Yes, that bookstore wasn’t only a refuge; it was also a step in my life. I would often stay there until closing time. There was a chair next to the shelves, or rather a tall step stool where I would sit as I leafed through different books. I wasn’t sure that he was even aware of my presence. After a few days, without looking up from his reading, he would speak to me, always the same sentence: “So have you found your happiness?” Much later, someone informed me with great certainty that the one thing we cannot remember is the tone of a voice. And yet even now, during my bouts of insomnia, I often hear that voice and its Parisian accent — the accent of the slopes — asking me, “So have you found your happiness?” And that phrase has lost none of its kindness or mystery.
Late at night, stepping back out of the bookstore, I was shocked to once again find myself on the boulevard de Clichy. I didn’t really feel like going down to the Canter. My steps led me up instead. I now felt a great deal of pleasure climbing the slopes or the stairs. I counted each step. Once I had counted to thirty, I knew I was home free. Much later, Guy de Vere made me read Lost Horizon, a story about some people climbing the mountains of Tibet in search of the monastery of Shangri-La to learn great wisdom and the meaning of life. But it’s not worth the trouble going so far. I thought back on my nighttime walks. For me, Montmartre was Tibet. The slope of rue Caulaincourt was plenty for me. Up there, in front of the Château des Brouillards, I could truly breathe for the first time in my life. One day, at dawn, I snuck away from the Canter, having spent the night there with Jeannette. We were waiting for Accad and Mario Bay, who wanted to take us to Cabassud along with Godinger and another girl. I was suffocating. I came up with an excuse to step out for some fresh air. I started running. At place Blanche, all of the neon signs were dark, even that of the Moulin Rouge. I allowed myself to succumb to an intense feeling of intoxication that neither alcohol nor snow had ever given me. I climbed the slope as far as the Château des Brouillards. I had made up my mind never to see the bunch at the Canter again. Later I revisited that same intoxication every time I broke off all ties with someone. I was never really myself when I wasn’t running away. My only happy memories are memories of flight and escape. But life always regained the upper hand. Once I reached the allée des Brouillards, I felt certain that someone had asked me to meet them up there and that it would be a new beginning for me. There is a street a little farther up that I’d like to revisit one of these days. I was following it that morning. That’s where I was supposed to meet someone. But I didn’t know the number of the building. Didn’t matter, I was waiting for a sign that would let me know. At the end of the street ahead of me was wide-open sky, as if it led up to the edge of a cliff. I advanced with that feeling of lightness that can sometimes come to you in a dream. You no longer fear a thing in the world, potential dangers seem laughable. If something goes really wrong, you just need to wake yourself up. You’re invincible. I walked on, impatient to reach the end where there was nothing but blue sky and the void. What word would have best described my state of mind? Intoxication? Ecstasy? Rapture? In any case, that road was familiar to me. I felt as if I had walked it before. Soon I would reach the cliff’s edge and I would throw myself into the void. What happiness it would be to float through the air and finally know the feeling of weightlessness I had been searching for my whole life. I can still remember that morning with such clarity, that street and that sky at its end.
And then life went on, with its ups and downs. One dismal day, feeling particularly down, as I flipped through the book Guy de Vere had lent me, Louise, Sister of the Void, I used a ballpoint pen to replace her name on the cover with my own: Jacqueline, Sister of the Void.
~ ~ ~
THAT NIGHT, it was as if we were at a table-turning séance. We were gathered in Guy de Vere’s office, and he had turned off the lamp. Or perhaps it was simply a power outage. We listened to his voice in the darkness. He was reciting a text that he otherwise would have read under the light. Well no, I’m not being fair, Guy de Vere would have been shocked to hear me mention his name in the same breath as “table-turning” and “séance.” He deserved better than that. He would have said to me, in a slightly chiding tone, “Honestly, Roland.”
He lit the candles of a candelabrum on the mantel then took his seat behind the desk. We occupied the chairs facing him, that girl, me, and a couple in their early forties whom I was meeting for the first time, both of them meticulously dressed and rather bourgeois-looking.
I turned my head toward her and our eyes met. Guy de Vere was still talking, his chest leaned forward slightly but still naturally, almost as if he was having a casual conversation. At each one of his lectures, he read to us from a text of which he later provided photocopies. I still have the handout from that night. I had a reference point. She had given me her phone number and I had written it on the bottom of the page with a red ballpoint pen.
“Maximum concentration is best reached lying down, the eyes closed. At the first sign of an external manifestation, dispersion and diffusion will commence. Upright, the legs eliminate a portion of the required strength. Open eyes diminish concentration levels.”
It was all I could do to hold in a fit of laughter, and I remember it with certainty because that was the first time it had happened to me there. But the candlelight lent the reading far too much solemnity. My eyes often met those of the girl. Apparently she didn’t feel like laughing. Quite the opposite. She seemed very respectful, even worried that she might not understand the meaning of the words. She ended up passing that gravity on to me. I was almost ashamed of my initial reaction. I hardly dared think of the scene I would have caused if I had burst out laughing. And in her gaze, I thought I could see some sort of a cry for help, a question. Am I worthy of being among you? Guy de Vere had folded his hands. His voice had grown even more resolute and he was looking fixedly at her as if she were the only one he was addressing. It petrified her. Perhaps she was afraid he would ask her an unexpected question, something along the lines of “And you, I’d love to hear your opinion on this.”
The lights came back on. We lingered in the office a short while longer, which was unusual. The lectures always took place in the living room and gathered together about a dozen people. That evening we were but four, and most likely de Vere had preferred to receive us in his office because of our small number. And the whole thing had been arranged thanks to a simple time and place, without the invitation that was customarily delivered to your home or that you might be given if you were a regular at the Vega bookstore. Like some of the photocopied texts, I’ve kept a few of those invitations, and yesterday I came across one of them.
Dearest Roland,
Guy de Vere would be delighted to receive you Thursday, January 16th, at 8 p.m.
5 Lowendal Square (15th)
2nd building on the left
4th floor, left door
The white bristol board card, always of the same size and with the same filigreed lettering, could have been announcing a social gathering, a cocktail party, or a birthday.
That evening he accompanied us back down to the door of the apartment. Guy de Vere and the first-time couple all had at least twenty years on us. As the elevator was too small for four people, she and I took the stairs.