The 6:41 to Paris

~ ~ ~

At least now it’s done.

I expect it’s something Mathieu would have done, too. That’s how he must be feeling these days, wishing he could ease his conscience. Put an end to all the failures, tie up all the loose ends. When you’re at death’s door, you won’t be in the mood for Impressionists. Vermeer would be more like it. A View of Delft, say. Or any seventeenth century Dutch interior. Or why not Bacon’s screaming popes or decomposing bodies, while you’re at it.

I don’t know how he’s doing.

Yesterday on the phone he was totally delirious. Half in tears over a red bicycle he used to have when he was nine years old, and half elated because he’s convinced that he’ll be going home soon. I’m glad his mother is not altogether lucid anymore. I couldn’t stand seeing any of my children die before me.

I got hold of the head nurse on the phone. She knows me. She knows I’m a substitute family. I’m everything at once: parents, brother, son, friend. Even though Mathieu and I stopped seeing each other for almost twenty years. It’s pathetic. She told me they’d increased the dose of morphine, and that his delirium might be a consequence of the injections, unless the metastasis has already reached his brain. They would have to check, with a scan. There was a moment of silence. She murmured, “If it comes to that.” I understood that I had to get there as fast as I could.

So here I am.

Whatever Cécile Duffaut might think, I’m very loyal. It’s probably my best quality: for anyone I get attached to, or who gets attached to me, I’m like a dog. It’s not a very sexy trait, I’ll grant you that. It’s not the sort of thing you can let slip in conversation, when you meet someone. “You know, I’m very loyal”: you might as well tell them that you collect ceramic owls or that you spend your Sunday afternoons in front of the TV.

Cécile Duffaut doesn’t give a damn. She doesn’t give a damn about what I just told her.

At the same time, I can hardly say I blame her. It was twenty-seven years ago. A whole lifetime has gone by since then. There’s no point talking about it anymore. Or apologizing.

Thank God the trip will be over soon.