The 6:41 to Paris by Jean-Philippe Blondel Read Free Book Online

The last I heard, Cycleman bought a motorcycle—now that’s a revolution. They’re planning their first trip with their new vehicle, and they can’t make up their minds: Collioure or the Aquitaine?
    I can see Mathieu’s back, as if it were yesterday. We’re eighteen years old, almost nineteen. The two of us on hismotorcycle. His parents just bought it for him, secondhand. I’m insanely jealous … as far as twowheeled vehicles go, I’ve never progressed any further than the metallic blue Peugeot 103 SP moped that got stolen after only two months, and which my parents refuse to replace. “You’ll just have to use your dad’s old Solex moped instead.” Mathieu is driving fast. He’ll be going to Germany for his militaryservice soon. He dropped out of school. He doesn’t know what to do in life. He’s been thinking of acting, but everyone keeps telling him it’s not really a profession. And recently an amateur theater director told him he didn’t have the looks for the job. He’s too pudgy. Too heavy. He’s at acomplete loss. It’s fall. We’re getting lost down country roads, Mathieu and me. It’s an interlude. Nothingseems to matter anymore. I guess that when he comes back from Germany we’ll already be headed in different directions. This is probably the last time we’ll be this close. I’m convinced that something will happen—a puddle of oil, a truck inching into our lane, a collision, a violent crash and then—blackout.
    Nothing of the sort.
    Of course not.
    No one ever warned us that life would be long.
    Those easy slogans that make your heart beat faster, like “carpe diem” or “die young”—all that stuff was just nonsense.
    No one told us, either, that the hardest thing would not be breaking up, but decay. The disintegration of relationships, people, tastes, bodies, desire. Until you reach a sort of morass where you no longer know what it is you love. Or hate. And it’s not as unpleasant a conditionas you might think. It’s just lifelessness. With scattered spots of light. One of them is going to see Mathieu this morning, after so much time has elapsed.
    Ah-hah, Cécile Duffaut is sitting up.
    Had a bad night, huh?
    I know what she must be going through. Life is full of bad nights, once you turn forty. Your children’s health, your own, their future, your own, the litany of work still to bedone on the house, the electricity which still needs childproofing, the toilets have been leakingfor three months, the vacation rental needs booking, how do you clean the spots made by permanent markers from the table in the living room, the car is making a strange noise when it’s in neutral, above all don’t forget to get gas tomorrow morning otherwise you’re sure to run out, I haven’t read anovel in ages, even though it’s something I used to love, reading novels, I have to fill out the forms for my younger boy’s upcoming school trip, lists, lists, lists, they start filling your nights—you get up, you go down the stairs, it’s three o’clock in the morning, you bump into the furniture, you shiver, you think about making a coffee but what sort of crazy idea is that, a coffee at this timeof night, so you go for a citrus herbal tea, you switch on the electric kettle, see your reflection in the mirror with the kettle in one hand and the citrus tea bag in the other, you hardly know who that person is.
    But when Cécile Duffaut looks at herself in the mirror, her reflection must give her a bit more of a boost, after all. When we were dating, I’m sure people pictured what we’d be likelater on: she’d be a crotchety old maid and I’d be the philandering husband type, with three divorces behind me, but still in great shape. It’s mind-boggling when you find out how little you really know. When I was with Cécile Duffaut, I …
    Just the thought of it, “When I was with Cécile Duffaut”: how weird is that.
    This is ridiculous. I should introduce myself to her.
    Oh, here comes the