Victor calls him from Pennsylvania. He claims to love the place. A convention of gay notaries—you have to hand it to them, Rémi thinks. That or a bisexual women’s club; that or nights on the Internet…
Victor sounds overly enthusiastic on the telephone. He is calling to ask him a favour. Everything becomes clear. He needs Rémi to fax him a document probably left on his bed. Rémi goes to find it. Victor gives him a number to dial. If he can send it right away, he would be a darling. Other voices on the line. Rémi understands. Victor is playing the “everything-is-fine-we-love-each-other” game in front of his colleagues.
He hangs up after wishing him a good time, dials the number and watches the pages pass one after another through the fax machine’s window.
Victor is a good guy, Rémi tells himself again. He, red-haired Rémi, is the one burying his head in the sand while observing the world through his ass.
It is night. Again. He looks out his office window. Cobra has left his bedroom curtains open. He is making love. Rémi knows his routine by heart. It will end in an ejaculation, of course. Probably on his friend’s stomach; his friend will then use the spilled semen to lubricate himself and come in turn. A trivial dance repeated endlessly as though one were deaf. He looks at the clock hanging on the wall. Where is Stéphane?
He returns to the computer and opens the video-chat application. His contacts refresh. Khan, Rui, Cobra. He is online, that one? Rémi goes back to the window.
Two badges light up almost simultaneously.
Rui and Khan.
He opens their messages. Both men, in time zones far removed from each other, smile at him. Each has attached a bare-chested photograph of himself. No surprise there.
Rui teaches French, but he is less comfortable speaking it. Rémi knows only a few words of Portuguese. They have therefore long kept their microphones muted, writing to each other while leaving the video on. The keyboard serves as their common language; the image carries their smiles, silences and gestures.
Night] Good evening, dear Rui. How are you? I’m bored here. I’m on holiday and all I do is kill time.
Rui] Good evening, my beautiful Night. Did you read my letter? Do you like the photograph?
In another window, Khan opens the conversation.
Khan] Hello, sweetie.
Rémi answers Rui first.
Night] Yes, a very interesting story. Forgive me for not replying. I’ve been rather lost in my own little world these days.
Night] Hello, friend.
The conversations mingle. Sometimes the answers seem to appear before the questions, or before anyone notices that another correspondent was involved. Cybernetic communication resembles a dream, Rémi thinks.
Rui] No problem.
Khan] I’m happy, you know. Met a guy here last night. I’m in love.
Night] You seem thoughtful.
Night] So quickly?
Khan] Love is quick, don’t you know?
Night] I’m rather slow to fall in love.
Khan] That’s why you’re so sexy.
Night] Aren’t you supposed to be in bed at this hour?
Khan] Well, yes, but you know me.
No, that is precisely the point, Rémi thinks.
Fuckerboy] Hi.
Rémi does not know Fuckerboy and does not want to know him. Too young, according to his profile; all Rémi can see of him is his erect cock. Pretty, all the same.
Khan spouts nonsense interspersed with long, mysterious sentences. He is drunk. He describes meeting the British man for whom he loudly proclaims his love. They laughed for hours, he says, and did not have cybersex. According to Khan, they possess all the necessary chemistry for a lasting relationship. Rémi does not believe a word of it.
Rozio appears and greets him, bare-chested, his image lit by a pallid lamp. People are waking up in Singapore. They say “good evening” to America, “go to bed” to Europe, “good morning” to Asia. Rozio wants to make love to him immediately, before leaving for work. Rozio’s wife has already left, the children are at daycare, and Rémi, according to Rozio, is so handsome. To please him, Rémi undresses and displays himself in full. Rozio responds by showing him his tongue.
Rozio] You’re so sexy.
You are laying it on too thick, Rozio.
Rozio] Cum for me, I will drink it.
Night] I’m not in the mood.
Rozio] You’re never in the mood for me.
True. Rozio does not interest him. Too skinny and too intense. Put your clothes back on, Rozio, and get on with your day. Besides, you have a wife to satisfy.
Rozio] I’m bi, you know. I can satisfy both of you.
Night] You can’t satisfy me. I’m eons away.
Rozio] Why are you mad at me?
Night] I’m not. I’m just not in the mood with you.
Rozio] I’m so sad. Need to come.
Rémi is tempted to put Rozio on his blocked list.
Night] It’s easy to come. Jerk off, you’ll feel better afterwards. Don’t bother me with that!
Khan] What?????
Night] Sorry!!! That wasn’t meant for you!
Rémi clicked the wrong icon. He corrects himself. Rozio disappears from his list by way of reply. Either he has made himself invisible in retaliation or he has already left.
Khan] So, a man wanted to fuck you?
Rui] I’m here. Forgive me. I have a visitor. I’ll be back later.
Rémi sends him a kiss. Rui does the same. Rui’s name disappears from the list of online contacts.
Night] So, you’re in love?
Khan] LOL
Night] What’s so funny?
Khan] Everything. Everyone is funny after half a bottle of whisky.
Rémi sighs. This is not the kind of conversation he wants to have tonight. He decides not to answer Khan, who will not take offence, he knows. He explores the main list of people online. He asks for it to be sorted by region. There are still many people in Europe. America is swarming, of course; a few Asians, two anonymous Egyptians—oppression demands it—cryptic Turks, masculinity to preserve. He clicks at random on user profiles and reads what they have to say to win people’s sympathy. Some want only friendship. One look at the photograph is enough to understand. They are old. Rémi talks to them from time to time. He tells himself he does not pity them, although the temptation is sometimes strong.
Rui reappears.
Night] Has your visitor gone?
Rui’s face returns, smiling at him.
Rui] Yes. It was Hermina, my old neighbour. She came to massage my feet. She loves doing that.
The second message arrives at once.
Rui] So, my good friend. How do we make love today? Which poet would you like to begin with?
Rui] My students were unbearable.
Rui] And you? What did you do?
Rui] Helio is unbearable too, and Brazil is on the verge of bankruptcy.
The man is talkative and seems overexcited.
Night] Which question should I answer? What did I do? I desired. And I bit my own tail.
Rui] And you have a very beautiful one. Desire is only the symptom of an immense hunger. Millions of years of evolution, my dear, are concentrated in our sex. Here is what I’m eating.
Rui holds up a plate of spaghetti.
Rui] Pasta. Always pasta. Helio never eats with me, and I smoke too much and eat badly.
Night] Exercise.
Rui] Pffff… I’ll die anyway.
Night] That was a very lovely and sad story you told me about you and your father.
Rui] What about you? Can you tell me a story to put me to sleep?
Night] I’ve already told you so much about my life…
Rui] What else is left for us to say to each other, then? You aren’t happy.
Night] Meh.
Rui] I wrote you another letter last night, but I didn’t send it. I destroyed it.
Night] You shouldn’t have.
Rui] Oh yes, I should.
Night] What did it say?
Rui] Guess.
Rui sends him a knowing look.
Night] What else…
Rui] You’re proud. You like to be desired.
Night] Yes.
Rui] I never played with a windmill again. What about you?
Night] No. Here, we call that toy a pinwheel.
Rui] Very pretty, Mr. Rémi. Have you seen Luc again?
Night] No.
Rui] Will you see him again?
Night] Probably, because he is my neighbour, in a way, but I don’t think we’ll make love again.
Rui] Why?
Night] I’m too old for complicated affairs.
Rui] I don’t believe you.
Night] No one can make you believe anything, you old hand. There had been another man the night before.
Rui] Bastard.
Night] I’m not very clean, it’s true.
Rui] No, I say that because I’m jealous. I could never cheat on Helio.
Night] Never?
Rui] Except with you, here, on this screen, on the bed of the Internet.
Night] What if I came to see you?
Rui] We wouldn’t do anything. But we would love each other differently.
Night] You’re a wise man.
Rui] Because smoking is part of wisdom? No, I’m not wise. I’m merely in love with another Rémi.
Night] Who am I to you?
Rui] That which is unattainable. Like poetry.
Night] Here is my body.
Rui] You are indeed very beautiful. Beside you, I look like an obese jellyfish.
Night] Not at all. You have beautiful eyes and a vibrant soul.
Rui] You’re insatiable.
Night] I once posed for a great painter. He wanted me to have an erection. He had one too.
Rui] A pervert.
Night] Artists are entitled to anything.
Rui] Who says so?
Night] Artists.
Rui] Don’t make me laugh. And did those erections leave their mark on you?
Night] In a way. He wasn’t a pervert, merely free to be what he was.
Rui] Did he cheat on his wife the way you cheat on Victor?
Night] Don’t be cruel.
Rui] You aren’t answering?
Night] Does Helio cheat on you?
Rui] I don’t know.
Night] Yes, you do. He’s never there.
Rui] You don’t know us.
Night] You’re a human being. In broad strokes, your story resembles mine.
Rui] Then why do we try so hard to know others if their story resembles our own?
Night] Do we forget?
Rui] No… We pass the time. We hand it from one person to the next as though we didn’t know what to do with it.
Night] What should we do, then?
Rui] You’re insatiable. I told you.
Night] I’ll die with my mouth open, like a fledgling.
Rui] Don’t you find our hours richer when we talk together?
Night] Yes.
Rui] Then we love each other.
Night] Certainly.
Rui] You see, this kind of caress is even better.
Night] So intensity is always found somewhere beyond our senses?
Rui] I didn’t say that. You, living in a rich country, should simply be a little less demanding.
Night] Am I corrupt?
Rui] You’re my beautiful sin.
Night] You mix everything together.
Rui] That’s what poetry is.
Night] All around us, men are coming.
Rui] Somewhere other than around us, believe me. And others are dying, others are hungry, others are laughing, others will never know misery, while still others might bring it to them.
Night] We’re privileged.
Rui] Why aren’t you happy, Rémi?
Night] Who says I’m not?
Rui] You’re talking without saying anything. You’re here with me, on this shitty network.
Night] What if the shit were there precisely to wash us clean of our pretensions?
Rui] A point for you. Let’s roll in the mud. Helio is here. I have to go.
Rui blows him a kiss and ends the conversation without any further conclusion. Rémi does not have time to return the gesture. He sighs.
He gets up, paces the room, stops in front of the window and surveys his property. The night has thickened; people are asleep or burrowed into the thicket of their beds, their dreams. A small portion of the population will remain awake—insomniac or diligent, cheaply or lavishly drugged, joyful or sad enough to die, living or dying; life never sleeps, systolic. There is still a light in Cobra’s bedroom.
The computer makes a small sound announcing the arrival of a message. Rémi goes to look. Marthe. He checks the time. Morning is only just beginning in Ireland.
Good morning, my angel.
The dawn is beautiful this morning. I rose early because we are leaving to tour Ireland again.
Forgive me for taking so long to write. We had work done on the house and fled to a small inn in the meantime.
What you did with Luc does not surprise me. I had forbidden you to touch that couple, remember?
You answered me with that great redhead’s smile of yours, brave and defiant. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that what must happen, happens. But where will it lead you? To love, of course, and you will surely have been right to defy me. But remember that love is in Victor too.
The source is the same. The forms differ. What more did you obtain from Luc?
As for the two of us, we are intoxicated by slowing our steps. Growing old is a privilege one must not abuse; that is why we walk more and more slowly. Hélène and I are still green, as they say in Ireland, but we both know that one day, perhaps sooner than we think, we will have to say goodbye, leave all this behind—our laughter, our hours—and bury it in the earth.
The world of the old that I inhabit seems so far from your youthful frontiers.
Go, my friend, go your way. What you did was wrong if, and only if, you do not know how to solve the riddle you have been given.
Tender kisses,
Marthe.
He slowly moves the mouse pointer onto the “Reply” button and clicks.
Dear Marthe,
You are like a good priest who, once he has heard the sins, absolves the unfaithful with a smile.
Solve the riddle, you say? Is Luc really a riddle?
I have the impression instead that we were puppets in the hands of our unconscious minds. You know, that famous chemistry that delights in thwarting our best intentions. If there is a riddle, it is solved by the simplicity of our nature, isn’t it?
I never make quite the same bread twice, another equation in the riddle. Nor have I ever kept the same lover for long. Who passed the infidelity gene on to me? Neither my father nor my mother.
Unless I know their story poorly, and it hardly matters.
Haven’t you told me before that history could be reinterpreted according to circumstance and our understanding?
So I am surprised to have lasted here, in this house. I know, you will tell me there is a time for everything, but the fact is, for me, everything is a yeast that must be dissolved to achieve a result. I am telling you this while trying to convince myself at the same time. I don’t know.
I am feeling my way.
Where is my true unhappiness? Nowhere. That’s what that is, as Lucienne would have said. Should I be quiet? Fall silent?
I feel as though I am shaking a cage that has grown too still.
No, I have no regrets, but oh, so many disappointments.
There it is: disappointment and solitude.
I embrace you. I say to you as well: go. When you return, we can continue telling each other about our journey.
R.