A Fleeting Sorrow

  “Is there anything more I can do?”

  Irene’s silhouette was in the doorway, and at first Paul couldn’t fathom who she was or what she wanted. Her discretion was such that he almost hadn’t heard her, and then he realized that she must have seen him stretched out here and mistaken his indulgent daydreaming, his wallowing inner monologue, for an act of creation. Quiet: Genius at Work. Do Not Disturb. If only she knew!

  “If not I’ll be going. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  He saw her face now, topped by her pert little scarf, and it was the epitome of respect, understanding, and confidence. She put her forefinger to her lips, waved a modest good-bye with her other hand, and tiptoed out.

  The wind had risen, and the office shutters were banging noisily. Paul got to his feet, pushing his daydreams into the background, as if he had been called to order. And he knew clearly in his own mind what the next order of the day was: he was going to see Mathilde. Mathilde was the only one who could deal with the situation openly, honestly, positively. Not with a grim face but with a smile. He was deathly afraid, he kept telling himself, that she might refuse to see him, or worse yet agree to see him and then send him packing. But the truth was he was afraid she might not any longer be the same Mathilde he’d known and loved. He was afraid that when he saw her again he might discover another Mathilde, a side of her that had perhaps always been there — a vulgar, vain, or stupid side — to which he had been blinded by love. In other words, he’d discover that his great love story was only an egotistical projection of his own making. For when all was said and done, who was responsible for all the disappointments he had suffered in the course of the day? All those cruel, unsatisfied faces, both those who had made an effort to comprehend and those who had turned a deaf ear: they were, after all, the faces of his life, faces that belonged to people he had always considered near and dear to him. Of the three closest, he was forever hurting Helen, constantly using Robert, and taking pleasure from Sonia. Nothing very deep there. No, there was no question that Mathilde was the only person in his life who was generous enough, and disinterested enough, to see him and deal with him as he was. His real self: and he needed to make sure he had a clear image of his real self to present to Saint Peter at the pearly gates, if in fact the old bearded one was really there to greet him. And the question was, the burning question: would the Mathilde of today coincide with, live up to, his memory of the Mathilde of yesteryear?

  The fact that a woman you love reaches a point in the relationship where she ceases to love you, and despite that you can never bring yourself to scorn or despise her, is very rare indeed. And yet wouldn’t it have been better if, when they had broken up, she had poured a little salt in their wounds, made their parting ugly rather than kind, thus preventing her victim from forever seeing their affair through rose-colored glasses, making any future relationship pale by comparison? But whether Mathilde had acted like an angel or a bitch when they had broken up interested Paul not one iota now, anymore than it had at the time. What obsessed him was the fear that she might have grown old, that she might have gone downhill, lost it (that indefinable “it”), that instead of desiring and admiring her as he always had, instead of having complete confidence in her judgments and opinions, he might end up pitying her. He could not bear the thought of feeling sorry for Mathilde. That would be just too much: on top of his loveless marriage, his uncaring friends, the stupidity of his mistress, the uselessness of his work, not to mention the imminence of his death and the awful pain that was bound to go with it, if in addition the sainted memory of his one true love were to go down the tube or out the window or whatever the expression was, then death would not only be deserved but welcome. None too soon. My God, what a distressing effect this morning’s news was having on him; not only distressing but deplorable, perhaps unfair. In the course of no more than a few hours he had, in drawing up the balance sheet of his days, come up with nothing but deficits and personal shortcomings: he who no less than twelve hours earlier would, if asked, have traced the trajectory of his life as a rising curve, the life he had willfully chosen, as he would have described himself as a reasonably happy man, who, if not at the peak of his existence, was still sufficiently blessed on so many fronts that peaks and valleys did not concern him.

  How wrong he had been all this time! But then, what person, however powerful or wretched, had not woken up at least once in his or her life and pondered — in a state of inexplicable terror — the precarious nature of things, the fragility of oneself and one’s world, the inevitability of death? What human being, born of woman, come into this world by chance, under the best of circumstances a child wanted by both father and mother, has not been terrified at the notion of how dependent his life and fate are on his meager abilities, both physical and mental, so that he dreams of having been endowed with other, greater gifts to cope with the problems of the world? No question . . . That is, you know you’re going to die one day, it’s only a question of when, so what’s the big deal? No, that’s not right either. In your mind you’ve learned to live with death — that’s a funny expression, no? — but you always think of it in the future, not something you worry about in the present. The sting, the pain, was to die immediately. Now. That didn’t go down, not at all. But what could he do about it? Not a damn thing. Which was no good either. Just because he was now going to die before his allotted time was no reason to get so wrought up. As long as he’d assumed he was going to die later on, granted his biblical three score and ten, he’d been a happy man. A happy object. An object that had accepted its condition as object. That had accepted the relatively low esteem in which it was held by its so-called inner circle. And he had accepted whatever had come his way with verve, passion, gratitude. Despite everything. Because of everything. It was imperative he become that happy object again, or his entire life would have been in vain. He would not even have had a life. It was a question of honor. A matter of life and death.

  It was only after he got outside that he remembered the reason he had come there was to draw up a list of his various projects and plans and determine who among his colleagues he was going to assign to each. He had meant to be a complete professional, and he had ended up spending all his time with Mathilde’s ex-suitor. Strange, their conversation, yet he had somehow enjoyed it. And it had produced Mathilde’s current phone number, which struck him as being the only positive element the day had brought him thus far.

  Paul got into his car, which, especially after this evening’s wind, smelled of tobacco and paper — that special paper odor that clings to architectural drawings — his odor, in short. And suddenly Paul realized that this was the only place on the face of the earth that was his. The apartment, with its flowers and furniture and sandalwood air freshener, was Helen’s and Helen’s alone: she ruled over it as a queen her kingdom. Those four walls, which for most men meant a refuge from the slings and arrows of the outside world, did not belong to him. His home was definitely not his castle. No, the only thing that was truly his was this iron monster, this beast with a powerful engine, this map-filled, cigarette-butt-infested site, and for the first time in his life he understood those automobile nuts who were ready to do battle — armed only with their hydraulic jacks — with anyone who might dent or disturb their precious machines, their shelters, their only refuges.

  And he began to hum to himself, with great conviction: “My only refuge. My dear sweet refuge! The refuge of my nights, the refuge of my life!” Didn’t quite rhyme but what the hell. He was stopped at a red light, and as had happened earlier in the day he looked over at the driver next to him in the car to his left, and saw that the man was staring at him with an air of deep concern. And Paul, as if he were one of those slightly aging jazz buffs you constantly run into in Paris, began to tap out a beat with his hands on the steering wheel, to the tune of some song the driver unfortunately could not hear but which he had to assume was wild and crazy. In fact, Paul’s lyrics consisted of: “My refuge, that’s my refuge,
the refuge of all my days,” sung to the tune of “Night and Day.” He must have appeared even more demented than when the driver had first seen him, but now that he had pegged him as an aging jazz buff, he looked less worried. When the light turned green, Paul let the man in the car to his left pass him, and he saw that the worried frown on his face had disappeared. No, he was not crazy, and he could prove it. Prove it to whom? To what? This driver, this witness to his presumed dementia, looked like a complete idiot when his mouth was closed. What would the guy look like if, God forbid, his mouth was open? Did that mean that each time one of the world’s imbeciles gave him a dirty or even inquiring look he was going to have to try to act normal, in perfect health, thank you very much? The way this morning he had played tough guy, don’t worry about me, Mac, to the hamster? Was he going to spend the rest of his life — what little remained — walking around with head high and stiff upper lip, to the admiration of one and all? Hell, no! He had spent far too much of his life kowtowing to the rules and regulations, the customs and mores of the world, for him to add insult to injury by playing the role of hero in the face of death. . . . Playing it for whom? It was true that you end up being the person you mimic, and that you perhaps become insensitive and invulnerable as a result of pretending to be what you’re not. He would do his best to be upbeat, light, and uncaring. For others, out of a sense of modesty and decency, and above all for his own self-esteem. But when he was alone, when he was with people he didn’t know? Then he would let himself go as much as he wanted: he would whine and whimper to his heart’s content in public if he wanted to. Even on cafe terraces if he damn well felt like it. He owed the world nothing. He owed nothing to anyone. The thought of his local tax collector brought a snicker to his lips. The poor bastard would have a long wait this year before he could dig into the pockets of the recently departed Paul Cazavel. Winding sheets have no pockets. Another positive thought.

  On that subject, how would they bury him, in a winding sheet or a three-piece suit? What did the law say on that score? What did they usually do? How did all that work? Was he supposed to order his own casket? Before the “event”? Couldn’t very well do it after, now could he? That wasn’t funny either. And what about the music for the funeral mass? Should it be Verdi’s Requiem? Or a piece of Schubert chamber music? Maybe Schumann, he really loved Schumann. He pulled up in front of a music store and bought a tape of Verdi’s Requiem, which he slipped in the car stereo in place of Tina Turner. He really had a hard time picturing himself dead. What if he pulled out all the stops and spent a fortune on his funeral? Went to the choicest, highest-priced casket maker and ordered the top of the line? Or maybe he should simply opt to be cremated. No, cremation would be too painful for the already weeping throng, he was sure. He’d already gone through that, though on the other end, so to speak. And besides, why not give back to the good earth a bit of what it has given you all these years (not that many, really)? Let the insects and plants and roots nibble away to their heart’s content at his carcass. It was simpler, more natural, more . . . more earthly. Paul loved the land and all those that worked it, though when he thought about it he had no peasant roots and absolutely no knowledge of how the earth brought forth its boundless treasures.

  VIII

  THE RUE DE TOURNON, still bathed in sunlight, though only precariously, seemed more deserted than usual. It was a street that had always struck him as a movie set, circa 1943, a street on the verge of being invaded by a swarm of black-helmeted soldiers, and on which lived only men who were either reckless or fully aware of what was about to happen. It also reminded him of a street in the provinces, with solid, handsome eighteenth-century buildings lining either side in perfect harmony, a street down which, like some kind of dubious anachronism, the staid senators in their stately cars appeared sporadically.

  Back now in present time, Paul saw a gendarme appear from his guardhouse to greet a large black sedan, doubtless bearing one of the august members of the Senate, and motion him into the inner sanctum before returning stiffly to his post like some windup soldier. The perfect alignment of buildings was interrupted only by the cafe near the top of the street, where four tables and ten chairs flowered in front of its windows each summer. It was a quiet street, perhaps too quiet for the impulsive Mathilde, he thought, but then he corrected himself, remembering how much she liked to hobnob and chew the fat with the local merchants, and then he pictured her emerging from her apartment in the morning in her housecoat, going out to buy her bread and croissants. And maybe it was right for her, too, because he could also picture her on such a street as this, reading beside the fire. Despite her flair and her occasional need for flamboyance, Mathilde was someone who hated noise.

  Paul entered the cafe and took a table by the window. He eyed the telephone perched on the gleaming silver counter. He would have preferred not to call her, but to confront her suddenly face to face without any prior warning. The expression in her eyes, before she had had a chance to think, was more important to him than any words.

  But in addition to the fact that he had almost never showed up at anyone’s place without calling ahead, and that this precept was more ingrained in him than many others that were presumably more important, the hard fact was he didn’t know her exact address. His heart was pounding, and despite the Perrier he had just downed, his throat was parched as he stood at the counter and dialed her number. Through the cafe window with its matching curtains that draped each side he saw a stray dog on the far sidewalk, not far from an old man who looked just as lost as the dog. Finally both crossed the street, treading carefully between the implanted metal markings of the crosswalk, and went their separate ways as soon as they had safely reached the other side. The telephone had rung a number of times without an answer, but Paul remembered — among the thousands of details about her that had been flooding back — that she was often in the habit of not answering the phone until its ringing became unbearable. Suddenly somebody did pick up the receiver.

  “Yes?” said a low, throaty, very young voice.

  Mathilde’s voice.

  “It’s me,” he blurted out.

  Good God, what a great start! What did he think he was doing? Why was he bothering her? What right did he have to resurface in the life of this woman who had deserted him a decade before? To announce that he was going to die in the very near future? Impertinent. Pretentious.

  “It’s me,” he said again. “It’s me, Paul.”

  “Paul . . .” she echoed. “Where are you?”

  “Right next door. At the rue de Tournon cafe as a matter of fact . . . Uh, I’d like very much to talk to you if you have a minute. . . .”

  “I live at number twelve,” she said quietly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have heard from him. “On the ground floor, at the end of the courtyard. Give me fifteen minutes, okay? Then ring.”

  She hung up, leaving Paul completely nonplussed, as if he had never really believed he would ever see her again. He had to think up something to say, some reason for calling out of the blue. But now that he was going to see her, he sure as hell didn’t intend to lay his heavy tale of woe on her. Maybe she was married. No, Saltiery said she was divorced. In any case, she was living with someone. Maybe she imagined her old flame was trying to crawl back into her life. No, no way he could tell her the truth. What right, after ten years, did he have to show up and greet her with “Hey, guess what? I’m going to die!” That was no concern of hers. For ages their lives had been parallel and distant. She would only be shocked and exasperated at seeing this big hulk of a man, whom she probably remembered as a gawky boy, emerge out of the past brandishing his death as if it were an identity card. How could he even imagine doing such a thing?

  Fifteen minutes. He looked at his watch: only a minute had passed since he had hung up. God, how time was dragging. In contrast with the way it had been flying since this morning. Flowers. Yes, he should show up with some flowers. There was a flower shop a couple of blocks away, down
near the Odéon, which as he remembered sold nothing but roses. The best roses in town. He hurried down the rue de Tournon, bought an armload of pale pink roses at the peak of their beauty — maybe a smidgen beyond — that would have done any church proud. They smelled as good as they looked.

  That whole errand had taken him all of nine minutes. He felt flushed and transparent, like some awkward kid in the throes of puppy love, and as he hurried back up the street he avoided the quizzical looks of the passersby, who, thank God, were mercifully few. He didn’t go back to the cafe, though his throat was still as dry as sand. He was more afraid of seeing Mathilde again, he realized, than dying of cancer in six months. Throughout his life he had always given preference to aesthetics and true feelings over material gain, which had caused him his fair share of problems. He thought of his relationship with Helen, and realized that she had never been able to understand how one could be smitten with a sudden, spontaneous carnal desire, as she failed totally to comprehend how his excitement over some new architectural project could blind him to the realities of the wily ways of dishonest contractors.

  Meanwhile, in the course of his errand to buy the roses he had looked for and located number twelve, a solid, handsome eighteenth-century building just like its neighbors. Ah, fifteen minutes exactly. He opened the porte cochère and noted the courtyard, which had to date back a good two centuries, from the look of its uneven cobblestones. In the middle of the courtyard stood a single tree, which struck him as incongruous and slightly funny. He hurried across the courtyard, stopped in front of her door, and rang. It was as if the movement from the porte cochère to her apartment door had been made in the blink of an eye. The door was opened, and there was Mathilde, unchanged, he thought with an inner sigh of relief as he took her in his arms, unless it was she who took him in hers.