17 Days
A Filthy Old Dive
A little party, Charlotte had said. Ha ha. The apartment was tiny and crammed.
It felt like the Hégémonie Christmas bash, the kind of party where anyone would think the guests had all fasted for three months . . . All I ever managed to grab were three ham canapés, being too well brought up to push and shove. Well, at Charlotte’s, you had to battle your way through to get anywhere near the buffet or the drinks.
Charlotte welcomed me, all smiles, and invited me in, thanking me for the flowers and gratifying me with a ‘Wow – you look gorgeous!’ which thrilled me. I’d chosen a simple but striking outfit: slim jeans, white semi-sheer blouse, statement blue heels. I returned the compliment. Charlotte looked stunning. Of course, I recognized her, but her evening look was totally different from the white coat, Crocs and light make-up that I was used to seeing. Perched on platform sandals that flattered her tanned legs and made her a good four inches taller, she twirled in her black dress, bestowing her infectious zest for life on each guest. Given that there must have been fifty people, it didn’t take me long to work out that my quota of Charlotte during the party would be very limited.
I’d been there for nearly twenty minutes and I still hadn’t entered into conversation with anyone. I was the oldest guest there. Charlotte must have been ten years younger than me. I hadn’t articulated it so clearly to myself at the hospital, but now that I was seeing her in her home surroundings, it was obvious. What the hell was I doing there? As the minutes went by, I felt more and more out of place. I was different from this crowd of young singles, who were carefree, laughing, drinking, smoking. And I envied them. I wanted to be like them, pull the wool over their eyes and make them believe I fitted in. I usually found water-cooler conversations so easy, but I’d lost that ability to feign interest in things that bored me, to respond with nods or ‘Oh, wonderful . . . Oh, that was lucky . . . Wow, that’s amazing . . .’ to the wittering of a vague acquaintance telling me about their holiday in Nepal. These past weeks had numbed my socialization synapses. It hadn’t dawned on me because I hadn’t found myself in a situation like this since slamming the door of Hégémonie. I was about to leave, when I heard a man addressing me.
‘It’s unbelievable; these kids would do anything for a few drops of alcohol. Can I offer you something, mademoiselle? If I manage to squeeze through, that is . . .’
He had a warm, husky voice, almost cracked. Very masculine. I turned around, a typical reply-that-takes-the-wind-out-of-the-sails-of-don-juans-who-talk-like-in-a-novel on the tip of my tongue: ‘No, thank . . .’ And stopped mid-sentence.
The guy was good looking. Charming. Not what I had been expecting. Forty, or a little more – it didn’t matter – in any case, a lot older than the average age of the other guests. Tall, fairly classic features and a muscular physique that was visible through his loose, long-sleeved grey sweatshirt. A thin, well-kempt beard, longish curly black hair, which he’d smoothed behind his ears but which I could immediately tell he had trouble taming. Of Mediterranean origin, most likely, both coarse and sophisticated at the same time. Very dark, almost black eyes, with a steely glint, despite his smile – because he was smiling at me, waiting for my answer. I was standing rooted to the spot, probably looking a little gormless, and then a girl carrying several beers bumped into me. Crash. Beer spilt all over the floor. I desperately clutched at the person next to me. Missed. Slipped. Beer all over my white blouse. Humiliation.
The young woman apologized profusely, repeatedly calling me madame. Further humiliation. My handsome stranger had said mademoiselle, that was my consolation prize. Shit – my blouse. All I needed was a beer-soaked wet T-shirt competition . . . I told the girl it didn’t matter – ‘Honestly, I assure you –’ and my knight in shining armour held out his hands and helped me up. I was surprised by the contrast between his firm, vigorous grip, completely in keeping with his slightly gruff image, and his unusually long fingers. A man’s hands are the first thing I look at – after his eyes and buttocks, of course. As for his bum, I hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of it yet, but his eyes and hands fulfilled their promise.
‘I’m so sorry; it’s all my fault . . . If I hadn’t distracted you—’
‘Don’t worry; it’s nothing – and, besides, I love the smell of beer on my body.’
Jesus, Thelma, what kind of stupid joke is that? Can’t you think of anything better?
‘That’s lucky. I also love the smell of beer on your body.’
The guy had a sense of humour. He was on a roll.
‘Let’s go back to where we left off, shall we? Allow me to offer you that drink I promised . . .’
Where the hell did this guy, who looked like an action-movie hero and spoke like an educated actor, come from? Impossible to remain indifferent, in any case. I have to admit, I felt an immediate, almost animal attraction towards this stranger. It was inexplicable, disconcerting. Fucking pheromones.
I was going to say yes to the drink, but I stopped myself. I thought of Louis. I hadn’t thought of Louis for twenty minutes. What was I doing? Forgetting my son? What right did I have to flaunt my alcohol-soaked breasts in front of a beau? A yawning abyss of guilt opened up and began to suck me in, punishing me for being capable of thinking lewd thoughts while my son was in a coma. My blouse was starting to reek like a filthy old dive. I found myself pathetic. I had to leave, right away.
‘No, thank you, honestly. I have to go. In any case, I’m not presentable.’
‘I assure you that you are much more than presentable. I insist. Let me get you that drink, then you can leave.’
‘I’m sorry. Have a lovely evening.’
I grabbed my coat and went, without even saying goodbye to Charlotte, who was on the balcony, chatting with a young man and chain-smoking. She’d missed the unfortunate beer episode. Good; at least I’d preserve a shred of dignity in her eyes.
What an idiot I’d been to accept. I wasn’t ready, I should have known. But I was so desperate to believe that my life could return to normal again. That I could return to normal. I’d been so wrong.
I was only five minutes away from home, but I needed to walk. For a long time. I couldn’t go back so early; Mum would bombard me with questions. She’d been even more excited than me at the thought of my going out. When I’d got back from the beautician’s, she’d fussed over me endlessly, reminding me how wonderful I was, saying I was allowed to carry on living, to be happy. I had almost let myself be persuaded, but I’d come to realize a little belatedly that my sole priority, my love, my burden, my pain, my joy, my hope was still Louis.
Alone in the street, I walked beside the Saint-Martin canal, which my son had so loved. Tears filled my eyes when I noticed that I was thinking of him in the past tense. I held them back, just on the brink. The Saint-Martin canal that my son so loves. Louis isn’t dead, Thelma. Louis is going to live.
The weather was mild for early February. I kept my coat open to dry my blouse, which gave off a very unpleasant odour. I’d gone from smelling like a filthy old dive to smelling like a club at around four in the morning.
I thought about my knight in shining armour. In the end, I’d learned nothing about him, but I could still feel the imprint of his hands on mine. I bit my lower lip, punishing myself for such inappropriate thoughts.
I sat down on a bench and gazed at the surface of the canal, wondering what it must feel like to drown: was it a painful death? Was it slow? Was it bearable? Dying seemed so easy. Why did we feel this profound need to live at all costs? Why was this damned instinct, this compulsion to hang on, so powerful? It would have been easier to let go. I could have leaned so far forwards that I’d have toppled in and sunk into the water of the muddy canal. No one would have seen me if I’d gone about it properly. But I couldn’t let go, I knew. I was in purgatory, condemned to live.
I drew in the night air hungrily, with desperation, as if it were compressed oxygen from a cylinder in a hospital room.