What if I dare to look him right in the face.
My eyes trained right on him.
Deep, unattractive wrinkles. His hair beginning to thin. And that paunch, above all. I assumed, naïvely, that he would stay slim as he got old. That he’d be one of those crisp fiftysomething men who go running every Sunday and don’t put on an ounce of fat even when they give up smoking. Like Luc. Or like that friend of his, Mathieu Coché. Now there’s a good-looking man. Good-looking, and not such an unpleasant memory in the end. Maybe I could start with that. A benign conversation, now that the train has stopped for a few minutes before it pulls into the station: we can see Sacré-Coeur on the right, and the Cité des Sciences on the left. An empty conversation of the kind he must enjoy, and which would at least have the advantage of not letting our non-encounter end on the unpleasant note of an unconfirmed request for forgiveness. Something like, “I saw your friend Mathieu Coché in a magazine the other day.” His eyes would light up. Even if they haven’t seen each other in ages. It’s always nice to have a friend who’s famous. It makes your own star shine a little brighter.
Yes, I could try that. Two minutes exchanging bland information, and we would say good-bye with a smile.
I’ll be magnanimous.
I need my peace of mind.
~ ~ ~
We regret to inform our passengers that the train is currently stopped on the tracks and we ask that you do not try to open the doors. The train will be moving again shortly.
Grumbling and muttering up and down the train.
Sighs.
“Shit, we were almost there. That’s the SNCF for you.”
~ ~ ~
Or the SNCF, maybe.
A stock phrase like the one the guy in front of me just said: “That’s the SNCF for you.” Everyone is nodding and grumbling. Everyone complains about the SNCF, in a spirit of consensus, criticizing everyone and no one at the same time, and it gives us plenty of excuses for being in a bad mood, it’s manna from heaven for those who firmly believe the country is going to the dogs, that everything was better before, and now we’re in the gutter about to be washed down the drain, splash.
I had a bad taste in my mouth.
But the SNCF would still be a good way to try and break the ice. Let her fly off the handle and rant and rave if she needs to. At least so we don’t part on an unpleasant note.
Make small talk.
I would love to make small talk with Cécile Duffaut. At a sidewalk café overlooking the Canal Saint-Martin, or on the Boulevard Saint-Germain.
Before or after the hospital.
After would be better. To get my life back to normal. Yes, that’s it. To get my life back to normal.
~ ~ ~
“I saw your—”
“The SNCF is—”
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“Excuse me, I interrupted—”
A blank.
A jolt.
Two jolts.
A sigh.
The train has started moving again.
In front of us, behind us, the passengers on the 6:41 train, due to arrive at the Gare de l’Est at 8:15, are getting to their feet, taking their luggage down from the overhead rack, rubbing their eyes, wiping their hands over their faces, blinking, and getting their bearings: station platform, Métro, stairs, sidewalks, two hundred yards, building, office, quick coffee from the machine, good morning to all and sundry, files, debriefing, slightly tense smile, another week has begun.
They’re intimidating, all these passengers standing one behind the other waiting for the line to start moving, to alight from the train, watch the steps, place their feet on the asphalt and begin the race. They clear their throats, check their watches for the twentieth time. They have little tics: they scratch the top of their eyebrows, or their neck, or their earlobe. They are drawing up their lists of things to do. People to see. The chorus of names. And in the middle of all that, incongruously, their spouses, their children — the people they’ll see only too briefly, until next weekend.
They’re so intimidating that you don’t dare look at them. And since Cécile Duffaut and Philippe Leduc don’t dare look at each other, either, they are staring at the dirty floor of the train: there’s a grayish pink wad of crushed chewing gum, an empty bottle of mineral water. They’re sorry they ever started that conversation: What were they thinking?
Or maybe they’re sorry they didn’t start it earlier. They’re a bit puzzled. A bit lost. They can’t quite tell what will happen next. They are about to look up and speak again at the same time, but Cécile Duffaut senses this, and she gets there first. She says, “I saw your friend, Mathieu Coché—well, I don’t know if he’s still your friend, but the friend that you used to have, anyway, way back when. In a magazine. I saw him in a magazine.”
She feels like a complete idiot.
She has repeated the word “friend” three times. And “magazine” twice.
She can see the red ink, her ninth-grade French teacher crossing out all her repetitions and writing in the margin, “Expand your vocabulary, for goodness’ sake!!!” With all those exclamation marks. That was the most humiliating thing about it, all those exclamation marks. You always feel crushed by an exclamation mark. It’s like a stone falling from a wall — and you’re standing right in its path. Why did she suddenly think of that, just now?
Why did she bring up Mathieu Coché?
Check out the expression on Philippe Leduc’s face.
As if an entire army of exclamation marks had tumbled down upon him.
“He … I’m on my way to see him.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s why I’m on this train, I’m going to see him.”
“Oh. That’s great. Tell him I said hello. Although I’m not sure he’ll remember me.”
“He’s in the hospital.”
“Oh dear. I hope it’s not serious?”
“He’s dying. That’s why I’m going to see him. Because he’s going to die. Any day. So, I’m going to see him. You know what I mean?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know what to say. As if she’s driven down a one-way street the wrong way. There’s a part of her that would like to continue the conversation, “Oh, look at that graffiti under the bridge, that’s original, isn’t it? Have you seen any good films recently?” But suddenly there is police tape everywhere, like in a crime film, a flimsy barrier that stops you going any farther and above all entering the scene of the crime. She can no longer put any words to what she feels. She is standing across from this imbecile whose eyes have misted over, and she’s not doing so great herself, the corners of her eyes are stinging, it’s idiotic, over someone she hardly knew almost thirty years ago, no, it makes no sense. She frowns: that ought to send any threatening tears in another direction. She murmurs, “What does he have?” and in her mind, a succession of images: hospital corridors, blood tests, surgeons’ faces, HIV, scanners, bodies entering a tunnel, George Clooney in E.R. Philippe Leduc tilts his head and says, “Cancer. Terminal, obviously.” And there are all those people going by with their bags, their suitcases, their briefcases, where are they going, which Métro station, what will happen to them today, who knows, maybe one of them has just taken their last train ride, and they don’t know it yet, but it was their last ride, and later on, they’ll be crossing a busy street without paying attention, and boom, it’s all over, move along now, there’s nothing to see.
Philippe is brave. He pulls himself together. She has no way of knowing all he’s been through over the last ninety-five minutes, on the train. She has no way of knowing that he has revisited it all, that he has been back to London. That is also why his eyes filled with tears all of a sudden. He apologizes. He’s annoyed with himself, too. He would like, one day, to be able to stop apologizing. Now, awkwardly, he tries to get the conversation going again.