Jean Ehrenfried
Darius sat in the huge orthopedic chair, in which, if you ask me, no one can be comfortable. He sat down and slumped against the back of the chair like a defeated man. If anyone had come into the room just then, they wouldn’t have been able to tell which of us — Darius, collapsed in the chair, or me, lying bandaged in the bed and hooked up to a drip — was the more pitiful. I waited for him to speak. He sat there for a while, and then, with his neck thrust forward by the sausage-shaped headrest, he said, Anita has left me. Even though I was reclining on my hospital bed, I found myself looking down at him. The fact that he’d been able to pronounce those words with that crestfallen look on his face struck me as verging on comical. And all the more so when he added, in a barely audible voice, she left with the landscaper. — The landscaper? — Yes, the guy who’s been designing that shitty garden in Gassin for the past three years, who’s making me spend a fortune on scary sub-Saharan plants. I first met Darius long before he was kicked out of the Third Circle, one of those exclusive clubs where oligarchs from both right and left connive together, steeped in right-mindedness and filled with devoted allegiance to the power of money. At the time I met him, he was the director of several companies, one of them a team of engineering consultants and another that manufactured smart cards, if memory serves. As for me, I had just left the international division of Safranz-Ulm Electric to take over as chairman of its board of directors. I was filled with affection for that young man, nearly twenty-five years my junior, and his Oriental charm. He was married to Anita, the daughter of a British lord, with whom he had two children, both of them more or less messed up. Darius Ardashir was as cunning as could be. He slithered into the system with disarming nonchalance, showing great aptitude for the mutual boosting, the favor-swapping, the manipulation of pawns in high places. He was never in a hurry, his feelings never hurt. The same way with women. Eventually he made a fortune as an intermediary in some international contracts. He got entangled in various cases of corruption, the thorniest of which concerned the sale of a border surveillance system to Nigeria, which incidentally led to his ouster from the Third Circle (the way I see it, a club that expels its rogues is a fucked-up club). Some of his connections did a bit of time in prison, but he himself escaped without any real damage. I’ve always found him a resilient man and a faithful friend. When I was attacked by this blasted cancer, Darius behaved like a son. Before engaging in a serious conversation with him, I pressed all sorts of buttons in an effort to raise the head of my bed. Darius contemplated my efforts and the succession of preposterous positions they resulted in with dull eyes and without moving. A nurse came in — I’d no doubt rung for her — and said, Monsieur Ehrenfried, what are you trying to do? — Sit up! — Doctor Chemla will be dropping in. He knows you’re not running a fever anymore. — Tell him I’m fed up and I want him to let me leave. She tidied my bed and tucked me in like a child. I asked Darius if he wanted something to drink. He declined, and the girl left the room. I said, all right, this landscaper, isn’t he simply a moment of passing madness? — She wants a divorce. I let a minute or so pass and then said, you’ve never paid much attention to Anita. He gave me an astonished look, as if I’d uttered some insanity. — She had the best life in the world. I understand, I said. — I gave her everything. Name one thing she didn’t have. Houses, jewelry, servants. Extravagant trips. She won’t get anything, Jean. All my assets are in my companies. The villa in Gassin, the house on Rue de la Tour, the furniture, the art, nothing’s in my name. Those two can die for all I care. — You cheated on her day and night. — What does that have to do with anything? — You can’t begrudge her taking a lover. — Women don’t take lovers. They get infatuated, they make it into a big drama, they go completely crazy. A man needs a safe place to go to so he can face the world. You can’t deploy if you don’t have a fixed point, a base camp. Anita’s the house. She’s the family. If you want a breath of fresh air, it doesn’t mean you don’t want to go home. I don’t get attached to women. The only one that counts is the next one. But that stupid bitch goes to bed with the gardener and wants to run off with him. What sense does that make? While listening to Darius, I was watching my IV drip. The drops looked strangely irregular, and I was on the verge of calling the nurse. I said, would you have accepted it if she lived the way you do? — What does that mean? — If she had insignificant affairs. He shook his head. Then he reached into a pocket, extracted a white handkerchief, and folded it carefully before blowing his nose. I thought, that gesture’s the exclusive property of this particular type of man. He said, no, because that’s not her style. Then, in a mournful voice, he added, I was in London the past two days — an important trip, which she totally wrecked for me — and on the way back, the TGV stopped a few minutes north of the French border, in some outlying area. Right in front of my window there was a little detached house, red brick, red roof tiles, well-maintained wooden fence. Geraniums in the windows. And more flowers in hanging pots on the walls. You know what I thought, Jean? I thought, in that house, someone has decided you have to be happy. I thought he was going to continue, but he fell silent. He was staring at the floor with a face full of gloom. I said to myself, he’s at the end of his rope. If a Darius Ardashir starts finding evidence of happiness in brickwork and macramé, that’s the hallmark of total dejection. Or a simpler sign, I thought, and a more troubling one as far as he was concerned, was the mere fact that he could refer to happiness as an end in itself. As for me, I thought I should summon the emergency medical staff, because the IV tube was carrying air bubbles to my arm. Do you know how old Anita is? Darius asked. — Are those bubbles normal? — What bubbles? Those are drops. It’s the product. — Do you think so? Look closer. He took out his glasses and got up to observe the tube. — They’re drops. — Are you sure? Tap the bag. — What for? — Just tap it, tap it. It helps. Darius tapped the bag of intravenous fluid a few times and sat back down. I said, I can’t see anything anymore. I’m sick of being hooked up to all this plumbing. — Do you know how old Anita is? — Tell me. — Forty-nine years old. You think that’s the age to develop blossoming ambitions, romantic passions, and other nonsense? You know, I often think about Dina, Jean. You had a wife who understood life. Dina’s in heaven. You all don’t have Paradise, do you? Jews? What do you have? — We don’t have anything. — Well, she’s surely in a good place. She left you your sons, very nice boys who take care of you, and your daughter too, your son-in-law, your grandchildren. Dina knew how to create an environment. When you’re old, having a hand to grab on to is important. Me, I’m going to end up like a rat. Anita will tell you I got what I deserved. Another idiotic phrase. What does whatever I deserve have to do with any of this? I have a magnificent apartment, magnificent properties, what do people think, do they think all that just falls out of the sky? It happens because I’m killing myself, I leave at eight in the morning, I go to bed at midnight, and she doesn’t understand that I do it for her? And the boys — a pair of zeros who are going to squander everything — they don’t understand it’s for them? No, they don’t. They complain, complain, complain. And have a fling with a moron who plants frangipani. I would’ve liked it better if she’d run off with a woman. I asked him, are you all right in that chair? — I’m just fine. The previous evening, Ernest sat there for less than a minute before opting for the folding chair. While I listened to Darius, I remembered an afternoon of tidying up that Dina and I had spent at home. We found some old-fashioned linens, hand-embroidered, passed down from her mother, and a lovely Italian dinner service. We said to each other, what’s the use of all this now? Dina spread out a well-ironed, yellowing tablecloth on a sofa. She lined up the inlaid porcelain cups. As time passes, objects that once had value become useless burdens. I didn’t know what to say to Darius. The couple is the most impenetrable thing there is. You can’t understand a couple, even if you’re part of it. Doctor Chemla came into the room. As smiling and congenial as always. I was glad he’d come, because I was getting gangrene in my arm. I introduced them: Darius Ardashir, a dear friend, Doctor Philip Chemla, my savior. And I immediately added, Doctor, don’t you think my arm is swollen? If you ask me, the fluid’s missing the vein. Chemla palpated my fingers and my forearm. He looked at my wrist, turned the thumb wheel that regulated the IV flow, and said, we’ll finish this bag and that’ll be it. You’ll be home tomorrow. I’ll come back and see you this evening, we’ll take a little walk in the corridor. After he left, Darius asked, what exactly did you have? — A urinary infection. — How old is he, this doc of yours? — Thirty-six. — Too young. — He’s a genius. — Too young. I said, so what are you going to do? He bent forward, spread his arms like a guy lifting the void, and let them drop back down. I saw his eyes wander over my night table, and he said, what are you reading?