The next day I was a new man. It started when I stretched out in bed. Getting up, I realized that I was in good shape. I looked at the apartment in a good mood, smiling. I sat down in the kitchen to drink my coffee, something I hadn’t done in a dog’s age-usually I just drank it standing up or leaning on the sink. I opened the windows. I felt so good that I ran out to buy croissants. It was a lovely day.
To get out a bit, I went to eat in town. The cafeteria was jammed to the ceiling, the waitresses already had sweat circles under their arms. We’d had that job, Betty and I. I knew what it was all about. I sat down at a little table with my chicken, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. I watched the people. Life was like a bubbling torrent. I’d say that this was the image I kept of Betty-a bubbling torrent-and to that I’d add luminous. If I had my choice, I’d wish she were still alive, that’s understood-but I have to admit that, to me, she wasn’t too far from it. You can’t be too picky, after all. I stood up, thinking that sitting down should be left to those who really suffer.
I went for a walk. On my way back, I ran into a pretty girl looking in the store window. She was blocking the reflections with her hands, blond hairs glimmering beneath her arms. I put the key in the lock. She straightened up.
“Oh, I thought it was closed,” she said.
“No, why would it be closed? It’s just that I never pay attention to time.”
She looked at me and laughed. I felt silly. I’d forgotten that-what that’s like.
“That must get you in trouble,” she joked.
“Yeah, but I’m going to fix it. I made some New Year’s resolutions. You want to see something…?”
“Well, I don’t have much time now, but I’ll come back…”
“Whenever you like. I’m here every day of the week.”
It goes without saying that I never saw the girl again-it was just to show how bright things looked to me. That was the day I plugged the telephone back in; the day I shoved my face into a pile of her T-shirts, smiling; the day I finally looked at a box of Kleenex without trembling. It was that day that I learned that you never stop learning-that the stairway goes on forever. What did you think? I asked myself, while slicing a melon before bed. I thought I heard laughter behind my back, coming from the direction of the melon seeds.
My book came out about a month after Betty’s death. My associate was a fast worker, to say the least. He was still a small publisher. I must have come along when he had little else to do. One morning I found myself with a book on my lap. I turned it over in my hands. I opened it. I sniffed the paper. I slapped myself on the thigh.
“Oh, baby, look what’s finally happened,” I whispered.
Bob decided to celebrate. We took a little trip. Grandma watched the kids. Bob and Annie brought me home early in the morning. We couldn’t tell if you were laughing or crying, they told me later. How should I know, I answered. It’s not always easy to know if you’re attending a funeral or a birth. Writers’ brains are no more atrophied than anyone else’s. Despite what I’ve become, I’m still in the same boat as everyone else-I have more than my share of things I don’t understand. There must be a Saint Christopher for writers who are a little soft in the head.
Some guy from a small regional newspaper wrote that I was a genius. My publisher sent me the article. I’m not sending you the others, he said-they’re bad. Applause in one corner, boos and hisses in the other. Still, the summer went by calmly, and I found my pace once again. I got along fine. The store was open. I installed a bell on the second floor that rang when someone opened the door downstairs. It didn’t happen too often. I gave up the idea of moving, though I’d thought it over more than once. Maybe later I wouldn’t be against it, once my book was finished. For the time being, though, I wanted to stay put. The light in the house during the day was great-giant splashes of brightness and shadows; who could ask for anything more? The atmosphere was enough to make you drool. The Rolls-Royce of atmospheres for a writer.
Toward evening, I’d take walks, and if the spirit moved me, I’d go sit at a sidewalk café and watch the eyes go by in the twilight. It got me out of the house. I listened to the people talking among themselves. I sipped my drink slowly, swallowing the last drop fifty times before I decided to head home. There was nothing to rush for, and nothing to hold me.
Once I’d plugged the telephone back in, Eddie called me regularly.
“Jesus Christ, we’re up to our ears in work just now. Can’t come down…”
He said this every time. Then Lisa would take the phone and tell me she missed me.
“I miss you,” she would say.
“Yeah, Lisa, same here.”
“Keep taking good care of her,” she’d add. “Don’t ever forget her…”
“No, don’t worry.”
Then she’d hand Eddie back over.
“Hi, it’s me. Listen, you know that if anything happens we’ll be there in a hurry… you know that… you’re not alone, you know…”
“Of course I know that.”
“Maybe in two weeks or so we can come down…”
“Great. Love to see you.”
“Anyway, in the meantime take care…”
“Right, man. You too.”
“Right… Lisa is motioning to me to say she misses you…”
“Tell her same here.”
“You’ll let me know if anything… you sure you’re all right…?”
“Yes, the worst is over.”
“Right, well, we think of you often. Anyway, I’ll call again soon.”
“Fine, Eddie, I’ll be waiting…”
It was the kind of phone call that made me melancholy. It was like getting a postcard from the other end of the world that says I LOVE YOU, if you get my drift. If there was something not too horrible on TV, I’d just plop myself down in front of it, with a box of candy on my lap. Going to bed would be a little tougher. Don’t forget her, she’d said… Are you sure everything’s all right, he’d asked… The worst is over, I’d answered. This is how a large bed becomes a bed for two again, and I would lie down on it like it was a bed of coals. Later, people would ask me how I managed during this period-what I did for sex. But I just told them, Nice of you to ask, don’t worry about it-why should I bore you with my troubles? Isn’t there something else you’d like to talk about? People always want to know how famous people live, otherwise they don’t sleep well at night-it’s nuts.
All this to say that I began to live normally again-Life, the standard modeclass="underline" highs and lows, part of me believing in Heaven and part of me not. I wrote, I paid my bills, I changed the sheets once a week, I killed time, I took walks, I had drinks with Bob, I stole peeks at Annie’s thing, I kept track of sales, I changed the oil in the car regularly, I didn’t write back to my fans, or to the others; and I used my more peaceful moments to think of her. It isn’t rare that I still find her in my arms. Under such conditions, I never expected anything to happen to me. Especially nothing like what happened. But you should never assume that you’ve made your last trip to the checkout counter. There will always be something you haven’t paid for yet.
It was a day like any other, except that I’d gone to the trouble of making myself a nice pot of chili. I’d gotten up out of my chair several times during the afternoon to taste it. It made me smile. I hadn’t lost my touch. I just had to make sure it didn’t stick to the bottom. When the writing was going well, I was always in a good mood… and with chili as a reward I was practically in paradise. When I had chili I heard her laughing.
When I noticed it getting dark, I closed my notebook. I got up to pour myself two fingers of gin with a few necessary ice cubes. I set the table without letting go of my glass. There were still a few red streaks in the sky, but it was the color of the chili that interested me, and a lovely color it was.