Guys Like Me Read online

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  We were sitting side by side, with the sun facing us. He told me you couldn’t see anything when the sun shone, that he’d been wanting to put in blinds for a long time, but his sadness had nothing to do with that, when it came down to it.

  “What time are we supposed to be there, shall we go?”

  “We have time, you’ve already asked me twice,” he said.

  We drank another coffee.

  “I hadn’t seen him for about a year, I think. I didn’t know it was so serious, what he had.”

  “He never said, he didn’t want anybody to know,” Marc-André murmured. “He didn’t want it, you know. Did you tell the people in Asnières?”

  “Yes, everybody I could remember.”

  We talked some more about guys, old friends we’d lost touch with, after a while it became painful to live with too many of these memories, it’s age, Marco said. And time. You can’t do anything against time. Finally we left for the ceremony.

  Jean hadn’t arrived yet. He’d found a little job thanks to Marc-André. We went along a row of seats that wasn’t too far back. A woman in front, much younger than him, I wondered if it could be his wife, or else his sister. He had a daughter the same age as Benjamin, Élise, I think, I saw her when I went for a meal at his house, many years earlier. She had very white skin, like him, her tears were flowing, by themselves, should I kiss her and give her my condolences? There were also a few guys from the last place where he’d worked, I recognized some of them from the branch I’d been fired from nearly ten years ago. I couldn’t put names to the faces. Sometimes it’s the other way around, Marc-André and I had talked about that. Sometimes you search for a face to match the name.

  Marie wouldn’t be at my place in the evening, and I probably wouldn’t be going to Brochant, unless during our phone call I felt like she was asking me to, without saying anything, the way she did most of the time. I’d figure it out without wanting to, already. I don’t like that word: already. It was cold in the church, April never comes in churches. Jean arrived five minutes after us, which let the light in through the left door, I turned around in the direction of the noise. He was moving forward on tiptoe, as if, even in the anonymity of a funeral, he didn’t want to disturb anyone. The priest started droning on about this guy, who’d never even set foot in a church, I turned to Marco and saw that he was crying and making no at-tempt to hide it. We took each other’s hands, I wanted to wait outside for the priest to finish his stupid speech. But actually, no, he was looking around, with his blue eyes and his weary air, as if he was on a visit somewhere. There weren’t thirty people in all. Maybe other people would be coming to the cemetery, I held out that hope for him, and for all the guys like him, I made a few promises to myself at that moment. We stood in line behind, and waited for the family to pass. He ended up in front of me, he said something I didn’t hear. I approached in turn and put my hand on the coffin, that was the way it was now, we saw each other in church, I didn’t like to think about it.

  I went to wait for Marco, the family lined up in front, his wife, his daughter, it was definitely them. We went out, there were trees all around the square, Marc-André had only half an hour, I didn’t have much longer, in the end we wouldn’t be going to the cemetery. Jean joined us. All the time that the guys were putting the coffin in the hearse, he stayed quite close to them, watching with a stunned air, as if he’d never seen anybody doing that before, which I thought was unbelievable, and then he came toward us. Marco was smoking a cigarette on a bench at the side of the square. Later in the day, I remembered lots of other squares with little parks in them, like the one where I used to take Benjamin when he was little, Square Max de Nansouty in Asnières. One day, dulled by alcohol and pills, I decided to check who he was. I’d always assumed he was a great explorer. He was a mechanic, I think. Then Marco stepped away to make a phone call. He had to call Aïcha. When he hung up he looked at his watch.

  “We could go for a drink if you like. Do you have time?”

  We set off in search of the nearest bar. Jean placed himself between Marc-André and me, and although he walked too slowly, he managed to keep up with us. We talked a little about him, it had happened very suddenly, maybe he hadn’t suffered? Jean was nodding his head, vaguely interested, he was looking around him without touching his coffee. I saw something in him again that I’d been aware of since our schooldays, the way he had of hearing you without seeming to, like children you scold and who wait patiently for you to finish before going off to play. He didn’t seem any more moved than that.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “it happens.”

  “What do you mean, it happens?” I asked him.

  Marc-André and I looked at each other, I think I even felt like laughing at that moment, but he insisted, it was one of those things that happened.

  “You remember Nazim?”

  Yes, of course, why? He told us that Nazim had died within two days, he’d climbed on a stool to change a light bulb and felt bad, and that was it, he’d had a quadruple bypass, but it was no use. He died two days later. Marco lit another cigarette, he held out the pack to us, gradually resuming the attitude he’d always had since our teenage years, a kind of friendly gang leader, always ready with a joke, but he was a lot more than that for me. I’d known that ever since my separation and those years of solitude, and also, as he’d pointed out to me, as only he could because I probably wouldn’t have accepted it from anyone else, those years of suspicion toward women, I’d had to rid myself of that in order to carry on, to hope that I could get something going again. He asked him, but how do you know that? Jean put on that smart-ass look of his, how do I know? I just know. Nazim had lived in Bois-Colombes, right next to the station, he had a little painting and decorating business, he’d gone to see him for a bit of moonlighting, after two years without a job.

  “By the way,” we asked him, “how’s your job going?”

  He looked at us for a long time, just as he had looked at the coffin on its way to the hearse, that’s the impression I had, it’s OK, he murmured, everything’s fine, thanks. Thanks, he said again to Marc-André, in a flat voice, but in fact we’d already changed the subject, we’d probably be in touch during the week. Maybe we’d spend an hour together, maybe go have a meal, to say what we’d felt about this.

  For some years now, what with all the people we knew who’d left us, the women who’d haunted our dreams, the women we’d loved in our suburb who’d later suffered cancer or depression, we’d had very few opportunities to talk to each other. When it came down to it, you had only the memory of that absence in front of your eyes, when night falls. He insisted on paying for the coffees, we said thanks, that’s nice of you. He took a ten-euro bill from his pocket, as if it was parchment. He handed it to the waitress. Marco and I looked at each other, she gave him his change. He put it in his wallet with slow, measured gestures, and the three of us left.

  “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 h
ad 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.