17

We sat in a soulless café where music videos played on a large television screen at the back of the room. It seemed to me that Valérie had made an effort with her appearance, though the changes weren’t obvious enough for me to be sure. Perhaps she wanted to be at her best for my book.⁵ I had planned to make the most of our time together by asking her lots of questions, but she beat me to it.

‘I bought one of your books this morning.’

‘Oh, thank you. I could have given you a copy.’

‘Don’t thank me. I just wanted to find out a bit more about the man I’m going to be telling my life story.’

‘Perfectly understandable. But I don’t talk about myself much in my novels.’

‘Yes, I could tell it wasn’t very autobiographical. All the same, I thought it would allow me to get a handle on you. Through the tone, for example. I’ve only read a few pages but I get the impression that there’s a sort of world-weary irony.’

‘Ah, yes … maybe. That’s what you sensed.’

‘Are you slightly depressed?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Me? No … not at all.’

‘You have a depressed man’s sense of humour.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I actually like that. It’s charming.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you married?’

‘…’

I could easily have omitted this exchange from my book, along with my response to it. I could have stuck purely to conversations about the Martin family. But I don’t want to hide any interactions; they are part of my project. By involving myself in the lives of others, I become a protagonist. So I couldn’t rule out the possibility that I would end up being a character in my own story.

But now I had to reply. What should I say? I have always found it difficult talking about myself. Not only are my novels not very autobiographical, but neither are my human relationships. I have never felt the need to open up to anybody. Of course, advice or comfort from a loved one can be a source of solace in difficult moments. But I have the sense that there is nothing to say when you are suffering. I have often healed in silence. And there’s something else too … Perhaps this will sound strange, but I feel as if I know myself better than anybody else could; I see my own mistakes and faults; I am under no illusions about the aspects of my personality that are lacking. So I keep my private life private. Sometimes I will tell people things – over lunch with friends, for example – but only because I know I have to play my part in the obligatory sharing of confessions. There’s probably nothing very surprising about the fact that writing has become my obsession; it remains the best way of travelling beyond the confines of my own personality. I am much more interested in escaping myself than understanding myself. But now I had to describe my love life to Valérie – and, by extension, to the reader. That’s always the way it is: you can’t avoid these questions. You must constantly tell people who you are, what you love, what you do, and whether you’re alone or part of a couple. Even though, for me, the idea of revealing myself is a bit like going on holiday in the street where I live.