Michel eventually enrolled in the university at Orsay to study math and physics. He had been attracted by the dormitories on campus; that was how he thought. Unsurprisingly, both boys passed their baccalauréat. When they went to get their results, Annabelle went with them, her face solemn. She had matured a lot over the year. A little thinner, and with an inward smile, she was, unfortunately, more beautiful than ever. Bruno decided to take an initiative: the house in Sainte-Maxime was gone, but he could go and stay at di Meola’s commune, as his mother had suggested, and he asked if they might come with him. A month later, toward the end of July, they set off.
14
SUMMER OF ’75
They will not frame their doings to turn unto their God: for the spirit of whoredoms is in the midst of them, and they have not known the LORD.
—Hosea 5:4
The man who met them at the bus station at Carpentras seemed weak and ill. The son of an Italian anarchist who immigrated to America in the 1920s, Francesco di Meola’s life was a success story—at least in the financial sense. Like Serge Clément, the young Italian realized that the society emerging at the end of the Second World War would be radically different, and that many pursuits once considered marginal or elitist would become economically important. While Bruno’s father was investing in plastic surgery, di Meola was becoming involved in the music business. He did not make as much money as many in the industry, but he made his fair share. At forty, like many people in California, he sensed a new movement, something deeper than simply a passing fad, calling for the sweeping away of Western civilization in its entirety. It was this insight which brought luminaries like Alan Watts, Paul Tillich, Carlos Castañeda, Abraham Maslow and Carl Rogers to his villa at Big Sur. A little later, he had the privilege of meeting Aldous Huxley, the spiritual father of the movement. By then old and almost blind, Huxley paid him scant attention, but the meeting was to leave a profound impression on di Meola.
He himself was unclear as to the reason he left California in 1970 and bought a property in Haute-Provence. Later, close to the end, he came to think that he had wanted, for some obscure reason, to die in Europe, though at the time, he was aware only of the most superficial reasons. The events of May ’68 had impressed him, and as the hippie movement began to ebb in California, he turned his attention to the youth of Europe. Jane encouraged him in this. Young people in France were particularly repressed, a time bomb of resentment under the legacy of Gaullist patriarchy, which, according to Jane, a single spark would be enough to detonate. For some years now, Francesco’s sole pleasure had been to smoke marijuana cigarettes with very young girls attracted by the spiritual aura of the movement and then fuck them among the mandalas and the smell of incense. The girls who arrived at Big Sur were, for the most part, stupid little WASP bitches, at least half of whom were virgins. Toward the end of the sixties the flow began to dwindle and he thought that perhaps it was time to go back to Europe. He found it strange that he thought of it as “going back,” since he had left Italy when he was no more than five years old. If his father had been a militant revolutionary, he was also a cultivated man, an aesthete who loved his mother tongue. This had undoubtedly left its mark on Francesco. In truth, he had always thought of Americans as idiots.
He was still a handsome man, with a tanned, chiseled face and long, thick, wavy white hair, but his cells had begun to reproduce in a haphazard fashion, destroying the DNA of neighboring cells and secreting toxins into the body. The specialists he consulted differed on most points, but on one they were agreed: he was dying. The cancer was inoperable and would continue inexorably to metastasize. Overall his consultants were of the opinion that he would die peacefully and, with medication, probably would not suffer any physical pain; and to date he had experienced only a general tiredness. However, he refused to accept the diagnosis; he could not even imagine accepting it. In contemporary Western society, death is like white noise to a man in good health; it fills his mind when his dreams and plans fade. With age, the noise becomes increasingly insistent, like a dull roar with the occasional screech. In another age the sound meant waiting for the kingdom of God; it is now an anticipation of death. Such is life.
Huxley, he would always remember, had seemed detached about the prospect of his own death, though perhaps he was simply numbed or drugged. Di Meola had read Plato, the Bhagavad-Gita and the Tao Te Ching, but none of them had brought him the slightest comfort. He was barely sixty, but he was dying; the signs were there, there could be no doubt about it. He had even begun to be less interested in sex, and it was with a certain detachment that he noticed how beautiful Annabelle was. He did not notice the boys at all. He had lived around young people for a long time, and it was probably habit which made him curious to meet Jane’s sons, though in fact he couldn’t have cared less. He dropped them off in the middle of the estate and told them they could pitch their tent anywhere. He wanted to go to bed, preferably without meeting anyone. Physically, he was still the epitome of a sensual man, a man of the world; his eyes twinkled with irony and perception, a look certain exceptionally stupid girls thought of as radiant and benevolent. He did not feel in the least benevolent, and moreover thought of himself as a mediocre actor. How could they all be so easily taken in? Decidedly, he thought sometimes, a little sadly, these young people searching for spiritual values were really idiots.
Moments after they climbed down from the Jeep, Bruno realized he had made a mistake. The estate sloped gently toward the south, scattered with shrubs and flowers. A waterfall tumbled into a clear green pool; nearby, a woman lay naked, sunning herself on a flat rock while another soaped herself before diving in. Closer to them, on a rug, a bearded man was meditating or sleeping; against his tanned skin, his long blond hair was striking—he looked a little like Kris Kristofferson. Bruno felt depressed. But then, what had he expected? Perhaps they could still leave, as long as they did so immediately. He glanced across at his friends. Annabelle was calmly unfolding her tent; sitting on a tree stump, toying with the straps on his backpack, Michel seemed miles away.
Water follows the path of least resistance. Human behavior is predetermined in principle in almost all of its actions and offers few choices, of which fewer still are taken. In 1950 Francesco di Meola had a son by an Italian starlet, a second-rate actress who would never rise above playing Egyptian slaves; eventually, in the crowning achievement of her career, she had two lines in Quo Vadis. They called the boy David. At fifteen, David dreamed of being a rock star. He was not the only one. Though richer than bankers and company presidents, rock stars still managed to retain their rebel image. Young, good-looking, famous, desired by women and envied by men, rock stars had risen to the summit of the social order. Nothing since the deification of the pharaohs could compare to the devotion European and American youth bestowed upon their heroes. Physically, David had everything he needed to achieve his ends: he had an animal, almost diabolical beauty; his eyes were a deep blue; his face masculine but refined; his long hair thick and black.
With the help of his father’s contacts, David recorded his first single at seventeen; it was a complete flop. It was released, it must be said, in the same year as Sgt. Pepper and Days of Future Passed, to name only two. Jimi Hendrix, the Rolling Stones and the Doors were at the height of their powers; Neil Young had just begun recording and great things were still expected of Brian Wilson. There was little room then for a bassist who was good but not gifted. David persisted. He played in four different groups, changed musical styles, and three years after his father, he too decided to try his luck in Europe. He got a regular gig in a club on the Riviera; that was no problem. Every night girls waited for him in his dressing room; that was no problem either. However, no one from any of the record companies so much as listened to his demos.
When David met Annabelle he had already slept with more than five hundred women; nevertheless, he could not remember ever seeing such supple perfection. For her part, Annabelle found herself attracted to him like all t
he rest. For days she resisted, finally giving in to him a week after they arrived. There were about thirty of them dancing outside at the rear of the house; the night was warm and starry. Annabelle was wearing a white skirt and a T-shirt with a sun drawn on it. David danced beside her, sometimes twirling her in rock-and-roll fashion. They danced tirelessly for more than an hour to the beat of a tambourine—sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Bruno leaned against a tree, alert, vigilant, his heart in his mouth. At times Michel appeared at the edge of the bright circle, at others he disappeared into the darkness. Suddenly there he was, barely five yards away. Bruno watched Annabelle break away from the dancers and go over to him, and distinctly heard her ask, “Aren’t you dancing?” Her face as she said it was terribly sad. Michel declined, his gesture immeasurably slow, like some prehistoric animal recently roused. Annabelle stood looking at him for five or ten seconds longer, then turned and went back to the dancers. David put his hand on her waist and pulled her to him. She placed her hands on his shoulders. Bruno looked at Michel again and thought he saw a smile play on his lips; he looked down, and when he looked up again, Michel had disappeared. Annabelle was in David’s arms, their lips close together.
Lying in his tent, Michel waited for daybreak. In the early hours a fierce storm broke and he was surprised to discover that he was a little afraid. When at last the storm subsided, a steady rain began to fall. Raindrops splashed dully on the canvas; though only inches from his face, they could not touch him here. He had a sudden premonition that all his life would be like this moment. Emotion would pass him by, sometimes very close. Others would experience happiness and despair, but such things would be unknown to him, they would not touch him. Several times that evening Annabelle had looked over at him while she danced. Though he had wanted to, he simply could not move; he felt as though his body were slipping into icy water. Still, everything seemed strangely calm. He felt separated from the world by a vacuum molded to his body like a shell, a protective armor.
15
The following morning Michel’s tent was empty. His things were gone, but he had left a note which read, simply, Don’t worry. Bruno himself left a week later. As he boarded the train, he realized that since arriving he hadn’t tried to flirt with anyone, or even talk to anyone.
Late in August, Annabelle noticed that her period was late. She thought it was probably best this way. There was no problem; David’s father knew a doctor in Marseilles, a fervent champion of family planning. The guy’s name was Laurent, he was about thirty, expansive, with a little red mustache. He insisted that she call him Laurent. He showed her the instruments and explained to her the procedure of dilation and curettage. He liked to establish a rapport with his clients, thinking of them almost as friends. He had been an advocate of women’s rights from the beginning, and believed there was still a long way to go. The operation was scheduled for the following day; the costs would be covered by the family planning clinic.
By the time she returned to her hotel, Annabelle was distraught. She would have the abortion the following day and stay overnight at the hotel before going home; that was what she had decided. Every night for three weeks she had slept in David’s tent. The first time it had been painful, but afterward she enjoyed it. She had never thought that sexual pleasure could be so overpowering. But she felt no particular affection for the guy; she knew he would quickly find someone else, was probably with someone now.
At a dinner party that same evening, Laurent talked enthusiastically about Annabelle’s case. This was precisely what they had been fighting for, he remarked, to ensure that a seventeen-year-old girl—“and a pretty girl, too,” he almost added—did not have her life destroyed by a holiday romance.
Annabelle was apprehensive about returning to Crécy-en-Brie, but her fears were unfounded. When she got back on 4 September her parents complimented her on her tan. Michel had already left, they told her, moving into the university dormitory in Bures-sur-Yvette; they obviously did not suspect a thing. She went to visit Michel’s grandmother. Though the old woman seemed tired, she greeted Annabelle warmly and managed to find her grandson’s address for her. Yes, it was a little strange that Michel had come back from vacation before the others; and she thought it odd that he should go to the university weeks before he was due to start, but then Michel had always been a strange boy.
In the midst of nature’s barbarity, human beings sometimes (rarely) succeed in creating small oases warmed by love. Small, exclusive, enclosed spaces governed only by love and shared subjectivity.
Annabelle spent the fortnight that followed writing to Michel. It was hard work; several times she crossed out what she had written and started again. When finished, it ran to forty pages; it was her first love letter. She posted it on 17 September, the day she went back to school; then she waited.
The University of Paris IX—Orsay—is the only one in the Paris area modeled on the American campus system. Both undergraduates and graduate students stay in dormitories set in quads. Orsay University also has an exceptional physics research facility dedicated to the study of elementary particles.
Michel lived at the top of building 233, in a corner room on the fourth floor where he felt immediately at home. There was a small bed, a desk and some shelves for his books. His window looked out onto a lawn which ran down to the river. If he leaned out and craned his neck, he could see the gray concrete expanse of the particle accelerator on the right. With a month to go before lectures began, the dorms were almost empty. There were some African students, whose problem was where to stay in August, when the dormitories closed completely. Michel sometimes talked to the concierge and during the day he walked by the river. He didn’t suspect that he would be here for more than eight years.
One morning, at about eleven o’clock, he lay down on the grass beneath some indeterminate trees. He was surprised at how miserable he felt. Far removed from Christian notions of grace and redemption, unfamiliar with the concepts of freedom and compassion, Michel’s worldview had grown pitiless and mechanical. Once the parameters for interaction were defined, he thought, and given the initial conditions, events took place in an empty, spiritless space, each inexorably predetermined. What happened was meant to happen; it could not be otherwise; no one was to blame. At night Michel dreamed of abstract snow-covered spaces—his body, bandaged from head to foot, drifting beneath lowering skies between steel mills. During the day he would sometimes run into one of the African students, a short Malian boy with sallow skin, and they would nod to each other. The university cafeteria was not yet open, so Michel bought tins of tuna at the supermarket in Courcelles-sur-Yvette and went back to his room. Night fell. He walked the empty corridors.
In mid-October Annabelle wrote to him again—a shorter letter this time. She had phoned Bruno only to discover that he had no news either; all he could tell her was that Michel telephoned his grandmother regularly but probably would not be home before Christmas.
One evening in November, coming out of a lecture on analysis, Michel found a note in his pigeonhole at the dorm. It read: Phone your aunt, Marie-Thérèse. URGENT. He had not seen his aunt or his cousin Brigitte for two years. He phoned back immediately. His grandmother had had another stroke and she was in a hospital in Meaux. It was serious, very serious. Her aorta was weak; her heart might fail at any time.
. . .
It was around 10 p.m. when he walked through Meaux, past the lycée. At the same time, Annabelle was inside reading a passage by the Greek thinker Epicurus: brilliant, liberal and, to be honest, a pain in the ass. The sky was dark and the river Marne filthy and turbulent. He found the Hôpital Saint-Antoine easily, a complex of modern glass-and-steel buildings which had opened the previous year. His aunt Marie-Thérèse was waiting for him, with his cousin Brigitte, in the hall on the seventh floor; they had clearly been crying. “I don’t know if you should see her,” Marie-Thérèse said. He ignored the suggestion. What had to be endured, he would endure.
She was in intensive care, in
a room of her own. The sheet was a bright white against her exposed shoulders and arms; he could scarcely tear his eyes away from the bare flesh, wrinkled, pale and terribly old. Her arms, perforated with tubes, were bound to the bedrails with straps. Her throat had been intubated, and wires ran from under the sheets to monitoring devices. They had taken away her nightdress and had not allowed her to redo her chignon, as she had every morning for years. With her long gray hair undone, she no longer seemed like his grandmother but simply a creature of flesh and blood who seemed both very young and very old, given up into the hands of the medical profession. Michel took her hand; it was the one thing he still recognized. He often held her hand, even now at seventeen. She did not open her eyes, but perhaps she sensed it was his touch, despite everything. He did not squeeze her hand, but simply took it in his as he had always done; he dearly hoped that she knew it was him.