supermodel on his arm, and the cryptic caption underneath: “Could that little bulge at the waist be the sign of an future joyful event?”
It never happened.
First of all because his love affairs never lasted very long. But above all because he never became famous. For a long time he was a familiar face, but in thebackground. His career would have been completely lackluster had it not been for Today’s Lucky Winners. Today’s Lucky Winners was really a stroke of luck for him. He was well acquainted with the producer of the program, who was looking for an experienced host not too well-known to the general public. They did some screen tests. Bingo. There he was in one of the most popular programs on Frenchtelevision: a pathetic game show, perfect for filling the lonely hours of the unemployed or housewivesunder fifty, while they wait for the one o’clock news. His sense of humor, his handsome face, his easy way with people: in a few weeks, he walked off with the jackpot. Money was no longer a problem. It was 2004; he was forty years old. His future was all sewn up.
It was around then that Christineand I got divorced. It was also around then that I stopped buying the TV Guide. I couldn’t stand seeing pictures of Mathieu anymore. I was only too aware of how our paths in life were heading in different directions. We had met at a time when he was merely a rough draft of the person he would later become, while I was at my zenith. He would keep on rising, whereas I had begun to sink gradually.Every time I caught his face in a magazine, those were my thoughts. About failure. About destiny slipping out of your grasp.
I’m better now.
And I’m on my way to visit Mathieu today.
Gulp.
I’m not proud of myself.
And I know why.
He’s the one who got back in touch. I would never have dared. Not because I would have been afraid of disturbing him. But because I was afraid of being humiliated:What if he could hardly remember my name?
I ran into his mother, just after my divorce. She was shopping at the store. She wanted to buy a new television.She had just lost her husband—I hadn’t heard about it. We spoke for a long time. She invited me over for the following Sunday, a Sunday when I didn’t have the kids. She’d bake a cake. When I left the store that evening, I felt like crying—asmuch over her solitude as over the way my life was going. I was going to be filling in for my erstwhile best friend. He had dreamed of being in my place; now I was taking his. I was stepping into the shoes of the man he might have been, the lonely man who visits his mother for Sunday tea.
One day, Mathieu found out. I thought it would make him angry. It was worse than that. He felt pity. Andit’s true, basically, that pity was all I deserved—a fortysomething guy taking refuge at the home of his childhood friend’s mother, talking about life, how lame can you get. But I liked going to Maud’s place. Peeling vegetables with her. Doing the sort of daily activities I had never done with my parents. What I liked was that Maud wasn’t judgmental. Even less so nowadays that she’s been diagnosedwith Alzheimer’s. I look back on those days and really miss them, almost more than any other time in my life. My dinners at Maud’s. My Sundays spent preparing tasty dishes while exchanging thoughts about life, neighbors, children. I miss her.
Mathieu and I started calling each other because of her. I had just found her in the parking lot of the store, distraught and completely disoriented. Icalled the doctor. Then her son. I remember Mathieu’s voice on the telephone. And the voice he had as an adolescent. Nothing remotely like the grave, confident timbre he’d created for his TV movies. Nor like the exaggeratedlycheerful self he’d adopted for Today’s Lucky Winners. Truth be told, he wasn’t very lucky that day. He had to rely on me. To ask me a favor. Maybe the first of many. He wasbeholden to me.
That’s how we became friends once
It never happened.
First of all because his love affairs never lasted very long. But above all because he never became famous. For a long time he was a familiar face, but in thebackground. His career would have been completely lackluster had it not been for Today’s Lucky Winners. Today’s Lucky Winners was really a stroke of luck for him. He was well acquainted with the producer of the program, who was looking for an experienced host not too well-known to the general public. They did some screen tests. Bingo. There he was in one of the most popular programs on Frenchtelevision: a pathetic game show, perfect for filling the lonely hours of the unemployed or housewivesunder fifty, while they wait for the one o’clock news. His sense of humor, his handsome face, his easy way with people: in a few weeks, he walked off with the jackpot. Money was no longer a problem. It was 2004; he was forty years old. His future was all sewn up.
It was around then that Christineand I got divorced. It was also around then that I stopped buying the TV Guide. I couldn’t stand seeing pictures of Mathieu anymore. I was only too aware of how our paths in life were heading in different directions. We had met at a time when he was merely a rough draft of the person he would later become, while I was at my zenith. He would keep on rising, whereas I had begun to sink gradually.Every time I caught his face in a magazine, those were my thoughts. About failure. About destiny slipping out of your grasp.
I’m better now.
And I’m on my way to visit Mathieu today.
Gulp.
I’m not proud of myself.
And I know why.
He’s the one who got back in touch. I would never have dared. Not because I would have been afraid of disturbing him. But because I was afraid of being humiliated:What if he could hardly remember my name?
I ran into his mother, just after my divorce. She was shopping at the store. She wanted to buy a new television.She had just lost her husband—I hadn’t heard about it. We spoke for a long time. She invited me over for the following Sunday, a Sunday when I didn’t have the kids. She’d bake a cake. When I left the store that evening, I felt like crying—asmuch over her solitude as over the way my life was going. I was going to be filling in for my erstwhile best friend. He had dreamed of being in my place; now I was taking his. I was stepping into the shoes of the man he might have been, the lonely man who visits his mother for Sunday tea.
One day, Mathieu found out. I thought it would make him angry. It was worse than that. He felt pity. Andit’s true, basically, that pity was all I deserved—a fortysomething guy taking refuge at the home of his childhood friend’s mother, talking about life, how lame can you get. But I liked going to Maud’s place. Peeling vegetables with her. Doing the sort of daily activities I had never done with my parents. What I liked was that Maud wasn’t judgmental. Even less so nowadays that she’s been diagnosedwith Alzheimer’s. I look back on those days and really miss them, almost more than any other time in my life. My dinners at Maud’s. My Sundays spent preparing tasty dishes while exchanging thoughts about life, neighbors, children. I miss her.
Mathieu and I started calling each other because of her. I had just found her in the parking lot of the store, distraught and completely disoriented. Icalled the doctor. Then her son. I remember Mathieu’s voice on the telephone. And the voice he had as an adolescent. Nothing remotely like the grave, confident timbre he’d created for his TV movies. Nor like the exaggeratedlycheerful self he’d adopted for Today’s Lucky Winners. Truth be told, he wasn’t very lucky that day. He had to rely on me. To ask me a favor. Maybe the first of many. He wasbeholden to me.
That’s how we became friends once
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