Nothing of the sort.
Of course not.
No one ever warned us that life would be long.
Those easy slogans that make your heart beat faster, like “carpe diem” or “die young”—all that stuff was just nonsense.
No one told us, either, that the hardest thing would not be breaking up, but decay. The disintegration of relationships, people, tastes, bodies, desire. Until you reach a sort of morass where you no longer know what it is you love. Or hate. And it’s not as unpleasant a condition as you might think. It’s just lifelessness. With scattered spots of light. One of them is going to see Mathieu this morning, after so much time has elapsed.
Ah-hah, Cécile Duffaut is sitting up.
Had a bad night, huh?
I know what she must be going through. Life is full of bad nights, once you turn forty. Your children’s health, your own, their future, your own, the litany of work still to be done on the house, the electricity which still needs childproofing, the toilets have been leaking for three months, the vacation rental needs booking, how do you clean the spots made by permanent markers from the table in the living room, the car is making a strange noise when it’s in neutral, above all don’t forget to get gas tomorrow morning otherwise you’re sure to run out, I haven’t read a novel in ages, even though it’s something I used to love, reading novels, I have to fill out the forms for my younger boy’s upcoming school trip, lists, lists, lists, they start filling your nights — you get up, you go down the stairs, it’s three o’clock in the morning, you bump into the furniture, you shiver, you think about making a coffee but what sort of crazy idea is that, a coffee at this time of night, so you go for a citrus herbal tea, you switch on the electric kettle, see your reflection in the mirror with the kettle in one hand and the citrus tea bag in the other, you hardly know who that person is.
But when Cécile Duffaut looks at herself in the mirror, her reflection must give her a bit more of a boost, after all. When we were dating, I’m sure people pictured what we’d be like later on: she’d be a crotchety old maid and I’d be the philandering husband type, with three divorces behind me, but still in great shape. It’s mind-boggling when you find out how little you really know. When I was with Cécile Duffaut, I …
Just the thought of it, “When I was with Cécile Duffaut”: how weird is that.
This is ridiculous. I should introduce myself to her.
Oh, here comes the conductor.
~ ~ ~
It’s times like this that I realize how far I still have to go — and given my age, I’ll probably never get that far.
Normally, a businesswoman like me, at the age of forty-seven, would be traveling first class and then, when the conductor came, she would discreetly and efficiently open her handbag and take out her ticket — which would be tucked away in a neat little compartment designed specifically for that purpose.
But we’re dealing with me here, me and those character traits I haven’t managed to get rid of, and which I try to accommodate as best I can.
I empty out practically my entire handbag onto the tray — I can see the conductor’s mocking smile and worse still, Philippe Leduc’s. I can imagine the typical comments going through their minds, about women’s handbags, and how we seem to need to carry our entire lives around in such a little thing.
I keep on looking.
I try to maintain my dignity, to search methodically, with a detached and scornful manner. Above all without blushing or babbling. Without making up one excuse after the other, or telling stories. It’s an embarrassing moment. The conductor doesn’t want to rush me, so he pretends to be gazing around the railroad car, as if some extremely important event were unfolding in the vicinity of the toilets. Philippe Leduc turns his head to the right and acts absorbed in the monotonous landscape. We have just gone through Romilly-sur-Seine. And I wonder if he remembers the evening we spent there when we were together. I had friends who lived there, and they threw a party. We took the train. At one point we left the smoke-filled house and wandered through the deserted streets — along the endless wall that runs down the main street. I said, “One thing’s for sure, I’ll never live here.” He answered with a cliché, about how there was no way we could ever know what the future held in store. I rolled my eyes, and I remember that because of his remark all of a sudden he went down a notch in my esteem. Could do better. Must work on repartee. Try to shine in ways other than good looks alone. Make an effort. That was what I felt like saying. But of course nothing came out.
At the same time, stereotypes die hard, and above all, they do contain an element of truth. How could we have foreseen that over a quarter of a century later we would go through that town again, sitting side by side, pretending not to know each other?
In the meantime, the conductor is waiting.
I take a deep breath.
I will not allow myself to be intimidated. I’ve changed. I’m a woman who is in charge. Who is sure of herself and of her choices.
And anyway, there it is, the ticket.
~ ~ ~
There are some habits you never lose. I think that if you’d mentioned Cécile Duffaut to me before this morning, the first thing that would have sprung to mind was the way she had to empty out her handbag every time she had to find something: a pack of chewing gum, cigarettes, a phone number, a checkbook. Or a train ticket. It’s reassuring. This loyalty to who you really are, in spite of everything. In spite of the elegant clothes which must have cost a fortune. In spite of her looks, far more attractive than in the old days.
I wonder what defines me, now. What characteristics I had already ten, fifteen, or twenty years ago, and that I didn’t try to do anything about.
Like separating the soft part of the bread from the crust and rolling it into tiny balls, while continuing to talk with someone, who would be transfixed, even concerned: he’s not going to go and eat those things, is he? Oh yes he is.
Like making sure the alarm on the clock radio is set at the right time, checking four times in a row, otherwise I have to start all over. In another life, I must have had many obsessive-compulsive behaviors; in this life, that’s the only one I have.
Staring at the ceiling whenever I start feeling emo-tional; keeping my eyes glued to the paint, the color, the cracks.
Scattering coins all over the place whenever I get undressed — they go springing from my pockets and rolling across parquet floors, waking everyone in the house. It’s easier now that I’m alone at night. I could never stand the idea of a wallet, that lump in your pocket. It used to drive Christine crazy. I suppose that Jérôme knows how to behave. Or only carries bills. That are ironed. He knows how to get undressed with grace and dignity. Those are two words I’m not too familiar with, grace and dignity. For a while I enjoyed the illusion of self-confidence that comes with the energy of youth, but then it was gone.