The Peculiar Life of a Lonely Postman (8 page)

It was a sweet intoxication, a voluptuous fever that made you live life twice as intensely, a turbulent current you had no desire to struggle against, a current you could only surrender to, and besides, that was all Bilodo wanted. His only ambition was to continue the sensual adventure, the bold detailing of the body, and experience the ecstasy to the fullest. This pursuit occupied him completely. He hardly ever put his nose outside the door any more and remained indifferent to the loveliness of May, even though he liked that month better than any other. He hadn’t gone back to the Madelinot; mortified that Tania could have thought he’d wanted to ridicule her, he daren’t show his face there again. Actually, he no longer went to work. The opprobrium he was a victim of at the Depot had become unbearable to him, so he’d asked for and obtained a six-month unpaid leave. Now that his time was his own, he devoted himself entirely to Ségolène.

Was the tanka really the best tool when it came to chiselling desire? The form that had served Bilodo so well when it was a matter of putting feelings into words began to weigh him down, seemed too cerebral. Looking for a way to lighten his pen, he decided to go back to the basic simplicity of the haiku, more conducive, he felt, to the gushing forth of artesian urges.

And Ségolène must have appreciated the initiative, since she lost no time in taking the same shortcut:

And so the history of the haiku’s birth repeated itself: stripped of superfluous words as though they were clothes dropped on the way to the bedroom, the naked essence of the poetry emerged. But Bilodo wasn’t satisfied: he couldn’t take the slowness of regular post any more, so he switched to express post. Ségolène followed suit; thus the waiting period was shortened. The exchange sped up, breathing turned into panting, but it still wasn’t fast enough for Bilodo, who began to post poems to the Guadeloupean woman without even waiting for her reply and was soon sending her a haiku a day. And Ségolène, too, began sending him haiku after haiku without bothering to wait for his. Almost every morning another letter from her fell on the doormat. The poems flew back and forth, fast and furious, without any chronological continuity now, yet still responding to one another in a peculiar way:

You can’t have your head in the clouds forever. As gravity eventually caught up with Bilodo, he came back down to earth, still stunned by the slow explosion of the poetic orgasm he’d just experienced. It was true, then, that love gave you wings. Never before had he embraced a woman the way he just did in the heavenly spheres. He’d felt Ségolène so close, sensed her to be all his, totally within him as he’d been totally within her, and knew she, too, had undergone that inner explosion. He was sure she had come at the same time he had. What more could you write after that? What poem could you possibly compose that wouldn’t disappoint after passion had been so completely satisfied? Something sweet whispered in the ear of the lover perhaps, before dropping off to sleep?

Searching for an idea, Bilodo put on his kimono, then glanced pensively at the window and saw scattered snowflakes drifting lazily down on rue des Hêtres. Winter already? Had
that
much time passed? Had summer shot by like a comet without him noticing, indifferent as he’d been to anything outside the boundaries of his inner world? Then, looking more closely, he realised it wasn’t snow falling, but pollen raised by the wind, a spray of pollen coming from the trees in the nearby park. You couldn’t tell the difference. Winter in the middle of summer. This surreal scene matched Bilodo’s mood perfectly and gave him the inspiration for what to write:

Glancing by chance at a calendar, Bilodo was amazed to discover that the month of August was already quite far advanced. It would soon be a year since Grandpré had departed this world. The fateful date that had heralded the dramatic change in Bilodo’s life was fast approaching, but he felt neither dread nor sadness as the day drew near, because, much more than a death, this anniversary would mark a birth, a rebirth – his own – and the beginning of his tender correspondence with Ségolène. Obviously, the event would only be significant for
him
: in
her
eyes it would just be a day like any other, but even so the coming to a close of this first year of bliss seemed worth commemorating, if only in a discreet way:

Ségolène’s reply, reaching Bilodo a few days later, plunged him into a state of immeasurable horror.

Ségolène had high hopes for the autumn, too…

The sweet, radiant dream of love was turning into a nightmare. Where did she get such a crazy notion? See the Canadian autumn? What was she driving at?

It was absolutely impossible. Ségolène couldn’t show up in Montreal like that, or else it was all over, everything would crumble. How could the delusion continue, since she knew what Grandpré looked like, since there were those blasted photographs they’d exchanged? But how could he tell her not to undertake this insane trip? How was he to say no to her?

She would be coming on the twentieth of September, which gave Bilodo three weeks to find a suitable answer, to fabricate some sort of excuse. Perhaps he could write he’d had to go on a trip himself, that he had to be out of the country for all of September, so unfortunately he wouldn’t be able to receive her. But what if she suggested putting off her visit to a later date, to after he got back?

How could she be so silly? Didn’t she realise she would jeopardize everything, she was stupidly endangering the perfect relationship they’d had until then? But of course it wasn’t her fault: she couldn’t possibly know. Bilodo had to admit he was solely responsible for his misfortune. He should have had the good sense to anticipate what might happen, to guess it would come to this sooner or later. How could he have been so blind?

What to do? Inform her he’d recently undergone cosmetic surgery that had considerably altered his appearance? Or run away? Move immediately out of this apartment she knew the address of and where she’d inevitably turn up as soon as she arrived? Let her deal with the inexplicable mystery of his disappearance on her own? But how would he later be able to bear
such a burden of guilt, of cowardice, of dashed hope? How could he forget, how could he survive?

There was no way out. Bilodo knew he was cornered, as hopelessly caught as an innocent mouse under the cruel steel of the trap. It was the end of the tranquil dream, the bursting of the happy bubble he’d been floating in for so long, and the rupture filled him with helpless anger. He couldn’t resign himself to losing her but lacked the courage to face her. All the options were loathsome, all doors were closed. He had reached a terminal dead end.

It was early the next day when the phone rang. Not caring one way or the other, Bilodo let the answering machine kick in in the living room. Someone was leaving a message. It was a publisher, one of those he’d submitted the manuscript
Enso
to. The guy briefly explained he liked the collection very much, wanted to publish it, and asked that someone return his call without delay. Unfolding from the fetal position he’d been curled up in, Bilodo got up to go and listen to the message again. Fate sometimes had the oddest twists. This piece of news, which would have delighted him only a day earlier, now merely embittered him. What was the use? What difference could the publication of Grandpré’s poems make in the impossibly tangled predicament he was in, except to complicate it even further? Wasn’t the game up anyway?

Picking up the manuscript, he opened it at random, as you open a pack of tarot cards in search of a revelation, and came upon this haiku:

The poem filled his soul, suddenly took on a new meaning, and Bilodo realised that was it: the only way out, the final solution to all his problems.

He straightened up. He knew what he had to do.

It was perfectly obvious. This was the course he needed to take, but not without first carrying out certain preparations. Bilodo wrote a note to that publisher who just called, giving him permission to publish
Enso
as he wished. He put the letter on the desk so it would easily be found, then gave Bill a double ration of his favourite yum-yums and said goodbye to the fish, thanking him for his unfailing friendship. He was now ready to go.

The large openwork beam adorning the living room ceiling would do very well. He pushed the little leaf-shaped table directly underneath, then removed the belt from his kimono and tested its strength. Satisfied, he reached into his childhood memories, going back to the carefree days when he belonged to the Cub Scouts, and effortlessly made a slip knot. He was bent on doing things neatly. There was no question of him slitting his wrists or using a gun, two equally disgusting methods. Bilodo wanted to depart this world with dignity, leaving a minimum of traces: hanging was no doubt the least messy way.

He climbed onto the little table, tied the end of the belt to the beam, then tightened the slip knot around his neck. He was ready. It was time to embrace Death. He only had to give a kick with his heel to tip the table and put an end to his suffering. Bilodo took a deep breath, closed his eyes and…

The doorbell pierced the silence.

Bilodo started, not sure what to do. He decided to wait a little while, hoping the intruder would go away, not ring again, but the doorbell sounded a second time. He experienced a peculiar mixture of relief and annoyance. Really! Who dared come and bother him at this crucial moment – he who hadn’t had a visit from anyone in months? He removed the slip knot, stepped down from the table, went to the door, and peered through the spy hole. The distorted face that appeared on the other side belonged to Tania.

Tania. He had almost forgotten about her. If there was one last person to whom Bilodo still owed an explanation, it surely was the young waitress. With a vague feeling of dread, he unlocked the three locks, unlatched the four safety chains, and opened the door. As Tania caught sight of him in the doorway, she seemed even more startled than he was. She stared at him anxiously, asked if he was all right, and blurted out she found him greatly changed. This didn’t surprise Bilodo: after so much turmoil, and the serious decision to embrace Death, he must have looked like someone who’d just returned from the grave. With the faintest of reassuring smiles he told her he’d never felt better. The young woman, who appeared unconvinced, apologised for bothering him, and explained in a muddled way she’d got his address through Robert. Bilodo wanted to apologise, too, for what happened at the Madelinot that last time, but she beat him to it, insisted a large part of the blame lay with
her
: having grilled Robert and got his confession, Tania knew Bilodo wasn’t responsible for what had occurred and, besides, she felt it was mostly her own fault, since nothing would have happened if she hadn’t indulged in imagining… things, wasn’t that true?

She shifted from foot to foot, nervous, visibly embarrassed, looking as though she were waiting for him to confirm what she just said, or contradict it perhaps. Then, when nothing came, she went on to the other purpose of her visit and told him she was going away, she was moving, she was quitting her job at the restaurant to go and live in the suburbs.

Was she hoping for a particular reaction from him? Did his unresponsiveness disappoint her? If so, she didn’t let on, but handed him a slip of paper and pointed out it contained her new address in case he… if ever he wanted to… well, anyway… As Bilodo examined the sheet, he noticed she’d taken the trouble to carefully calligraph her new address and phone number
Japanese-style, with a brush. The result looked quite lovely, and he complimented her warmly on it. She asked him to get in touch with her if ever it suited him. He promised he definitely would. He really shouldn’t hesitate, she added further, forcing a smile. Then there was a brief, awkward silence. They just stood there, on the landing, not saying anything, afraid to look at each other, and this lasted a good ten, interminable, seconds. Finally Tania broke the stasis by telling him she had to go. She said goodbye and stiffly went down the steps.

On the pavement, she turned around to see if he was still there; then, quickening her pace, she hurried off. Bilodo thought he spotted something glistening on her cheek. A tear? When he saw her walk away, a powerful emotion swept over him. It was like a stinging void, like a beautiful thought that aborts just as it is about to take off, vanishing before it has even had a chance to take form. A sharp lump choked Bilodo’s throat and he noticed his eyes were blurred with tears. He suddenly felt tempted to call Tania, to hail her before she was too far away, and his hand went up, stretched towards her, and he tried to shout, but no sounds escaped his lips. Once Tania reached the corner, she turned right and slipped out of sight. Bilodo’s hand dropped.

On the street, the wind bit its tail, sending newspaper pieces swirling around and around. Bilodo looked up at the sky, saw it was overcast and grey, packed with heavy clouds. There was a storm in the air. He shivered, went back in.

Bilodo pensively closed the door and studied the sheet of paper with Tania’s new address and phone number, no less fascinated by the beautifully calligraphed characters than by the new possibilities they suggested. The letters and figures seemed to float on the surface of the paper, to glow in the dusk. The great change the surprise visit had worked in him baffled Bilodo – that
emotion the young woman’s tear had stirred up, and that insane hope springing up all of a sudden just from the slip of paper she had left behind. Had he overlooked something terribly important, he wondered? Might there be a solution other than the ones he had considered until then, a better way to get out of the impasse he was in? Could there possibly be life after death or, better still,
before
?

He walked into the living room and froze, finding himself back in front of the slip knot hanging from the ceiling. He felt his stomach turn. The prospect of dying, which had seemed beneficial only a short while ago, now terrified him, and the thought of the act he had almost committed made him sick. Gripped by a violent wave of nausea, he ran to throw up in the bathroom.

When he finally stood up again, he felt literally drained and had to hold on to the sink so as not to collapse. He needed to freshen up. He ran the cold water, splashed his face numerous times. The wash made him feel a little better. He shook himself off, then cast a pessimistic glance in the mirror, just to see what zombie-like mug would be reflected there.

What he saw frightened him out of his wits. In the mirror loomed the bearded, dishevelled head of Gaston Grandpré.