Underground Time by Delphine de Vigan Read Free Book Online Page A

off there.
    A woman of around thirty was sitting on the platform hyperventilating. By the time he got there, she was starting to calm down. A crowd had gathered around her, giving curious glances, peering to see better. The crowd didn’t miss any of the performance. Two people managed to help her to the office behind the ticket counter where Thibault was able to administer a sedative. The woman’s breathing returned to normal, her hands unclasped. He was double-parked so he couldn’t stay. A metro official promised he would get her to a taxi when she felt better.
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    At a red light he looks around: people walking quickly, coming out of the metro in groups, running across the street; people queuing at ATMs, smoking outside buildings or cafés. So many people he cannot count, all subject to the city’s flow, its speed; unaware they’re being watched, seen from a distance, at street corners, an infinite number of fragile identities which he cannot grasp as a whole. From behind the windscreen, Thibault watches women; they’ve started wearing light clothes: floaty dresses, short skirts, sheer tights. Bare legs sometimes. The way they carry their bags by the handle or with the strap over their shoulder, the way they walk without noticing anyone or wait for the bus with a faraway look.
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    Suddenly the girl who joined his school in his last year comes into his mind. He had carved her name on a desk. She was from Caen. Or was it Alençon? He’s thinking about that girl now. Her fine hair. Her riding boots and her boyish appearance. It’s odd, thinking of that girl now. He was in love with her. Or with her reflection in other people’s eyes. They didn’t talk to each other. They had different circles of friends. Thinking of that girl, more than twenty years on . . . saying to yourself: that was twenty years ago. And then counting up to twenty-five. It was twenty-five years ago. Back when his left hand still had five fingers.
    It was twenty-five years ago. That sounded like a typing error, a bad joke. Can you say that without falling off your chair: ‘It was twenty-five years ago’?
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    He’s left Lila. He’s done it. And that statement contains something that sounds like an achievement, a feat.
    And yet the wound of love contains within it all silences, abandonments, regrets, all of which in the course of the years adds up to a generic sort of pain. And a confused one. Yet the wound of love promises nothing; not after, not elsewhere.
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    His life is diffracted. From a distance it seems to possess unity and direction. You can recount it, describe his days, the division of his hours and weeks, follow his movements. His address is known, so are the habits he’s trying to break, the days he goes to the supermarket, the evenings when all he can do is listen to music. But close up, his life looks confused, it splits into fragments, there are pieces missing.
    From close up, he’s just a Playmobil figure slotted into his car, his hands clutching the steering wheel, a little plastic character who has lost his dream.

The station manager had said that a doctor would be there any minute. Another train was rumbling in from the left. Mathilde didn’t wait. She was late enough as it was. She left the woman on her seat; other people were looking after her. She seemed a bit less tensed-up but she still couldn’t stand. The woman said thank you. Mathilde got on the metro. She forced her way and wedged her back against a flip-up seat. She was in a good position. At Nation she got off and made her way through the impatient crowd. She took the passage that led to line 1. Here trains seemed to be running normally. She waited less than a minute for the next train, then she got off at the gare de Lyon.
     
    Now Mathilde is heading for the RER. She doesn’t look at the time. She knows by heart the corridors, the stairs, the shortcuts of this underground world, woven like a web