III

I hadn’t taken cocaine since … since I’d become old. This was of the finest quality. I felt as though a lead weight had been lifted off my head, which, light as a balloon, now seemed to be attached to my body by only the slenderest of threads, which vibrated at the least emotion. Mile after mile, all the junk of rusty memory that had been weighing me down evaporated like condensation swept from side to side by windscreen wipers. Now I could breathe pure air, my nostrils perfectly cleansed, my gums delightfully anaesthetised. The music and the smoke from our joints filled the car with coils of smoke made iridescent by the golden glow of the motorway lights which loomed over us like one-eyed brontosauruses. I felt like I was coming home.

Damien and I talked about music of the past, and of today, and of the future. I criticised some artists and defended others, but it was just to say something, because, when I feel good, I have no discernment, I just love it all – whether it’s Mozart, Dalida, Hendrix or Björk, it’s all the same to me. Damien, on the other hand, had strong opinions about what was good and what was lousy. I envied him having causes to defend. Because all I had to defend was myself, and not even that every day.

‘Come on, you’re not going to tell me that Clayderman is good!’

‘True, I’ve never bought any of his records, but one evening – must have been about three in the morning – I wept when I was listening to him on the radio in a hotel in Angers.’

‘You were drunk.’

‘Undoubtedly, but so what?’

‘You can’t like everything.’

‘Unfortunately, I do.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s the privilege of age. You can make a fire with any kind of wood; you pick up twigs and you make firewood. As long as it burns … you’re still alive.’

‘But with books, you’re not telling me you love them all?’

‘Depends on the circumstances. I don’t know if you remember the hostages in Lebanon, they were journalists, intellectuals, and all they had to read during their incarceration was an old spy novel, written by an ex-SAS soldier, and you wouldn’t believe how much they got out of that book.’

‘Of course, when you’ve no choice …’

‘I think that’s better than having too much choice. Too much choice makes you indolent and capricious, like a spoilt child. So, in summary, I’d say that you can make a world out of anything, but it takes everything to make a world.’

He didn’t seem convinced. Good for him; he was at an age when you need certainties. After that we didn’t say a word to each other; we looked out at the night with its mysteries, all the childhood fears hidden in the forest, our eyes reflecting the white headlights of the oncoming cars and the red lights of those we overtook, as we disappeared into an uncertain future. From time to time, Damien looked over at me to make sure I was OK. I smiled at him, nodding like the little plush dogs you put on the back shelf. Indicating that of course I was OK; I had been doing this since before he was born. But I was touched by his concern; I liked it when people let me have their seat on the metro, and even when I was younger, I had never minded being looked after, or cosseted. Age was only the collateral damage from life, and there were some advantages. Soon I would be a bit more short-sighted, a bit deafer than I already was and I would be surrounded by caring friends who would make life more comfortable.

‘They’re quite good, these little cars. Hélène had the same model.’

‘Oh.’

I thought I noticed tension on Damien’s face. Tiredness, perhaps?

‘Yes, it was the same colour; it almost had the same smell … the same odour. Did one of your girlfriends lend this to you?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘It’s mad, I could have sworn Hélène’s was identical.’

‘One car’s much like another.’

‘True.’

‘Are you still not driving?’

‘No, I don’t like cars. They smell, they kill and they make people crazy.’

‘How do you manage at La Châtre?’

‘I never go out.’

‘You let yourself be driven about?’

‘Like a parcel, yes. I’m not ashamed of it.’

‘Do you still booze all the time?’

‘A bit less. I get tired easily. I have wine with meals. She really liked you, Hélène. Have you seen her?’

‘I speak to her on the phone occasionally.’

‘And your mother? What’s the news of your mother?’

‘I saw her six months ago and I got a card from her last week. She’s dancing in Copenhagen. It seems to be going well.’

‘Is she still with her hidalgo?’

‘No, the new one is Romanian, a juggler, or a wild-animal tamer, I can’t remember which.’

‘That’s good. They’re dependable, Romanians, reliable.’

It was the first time since we had set off that we had talked about the past. Up until then, Damien and I had avoided reminiscing about the good old days, which, generally, are not as good as all that. Now, the ghosts of Hélène and Damien’s mother were sitting between us, with the smugness of widows come to claim their share of the inheritance. I was annoyed with myself for breaking the spell which had made the car a no man’s land between the past and the future.

Damien stretched his arms on the steering wheel. ‘I need to take a piss. We’ll stop at the next services.’

In the time it took us to reach the next services, I recalled my first meeting with Alice, Damien’s mother. She had been eighteen at the time, and was using the name Dolores del Rio. She had danced flamenco, in her own inimitable style, in the square in Avignon during the festival. I was twenty-three.

I had just written a play called Petits Fours, which had been performed in the same square. We had conceived Damien without knowing it, between two rows of vines nearby, under a full moon in July, having mutually sworn that we would each be totally and utterly free of the other. Nine months later, Monsieur and Madame Robuchon, Dolores del Rio’s parents, both pharmacists in Fontenay-sous-Bois, insisted that we marry. After two years, there was not a single item of our wedding list we had not hurled at each other. We had been forced to separate for lack of projectiles.

Once parked, Damien hurried out of the car, calling over his shoulder, ‘Get me a coffee!’

The ground swayed under my feet. I closed my eyes, spread my arms wide, my head tilted to the sky, under the all-powerful gods, who, at that hour, were dozing on their heavy black clouds. It was understandable; they mustn’t be able to see much of the big old green ball from where they were. It was a shame; it was so good to be alive, they should come down and see for themselves now and then, like they used to do in the time of the Greeks. Life was worth nothing, but nothing was worth life, as Dédé said. It was as I was bending down to pick up my lighter that I came face to face with the car’s number plate. A number I knew very well for the very good reason that I had paid for half of this damned car three months before my separation from Hélène. I had a little difficulty standing up again; something had locked in my lower back. Now I understood why the gods didn’t bother coming down to earth much; they wanted to avoid getting caught up in these family dramas. Even though I had not seen Hélène for some years, I was sure she was still a beautiful woman, and Damien was a charming young man …