I wanted to say: ‘Tell her all this! Tell her exactly what you just told me!’ But I sensed he wasn’t capable of it. Often, the most beautiful declarations are made to the wrong ears. Our conversation was over; he had to get back to work. Outside the restaurant we shook hands, almost like friends. He walked a few yards, then turned back to me. Just like Valérie had done before she announced that she wanted to leave him. He turned back to tell me: ‘You know, I love Valérie. I really love her.’

41

Patrick saw the situation with perfect clarity. Some of the words he’d used were identical to those used by his wife. They shared the same view of their daily life; the only difference was that Valérie wanted it to end. However, I was still waiting to see her again so she could reiterate her intention. Just as I was thinking about her, she sent me a message asking how my lunch meeting with her husband had gone. I wanted to reply: ‘You’ll read about it in the book.’ After all, I didn’t have to tell each person what the other was saying about them. There was a form of professional secrecy involved in what I was doing. But I guessed that what she really wanted to know was whether he’d been cooperative. So I replied that he was perfectly charming.

Perhaps, in the end, I would be the architect of a rapprochement between the two of them. But I had to be careful not to let their worries and sadnesses infect me. I was surely too sensitive to be a sort of blotting paper for other people’s suffering. I wondered how doctors and psychiatrists managed it, how they shielded themselves from the painful confessions, the tragic lives of their patients. Would I have to be like an actor, hanging up my character in the theatre dressing room before going home? I had to observe the Martin family while attempting to feel as little empathy for them as possible; I needed a cold, clinical narrative distance from them, a buffer zone. But I couldn’t write like that. It was impossible to prevent myself feeling anything about the subject of my book.

I had been genuinely surprised by Patrick’s attitude. He hadn’t just played along, he’d been open and sincere, particularly where his love life was concerned. He had told me everything, even ending with a declaration of love. Of course, I suspected that his words were ultimately intended for his wife; when she read my book, she would understand many things about him. But that had not been his only motivation. That afternoon, he’d sent me a message: ‘I hope you have everything you need. I actually enjoyed talking to you. Good luck with your book.’ It was clear from this that the conversation we’d just had was to be our last. He had told me everything because he wanted to get it over with. He had agreed to take part in my project, and he’d provided me with enough material to make him a character in the book, but he did not want me to become part of his daily life. Valérie would confirm this to me that evening.