laughter. In short, they've having fun. Now's the time to score, right here and now, in this place that lends itself so perfectly.
He raises his eyes from his drink and, from behind his glasses, fixes his gaze on me. And I remark that he's run out of steam. He can't go on, he has no more appetite for the fray, he's had it up to here. He looks at me, his face trembles a little. Doubtless it's the alcohol, he drank too much wine at dinner, the jerk. I wonder if he isn't going to break into sobs, recount the stations of his particular cross to me; I feel him capable of something of the sort; the lenses of his glasses are slightly fogged with tears.
It's not a problem, I can handle it, listen to the lot, carry him back to the hotel if I have to; but I'm sure that come tomorrow morning he'll be pissed off with me.
I remain silent; I wait without saying anything; I find no judicious words to utter. The uncertainty persists for a minute or so, then the crisis passes. In a strangely feeble, almost trembling voice he says to me: `We'd best go back. Have to begin first thing in the morning.'
Right, back it is. We'll finish our drinks and back it is. I light a last cigarette, look at Tisserand once more. He really is totally haggard. Wordlessly he lets me pay the bill, wordlessly he follows me as I make for the door. He's stooped, huddled; he's ashamed of himself, hates himself, wishes he were dead.
We walk in the direction of the hotel. In the street it's starting to rain. So there it is, our first day in Rouen over. And I know that on this evidence the days ahead will be absolutely identical.
2
Every Day's a New Day
Witnessed the death of a guy, today, in the Nouvelles Galeries. A very simple death, à la Patricia Highsmith (what I mean is, with that simplicity and brutality characteristic of real life which is also found in the novels of Patricia Highsmith).
Here's how it happened. On entering the part of the store that's arranged as a selfservice I observed a man whose face I couldn't see stretched out on the floor (but I subsequently learnt, while listening in on a conversation between the checkout girls, that he must have been about forty). A lot of people were already fussing over him. I went by trying not to linger too long, so as not to show morbid curiosity. It was around six o'clock.
I bought one or two things: cheese and sliced bread to eat in my hotel room (I'd decided to avoid Tisserand's company that particular evening, to relax a bit). But I hesitated a while over the very varied bottles of wine offered tip to the covetousness of the public. The problem was I didn't have a corkscrew. And anyway, I don't like wine; this last argument clinched it and I opted for a six-pack of Tuborg.
On arriving at the checkout I learnt from a conversation between the checkout girls and a couple who'd assisted in the life-saving operation, at least in its final phase, that the man was dead. The female partner in the couple was a nurse. She was saying that he should have been given heart massage, that maybe this would have saved him. I don't know, I know nothing about it, but if that was the case then why didn't she do it? I find it hard to comprehend this kind of attitude.
In any event, the conclusion I draw from it all is that in certain circumstances you can so easily depart this life - or not, as the case may be.
It can't be said that this had been a very dignified death, what with all the people passing by pushing their trolleys (it was the busiest time of the day), in that circus atmosphere which always characterizes supermarkets. I remember there was even the Nouvelles Galeries advertising jingle (perhaps they've changed it since); the refrain, in particular, consisted of the following words: Nouvelles Galeries, todayeee .
. . Every day's a new day . . .
When I came out the man was still there. The body had been wrapped in some carpets, or more likely thick blankets, tied up very tight with string. It was
He raises his eyes from his drink and, from behind his glasses, fixes his gaze on me. And I remark that he's run out of steam. He can't go on, he has no more appetite for the fray, he's had it up to here. He looks at me, his face trembles a little. Doubtless it's the alcohol, he drank too much wine at dinner, the jerk. I wonder if he isn't going to break into sobs, recount the stations of his particular cross to me; I feel him capable of something of the sort; the lenses of his glasses are slightly fogged with tears.
It's not a problem, I can handle it, listen to the lot, carry him back to the hotel if I have to; but I'm sure that come tomorrow morning he'll be pissed off with me.
I remain silent; I wait without saying anything; I find no judicious words to utter. The uncertainty persists for a minute or so, then the crisis passes. In a strangely feeble, almost trembling voice he says to me: `We'd best go back. Have to begin first thing in the morning.'
Right, back it is. We'll finish our drinks and back it is. I light a last cigarette, look at Tisserand once more. He really is totally haggard. Wordlessly he lets me pay the bill, wordlessly he follows me as I make for the door. He's stooped, huddled; he's ashamed of himself, hates himself, wishes he were dead.
We walk in the direction of the hotel. In the street it's starting to rain. So there it is, our first day in Rouen over. And I know that on this evidence the days ahead will be absolutely identical.
2
Every Day's a New Day
Witnessed the death of a guy, today, in the Nouvelles Galeries. A very simple death, à la Patricia Highsmith (what I mean is, with that simplicity and brutality characteristic of real life which is also found in the novels of Patricia Highsmith).
Here's how it happened. On entering the part of the store that's arranged as a selfservice I observed a man whose face I couldn't see stretched out on the floor (but I subsequently learnt, while listening in on a conversation between the checkout girls, that he must have been about forty). A lot of people were already fussing over him. I went by trying not to linger too long, so as not to show morbid curiosity. It was around six o'clock.
I bought one or two things: cheese and sliced bread to eat in my hotel room (I'd decided to avoid Tisserand's company that particular evening, to relax a bit). But I hesitated a while over the very varied bottles of wine offered tip to the covetousness of the public. The problem was I didn't have a corkscrew. And anyway, I don't like wine; this last argument clinched it and I opted for a six-pack of Tuborg.
On arriving at the checkout I learnt from a conversation between the checkout girls and a couple who'd assisted in the life-saving operation, at least in its final phase, that the man was dead. The female partner in the couple was a nurse. She was saying that he should have been given heart massage, that maybe this would have saved him. I don't know, I know nothing about it, but if that was the case then why didn't she do it? I find it hard to comprehend this kind of attitude.
In any event, the conclusion I draw from it all is that in certain circumstances you can so easily depart this life - or not, as the case may be.
It can't be said that this had been a very dignified death, what with all the people passing by pushing their trolleys (it was the busiest time of the day), in that circus atmosphere which always characterizes supermarkets. I remember there was even the Nouvelles Galeries advertising jingle (perhaps they've changed it since); the refrain, in particular, consisted of the following words: Nouvelles Galeries, todayeee .
. . Every day's a new day . . .
When I came out the man was still there. The body had been wrapped in some carpets, or more likely thick blankets, tied up very tight with string. It was
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