“And you … what brings you to Paris?”
But all these people are getting off and soon the car will be empty, it’s so late, it’s much too late. She replies, “I work here. I live here,” getting to her feet at the same time, and Philippe moves to one side. But he doesn’t give in. Now that he’s taken the first step, he presses on. He asks her if she has children. It is so totally irrelevant, completely out of left field, that Cécile Duffaut cannot help but smile and say, “Yes. A daughter. She’s all grown-up now. At the lycée.” She wants to get her bag from the luggage rack but he’s quicker than she is. He takes the opportunity to tell her that he also has children, two of them, grown-up now, too, it’s strange, isn’t it?
“What’s strange?”
“When we were younger, we never imagined that we’d have kids one day.”
This time she laughs. She can’t help it. He opens his eyes wide. He doesn’t see what’s so funny. She waves her hand as if to say, “Never mind, it’s nothing,” and then she does something, she places her hand on his shoulder, the way a father would, or a friend, or a brother, and it’s very unsettling. In a kindly tone, she adds, “It’s much too late to get to know each other again, and I don’t take this train very often. I don’t know if we’ll meet again. Take care.”
“Take care.”
He’s always hated that expression. It is one of his mother’s favorite stock phrases, she uses it with everyone — neighbors, mailman, baker, son, nephews, brother, butcher at the supermarket, husband back in the day. Everyone is entitled to take care: of their activities, their everyday business, minor dramas, minor joys, the world is a crowd of plastic Playmobil figures jerkily waving their arms, spouting off from their invisible mouths, hearing without ears, their hair always impeccably styled, and they go about their assigned business, all of them, ceaselessly, taking care, it’s good, to take care, it’s fine.
And it’s the same for all those people who, one after the other, have left the railroad car, they are taking care, that’s good, they’re making calls on their cell phones to say when they’ll be there, they’re sending text messages so others know they’ve gotten off the train, they fiddle with their earphones, their touch screens, the keys on the keyboard, they’re clicking and communicating yet there’s not a sound, just a hollowness, they are merely indicating that they are taking care and that’s good, I’m taking care and that’s good, everything is collapsing all around me, worse than that, everything is made of cardboard, of putty, of plastic, the hospital is a bed with a thermometer but I’m a nurse, I wear a blue helmet with a transparent visor and carry a truncheon so I’m a policeman, I have a hammer and a hard hat so I’m a builder — I don’t have any questions to ask, I know what I have to do, I’m taking care and that’s good, I always take care and that’s good, and get on with it, get on with it, you have to get on with it.
“Coffee?”
“No … I think … I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I’m not. I’m not so sure. It’s just that this sort of thing happens all the time, people who knew each other briefly a long time ago and they run into each other, and there’s nothing more to say, you think about it for a few minutes and then you go back to your routine, there’s no reason why you should change it.”
“You basically go on taking care of things.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“I hope you’ll have a thought for me before you die.”
Cécile Duffaut is shocked. Almost as much by the words as by the general appearance of the man standing across from her. He seems to be projecting a sort of violence she would never have imagined. Violence but also, oh God, she doesn’t want to admit it, but yes, all the same, never mind if it seems hackneyed, yes, he’s projecting sensuality, the sensuality of 8:15 in the morning, on the platform at the Gare de l’Est, it’s hardly the place for it, after all. There he is, he’s desperate, like a dog about to bite, she has to leave now, she’s right, she knows she is, she has to go. Her brain is teeming with words, snatches of phrases, fragments of images, if she were Valentine, she’d give him her email, digital makes things easier, it leaves a trace and yet at the same time leaves no trace, it’s magical, but now is not the time for magical thinking, get going now, move.
She picks up her bag. She shifts her shoulder so it will hang properly, she smoothes her skirt which had ridden up slightly, she’s not looking at him anymore, she turns around and heads for the exit, she’s searching for something to say, she ought to be able to come up with some ironic quip about fate, misfortune, destiny, something that would hit home, but she can’t find anything, it’s hopeless, she keeps walking, there’s nothing left, it’s incredible how there’s nothing left, it’s a desert, a green desert, the Périgord, the Lot, rocks, oak trees, walnut trees, a river, a river through the Gare de l’Est, what on earth, railway tracks, there’s nothing but railway tracks and the imperturbable voice announcing platforms, arrivals, departures, delays, because oh yes, there are plenty of delays, and sometimes the trains stop altogether, somewhere they are not taking care to keep things going, and that’s not good, not to take care, not good at all.
Then, ever so slowly, she stops. She is next to car number three. She doesn’t turn around. Seen from behind — her shoulders drooping only slightly, her handbag swinging dangerously, her fingers relaxing, she has paused to take a deep breath. Her legs don’t move. She is still facing toward the central hall of the station, and there are hundreds of thighs, elbows, bellies, feet, and hips hurrying past her. She has stopped. She’s not taking care. She is going to turn around. No one knows if it will be a good thing.