You Changed My Life (18 page)

I didn't think he'd survive his wife's death. He didn't want to leave his bed for weeks. When family members visited, he barely looked at them. Céline took care of the kids—consoling and practical at the same time, she kept them at a distance, seeing they had enough on their plate with their own grief. I buzzed around the Pozzo constantly. But he didn't let me distract him anymore. Dignified even in his depression, he only asked to be presentable for medical visits. We'd gotten by without nursing assistants and nurses for months because he'd wanted to, and because he got a wicked pleasure out of showing people that he did just fine using only Abdel's arms and legs. We had to call them back, and they came immediately, competent and devoted. Monsieur Pozzo couldn't stand the idea of so many people fussing over his body, three-quarters dead, when nobody could do anything for his wife's.

Luckily, I was young and impatient. Luckily, I didn't understand anything. I said “enough.”

“I want to be alone, Abdel. Leave now, please.”

“You've been alone long enough. I've had it. You like it, you don't like it, it doesn't matter. We're getting dressed and we're going out . . . Plus, I know you're going to like this.”

“Whatever you say . . .”

The Pozzo sighs. The Pozzo turns his head, looking for nothing, an empty space without hands moving in it, without any looks. He blocks out the moving mouths.

I don't want to call him the Pozzo anymore. He isn't a thing, an animal, a toy, a doll. The man in front of me is suffering and doesn't look anywhere except inside himself anymore, at his memories, at what isn't any longer, probably. I try my best to dart around devilishly, dance the cucaracha, play pranks on Laurence that make her scream, but he doesn't register any of
it. What the hell am I doing here? He could ask me why I was still sticking around, because I wonder myself . . .

I'd give him a stupid answer.

I'd answer that I'm staying for the comfortable Louis-Philippe sofa in his room that I haven't left since Béatrice died. I'd sublet the top-floor apartment to a girlfriend. Nobody here knows about it. I'm being honest and I really like this girl, so I'm not asking much for rent. What? A thousand francs per month. That's way below market price.

I'd answer that I'm staying for the Jaguar. That I'd like him to pull himself together, a little, so that I could leave him at night and start up my nighttime drives again. That car is a magnet for women. Well, certain kinds of women . . . I know: I'm not going to find my Béatrice among the ones who get in for a ride. The ones who get in are the ones who are only interested in money. We don't know each other; we're not going to know each other. I let them know when it's over, always a bastard and proud of it.

“This car belongs to my boss. You want me to drop you off at the next metro station?”

I'd answer that I'm staying because I love going to eat the little samples of food they give you in expensive gourmet restaurants and then indulge in a Greek sandwich on my way out.

I'd answer that I'm staying because I still haven't seen
La Traviata
live and I'm counting on him to take me to the opera (he made me listen to some of it one day, explained the story to me, it bored me to death . . . I seriously thought I was going to die).

I'd answer that I'm staying because I want to have fun, because I'm alive, because life is for having fun and you can do
that more easily when you have money to spend. It just so happens that he has some and he's alive, too, so that works out well!

I'd answer that I'm staying for his money. By the way, that's what most of his friends think: they don't all keep quiet. I hate disappointing overly confident people. They dig their feet into their certainties; it's quite a show.

He'd keep asking:

“Why are you staying, Abdel?”

I wouldn't answer that I'm staying for him, because we aren't all dogs, for God's sake.

I dress him in his light gray Cerruti suit, a blue shirt, gold cufflinks, and a tie with blood-red stripes. A drop of Eau Sauvage, his cologne for the last thirty years—the same as his father. I brush his hair and smooth his mustache.

“Where are you taking me Abdel?

“To get oysters? Would you like to eat some oysters? I'm craving oysters, personally . . .”

I lick my lips and rub my belly. He smiles. He knows I hate oysters, especially during summer, when they're all milky. But he loves them with a little lemon juice or some shallot sauce. We're going to Normandy.

“Shall we take a CD in the car? What do you want to listen to, Monsieur Pozzo?”

“Gustav Mahler.”

I put two fingers sideways under my nose like a Hitler mustache, put on a German accent, and get angry.

“Goustaf Mahluh? Ach nein, Meestah Pozzo! Zatz enough now! Enough!”

He hints at a smile. That's a start . . .

The Jaguar is a beautiful but dangerous car. You can't feel the speed. It flies, we levitate, we don't feel anything. On the way to Raymond Poincaré Hospital in Garches, I hadn't noticed that it rears like a horse about to gallop.

We are all set, Monsieur Pozzo and me, listening to France Musique, a nice little symphony like the one you get on the phone when you call the social security office. Two motorcycle cops catch up to us on the Saint-Cloud bridge. I see them in the rearview mirror and glance at the speedometer: eighty miles per hour . . . Monsieur Pozzo's in good shape today, so I give it a try.

“There's two cops there, going to stop us soon.”

“Oh . . . Abdel! We're going to be late.”

“Well, yes, we definitely will be, Monsieur Pozzo. Don't you want to try using your bad-day face?”

The police are getting dangerously close.

“What's my bad-day face?”

I make a face like I'm horribly constipated, and he bursts out laughing.

“No, now, Monsieur Pozzo, you can't laugh right now, you have to suffer! Come on, I'm counting on you!”

I slow down significantly, put my signal on, and start to pull over to the shoulder. I lower the window.

“Abdel!”

“Three, two, one . . . Suffer!”

I don't look at them, I'm afraid of cracking up. I lean toward the cop who's approaching carefully. I play the dumb guy who's completely freaking out.

“He's having an attack! It's my boss. He's a tetraplegic. He's having a heart attack, I'm taking him to Garches, we don't have time to stop, he's gonna die!”

“Turn off the engine, sir.”

I obey, with difficulty. I punch the steering wheel.

“I'm telling you, we don't have time!”

The other policeman comes up. He walks around the car, suspicious, and addresses my passenger.

“Sir, lower your window, please. Sir, sir!”

“How's he supposed to lower the window? You know what tetraplegic means? Te-tra-ple-gic!”

“He's paralyzed?”

“Hooray, he gets it!”

They both look at me: they're angry because of the tone I'm using, worried not to be in control of the situation, and annoyed. I risk glancing at Monsieur Pozzo. He's fantastic. He's let his head droop to his shoulder, his forehead stuck to the door, his eyes are rolling and on top of it he's moooaanning . . . He doesn't look at all like he does on bad days, but I'm the only one to know it.

“Listen,” says the first one, nervous, “where are you going in such a hurry?”

“To the Raymond Poincaré Hospital in Garches, I told you! It's urgent!”

“I'll call an ambulance right now.”

“Oh, no, it'll take too long, he won't make it! This is what we're going to do: you know the way to Garches? Yes? Great!
So get in front of us and your colleague can get behind us. Let's go!”

I start the engine and step on the gas to show my determination. After a second's hesitation—because policeman often hesitate by nature—the guys put on their helmets and arrange themselves like I told them. We head to the hospital, at a moderate speed; the cops hold their bikes with one hand and gesture for cars to move aside with the other.

Monsieur Pozzo lifts his head a little and asks me, “And what's your plan when we get there, Abdel?”

“Well, we do what we said! Aren't you supposed to host a conference for the handicapped?”

“Yes, yes . . .”