"At least you're not dead! That's good, less trouble for me that way."
"Yep, the troubles would all be yours. I wouldn't have any more."
Once he'd thanked the pharmacist and apologized for the inconvenience, the girl dragged him firmly off to her parents' cafe just across the street. Her father, the owner, had a round, lumpy head, crooked teeth, and was generous to a fault. Her mother was of composite elegance-50s beehive, 60s pancake makeup, and a 70s short skirtand an outstanding human being. The cordial they offered Moe to help him back on his feet soon turned very cordial indeed. From pear liqueur (under-the-counter) to plum spirits (from the back), he soon found himself singing an old folk song in an ambience of fellowfeeling that now and then drew a tear from his eye. Later there was couscous at an Arab place nearby, impromptu dancing in the back room of the cafe, cha-cha and slow dancing with an older sister, a nightcap at her place, and then it was late, so late…
At the crack of dawn, Moe staggered off to his car. A truck had broken down a few yards ahead, blocking the street, leaving him the choice between a long way in reverse or a difficult U-turn, given the narrow street. Moe went for the reverse. Though his head didn't hurt that badly despite the plum, the pear, and the Boulaouane he'd had with couscous, he couldn't remember the name of the girl in pink, nor that of her sister, with whom he'd… And what about all those nice people he'd spent the evening and part of the night with? He saw their faces again, heard their voices and laughter, but their names eluded him as a piece of cork in a glass of wine eludes the spoon. He shrugged. He'd be back. For now he had to get home. Maria was probably worried. In five years of marriage, he'd never spent the night away. She'd probably called the hospitals, the police. Moe didn't feel guilty. He was bringing back marvelous fruit, bread just like they used to bake it. When he reached the foot of Sweet Street, he reflected that he was going to have to tell a lie, and forgot to lift his gaze to the name of the next street he took.
He told Maria some unbelievable story about a childhood friend he'd had to keep from suicide. She believed him, or pretended to. The girls bit into the apples and tomatoes and found them delicious. The bread, toasted with jam, was astounding. Life resumed it course.
In the days and even weeks that followed, Moe searched for Sweet Street like a man possessed. For a while, his quest began to look like an obsession. He circled the city like a beast in a cage. He sought information from the roads administration, the land registry, the police, the tax authority… all in vain. Against his fellow citizens' conclusive unanimity, he had but his personal conviction. Sweet Street was real, because for a few hours he'd been happy there. Had he lived centuries ago he would've plunged his hand into hot coals and sworn to it. Thank God no one asked him to do anything like that. Besides, he was careful not to assert that the street existed. All he'd say was, "I heard about this Sweet Street… Is there any chance you…?" He pretended to side with whomever he was talking to: if a street had a name like that, we'd all know, right? Right? Right. But no one knew. The name meant nothing to anyone.
He'd kept his story to himself. Telling Maria about it would have upset her. After all, he'd cheated on her with neither hesitation nor remorse. The other cabbies were too caught up with soccer. They wouldn't have understood. That left his godmother. He thought too late to ask her if she'd ever heard of Sweet Street. She had to die someday. The dead each take a piece of us with them when they go. Summer came. At the Breton shore where he and Maria took the kids every summer to give them memories of wind and drizzle, the smell of cow dung and fallen fruit rotting in the orchards, he had the feeling of not quite being entirely there anymore. When they came back from vacation, the memory of Sweet Street already troubled him less. Bit by bit, though he never entirely forgot it, the episode melted back into the hazy mural of dreams that we walk beside all our lives without really noticing, except in furtive glances. Months, years went by. Moe was graying at the temples; the wrinkles deepened around his eyes. A streak of white parted Mania's dark hair. His daughters' minds and bodies changed. They didn't want to hear anymore about sea breezes and abandoned orchards, swearing instead by the sun of the southern coast and the huge mirrorballs of dance clubs.
Moe had bought a new car. He'd gone with the same foreign brand. This time he'd gone for a model with enough under its hood to take him to Mars and back. He still toted around, in that magnificent vehicle, his pitiful books. These days he dipped mainly into the 19`f' century, which had no shortage of bores, either. Sweet Street was a distant memory. He began to dream of a house for later on, in the wind and drizzle, with at least one apple tree he'd leave partly unpicked, leaving some fruit to rot at its foot. Preferably at the far end of the backyard, because of wasps.
And then one night a man got into his taxi and asked him to take him to Sweet Street. Moe's heart started pounding. Over time, he'd stopped believing in it. He looked at the man in the rearview mirror. It was the same one. Well-the same, but older. His hands and forehead were spotted. The flesh of his cheeks shook when he spoke. His head trembled almost imperceptibly. Out of reflex, Moe felt his own forehead, his own cheeks.
"Sure, mister. Number forty-two?"
The man leaned forward to peer at Moe, then let himself fall backward in his seat. "Number forty-two, of course."
"You'll have to give me directions, 'cause-"
"Don't worry, just drive! Head for the old Granary Hall…"
They chatted about the nineteenth century and romanticism. Now and then the old man stopped to give directions. Moe tried hard to memorize the route, but entertained no illusions. He knew the ins and outs of all the streets he drove. He could've drawn a complete map of the city from memory. He knew that Sweet Street began and ended nowhere, that to get there you had to leave the map… And one way or another, that was what happened. After fifteen minutes or so, they were there. The last sign he'd seen before arriving was Guardicci Avenue, but it might just as well have been any other, Delaunay Lane or Mathieu Chain Boulevard. It was random, Moe thought. His throat tightened. Time had gone by. What would he find?
The gentleman paid and got out. Moe hesitated. Wouldn't it be wiser to leave right away and return to a simple life, the lukewarm yoke of happiness and the sleep of days just like the sleep of nights? No, he'd waited too long for this moment. He stepped out of the car and locked the doors with the remote. He turned around to look for the fruits and vegetables vendor, the shop window with the beaming calves' heads, the pharmacy where he'd been cared for, the cafe where he'd danced… It was all there, but closed or decrepit, as though stricken by disaster. The stall had nothing to offer but overripe fruit and shriveled greens. In the entrance to the bakery, between the lowered grille and the glass door, soggy wrinkled flyers, old social-security letters, and court notices lay in a heap. He crossed the street and entered the cafe. The crowd was sparse: a few regulars clung crablike to the bar, watched over by two old harpies. A woman was drying glasses like in some sad blue-collar ballad. Moe recognized the little girl in pink, but she no longer shone. She looked wan and six months pregnant. He ordered the first thing that came to mind. A red wine spritzer. She served him without a word or a second glance.
"Don't you recognize me? You ran me over in the street with your skateboard. It was… a while back. They patched me up at the pharmacy across the street, and then you brought me here. Your dad offered me a pick-me-up, one thing led to another, and… remember?" Moe heard the pleading in his own voice. He tried to control himself. "You were what, ten? You were wearing this hot pink tracksuit with apple green stripes. You were so sweet, and really sorry about knocking me over. Remember?"