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Authors: David Foenkinos
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just caught him out, ‘Can I come sleep at yours?’ Well, sleep – he doubted he’d be able to, but sleeping in a hotel, with what just happened to him, did not appeal. Hector found the necessary energy to simultaneously deploy compassion, fraternal tenderness, and the offer of a sofa bed as soft as it was modern. Ernest felt good in this new bed (and if the Chinese woman came back …) before dignity pulled his mind back to his misfortune.
Ernest had always been sturdy. Adept in the complexities of life, there he was transforming into a Sunday wreck. And it was the worst possible Sunday, the one when they take an hour away. He was catching up on all the years when he had not mourned himself. The poor man was digging himself into a tunnel … And his daughter! Little Lucie, my God, he would never see her again! He would not even be there when she would come home early in the morning with the red eyes of an inert and depraved teenager. There it was, everything was finished. You should always look at the nails of the woman that you sleep with. What an imbecile! He would only have his work left. He would dive in tomorrow to drown under the files. With regard to his divorce, the saying was already known: cobblers often have the worst shoes. It was the same in this case; lawyers plead their own cases terribly. They often marry among themselves to cancel out this effect. Ernest would ask Berthier to take care of him. He was a fine man this Berthier. Moreover, as a hardened bachelor (Berthier had reached the degree of celibacy where the existence of women is forgotten), he would do everything to speed things up. Between men who were going to be bored stiff in their lives, you needed to help each other. No really, this Berthier would be perfect. He even would have deserved a mention earlier in the story.
Hector was very disturbed by his brother’s rough patch, and even more so because of a peculiarity. Ernest, until now the quasi-Olympic champion of happiness, was sinking at the precise moment when Hector was finally seeing life through rose-tinted spectacles. His parents had not wanted two sons at the same time; in other words, they could not both be simultaneously at the same place in their lives. It was almost as though the wheel had turned and that Ernest was going to live, to Hector’s great pleasure, a life of depression. Their life as brothers was schizophrenic.
This suggestion of the wheel that turns between the brothers did seem rather absurd, because Hector was not on his best form. Ungrateful periods always lurk behind the joys. This could well seem ridiculous, especially in this context (such a beautiful Brigitte, a company in full expansion, a child on the cards for later), but Hector did in fact seem feverish. He was going around in circles since that morning, and felt incapable of escaping these circles. Brigitte, in a light dress that every summer deserves, had just left the apartment. Hector did not really look like much. He did not even harbour the beard of the tired man; his hairs, hardly masterful, resembled employees on a Monday morning. Even an oyster would have been bored in his company.
A little later, we find him sitting in his armchair again. Atrocious thoughts are circling his mind. Facing the window washed the previous Saturday, or was it a more distant Saturday (the memory occurred so often he’d forgotten when it originally happened and how long it’d been since he’d ‘never felt so happy’), he remained silent. Evanescence captured, sensuality caught, he could have died that day. As Thomas Mann wrote: ‘He who has contemplated Beauty is already predestined to die.’ Brigitte’s window washing was a bit like Hector’s very own
Death in Venice
. But Hector did not know who Thomas Mann was, so he could survive. Lack of culture saves many lives. Oh, that Saturday afternoon! Mythic moment where time, with respect for such beauty, should have stopped! Hector, facing the window, always and
Ernest had always been sturdy. Adept in the complexities of life, there he was transforming into a Sunday wreck. And it was the worst possible Sunday, the one when they take an hour away. He was catching up on all the years when he had not mourned himself. The poor man was digging himself into a tunnel … And his daughter! Little Lucie, my God, he would never see her again! He would not even be there when she would come home early in the morning with the red eyes of an inert and depraved teenager. There it was, everything was finished. You should always look at the nails of the woman that you sleep with. What an imbecile! He would only have his work left. He would dive in tomorrow to drown under the files. With regard to his divorce, the saying was already known: cobblers often have the worst shoes. It was the same in this case; lawyers plead their own cases terribly. They often marry among themselves to cancel out this effect. Ernest would ask Berthier to take care of him. He was a fine man this Berthier. Moreover, as a hardened bachelor (Berthier had reached the degree of celibacy where the existence of women is forgotten), he would do everything to speed things up. Between men who were going to be bored stiff in their lives, you needed to help each other. No really, this Berthier would be perfect. He even would have deserved a mention earlier in the story.
Hector was very disturbed by his brother’s rough patch, and even more so because of a peculiarity. Ernest, until now the quasi-Olympic champion of happiness, was sinking at the precise moment when Hector was finally seeing life through rose-tinted spectacles. His parents had not wanted two sons at the same time; in other words, they could not both be simultaneously at the same place in their lives. It was almost as though the wheel had turned and that Ernest was going to live, to Hector’s great pleasure, a life of depression. Their life as brothers was schizophrenic.
This suggestion of the wheel that turns between the brothers did seem rather absurd, because Hector was not on his best form. Ungrateful periods always lurk behind the joys. This could well seem ridiculous, especially in this context (such a beautiful Brigitte, a company in full expansion, a child on the cards for later), but Hector did in fact seem feverish. He was going around in circles since that morning, and felt incapable of escaping these circles. Brigitte, in a light dress that every summer deserves, had just left the apartment. Hector did not really look like much. He did not even harbour the beard of the tired man; his hairs, hardly masterful, resembled employees on a Monday morning. Even an oyster would have been bored in his company.
A little later, we find him sitting in his armchair again. Atrocious thoughts are circling his mind. Facing the window washed the previous Saturday, or was it a more distant Saturday (the memory occurred so often he’d forgotten when it originally happened and how long it’d been since he’d ‘never felt so happy’), he remained silent. Evanescence captured, sensuality caught, he could have died that day. As Thomas Mann wrote: ‘He who has contemplated Beauty is already predestined to die.’ Brigitte’s window washing was a bit like Hector’s very own
Death in Venice
. But Hector did not know who Thomas Mann was, so he could survive. Lack of culture saves many lives. Oh, that Saturday afternoon! Mythic moment where time, with respect for such beauty, should have stopped! Hector, facing the window, always and
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