A Fleeting Sorrow

  I’m back, he said to himself, I came back. And then he was overwhelmed by a feeling of immense relief, the first he had felt all day, and he closed his eyes.

  She drew him inside, and then with a quick, deft maneuver that he remembered she often used to make when she thought she was not at her best, turned him around so that he was in the light and she had the light behind her. He made no effort to resist.

  She was wearing a long garnet-red dressing gown with a sable collar, which accentuated her high cheekbones, her luminous, almond-shaped eyes, and the fullness of her lips. She was, he thought, a wonderful mixture of today’s woman and a woman of yore, a fully liberated woman who was yet completely romantic. A woman with so many contradictory — no, overlapping — qualities that she could seduce anyone on the face of the earth. There was no way in the world he could, or even should, talk about his problem with Mathilde, tell her the truth. He needed to make a good impression on her, period. But he was also fully aware that the new Paul, today’s Paul, Paul-the-condemned, would have a very hard time holding it back, keeping the truth from the one person he had ever loved, telling her how little time he had left. . . .

  “As handsome as ever!” she said with a silver laugh, eyeing him shamelessly.

  “I’ve aged,” he said, “well, to some degree anyway.”

  “Yes,” she said, still smiling, “there, and there . . . and there . . .” touching with her finger first his forehead, then his cheeks, then the corner of his mouth. “That’s called maturity,” she said, “at least for men. With women, as you well know, maturity takes on a whole other meaning.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, and meant it.

  She laughed and took him by the hand. “Come, have a seat. Over here by the window. For despite your kind words I have aged. In case you’ve forgotten, you were seven years younger than me. And still are. So do your arithmetic.”

  “You’re just as beautiful as ever. And just as seductive. Which I’m sure you still put to good use,” he added with a touch of bitterness, which made them both laugh.

  “Good God,” he thought, this woman was my wife, my life companion. He looked over at her and realized that that was what she was. Nothing less. And he was her life companion, too. He should never have accepted their separation. Even his impending death seemed secondary to him in the light of that realization. Yes, he had had a reason for living. He had nonetheless had a reason for living! And at the same time that he was overcome with a feeling of enormous relief, of complete happiness, he suddenly and without warning broke out in a series of uncontrollable sobs, so violent that he found himself doubled over in his chair, before the astonished eyes of Mathilde, who had no idea what was happening.

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered, “Jesus, I’m so sorry. But the reason I had to see you, the reason I came here is that . . . you’re the only person I can talk to about this . . . you know, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved . . . what I’m trying to say is that I’ve got this thing on my lungs that . . . Six months, the doctor tells me I have only six months to live.”

  By now he had managed, he didn’t remember how, to cross the room and was seated on the floor beside her, his head on Mathilde’s lap. “And all that shit out there . . .” He gestured toward the street, toward the world beyond the window, his tone one of pain, of deep distress. He was holding his head in his hands, trying to hide the flow of tears, and Mathilde’s face was bent over him, as her lips touched his flooded fingers and probed to reach the face beyond.

  “My poor darling,” she whispered. “My poor sweet man. Tell me how you feel. Unhappy? Afraid? Does it hurt? Tell me, are you suffering? Are you sure you’re not suffering? My darling, darling man. Is there someone who’s helping you? How long have you known? And who have you told this to? Anyone? You should have come and seen me the minute you knew. . . .”

  “Since this morning,” he stammered. “And ever since it’s been sheer hell. The only ones I’ve told are . . . oh, two idiots,” he finished, having made up his mind that he would spare her the knowledge that the “two idiots” were none other than his mistress-of-the-moment, who had reacted coldly and artificially and self-centeredly (if that was a word), nothing at all like Mathilde’s immediate, caring response; and his best friend, who it turned out was far more interested in his telephone calls than in his putative friend. Neither one, after ten years of so-called love on the one hand and so-called friendship on the other, had been able to come close to matching Mathilde’s reaction after ten years of separation. Oh, yes, how right he had been to fall in love with Mathilde. And how wrong he had been to drop her (he was conveniently forgetting, caught up as he was in the sea of her endless virtues, that it was she who had dropped him). He had been crazy to live without her all these years, on this empty, bitter earth. He loathed his stupidity. He gave a deep sigh, almost a moan, and was surprised to hear himself. And he thought that this must have been the umpteenth time he had either let himself go — as he had at the memory of the near-fatal mishap at the Evry racetrack — or repressed a wave of anger and self-pity, as he had at the gas station, and wondered if this was going to become a continuing pattern. Even now, in this neat little living room, which had welcomed him, he was acting like a scared, spoiled kid. Out of control, for God’s sake. Where was his self-esteem? He was momentarily reassured by Mathilde’s reaction, by her very presence, and at the same time he was completely ashamed of his own reaction. The way he saw things at the moment, Mathilde was going to take care of everything; Mathilde would take care of him. Mathilde was going to do everything, or nothing, it mattered little, the point being that she would be with him to help him face the grim reaper.

  “What about your wife?” the voice above him was saying. “I understood you got married.”

  “I haven’t told her yet. In all fairness, I haven’t seen her yet today, at least since I got the news.”

  “You mean you couldn’t call her? You must have known how to reach her by phone, no?”

  Mathilde broke off. She had no idea what Paul’s relations with his wife were, and preferred to leave it that way.

  “Here,” she said, taking a handkerchief and, like a mother with a child, cradled it around his nose. “Blow.” And like an obedient child he blew.

  Paul knew that he looked a mess, and he was even more ashamed at the thought that he was red-eyed and tear-stained and haggard, and he could feel Mathilde’s hand moist against his cheek. Hardly a way to win back a woman’s heart, especially a woman like Mathilde. What if all her former swains returned with whimpers on their lips and tears in their eyes: something for her to look forward to with great expectations!

  “And what are you up to these days?” Paul asked, lifting his head. She settled back on the sofa, still holding his hand but separated physically now from him by only a couple of feet — to Paul it seemed like miles. But she could still read him like a book, for as she repeated the question, almost dreamily, she made a sign for him to come closer, which he did, nestling his head on her shoulder.

  “Pretty much the same old thing,” she said. “I interview and pick the models for several fashion houses. I also book them into foreign houses for their showings. Not much different from when we were together. “

  “In those days I had a feeling you weren’t doing a damn thing,” Paul said with great conviction.

  She laughed. “You’re right,” she admitted. “There was always someone to pay my rent or my basic frivolities. And now, when I desperately need the help, the competition is getting tougher by the day.”

  “What’s this ‘desperate need’ you’re referring to? Don’t tell me you have the slightest problem finding anyone you want to. . . .”

  “First of all, darling, I have a lot harder time than you, with your rose-colored glasses that are ten years behind the times, can imagine,” she said with a warm and wonderful laugh that struck him like the chime of a clock. “And furthermore, I’m living with someone who would not, how shall I say
, be delighted if he learned I was looking.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “You mean your Englishman? Your husband is English, no? I thought he was living in England.”

  “I spent a fair amount of time there when I was married. But after my divorce I took up with one of his cousins, who is far less rich and less good-looking than my husband but who is more, how shall I say . . . easier to live with. He’s a man whose first priority is to make sure I’m happy, and is very discreet and undemanding. That’s a very rare combination, I assure you, especially in men. And in women, too, I suspect.”

  Paul turned away, as if he were hurt. Had she had to tell him all that? It seemed to him both useless and in poor taste. But hold on: who was he to judge what was in poor taste as far as he and Mathilde were concerned? What place had he had in her life these past ten years that gave him the right to be offended or upset about someone else whose primary goal in life had apparently been to make her happy?

  It was incredible! But at the same time he had detected in Mathilde’s tone the same cynicism they both had shared when it came to talking about each other’s past mistresses and lovers, which they had always discussed in a bantering way, as if each of their former conquests had been a kind of foxhunt, and they the lucky hunters, reveling in the game with not so much as a twinge of regret. But this time Mathilde had found a good and decent man. The fact remained, Paul had an innate distrust of good and decent men, as he had for high-minded idealists, intractable autocrats, fanatics of any ilk, not to mention all those of a practical bent. And as he did for all those male types he knew he could never be and was therefore quick to categorize as “artificial.” Yes, you could love Mathilde despite knowing that she would inevitably give you a hard time now and then.

  Now that he thought of it, she was the one who had broken off their relationship: how many more of her shenanigans could he have taken? He thought of their time together, how he was haunted by his fear of losing her, of never living up to her standards, of constantly wondering whether she was really cheating on him. Could his love have been strong enough to make him put up with anything more? But then, he thought suddenly, could he have put up with anything better? For the past eight hours he had been such a walking zombie, in such deep distress, that he believed he was ready to find happiness where he could, much as he was allergic to all destruction, and violently opposed to the reflexes and contractions of love. But in reality, what would he have done if she had been more to him than a mistress, if she had loved him without reservation and told him so? Would he have appreciated a less volatile relationship, one that was profound and stable, less dangerous than the one they had known, or would it have sent him flying out the door? Would he ever really know?

  After all, wasn’t it in fact Mathilde’s escapades, her madcap adventures, her crazy flights of fancy, her manifest bad faith, yes, even her disappearing acts, that had so endeared her to him? What if she had been a faithful, dutiful mate; would he still have loved her? No, probably not. Idiot that he was — and still is, he corrected himself — he had always been attracted to femmes fatales, or to little bitches. How could he have known that one day he would end up hoping and dreaming that these femmes fatales would somehow turn magically into Florence Nightingales?

  Thank God that was what had actually happened — in a way, at least for the moment — with Mathilde. She had always left in her wake a bleating herd of love victims. And maybe, when push came to shove, that was all he was: one more notch in Mathilde’s gun. The mere thought plunged him back into the depths of loneliness and despair, into the horror that had plagued him all day long. Like a gust of wind, he caught a whiff of the terror, the violence, the objective reality of the next six months, during which his body, despite all his efforts to the contrary, his still powerful lust for life, and despite all the efforts of modern science, was going to slowly wither away. But once again the shadow of death receded into the distance, taking with it the overriding fear it had brought with it. Or maybe it was simply the comforting presence of Mathilde that made death seem less terrifying.

  Because the only way — or so it seemed to him — that you could face up to the idea of your death, of the dark pit, the “nothingness,” with a certain degree of equanimity was if you felt that you had been loved, that your loss would be truly felt, that you had been admired, that your death had left a gaping hole in the lives of others. That you were someone who had been admired, someone whose life had been meaningful, someone who had meant a great deal to others, who had touched their lives. But if he, Paul, had been no more than a number on some anonymous list, if he had been an unknown, a mere shadow who had never made a deep impression on anyone, who had never made anyone’s heart beat faster, if he was someone whose memory would never bring tears to the eyes of others, then that anonymity, already unbearable in life, would relegate him to a common grave wherein resided the ghosts of those who were the nobodies of this world, the insignificant ones, the “forgettables,” and that made death worse than unbearable: it became humiliating, the ultimate humiliation. . . . All day long his death had seemed to him unbearable not so much because he kept seeing himself as worthless or mediocre, but because the reflecting image revealed nothing in him that was tender or necessary. Yes, that was the word: necessary. With the notable exception of Mathilde, who after ten years’ separation had risen to the occasion, shown how attractive he still was in her eyes, and how much she had missed him, as she had also shown by her immediate, spontaneous reaction that she would stand by him through thick and thin, that in the few months he had left she would take care of him, love him, make him feel, no matter what, that he was still the “Lover” with a capital “L,” the bright and shining lover, the wild and crazy Paul, who had loved her passionately and whose love she had cherished until death would them part.

  It was as if all the hopes and dreams of Paul’s adolescent days, which had little by little been repressed, gagged, in any event ground down by the demands and compromises of life, had suddenly come alive again, crying out to be heard in the little time he had left. And for the overly sentimental, what had been bearable in life — that long series of emotional disappointments — had turned out to be their only real scream for help, lasting from cradle to grave.

  And speaking of screams, from all he’d heard you didn’t hear many cries of pain and anguish these days when you were hospitalized — which was all to the good — thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, or rather to the widespread use today of painkilling drugs. Could he prove that? Well, one sure sign was that you never heard any longer about those famous “last words,” the wise thoughts and precious fragments that people used to utter on their deathbeds, that people would duly note and pass on to future generations. The moribund were too drugged to talk anymore.

  “Won’t your Englishman be showing up sometime soon?” he said, less tentatively than he sounded, for he now felt certain where he stood with Mathilde.

  He saw a thin smile flit across her lips, and for the first time felt the full impact of her undeniable charm.

  “He spends Mondays and Tuesdays in London,” she said.

  “And will he let you take care of me? How do you think he’s going to feel about that?”

  “I’m fairly sure he won’t have a problem. I loved you deeply enough, and vice versa — we were both enough in love — for me not to abandon you now,” she said, running her fingers through his hair as if time had suddenly contracted, a caress of total confidence, which he found all the more affecting because she was in the driver’s seat; he had placed himself entirely in her hands, not to mention that he was, in addition to everything else, the intruder in her life.

  Man oh man, what a stroke of luck to have found Mathilde again! He who was so worried that he would never lay eyes on her again, or in the unlikely event he did, that she would refuse to see him, or if she did see him, would reject him out of hand. Her reaction — her immediate display of love and affection — was more than he
could have hoped for. The thought brought a fresh rush of tears to his eyes, despite all his efforts to hold them back. But without a word Mathilde simply took the sleeve of her dressing gown and wiped them away, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be drying the tears of a forty-year-old man, a macho man, a rugged, athletic loverboy who in six months would be dead.

  The sofa on which they were sitting was too short to hold them comfortably, and for all this time he had had his legs tucked up under him, with his head on her shoulder, with the result that, because of the awkward position, he had developed cramps that, little by little, had transformed themselves into another, very specific reaction in another part of his anatomy.

  And as if on cue, they both got to their feet and, speaking of Michelangelo, repaired to Mathilde’s bedroom.

  He couldn’t remember whether he followed or preceded her into the bedroom, where, near the baseboard, an amber night-light was glowing, exactly as it had ten years before in their other apartment. He undressed quickly, as he had always done in their past life, in today’s bathroom, which was more tastefully furnished than “theirs” had been, but also smaller. There were scads and scads of beauty lotions, and sponges of all shapes and sizes; and an endless number of framed illustrations lined the walls. He also noted several striped bathrobes, which he sized up as unisex. He took a quick shower, then banged himself as he emerged from the shower, which like the bathroom itself was much less spacious than their shower had been in the old apartment on the rue Bellechasse.

  In fact, this whole apartment was considerably smaller than “theirs” had been. No less charming, but more confining. He looked for a male dressing gown on her shelves, where, he recalled, she used to keep them, and found none. The one hanging on the wall was clearly hers, he surmised, since he noticed a spot of her makeup on the inside collar. Which meant that her Englishman brought his own dressing gown when he came calling. Which therefore meant Mathilde was telling him the truth when she said there were no other men in her life but the Brit. Since she was endowed with a rare combination of thoughtfulness on the one hand and cynicism on the other, he knew she would have had an extra male dressing gown — and probably a new toothbrush — somewhere on the premises for the potential unexpected overnight guest. When the Englishman had arrived in her life he had doubtless eliminated those niceties exactly as Paul had done ten years before. At the height of their affair, when they literally couldn’t keep their hands off each other, the very notion of another person in either of their lives was unthinkable. That had lasted a year: a blessed year, the memory of which came flooding back to him now as he felt her warm and tender lips caressing his forehead, as he remembered her dressing-gown collar, slightly stained, as, in all likelihood, her life was; stained as his life too had been throughout the day, as he had carried with him the gnawing, growing thought of death, as he sought in vain for someone, anyone, who would rise up and curse God, rail against the medical profession, and who, whether they resorted to tea leaves or tarot cards or some quack they had heard of or read about, would say a resounding “no” to his death. No one had cried out in protest against his death; but then, hadn’t he been the first to accept it, to announce it as if it were an accomplished fact? Who would dare, who (besides that bastard Gaubert) would even say, or pretend, that it couldn’t be true?