“In 1998, I was busy writing an estimate for a client’s vehicle when I saw him enter the garage. I was in my office and, through the glass partition, I saw him arriving by bike. He hadn’t yet taken his helmet off, but I already knew it was him. Fifteen years it was, since I’d last seen him. His body had changed, but his bearing was still the same. I thought I would die. I thought my heart, like my man’s, was going to stop. I never thought I’d see him again one day. I rarely thought of him. He was part of my nights. I often dreamt of him, but during the day, rarely thought of him. He belonged to my memories. He took his helmet off. He started to belong to the present. He looked awful. Unwell. What a shock. I had left a kid of twenty-five on a station platform, and now I was seeing a somber man. I found him terribly handsome. Tired-looking, but handsome. I felt like running into his arms, like in those Lelouch films. I recalled his last words, ‘Come, we’re leaving together. I feel that with you, everything is possible, with you, I can face anything. Otherwise I’ll become a loser, a good-for-nothing.’
“I walked toward him. And me? I, too, had changed. I was almost forty-seven. I was scrawny. My skin had taken the flak. I’d drunk too much and smoked too much. I don’t think he cared a damn about that; when he saw me, he threw himself into my arms. ‘Fell into my arms’ would be more accurate. He sobbed. For a long time. In the middle of the garage. I took him to my place. Our place. He told me everything.”
* * *
Françoise Pelletier has been gone for an hour. Her voice is echoing between my walls. I thought she’d come to find me to hurt me, when in fact, she made me a gift of the truth.
62.
I no longer dream, I no longer smoke, I no longer even have a history, I’m dirty without you, I’m ugly without you, I’m like an orphan in a dormitory.
Gabriel Prudent stamped out his cigarette, and went into the rose nursery five minutes before closing time. Irène Fayolle had already switched off the lights in the shop, and access to the gardens was closed. She had lowered the heavy iron shutters. She was in the storeroom when she saw him in front of the counter. He was waiting like an abandoned, neglected customer.
They saw each other at the same time, her in the white light of a halogen lamp, him lit only by a red neon light hung above the entrance door.
She’s still as beautiful. What’s he doing here? I hope it’s a nice surprise. Has he come to say something to me? She hasn’t changed. He hasn’t changed. How long has it been now? Three years. The last time, rather angry. He looks lost. Left without saying goodbye. Hope he doesn’t hold it against me. No, or he wouldn’t be here. Is she still with her husband? Has he made a new life for himself? Seems she’s changed the color of her hair, it’s lighter. Still in his old navy coat. Still all in beige. He looked younger on the television, last time. What has she been doing all this time? What has he seen, defended, known, eaten, lived? Years. Water under the bridge. Will she agree to have a drink with me? Why has he come so late? Does she remember me? He hasn’t forgotten me. It’s good that she’s here. We’re lucky, usually on Thursday evening, Paul comes to fetch me. I could just leave without saying a thing. Will he kiss me? Will she have any time for me? There’s the parent-teacher meeting tonight. Maybe I should have followed her into the street. Did he follow me? Pretended to bump into her on a sidewalk by chance. Paul and Julien are waiting for me outside the school at 7:30 p.m. The French teacher wants to talk to us. The first move, I’d like her to make the first move. That’s a song, that is. And live, each in our own place. Will we go to the hotel? Will he make me drink like last time? She must have things to tell me. There’s the English teacher, too. I must give her that present, I can’t leave without giving her that present. What am I doing here? Her skin, the hotel. Her breath. He doesn’t smoke anymore. Impossible, he’ll never quit smoking. He just doesn’t dare to here. His hands . . .
Irène Fayolle’s Journal
June 2nd, 1987
I came out of the storeroom, Gabriel followed me, smiling shyly, he the great lawyer, he with all that charisma, that lofty tone, he couldn’t speak anymore, like a very small child. He who defended the criminal and the innocent, he couldn’t say a thing to defend our love.
We found ourselves out in the street. Gabriel still hadn’t given me my present and we hadn’t exchanged a single word. I locked up the shop and we walked to my car. Like three years ago, he sat close to me, leaned his neck against the headrest, and I drove aimlessly. I no longer felt like stopping or parking. I didn’t want him to get out of my car. I found myself on the motorway, drove towards Toulon, and then along the coast as far as Cap d’Antibes. It was 10 p.m. when, with the tank showing empty, I parked beside the sea, near a hotel, La Baie Dorée. We walked over to the
