cows to be seen. I imagine one could have called my journey poetic, but the word has come to give off an irritating impression of lightness and evanescence. I was aware, at the wheel of my Mercedes 4x4 that purred nicely along these easy roads while the air conditioning gave off a pleasant warmth: there is also tragic poetry.

  * * *

  The Château d’Olonde had not notably become more dilapidated since my last visit about fifteen years earlier; inside was a different matter, and the dining room, previously a pleasant room, had become a grim, dirty and foul-smelling cubby-hole, strewn here and there with ham wrappers and tins of cannelloni in tomato sauce. ‘I have nothing to eat…’ were the first words with which Aymeric welcomed me. ‘I’ve still got an andouille,’ I replied; that was how I spent my reunion with the man who had been, who still was in a sense (but rather by default), my best friend.

  ‘What do you want to drink?’ he went on; in terms of drink, by contrast, there seemed to be a plethora, and when I arrived he was busy necking down a bottle of Zubrowka, while I settled for a Chablis. He was also greasing and reassembling the parts of a firearm that I identified as an assault rifle, having seen it on various television news programmes. ‘It’s a Schmeisser S4 .223 Remington,’ he explained unnecessarily. To lighten the mood I cut a few slices of andouille. He had changed physically, his features had grown thick and blotchy, but the most frightening thing was his gaze: a hollow, dead gaze that he seemed unable to distract for more than a few seconds from contemplation of the void. There didn’t seem to be any point in asking him a single question; I had already understood the essence of the situation, though I did have to try to talk, but our desire to be silent was powerful, and we regularly topped ourselves up, he with vodka and I with wine, rocking our heads back and forth: weary forty-year-olds. ‘Let’s speak tomorrow,’ Aymeric said at last, putting an end to my embarrassment.

  * * *

  He drove ahead of me at the wheel of his Nissan Navara pick-up. I followed him for five kilometres along a narro
w, bumpy road, barely wide enough for the car, with spiny hedges scratching our paintwork. Then he turned off the engine and got out, and I joined him: we were at the top of a huge semicircular amphitheatre whose grassy slope ran gently down towards the sea. Far away on the surface of the ocean the full moon made the waves glitter, but one could just about make out the bungalows, arranged regularly on the slope a hundred or so metres apart. ‘I have twenty-four bungalows in all,’ Aymeric said. ‘In the end we didn’t get the grant to turn the castle into a hotel because they thought the Château de Bricquebec was already enough for Nord de la Manche, so we fell back on this bungalow project. It’s not going too badly – well, it’s the only thing that brings me in a bit of cash – and I’m starting to get customers over the May bank holidays; once the bungalows were even full in July. Obviously in winter it’s completely empty – well, not completely; curiously enough at the moment there’s one bungalow that’s rented to a guy on his own, a German. I think he’s interested in birdwatching; from time to time I see him in the meadows with his binoculars and telephoto lenses – he won’t bother you, I don’t think he’s even addressed a word to me since he got here, he just nods in passing and that’s it.’

  * * *

  From close by, the bungalows were rectangular blocks, almost cubical, covered with slats of varnished pine. The interior was in pale wood too, and the room was relatively huge: a double bed, a sofa, a table and four chairs – also in wood – a kitchenette and a refrigerator. Aymeric turned on the electricity meter. Above the bed was a little television on a wall bracket. ‘I have a bungalow with a children’s room as well, with a pair of bunk beds; and one with two children’s rooms, so four extra rooms; given Western demographics, I thought that would be enough. Unfortunately I have no Wi-Fi…’ he said with regret. I gave an indifferent grunt. ‘It loses me a fair number of clients,’ he stressed. ‘For many people it’s the first question they ask, and the high-speed plan is dragging a bit in Manche. But it’s well heated,’ he went on, pointing to the electric radiator. ‘I’ve never had any complaints on that score. We paid attention to the insulation when we were building them – it’s the main point.’

  He fell silent all of a sudden. I sensed that he was about to talk about Cécile, so I fell silent too, waiting. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow,’ he said again in a faint voice. ‘I’ll say goodnight.’

  I lay down on the bed and turned on the television; the bed was cosy and comfortable and the room quickly warmed up – he was right that the heating worked well – it was just a bit of a shame to be alone, but life isn’t simple. The window was very wide, almost like a picture window, probably put in with the intention of taking advantage of the view of the ocean; the full moon still lit the surface of the water, which it seemed to me had come notably closer since our arrival – it was probably a tidal phenomenon, but I don’t know, I don’t know anything about it. I lived in Senlis when I was young and had my holidays in the mountains, and later I went out with a girl whose parents had a villa in Juan-les-Pins, a little Vietnamese girl who could contract her pussy to an incredible degree; oh, no, I hadn’t only had unhappiness in my life, but my experience of the tides remained more than limited. It was curious to be aware of that huge mass of liquid calmly rising to cover the earth; On n’est pas couché was on television, and the excitable talk-show contrasted oddly with the slow progression of the ocean; there were too many presenters and they talked too loudly, and the volume of the programme overall was excessively high so I turned off the television but immediately regretted it, as I now had a sense that I was missing something of the reality of the world, that I was withdrawing from history, and that the thing I was missing was probably essential; the casting of the guests was impeccable – these were people who mattered, I was sure of it. Looking through the window I noticed that the water seemed to have come closer still, and in a worrying way; were we going to be flooded in the next hour? In that case, we might as well have a bit of fun. In the end I drew the curtains, turned the television back on with the sound down and immediately realised that I had made the right choice; that was the way, the excitement of the programme was still vivid but the inaudibility of what was being said added to the joy; they were like little media figurines, slightly crazy but pleasing, and they were bound to help me get to sleep.

  Sleep did in fact come, but it wasn’t good, my night was disturbed by gloomy dreams, sometimes erotic but gloomy overall; I was afraid of my nights now, of letting my mind move without control because it was aware that my existence was now turned towards death, and never missed an opportunity to remind me of it. In my dream I lay half-reclining, half-buried in viscous, whitish soil; intellectually I knew we were in an area of medium-sized mountains even though there was nothing in the landscape to indicate as much; extending all around me as far as the eye could see was a cotton-wool atmosphere, also whitish. I called faintly, repeatedly, persistently, and my cries went unheard.

  At around nine o’clock in the morning I knocked at the door of the château and got no reply. After a brief moment of hesitation, I headed towards the stable, but Aymeric wasn’t there either. The cows watched curiously after me as I went back up the avenues; I ran my hand over the bars to touch their muzzles; they felt lukewarm, damp. Their eyes were bright, they seemed to be robust and in good health; whatever his difficulties, Aymeric was still managing to take care of his animals, so that was reassuring.

  The office was open, and the computer turned on. On the task bar I recognised the Firefox icon. It wasn’t as if I had all that many reasons to connect to the Internet; I had precisely one.

  * * *

  Like the directory of Agro alumni, the directory of Maisons-Alfort alumni was online now, and it took me about fifty seconds to find Camille’s file. She had set up her own company and her offices were in Falaise. That was thirty kilometres from Bagnoles-de-l’Orne. So, after we split up, she had come back to live with her family; I should have suspected as much.

  The file contained only the address and telephone number of her office – there was no personal information; I printed it out and folded it in four before putting it in a pocket of my reefer jacket, without knowing precisely what I planned to do with it, or more exactly without knowing if I would have the courage to do it, but fully aware that the rest of my life depended on it.

  * * *

  On the way back towards my bungalow I bumped into the German birdwatcher; well, I nearly bumped into him. Spotting me about thirty metres away, he froze abruptly and stood motionless for a few seconds before turning off down a path that climbed to the left. He had a rucksack and wore a camera with a huge telephoto lens on his chest. He was walking quickly, and I stopped to watch where he went: he practically climbed to the top of the slope, which was quite steep in that spot, and then he walked along it for almost a kilometre before coming back down at an angle towards his bungalow, which was about a hundred metres away from mine. That meant he had taken a detour which cost him a quarter of an hour just to avoid having to speak to me.

  Spending time with birds must have had charms that had escaped me until then. It was 26th December, so the shops were bound to be open. In fact, in a gun shop in Coutances I bought a pair of powerful binoculars, Schmidt & Bender, which were, the shopkeeper assured me enthusiastically – he was pretty and homosexual, with a slight speech defect that made him speak a little like a Chinese person – ‘leally the best on the malket, incompalable’: their Schneider-Kreuznach lenses were exceptionally sharp, and they also had an efficient light amplifier: even at dawn, even at dusk, even in heavy fog, I’d definitely be able to achieve an enlargement of 50x.

  I devoted the rest of my day to observing the jerky, mechanical walk of the birds on the beach (the sea had retreated by several kilometres, and it could just be seen in the distance, making way for a huge grey expanse and scattered with irregular pools whose water looked black – quite a grim landscape, to be honest). That afternoon spent as a naturalist was interesting, and it reminded me
a little of my student years, apart from the fact that in the past I had been particularly interested in plants, but why not birds? There seemed to be three types: one completely white, another white and black, the third white with long legs and a matching beak. I didn’t know their names, either their scientific or their common names; their activities, on the other hand, contained no mystery: frequently pecking the damp sand with their beaks, they devoted themselves to what is called shore fishing when a human does it. A tourist display panel a little way back told me that once the high tides had retreated one could easily find, in the sand or in the pools, an ample supply of whelks, winkles, razor shells, dog cockles and sometimes even oysters or crabs. Two humans (or more precisely, as the enlargement of my binoculars revealed, two humans in their fifties, with squat physiques) were also coming back up the beach, armed with buckets and spades, competing with the birds over their paltry fare.