Guys Like Me (7 page)

“Now's maybe not the time,” he said to us in a flat voice in the sunshine, “but I'd like to invite the two of you over for dinner.”

Marco smiled, yes, but when? He turned to me, sure that I'd be pleased. He looked toward the corner of the street. Right at the end, at the intersection with Boulevard Jules Ferry, where the trees had also been trimmed too close, only the big branches were left, and it was sad to look at them. It would stay sad all spring, for a few years. He seemed to think slowly, slowly like the long-term unemployed person he'd been these last few years.

“One day next week?”

Marco nodded and took out his personal organizer, let's see. I could make it on Friday the 17th, how about you?

Yes, that suits me fine. Marie and I had settled on two nights a week, we were also going to spend some weekends together, when the weather got better. We'd talked about it, but I didn't yet know when. All right then, he said to us. And suddenly, his face seemed to brighten up, what ordeals had he been through in all those years? He held out his hand. He almost dumped us there, Marco and me, just outside the metro station.

“He really has turned a little strange, hasn't he?” Marc-André said. “Was he always like that?”

We almost laughed again.

“At least he's got a job now.”

Marco nodded. “Well, they've extended his trial period. I had a call from Langinieux. I don't know if he'll be suitable.”

“Oh, really?”

He looked at his watch. We sat down again, on another bench; there was a dark sun in the depths of the shop windows, noises and shadows. We could have spent days on end on benches, him and me. It wasn't so bad, when it came down to it. We said goodbye on the metro platform. Each of us got into his own subway car. He had to stay at the rear of the train in order to change at Gare Saint-Lazare. Me at the opposite end. Speak on the phone? Yes, bye! These days, I think about him almost every day. Sometimes we call each other at the same moment, and when that happens, he really is a guy like me, and me like him.

Time started up again. Benjamin invited me the following evening. There was lots of work at the office, they'd finished the balance sheets, so people were staying later, not that this changed the situation in any way. I dropped by the scooter store in Clichy-Levallois, they had some nice ones, I thought, I spent a while there. Let me know if you have any questions. The assistant was Ben's age, or not far off. Sometimes, in all those years, it had been my ex-wife I carried behind me in my dreams, and my mother too, whom I hadn't seen for a long time. Once, though, she took me gently in her arms at a red light. She was giving me the love that had always been denied me in my childhood, but, when the lights changed and I turned to look at her, she'd already disappeared … Benjamin was fine and so was Anaïs. They were becoming more and more visible, more and more apparent as a couple. I hadn't talked with her very much, but we hadn't been distant either. I kept talking about the scooter, they looked at each other two or three times, wondering what's gotten into him? Benjamin was trying to keep a straight face. By the way, he had a job offer from a big lab in Zurich, it was well paid, much more than he could make here. Anaïs was quite pleased, although it wasn't convenient for her. I listened without saying anything. But when I was leaving, he told me not to worry, they weren't going forever! I didn't understand right away. Later I did, but it was too late by then, near the metro station, where I was going to take my train home and it wouldn't embarrass anybody if I cried, for no reason, just like that.

After all these years, he was still afraid to leave me on my own. The Seine was very full near the railroad bridge, it was a little oily, the lights spread out with the current, the lights from the towers of La Défense and the lights of the cars driving along the banks. My son. My ex-wife. Marco and the other guys like me. My mother so long ago, my father whom I'd barely known, which was probably why I could put him on my list. I'd enjoyed the evening, having dinner with them, knowing that he was going to leave but that Anaïs wanted to go with him and also knowing that around midnight that night, Marie would be coming back from the theater. She and her girlfriends had a subscription, I'd give her a call. We'd chat as long as we needed to, five minutes or an hour, I don't know. It was good anyway. Guys like me don't have any more to say to those who don't really want to listen. But with those who are like them, they can talk for hours, they could just as easily keep quiet, I think. Anyway, it didn't matter. Then the platform, in the direction of Pont de Levallois.

Marie hadn't liked the play. She told me about her day. I remember where I was, near the glass doors leading into the living room. She wasn't far from my place, as the crow flies. After Porte de Champerret, you had to turn left, it wasn't so far. I bit my lips, I didn't tell her about the funeral. I hadn't wanted to tell her about the scooter, she'd said, oh yes, it's a good idea, but it was no concern of hers. We hadn't argued yet, maybe those hours on end behind computer screens had taught us more about each other than I imagined, but sometimes I thought she was on the verge of blowing a fuse. She told me off for being too attached to my past, my previous life, my friends, my years of marriage, I hadn't gotten over it. I didn't reply. What could I have found to tell her off about? Do you mind if I pull down the curtain? She read parts of me like a book, but after all, why not? Good night, Marie, and then I hung up. I'd also have to buy a scooter if I had another disappointment in love. That evening, I spent quite a lot of time on the computer, bicycle websites, I didn't know which one to choose. I went back to the dating website after a while, she was online, which shocked me. I could have called her and asked her why? Friends, strangers like you. Life, often, finds it hard to be like us. I had his wife and daughter in my eyes that night. It was two in the morning, I went and took a shower. I barely recognized my face, who had I been before? It wouldn't do me any harm to spend the evening at home the following day. I was exhausted. Worry lines that make you look like a thinker were one thing, but why those crow's feet at the corners of the eyes and those first brown patches on the backs of my hands, yes, why?

“Well,” Marc-André said. “I didn't know it was here. Did you remember?”

I wasn't sure. Jean lived in one of the few places in La Garenne-Colombes that hadn't yet changed, which meant it looked pretty decrepit. If you turned around, you couldn't recognize the neighborhood at all, from there to Place de Belgique. We looked at each other and smiled. Jean had called me again the previous evening, this invitation seemed to be really important to him. I didn't know what to expect. I was pleased to be going there, there are hundreds of pointless evenings in a life, this one though was different, plus to be going back to La Garenne-Colombes, which had been part of me since my teenage years. The first things I saw, entering his apartment, were the second-hand furniture and the linoleum in the kitchen, as if nothing had changed since our childhood. He had his weary look, he'd just taken a shower, that's the impression I had. He shook our hands really firmly, like one of those salesmen who want to impress you and strike the fear of God into you without showing it.

He couldn't stop thanking us, how nice of us to come, and it would have become embarrassing if we'd kept saying no, what was embarrassing was that we hadn't yet had anything to drink. It was the end of April now. He lived on the ground floor facing the courtyard. He couldn't stay there, it was a short-term lease. Through the half-open window a cat came and looked at us, and although he was carrying the ice tray he couldn't stop himself from approaching the cat.

“He's been coming to see me every day since I've been living here.”

The three of us sat down, he took the stool. He looked at us, drinking the pastis.

“How long have you been living here?”

He looked as if he was counting before answering. Nearly six months. It had belonged to his uncle. Did we remember him? He sometimes came to the lodge in Asnières, don't you remember? I saw Marco make an effort to remember, but no, he didn't, even though he too spent more and more time remembering, trying and sometimes really remembering things. We said no. I thought it might be best to quickly change the subject, but he was already launched. He'd been through three and a half years of hell. It was his family that had supported him in the last year, he hadn't wanted to go on welfare, it was thanks to them that he'd rented this apartment.

“It's not bad here, anyway,” we told him. He wanted to show us everything. We all went out into the inner courtyard, there were two children's bikes and a little orange tent, which belonged to the kids opposite. He'd never had children. He told us that even more slowly, actually there were a lot of things he hadn't had in this life. Once or twice, that evening, I laughed very loudly, I wasn't really laughing at him, because when it came down to it he was like me, except that our lives weren't similar anymore. We went back into the room, he poured us some more pastis. He'd put small plates inside larger ones, he served a big mixed salad, I realized what it meant to him. When was the last time he'd had guests? And, although it was impossible to ask him, when was the last time he'd had a woman here? So we were really there for him, he kept looking at us, there were moments of silence between the salad and the chicken. Then he started talking. He really didn't know anymore when his troubles had started. When we were together in high school? Or even before? He'd never asked himself the question. After a while, he said to us, guys like him have to learn everything over again, and nobody gives them a hand, they can't. This wasn't going to be much fun, I thought, Marc-André lit a cigarette, so I did too, in memory of the good old days, so to speak, he hadn't had any of those either, good old days, but to be honest, he didn't give a damn.

The first thing he always did when he got up in the morning was to open the window and let the cat in and give it a little milk. From the morning onwards, he'd think of all those distant years, those years outside, in the unlike-liest places, oh really? He gave us that slow smile, yes, a place here, a room there, not far from here, but he would never have suspected their existence, like when you see guys sleeping under the entrance ramps to the northern beltway, around La Chapelle, Clichy too. We sat down on the sofa bed, he was sorry, he hadn't made any dessert. He wasn't really good at desserts yet. We talked, when it came down to it things hadn't been too bad for him, did he have any music at least? He looked around, he had some old LPs and also a few DVDs of movies, since he'd started in his new job he'd been buying
Le Monde
, they sold DVDs as a supplement on the weekends, he got them in the hopes of buying a player one day. We smiled. When he'd had his troubles, video cassettes were still the thing, how long ago was that anyway, how long? We didn't ask him the question. So, to cheer himself up, he suggested some more pastis, with a greedy air, he himself had never taken to drink during his bad years, but he knew guys, guys who weren't like him for that very reason, except that to be honest he could have. You never know where the wind takes you, or what can happen to you. After a while, Marc-André couldn't help smiling. The two of us were sitting on the sofa bed and he on a second-hand chair, he leaned toward us: how about you two? We didn't know what to say, obviously. Marco lit another cigarette.

“What can I say? Things are OK for me. Yes, they're OK. I haven't had all these money problems like you.”

He nodded. “It won't happen to you, I'm sure of that, you're not the kind.”

Fortunately, the cat from the courtyard distracted our attention, it came in through the window and strolled between our legs. We sat there, watching the cat.

We left just after midnight. He left us on the sidewalk outside his building, both hands in his pockets, standing very straight. Marco had his car with him and we went back together, going through Courbevoie, through places we'd known forever and which I really couldn't recognize anymore in spite of everything. I would never have suspected … Neither would I, I said. Neither would I.

“Did you notice how he carefully avoided talking about his job today?”

We were driving along the riverbank now, no need to go that way, but after all why not?

“By the way,” I said, “I'm going to buy a scooter.”

“Is that so?”

We slowed down on the Pont de Levallois.

“Why didn't he talk about his job, do you know?”

“It isn't going well … I talked to the guy I know, they don't want to keep him on.”

“Really?”

For years, there had been cobblestones along here. The road had been restored and enlarged, but in places there were still cobblestones on the road to Asnières.

“He's always late, he gets into arguments, he has a nasty temper.”