Dominique Fabre - Guys Like Me

HIS EYES WERE BLUE, FROM WHERE I WAS. HE LOOKED tired. He looked as if hed been waiting there for a long time, although that was impossible. Neither of us could have known in advance which way wed be going that day. Im a mature man, Im fifty-four, but in some respects Ill never be mature enough. For example, the way I sometimes get scared when I meet someone. Mostly you just run into people, and it doesnt lead to anything. Actually, our lives are full of things that lead to other things, and its hard to believe that in this case it hadnt led to anything in all those years. But he looked familiar, from where I was. From where I was, it might still have been possible, somehow, to turn around and walk away, even though obviously I would never have turned around and walked away of my own accord. But a car might have started, in which case Id have had to get out of the way, or I might have looked the other way and not seen his reflection in a shop window. Id have reacted by saying to myself what does that guy want with me? And Id probably have ignored him, Id probably have forgotten him. His face looked drawn, but his hair wasnt gray. Ive almost lost my hair. Sometimes I run my hand through it, and theres nothing there. My ex-wife used to laugh when I did that, and I dont think I took it well. I dont like taking a wrong turn, but itd be right to say that when we met again wed both taken a wrong turn. Maybe our lives, too: lots of wrong turns placed end to end, you can never reconstruct the whole journey.

His clothes were almost as all-purpose as mine. Hed been wearing them longer than I had. His shoes were polished, in spite of the wear and tear. At that moment, hed already resumed his place in my life, and I in his. But had we ever really been friends? He was carrying a computer case, and of course I could never have imagined how important it was in his life. It was a long time since hed last had his own things, in his life, and he kept all those papers in his case, in an ashamed kind of way. He was pretending too. Hed always pretended, I told myself later, remembering things from long ago. But I wasnt so sure of that in the days that followed. His eyes were blue, and he was carrying that fake case. By the time we were pushing thirty, his good times were already behind him, as far as I knew. Hed already had a beautiful wife, a beautiful apartment, and wed stopped seeing each other except from time to time, although I often felt like calling him. I didnt know why he was where he was. He didnt tell me, he was long past explaining things. Try to find out what happened, and you never get the answers you want. Try to figure out how the earth turns, how people live and die, notice the changes on the streets, and theres too much missing, when you get down to it. How are you doing? Neither of us said things like that, things like, how many years has it been? What have you been doing with yourself all this time? He didnt have time for things like that, with his case in his hand. All he said was hey, I thought it was you.

Me too. It is Jean, isnt it?

Yes, dont you recognize me?

Yes, yes, of course I do.

We shook hands, didnt say any more, just carried on walking together. We were in the area near the station, where I almost never go, not since I moved. But for no particular reason, I sometimes make a detour and go back there, stay an hour, without talking to anyone.

He didnt live in the neighborhood anymore either. There was a time when he hadnt lived anywhere in particular, to be honest. A day here, three nights there, even sometimes in hotels that didnt have names, only street numbers, surrounded by recent Eastern European immigrants and the customary Arab, he was a bit old for that. We walked back up the street, without meaning to we found ourselves going in the same direction, the two of us. We sat down in a caf on Rue dAmsterdam, pretty much halfway along the street. A place where for a long time now, maybe forever, people have been crossing diagonally to gain a few seconds, on this side of the street, on the way toward one of the side entrances to the train station, near the big post office. It was because of his case that I realized. How could a guy like that get to this point? Im not the only one to ask myself that question, not that he talked much about it. His hands also seemed as if they came from another time. Its crazy, but thats how it is. We were at the back of the caf, where it was dimly lit. Above the bar were posters advertising special offers, the weeks happy-hour cocktails. That kind of thing shows me Im from another time really. Ill never be able to manage. Every time that idea comes into my head, I get scared, I dont know what to do to get rid of that feeling. Although sometimes, I like it. They didnt have happy hours in the bars we used to go to together in the old days. There was a time when I often went to England for my work, and there too, I noticed it, time must have passed everywhere, often in the same way. In the light of the booth, his face looked drawn. He was carrying a shadow with him, along with all the rest, the lines, the deep marks left by our lives. Which of us was the first to ask what the other wanted to drink? I cant remember. Id really like to remember everything, I might be able to trace the crack hed slipped through, the crack through which he left again, even if I couldnt help him. I like helping people, though, in life. Im not a good Samaritan, or a bad one, its the way I was born, period. How can I explain it?

He didnt talk at first. He looked as if he needed rest. He also seemed to be contemplating something, a kind of map of his life, a whole bunch of forks in the road, our encounter being one path, or a kind of crossroads. I dont know how to talk about these things. We dont like to say these things. But we see them in the faces of the people we meet. The fact is, nothing about these things changes with time. For years, theyve been giving tents to poor people so that they dont die of cold during the night. But we werent in winter anymore, so why did I think of that when I saw him? He was clasping his case to his chest, sitting on the imitation leather banquette. Hed insisted on my taking the banquette, as if that was still one of the generous gifts he could afford. But I played a stupid game with him, without even being aware of it, and said I had to go take a leak. He nodded slowly, with a big, cracked smile, and finally took his place on the banquette. When I came back upstairs, I saw him sitting there with his case clasped tightly to his chest. A steel cannabis leaf in the colors of the Jamaican flag was hanging from the zipper, and later I saw a whole bunch of guys like him and me with cannabis leaves in the colors of the Jamaican flag, but not all of them were down on their luck. I sometimes feel like telling jokes, like with him. He was waiting for me to say something, as if he really wanted me to take responsibility for the stupidity of this reunion.

Let me look at you.

I said that, or maybe I didnt, but from that first time, I could never look at him enough, a bit like when youre in love, and youd like to have a womans face and body permanently in front of your eyes, so as not to offend them. Of course I thought hed changed a lot. Maybe we both simultaneously recalled dates and events, memories we could have shared. He didnt open up in that caf, didnt relax his smile. But I recognized him when he jutted out his lower lip and blew upwards. That was something he always used to do when we were teenagers. Maybe that stupid gesture was something he thought was seductive, the way other people use their smiles.