Holy fuck, what nerve!
The man was sleeping . . .
The man was resting . . .
The man was snoozing out in the open . . .
He was simply asleep in the arms of that little slut Morpheus while I gorged on my misery . . .
He sucks.
He let me down.
All that anguish when he had just pretended to pass out . . . All that effort the whole night to make us look good . . . All that work to make our shit look pretty . . . And I had to do it all on the sly because I prefer to inspire respect instead of pity.
Yes, all that digging into my lovely childhood memories to get what would be helpful and to avoid what would serve no purpose other than to drag me even deeper into despair.
All that work to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear . . .
All that bravery . . .
All that tenderness . . .
All that love . . .
And since I was cold . . . And felt alone . . . And was sad . . . And since I had worked so hard to get a dead star to love us . . . and . . . with his handjob fantasy in addition to everything else . . .
Fuck, I was really pissed off then.
Really, really pissed.
“And the donkey? How’d he get here?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He was here when I woke up . . . ”
“But what path did he take?”
“That path there . . . ”
“But . . . uh . . . how did he find us?”
“Don’t ask me . . . Yet another jackass stupid enough to care a bit about you . . . ”
“ . . . ”
“Are you mad?”
“Well, yeah, I’m mad, you idiot! I was really worried! And I didn’t get a wink of sleep.”
“I see that.”
Oh I was mad all right, and as for his coffee, he knew where he could shove it.
“You’re really angry at me?” he asked with his treacherous little mouth.
“ . . . ”
“That much?”
“ . . . ”
“Really that much?”
“ . . . ”
“Really, really?”
“ . . . ”
“You were really worried about me?”
“ . . . ”
“You really thought I was in a coma?”
“ . . . ”
“You were sad?”
“ . . . ”
“Really, really sad?”
“ . . . ”
Yeah, that’s it. Keep going, you big idiot. Keep making me feel even more fucking stupid.
Silence.
He hobbled over and placed a steaming cup of coffee next to me with a slice of gingerbread.
I didn’t budge.
He sat down as much as he was able with his stiff leg and said to me in a very sweet voice:
“Look at me.”
Fuck you.
“Look at me, Billie Jean.”
Fine, click . . . click, I cranked my neck three millimeters upward.
“You know, I adore you,” he murmured, looking me straight in the eyes. “I adore you more than anyone . . . You know that after all this time, right?”
“ . . . ”
“Yes, you know. I know you can’t help it . . . but for almost four nights in a row you’ve kept me from sleeping and . . . you’re exhausting, you know? Really, really, exhausting . . . So exhausting that sometimes, to deal with you, well, I have to pretend to die . . . You understand that, don’t you?”
“ . . . ”
“Go on, drink your coffee, girl.”
I was crying.
So he crawled over to me that morning and, sailor’s warning, gave me a hug.
“I th-th-thought you were deaaaaad,” I coughed.
“No . . . ”
“I th-th-thought you were deaaaaad and that I was g-g-going to kill myself toooooo . . . ”
“Oh Billie, you’re wearing me out . . . ” he sighed. “Go on, drink your coffee and eat a little bit. We still haven’t gotten out of this mess.”
And I chewed my completely disgusting gingerbread with a marmalade of tears.
And I cried again because I d-d-etested g-g-ginger-b-b-bread.
We took off as best we could, hobbling along in the sun and wind, like in that Yves Montand song.
I had made a splint for Franck with some pieces of wood and some string and he used Donkster like a walker.
We were no longer the ones who guided the providential little donkey; rather it was he who was bringing us back to the fold.
At least that’s what we were hoping . . .
To the fold or anywhere.
Anywhere but near my last victim, right?
Right, Donkster? Don’t do that to me, okay?
Please.
No, no, he answered, I’m bringing you back to the stable.
I’ve also had it up to my snout with all of your bullshit . . .
Fine.
We trusted him.
Hobbling along,
in the sun and the
wiiiiiiiiiiiiind so strong . . .
(Okay, for sure, it sounds better if you have the tune in your head.)
He was really too cute that little donkey.
Well, I’ll come back and make off with him one day.
I stopped talking.
Completely.
End of discussion.
Too much emotion, too much exhaustion, too much pain and too much offense taken as well, I have to say.
Franck tried two or three times to start a new topic of conversation, but each time I let it peter out.
Okay, I’m no saint either . . .
He could have spoken to me at least once that night . . .
Just once.
I was as mad as hell at him.
Plus, I had made a fool of myself in front of all those cold stars that couldn’t give a damn about my stories.
And I cried and everything.
What a jerk.
Silence.
A big fat silence in the sun and Siberian cold.
And then . . . after about an hour perhaps . . . I finally cracked.
I’d had enough of being all alone with my thoughts since the evening before. Enough, enough. I was really bad company for myself. Plus, I missed him. I missed my bastard of a friend.
So I said:
“Say, it’s warm, isn’t it?”
And he smiled at me.
Then we talked about this and that like in the good ol’ days, but without making the slightest reference to my latest feat. Well, that did it. It was forgotten . . . But there would be others.
After a few minutes, he asked me:
“Why were you laughing?”
“Excuse me?”
“I understood that you were very unhappy and extremely preoccupied with my being in an advanced coma, but at one point, during the night, I heard you laugh. Burst out laughing. Why? Were you thinking about everything you would be able to steal from me in the rue de la Fidelité?
“No,” I smiled. “No . . . It was because I was thinking again about the face of the guys in our class when we finished acting out our scene.”
“What scene?”
“Uh, you know . . . the scene from Musset . . . ”
“Ah really? I was dying right in front of you at that time and you were thinking about the morons from our class ages ago?”
“Well, yeah . . . ”
“And what was the connection?”
“I don’t know . . . it just came to me.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You’re really a funny girl, you know?”
“ . . . ”
r />
Silence.
“Say, you don’t mean that play where Perdican marries Rosette in the end?”
And it started up again. We were at it once more.
It was the most timeworn of all our running gags, but fine . . . we would get right to it if that’s what he really wanted, and we were off.
“No. He would never have married her.”
“Yes, he would have.”
“No.”
“Absolutely.”
“Absolutely not. Guys like that, they don’t marry crappy little goose-girls. I know you want to believe it because you’re a big romantic from the time of the troubadours, but you’re kidding yourself. I come from the same social class as Rosette and I can tell you that at the last minute, he would have taken off . . . He would have had business in Paris or some such excuse . . . Plus his father would never have allowed it. There were still 6,000 écus at stake, I’ll remind you.”
“He’d have done it.”
“No.”
“Yes. He’d have married her.”
“For what reason?”
“As a nice gesture.”
“A nice gesture, my ass. He would have jumped her bones and left her flat with her bastard child, her chickens, and her turkeys.
“You’re such a cynic . . . ”
“Yes . . . ”
“Why?”
“Because I know life better than you do.”
“Oh, spare me . . . Stop . . . You’re not going to start that again . . .
“I’ll stop.”
Silence.
“Billie?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to marry me?”
“Excuse me?”
Even the donkey stopped in his tracks.
“Do you want us to get married?”
Uh, never mind, he was just taking a crap . . .
“Why are you talking bullshit?”
“I’m not joking. I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
“But . . . uh . . . ”
“Uh, what?”
“Well, we’re not exactly on the same team, you know . . . ”
“What are you referring to?”
“Well, you know . . . ”
“Tell me. Who was the girl who explained to me once that true love has nothing to do with the anatomical chart?”
“I don’t know. A little pain in the ass who always wanted to have the last word, I guess.”
“Billie . . . ”
“Yes?”
“Let’s get married . . . The whole world keeps pestering us with their marriage for all, their protests against marriage for all, their counter-protests for all, their hate for all, their prejudices for all, their good feelings for all . . . So why not us? Why not us?”
The idiot was really serious . . .
“And why would we do what other people do?”
“Because one night, I don’t know if you remember . . . it was a really long time ago . . . One night, you made me promise never to abandon you because you would only do stupid things without me . . . And I tried, you know . . . I really tried to honor my promise . . . But I wasn’t strong enough to succeed. If I was just four steps behind you, you would go crazy again . . . So I would like to marry you so that you’ll have fewer little problems in the future . . . We wouldn’t tell anyone and it wouldn’t changed anything about how we live today, but we would know. We would be aware that this connection exists between us, and we would know it forever.”
He was speaking as if I remembered that night . . .
So, he didn’t just sleep either . . .
“You know very well that I’ll always do stupid things . . . ”
“No, that’s just it. I’m hoping that it will calm you down a bit.”
“What will?”
“Finally having a little bit of family all to yourself.”
Silence.
“Say yes, Billie . . . Look, I can’t get down on one knee because I’m in too much pain but imagine me doing it . . . Imagine the scene . . . With your little donkey as witness . . . I’ve been paddling along with you for ten years now and today, I really want to reach the shore . . . ”
“For starters, why do you want to marry me?”
“Because you’re the most beautiful human being I’ve ever met and will ever meet and I would like it to be you whom I call first if something happens to me too.”
“Oh really? Really, well yeah, so . . . ” I sighed. “If we’re just talking about picking up the phone, count me in . . . Happy to oblige.”
Say, little star, your fellow stars look like they’re in party mode, but hey . . . go easy with those pills, my little sweetie, because you’re really flying high there . . .
Silence.
Silence in the sun and beneath the blue sky.
“So? Why is she smiling stupidly like that, the little Billie?” He said mockingly. “Is she thinking about her wedding night?”
But . . . ooooh . . . uh . . . I wasn’t smilingly stupidly at all. On the contrary, I was smiling quite gracefully.
I was smiling because I wasn’t wrong.
Uh no . . .
I was really pleased with myself because I was right again: A good story, especially a love story, always ends with marriage, and singing, dancing, a tambourine, and so on.
Ah yes . . .
La, la, li li . . . la la . . .
Dearest Henri Bertaud du Chazaud––many thanks.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Paris in 1970, Anna Gavalda’s first published work was the critically acclaimed collection of short stories I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere, which sold over half a million copies in her native France and was published in the US by Riverhead in 2003. She is also the author of Someone I Loved and the international bestseller Hunting and Gathering (Riverhead, 2007), which was made into a film starring Audrey Tatou and Daniel Auteil. Gavalda lives in Paris.
Anna Gavalda, Billie
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