Patrick returned to the subject of his summons. ‘Seventy-two hours of torment,’ he said openly. Seventy-two hours before he knew what Desjoyaux wanted from him. Perhaps he was about to be fired. He’d been anticipating that, unlike some of his colleagues, who’d been shocked to discover they had lost their jobs. He was thinking in particular of Gerbier, who’d spent three months in a daze in his bedroom. This was the second time, after Lambert, that Patrick had mentioned the post-job trajectory of a sacked colleague. Patrick would regularly call Gerbier’s wife to find out how he was, but the news never seemed to improve. This man who had always been so cheerful and full of life was now vegetating in bed. He didn’t want to go out any more, didn’t want to see anyone. Not even his own children. He had become convinced that he was useless. Patrick didn’t think Gerbier would have the courage to kill himself, but then he was already dead in a sense. The incessant humiliations had knocked him off his feet, transformed him from a man into a shadow. Patrick didn’t know what he could do to help him, other than those calls to his wife, a reminder of his presence – even if it was only that of a disembodied voice.

The example of Gerbier had enabled him to anticipate his own dismissal. So he’d prepared psychologically, as they say. Although the expression is not wholly convincing, since it is difficult to gauge the effects of a situation until you have actually lived through it. In any case, Patrick had attempted to visualise that other life. With his experience, he would surely be able to find a new job. But that would take time; offers of work at his level were rare. Obviously this would bring financial worries, but there was something else that haunted him: how would he fill those weeks or months of nothingness? He was used to the demands of time management, but not when he had no work with which to fill that time. Patrick had asked himself questions: did he have any hobbies? He had the impression that the accumulated stress of the past few years had left him an empty husk. He no longer felt any desire at all. So, the answer was no: he had no real hobbies. He didn’t want to watch films or read books or visit museums or go for walks or travel the world or play a new sport … He imagined wandering through long empty days like a soldier in search of a war. While he waited for the fateful meeting with Desjoyaux, he found himself obsessed by the image of those endless hours.

1. 11. Not only that, but he’d also always been a good son, a good citizen, a good husband, a good father. In other words, he ticked every box for a man who was about to explode.

39

The years passed but something was missing. Patrick and I were the same age, so we could understand each other. When you reach your mid forties, you are too old to be young. But you are still a bit too young to be old. You navigate your existence through an uncomfortable in-between zone. Patrick thought about all the years he had spent fulfilling his destiny: creating a family, forging a career. But what remained of all that? Teenage children who would soon fly the nest, a stale marriage, and a car crash of a career. I understood how he felt. I muttered a few suitable phrases about the human capacity to bounce back, about the fact that nobody was dying. But every time I tried to console him, he repeated wearily: ‘Yeah, that’s easy for you to say …’¹² He imagined my life as a kingdom without borders, free of all difficulties. I didn’t react to this because I had no desire to talk about myself, but I did give my opinion on his situation.