This evening I had a rendezvous with François. There’s a bar we sometimes meet in. It’s a little bistro on a narrow street not far from the main square. It’s a practical choice, because it stays open all night. Drivers often go there for a break, and also lots of other guys. I think they don’t have any better places to go to. Sometimes men turn up angry because they’ve got themselves kicked out of their houses. They drink two-three beers, grumbling all the while, and then, once they’ve calmed down, they leave.
On the weekends, random groups of young people descend on the bar. They’re already drunk, and they’ve come to prolong the party. Not very interesting. We meet there only on weekdays, often in the middle of the night. We drink coffee or beer, depending on the mood and the hour. The place is a bit small, but we always find a table. I don’t like sitting at the counter, it makes me feel like my conversation’s being overheard. And besides, you look like a drunk, sitting there with your elbows on the bar.
When I came in, I saw François sitting in the back. He was waiting for me with a double espresso on the table in front of him—alcohol is for after the shift’s over. I looked at my watch: it was two o’clock in the morning, an early time to take a break. I told myself I’d go back to work after this little pause. In any case, I had nothing better to do. When I’m working, I forget the rest for a little while.
I’d seen François on the day after the operation. I’d told him about the pancreatic cancer. At the word “cancer,” I’d watched his face tense up.
When he saw me coming toward him, he got to his feet. He held my shoulder and shook my hand. He does that every time; he says it’s more ceremonious, government ministers do it on TV, and there’s no reason not to imitate them. I think he does it mostly because it amuses him. François has always loved playing the clown. That’s doubtless the reason why I appreciate him so much.
I sat down and asked for a beer. I could see his surprise, but he made no comment. That was good. I had no desire to justify myself. I wanted a beer, so that’s what I ordered.
“Well, have you had a lot of fares?”
I took a sip of the lager the waiter had placed in front of me. I shook my head no, and he sighed. “Yeah, same with me. The weather’s too nice. People are walking or riding bikes.”
I hadn’t paid much attention to the temperature. François is always looking for explanations. What makes a guy raise his arm when he sees us passing by? Why do certain nights go better than others? I don’t think there are reasons for everything.
“One more bad night…”
He’d picked up a couple. Thirty years old at the most, both of them. They’d spent the whole ride fighting with each other.
“Especially the girl. Did she do some yelling at him! I could tell he was embarrassed. He kept giving me little headshakes. But look, he didn’t just sit there and take it either. You wouldn’t believe the way he answered her!”
François interrupted himself to finish his coffee and then took up where he’d left off: “So, they were yelling and yelling. They had even totally forgotten I was there! She hollered that she was going to get out—I believe she was half crying—and he went her one better. He told her, very distinctly, to go fuck herself. And then they started over again. And again, and again. The tension kept mounting, I was sure they would come to blows any second…”
I sighed and nodded, because that sort of thing happened to me too. I never dared to tell my passengers to get out of my taxi. I asked him, “So what did you do?”
“Me? Oh, nothing. We still had a ways to go, I was afraid the babe would tell me to stop. You understand. I didn’t want to give up on the fare…”
“Yeah…”
“To tell you the truth, they didn’t bother me. I couldn’t say why, but I didn’t think it was serious. Funny, huh? They’re just about to start duking it out, and I’m up there thinking they look like they’re crazy in love.” He scratched his head. “What could have made me think that? I don’t know. Instinct, no doubt. Maybe after seeing so many people pass in and out of my cab…”
As I listened to his tale, I remembered Lucille telling me once that we were “the privileged witnesses of the human condition.”
“Basically,” François went on, “that was just an impression. I mean, it’s simply my vision of them. I told myself, ‘They love each other,’ but maybe they were hardly out of the car before they broke up for good…Go figure. Every time you take on a fare, you imagine a whole bunch of things. You pick up a guy, you two chat a little, and you say to yourself, ‘This guy must be a good family man, a good father.’ But then he goes home, and for all you know, he beats his kids and he rapes his wife! It’s always the same. Well, yes, sure, the real pricks, you learn to see them coming. But sometimes I tell myself that my taxi is a world all its own. A kind of magic box, you know?”
“It’s true that your cab’s looking more and more like a box…”
“Stop being an asshole, that’s not what I mean.”
I looked at François. He was staring at the empty cup in front of him.
“That’s what I find most frustrating,” he added, pinching his lip. “It’s frustrating because all you get are tiny chunks of life. You judge people on the basis of so little…Even with all my experience, when I watch my passengers leave, I can’t help wondering whether I’m wrong about them. All you have is what you see.”
I had felt that before myself. The people in the back seat of my cab, I don’t pretend to understand their lives, and so I try to guess. Which is certainly not much of an achievement, I know, but it seems just about as accurate as anything else.
François had fallen silent. He was eyeing my beer enviously.
“I went to see Pierre in the hospital,” I said softly.
He raised his eyes. “How’s he doing?”
I sighed. It was hard for me to find my words.
“All right…He’s gradually recovering from the operation. I’d like for the treatment to start, but the folks at the hospital say he’s still too weak. I—I don’t know. I think the sooner they get started, the better it is, no?”
François hesitated. “Uh…yes, yes. Absolutely. But then, you have to trust the doctors. They’re the ones who know what’s best for Pierre.”
“The doctors. You know, I don’t often see doctors. Mostly it’s nurses. They’ve very nice, but they can’t really answer my questions. The oncologist comes in in the morning, I think. I’ve only seen her once.”
“The oncologist?”
“A cancer specialist. Pierre’s her patient.”
He whistled between his teeth. He didn’t like hearing the word “cancer.” At some point, I thought I’d understood him to suggest that his father had died of it.
“Don’t worry, Yanis. They’re going to cure your son for you.” As he said that, he planted his eyes deep in mine.
“Yes,” I said, grimacing, and then I finished my beer.