37

In the meantime, I had to meet Patrick for lunch. My schedule had rarely been this full, and never before had I had so many meetings, back to back, with members of the same family – not even my own. This was my version of Pasolini’s Theorem, minus the perversion and the sexual relations. I didn’t think I had much in common with Patrick, and that suited me in a way. I thought it would be interesting to confront a character who was potentially hostile to my project or who didn’t like me very much.

He greeted me with a bare minimum of politeness. Presumably he’d agreed to speak to me to make his wife happy; he was in that period of life when it seemed simpler to give in. As with Valérie, he chose to meet me in a restaurant close to his workplace. I was disappointed; I’d imagined being given the grand tour of the insurance company, having lunch in the staff canteen. I was fascinated by that life. When I went to secondary schools to talk to the students about my books, I always asked for a school dinner. To me, egg mayonnaise served in a small plastic bowl was the height of gastronomic pleasure.

Above all, though, I would have liked to observe him in his professional environment to better understand him. After lunch, perhaps he could take me up to his office on the fourteenth floor. Although, as Patrick had explained: ‘Technically, I’m on the thirteenth floor, but since that’s an unlucky number, there is no thirteenth floor. It seems absurd to me, because what you call it makes no difference to the curse. If you’re superstitious, you know perfectly well you’re on the thirteenth floor, even if it’s marked fourteen on the lift button.’ I wasn’t sure how to respond to this remark, which seemed to me full of common sense, so I simply nodded to communicate my absolute agreement.

38

A few minutes later, we were sitting in an Italian restaurant, which offered a set lunch deal. Patrick opted for that without really looking at the details. The check paper napkins and the unlit candles gave the place a vague suggestion of romance, providing an unlikely atmosphere for our meeting. The man sitting opposite me was clearly making an effort to do his social duty; he had no real desire to talk to me. But I wasn’t going to waste time beating around the bush, so I remarked that he did not appear particularly enthusiastic about life, indeed that he was going through a very difficult period. To be more specific, what I actually said was:

‘Things seem tough right now.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And from what you said yesterday, it’s obviously getting to you.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I don’t want to bother you with my project, but I’d really like it if we could talk about this. About how you feel, what you’re going through. I have the impression that you’re not very happy.’

He sat there in silence, as if dumbstruck. I, a stranger, was passing judgement on his existence. And he hadn’t even asked my opinion. I’d made a very bad start. I should have begun with a memory of better times, something to lift him from his gloom. I thought he was about to get up and leave, but instead he started talking. It was true, he said: this was a difficult time, and he didn’t know how to extricate himself from this downward spiral. ‘You’re a victim of bullying,’ I said compassionately, in part to compensate for my earlier abrupt tone. He seemed surprised that this label could be attached to the chaos he was enduring. He said he personally was not a victim, but that the current restructuring was causing problems. The arrival of the new managing director, Desjoyaux, had plunged the entire company into hell. Patrick repeated almost word for word what he’d told me during our first dinner; the familiar refrain of his distress. So, sensing that he needed to escape the present, I asked him how things had been before.