Guys Like Me by Dominique Fabre Page A

ones, he served a big mixed salad, I realized what it meant to him. When was the last time he’d had guests? And, although it was impossible to ask him, when was the last time he’d had a woman here? So we were really there for him, he kept looking at us, there were moments of silence between the salad and the chicken. Then he started talking. He really didn’t know anymore when his troubles had started. When we were together in high school? Or even before? He’d never asked himself the question. After a while, he said to us, guys like him have to learn everything over again, and nobody gives them a hand, they can’t. This wasn’t going to be much fun, I thought, Marc-André lit a cigarette, so I did too, in memory of the good old days, so to speak, he hadn’t had any of those either, good old days, but to be honest, he didn’t give a damn.
    The first thing he always did when he got up in the morning was to open the window and let the cat in and give it a little milk. From the morning onwards, he’d think of all those distant years, those years outside, in the unlike-liest places, oh really? He gave us that slow smile, yes, a place here, a room there, not far from here, but he would never have suspected their existence, like when you see guys sleeping under the entrance ramps to the northern beltway, around La Chapelle, Clichy too. We sat down on the sofa bed, he was sorry, he hadn’t made any dessert. He wasn’t really good at desserts yet. We talked, when it came down to it things hadn’t been too bad for him, did he have any music at least? He looked around, he had some old LPs and also a few DVDs of movies, since he’d started in his new job he’d been buying Le Monde , they sold DVDs as a supplement on the weekends, he got them in the hopes of buying a player one day. We smiled. When he’d had his troubles, video cassettes were still the thing, how long ago was that anyway, how long? We didn’t ask him the question. So, to cheer himself up, he suggested some more pastis, with a greedy air, he himself had never taken to drink during his bad years, but he knew guys, guys who weren’t like him for that very reason, except that to be honest he could have. You never know where the wind takes you, or what can happen to you. After a while, Marc-André couldn’t help smiling. The two of us were sitting on the sofa bed and he on a second-hand chair, he leaned toward us: how about you two? We didn’t know what to say, obviously. Marco lit another cigarette.
    â€œWhat can I say? Things are OK for me. Yes, they’re OK. I haven’t had all these money problems like you.”
    He nodded. “It won’t happen to you, I’m sure of that, you’re not the kind.”
    Fortunately, the cat from the courtyard distracted our attention, it came in through the window and strolled between our legs. We sat there, watching the cat.
    We left just after midnight. He left us on the sidewalk outside his building, both hands in his pockets, standing very straight. Marco had his car with him and we went back together, going through Courbevoie, through places we’d known forever and which I really couldn’t recognize anymore in spite of everything. I would never have suspected … Neither would I, I said. Neither would I.
    â€œDid you notice how he carefully avoided talking about his job today?”
    We were driving along the riverbank now, no need to go that way, but after all why not?
    â€œBy the way,” I said, “I’m going to buy a scooter.”
    â€œIs that so?”
    We slowed down on the Pont de Levallois.
    â€œWhy didn’t he talk about his job, do you know?”
    â€œIt isn’t going well … I talked to the guy I know, they don’t want to keep him on.”
    â€œReally?”
    For years, there had been cobblestones along here. The road had been restored and enlarged, but in places there were