The Intervention of a Good Man

1

In which our hero becomes the victim of logistics.

A number of depressing possibilities.

We should always beware an overprepared journey, says no proverb at all. Our hero has thought of everything, except for the three-hour delay before takeoff. He has to change flights and his arrival is now scheduled for early evening. Unhappy at the airport, happy in love?

He warns the heroine he will be late, by text, then with a call (he too frequently adopts this “belt and suspenders” approach with her). He has learned that indifference and distance, even feigned, are weapons. But our hero is not a man of weapons, not calculating. On the telephone, she shows little evidence of disappointment at this hitch, and immediately proposes meeting the following day rather than that evening, however late. A subtle pause on the other end of the line does commit her to suggesting he call as soon as he lands, and to see where they stand then. He agrees. It is a short call. She does not want the conversation to go on, he has no wish to insist, or rather to appear insistent.

He hangs up. The rather false smile he forced on himself falls from his lips. He had constructed a perfectly lighthearted expression, and here he is now plunged straight back into gloom. It is nearly a week since he called her — and it is almost always he who calls her. She had asked for some time to herself, he granted it. There was her voice again, lilting and distant, its very distinctive articulation suggesting constant impatience. For a long time he could not bring himself to erase a banal message from his answering machine simply because in it, and this was too rare an event for his liking, she let slip a note of tenderness. He wishes he could listen to it again right now.

I shouldn’t go, our hero keeps thinking. Seeing me again isn’t at all important to her, it even seems a nuisance. And that is yet more proof she doesn’t care.

But, although all his logic dictates this conclusion, he would still rather cling to less regrettable interpretations: she might not have told her mother, she doesn’t want to be bicycling late into the evening, in the pitch dark, plenty of explanations that do little to satisfy him. He finds himself ridiculous and now views himself with a degree of contempt, which, in his eyes, might eventually justify the disdain felt for him. He must pull himself together. Have strength, for goodness’ sake! If he’s seeing her tomorrow, what does it matter! What will he gain by insisting on seeing her this evening, if it’s to be for a few minutes in the rain, in a rental car? The mounting absurdity of the situation is not lost on him.

Our hero goes back to his cell phone. He calls his children. No need perhaps to point out he has two: a girl of twelve, a boy of ten, utterly adorable. He has just spent three weeks of July with them, beside the sea. The day before — as is the rule — they left to vacation with their mother for the whole of August. He is not ashamed of needing the sparkle in their laughter, needing the color in their voices. Hearing them, he knows, will for a few sweet moments bring him back to the happiness of uncomplicated love, to his second life, the radiant, fatherly one. At the other end someone picks up, and the magic works. All enthusiasm, the boy talks about soccer (PSG beat Lens 2–1, epic); all exuberance, the girl describes the small swimming pool their grandparents have just had made (there’s a porthole to light it up at night, awesome). They talk about everything and nothing, his eyes are full of laughter, everything is better, everything is fine.

He hangs up and goes to find out about the refreshments generously offered by the airline. An autumnal chill is gradually pervading this airport with its military and presidential name, where no one, except for him, seems to be growing impatient. The passengers at Gate 26 are leaving for Tel Aviv, those at Gate 23 for Algiers, and those at Gate 22 for Reykjavík.

The staff of the British airline has opted for invisibility, when the scheduled takeoff time is already long gone. Will he leave before nightfall? He slips on the cotton cardigan he brought to tackle the cool Celtic evenings. The cream of his knitwear clashes with the faded burgundy of the seats in the waiting area.