"Usually, you'll find him wherever I am. I mean, at my place, since right now I work at home stuffing envelopes because of him," I said, trying to control my trembling voice.
"At your place? You mean you live together?"
"Not exactly. We don't really live together, strictly speaking. He's just… there most of the time, that's all."
The patrolman took a deep breath, then shook his head. "One last question, if I may: do you have a history of psychiatric illness?"
"Excuse me?"
"Have you ever spent time in an asylum?"
"Never, officer! I don't think you understand. I'm not insane! In fact, I am in full command of all my faculties. I'd have to be, to put up with what I do without losing my mind."
"We'll see about that."
When I managed to escape the hospital eight days later, I was worried. The doctors had succeeded in raising my doubts again. Did my tormentor really exist? I hurried back home on foot from the distant suburb where I'd been shipped despite my protestations, mulling the question over seriously. If he didn't exist, I was insane. Moreover, doubting his reality meant doubting my own-I felt my reason waver, unsteady as a child's loose tooth beneath a probing finger. If he did exist, my health but also my misfortune would be confirmed, for everything led me to believe he'd be around as long as I would.
Once more-for the thought had crossed my mind many times before-I was tempted to put an end to myself. Only an abiding uncertainty about the nature of the afterlife-and also, let's face it, a certain natural pusillanimity-had always stayed my hand. I'd suffered enough, and been kept from acting often enough and therefore from acting wrongly), to go straight to heaven if there was one. But if I got up there only to find him, that groper, that toady, in all his sniveling bonhomie, ready to stick by me for the rest of eternity, well, it wasn't worth it. But that day, my despair almost won out.
Despite myself, my steps led me to the river's edge. Night was falling. The waters seemed to be calling me through the gray mists, promising me a blessed oblivion free of everything, especially that despicable puppet who'd ruined my life.
Drowning isn't usually considered a barrel of laughs, but as I was frail of body and a poor swimmer to boot, I was hoping for an easy death without too much suffering if I went about thirty feet out. Besides, the harsh winter would come to my aid. I stood a good chance of succumbing to sudden pulmonary congestion, or something of the kind, before the water reached my chin.
I'd taken a few steps down a half-submerged stone staircase toward the water when a voice rang out in my ears. I'd have known it anywhere. It'd been the cause of each of my innumerable defeats. It was the voice of bad luck itself.
"Oh, it's you! What a pleasant surprise! I was just taking a stroll, and thinking about you, in fact! What are you doing here?"
In the mist that rose from the river, I was flooded by two contradictory feelings: relief at being able to dispel the doubt the doctors had instilled in me, and rage at finding myself back in a life that horrified me.
My reply rang out in the still air. The sound of his execrable voice had swept aside every last hesitation. "I'm going! I'm leaving you forever, you hellish creature!"
"What? You're not thinking of-you can't be! You don't have the right! A man like you can't let down the hopes he's raised in others!"
I burst out with a cackle and took another step into the icy water.
"You silver-tongued clown! A man like me'? `Hopes I've raised'? Fuckall, I say! Without you, I might've been something… I'm not sure what. But at least I would've lived! Too bad! I'm going to drown myself and escape you in death, you pestilent meddler!"
"Stop! You poor man! Think about those who'll grieve for you! Who've loved you, who love you still!"
"That's right, keep talking!"
Still cackling, I took two more steps. An icy hand squeezed my belly. O river Seine, make quick work of me! I leaned forward and pushed off with my heels. Terror struck my heart, and my entire body rose up prickling against the vise suddenly tightening around me. But I was sincerely determined to die. From here, it looked painful but brief. All I had to do was take a few strokes from shore and let myself go under.
Not far away, something heavy hit the water with a massive splash. I couldn't believe my ears. It was him! The fool had jumped in!
He surfaced, shook himself like an elephant seal, and reached out his hand.
"Get away from me;" I screamed. "I don't want you to save me, you filthy piece of trash!"
He shook his big head. "You're wrong, you-"
"Get away!" I hit him again and again with all my strength. He went under, then resurfaced almost immediately, huffing and spitting. "Get away from me, you bastard!"
"I can't! I can't swim!"
"What? But you jumped in-"
"So you'd save me!"
"Me? Save you? That really takes the cake! Save you?" Beside myself, I began hitting him again. A few of my blows landed. His face was covered in cuts and bruises. His blood flowed freely.
"Save me!" he cried, one last time. "It's the only way to free yourself!"
I don't know what came over me then-what reversal of the soul, what sudden clarity-but I gave up on suicide and saved him.
It wasn't easy. He was a fat slob and didn't lift a finger to help. But we hadn't had time to drift very far from shore. I hauled him onto the steps, and we staved there for a moment, moaning and shivering, miserable. Finally, we made our way back up the bank, hanging on to each other.
"Real smart," I said. "We're going to get sick now."
"Probably. But if you get better, you'll be free. I give you my word."
He spoke the truth. We ran to the nearest bistro. They undressed us by the stove, rubbed us down, covered us in blankets, served us grog, and even called us a taxi. He let me take it on my own. I have never seen him since.
Lozere, December 1988
Delaunay the Broker
All things there are the same, but the same as what, I could not say.
e walked into my antique shop one September afternoon. I knew right away he hadn't come to buy. I have an eye for these things. Even taking a certain fashionable negligence into account, he wasn't well-dressed enough. In truth, he was neither well nor poorly dressed: he simply couldn't have cared less for his appearance. His kind is rare among my clients. I have no complaints about this. I hate mediocrity in all its forms.
So, he hadn't come to buy. I was making ready to turn him away with my customary skill when our gazes met. Make no mistake-I am by no means insensitive to the promise in a gaze… In fact, I've an eye for that, too. He wasn't like that, I would have staked my life on it. Something else gave me pause. A lived-in gaze is so rare these days.
I made my way toward him unhurriedly. Nonchalantly, even. Perhaps he was one of those people for whom every encounter is a joust-in which case he'd already scored a point.
"You have quite a collection of handsome items," he said.
Neither upper, nor lower middle class. I have an ear for it. But nothing common about him either. Clear speech, firm tones, fine timbre. His voice confirmed his gaze; this was no ordinary man.
"Very… personal items," he concluded.
I appreciated his adjective without letting it show. Indeed, such items are precisely what I selclass="underline" it is up to the right person to present himself