‘It’s strange how most human beings are shaped like coffins.’
The man spoke quietly. He was staring at a dozen people huddled together under a bus shelter on the other side of the road. Rain slashed against the café windows. His gaze as he turned to me was obscured by his milk-bottle glasses. ‘It’s a bit worrying, don’t you think?’
Taken by surprise, I shrugged, opening my hands as if setting a bird free. ‘C’est la vie!’
‘You think so? They say our mortal fate is our mothers’ fault. What do you think?’
It was All Saints’ Day, or the Day of the Dead in some places. Chrysanthemums bloomed outside florists’ shops, and spilled over like harmful algae from the boots of passing cars, which sprayed the pavements with greasy water. Since the morning the city had smelled of damp soil.
‘I agree there would be no Day of the Dead without mothers giving us life, but it’s a bit facile. They are the first women we kick in the stomach. It’s an amusing turn of phrase. Is it yours?’
‘No, just something I heard. I buried mine this morning.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be. She was an old cow. Anyway, I’ll wish you a good day, Monsieur.’
He was, like me, about fifty, with a complexion like a wrung-out dishcloth, and looked as if he were desperate for this interminable day to be over. As he passed in front of my table, he gave off a vague odour of detergent.
Hélène was already half an hour late, which had given me time to turn my receipt into a miniature origami duck. We had separated a month ago and I had to hand back the keys to her apartment.
She arrived just as the waiter was bringing my third beer. She was wearing one of the brightly coloured berets she was so fond of – this one was pistachio green – pulled right down to her eyebrows. Her eyes were shining, the pupils dilated, as her scarlet mouth, like a sea anemone, kissed mine.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, Jeff. Someone phoned just as I was leaving.’
‘Don’t worry, I love hanging around in bistros on All Saints’, it’s a weakness of mine, yet another one. Before we forget, here are your keys.’
‘Thank you. How are you?’
‘Like a drowned man at the bottom of a swimming pool without water.’
‘Stop acting the martyr! It’s not your fault, or mine; these things happen. C’est la vie … Why are you laughing?’
‘Oh it’s nothing, it’s just that I said the same thing to someone ten minutes ago. It’s a useful expression, about as useful as “the number you have called is not available”, or, “the concierge will be right back”.’
‘There’s no point being bitter. Have you found somewhere to live?’
‘Yes! A lovely little studio where you can’t swing a cat. You put your key in the lock and you break the window. A real little love nest.’
‘You’re such a pain! At least you won’t be able to complain you don’t have peace and quiet for writing.’
‘True enough, no one is going to come and see me there! Sometimes I have to ask myself to leave, because it’s too crowded.’
Hélène raised her eyes to the intricately moulded ceiling and scratched her nose.
‘Order me a coffee, I have to go to the Ladies.’
‘Fine, off you go and re-powder your nose.’
Everyone has their little habits. You have to put up with them. We had lived together for five years, I with my nose in a glass, she with her nose in powder. Our different ways of anaesthetising ourselves. It wasn’t that I blamed her or that she blamed me but we were both upset because we had believed we would make it together. It’s not easy to escape the shipwreck of the forties, swimming in a dead sea as thick as pea soup, with that island on the horizon that shrinks as you approach it. We said to each other that we might get there if we stuck together. Our five years together had been nothing but a long suffocation. We had had to bow to the incontrovertible evidence that we would not be growing old together. It was a shame, because I consider old age to be man’s noblest conquest, far ahead of horses.
‘Wipe your nose, you’ve got powder on it.’
‘Do you want some? It’s good.’
‘I don’t want to feel good.’
Hélène lit a cigarette and swallowed her espresso in one gulp. Already we had run out of things to say to each other.
‘How’s the book going?’
‘It’s coming out in September. My editor is very positive about it – he even bought me a hot dinner.’
‘I’m sure it will do well.’
‘Hmm, we’ll see.’
‘You have to believe in yourself, for God’s sake.’
‘Maybe it’s for others to believe in me. I’m fed up with writing; I’m giving it up and taking up breeding.’
‘Breeding? What are you going to breed?’
‘Plugs and sockets. I found a whole pile of them when I moved into the studio. The previous tenant was an electrician. I’ve married them together and I’m waiting for them to reproduce.’
‘One day, I’m sure you’ll—’
Her phone buzzed deep inside the enormous shoulder bag she always carried, cutting off her prediction.
‘Hello? … Yes … No … I have a lunch … This evening, yes … (intimate little laugh) … Me too … Six o’clock … Me too, see you this evening.’
Well, ‘me too’, I’ll buy a mobile so I’ll be able to leave myself messages: ‘See you this evening, Jeff, don’t forget the bread!’
‘Sorry, that was …’
‘Your boyfriend. You should call him back and tell him you are free for lunch.’
‘But I thought …’
‘No, can you see us in a deserted Chinese, on 1 November, listening to the nasal tones of a star from Shanghai and chowing down on spring rolls? Forget it.’
She didn’t protest. I paid for our drinks and we parted ways on the pavement, she to the left and me to the right, wishing each other good luck. C’est la vie.