Son ! Of Lord Patchogue ! — Chapter 7

Jérôme’s vow not to drink barely made it through a week, but still, he has been trying. Now, however, with Christmas ever closer, it is becoming more and more difficult to decline offers and refuse invitations without his colleagues and friends, such as they are, beginning to suspect that something is profoundly wrong. It is bad enough, he has complained to Louise, that he is having to go to work events alone, which is certain to have people talking—she has always been a lively and well-appreciated guest at office parties—, but to do wo while also consistently turning down drinks is bound to lead to the obvious conclusion that they are undergoing some kind of domestic crises, her absence related to his drinking or precipitating the cessation thereof. Though Louise is not entirely unsympathetic to Jérôme’s desire to keep up appearances, she finds she no longer really cares what others think.

Isn’t that’s what’s going on anyway? she shrugs.

And for all Jérôme likes to protest, we know he was never as sincere in his promise as he likes to make out, it having been made more to pacify his wife than in a genuine attempt at self-improvement or the breaking of patterns. Within days of having “given it up completely,” he was back staying at Tantôt’s drinking almost every night. This he initially justified by the booze being “fine wine” from a well-curated cellar, and by dismissing a couple of glasses of an evening as barely even drinking when you think about it.

What had started as one bottle, shared, had become two, at least most evenings, their effects pronounced by the fact that the men never ate together. Tantôt’s unanticipated enthusiasm at having a houseguest, and the clear pleasure he took in having someone to talk to, led to a greater generosity than Jérôme could have ever hoped for, especially in the early days, when it seemed—and Tantôt had been delighted to discover—that Jérôme was more than happy to listen to him hold forth, and he was free to expound on culture, literature, and the lives of the writers he admired—for their writing, if not their politics, he was always quick to point out—to an engaged and invested interlocutor, not least one who was so curious to hear about the litany of France’s great suicidal authors, on whom he had done something of a study in the years he was writing his book.

As the weeks went on, however, things changed. Drinking qua drinking, with little expectation that anything more would result from their proximity than its effects, a sustainable and life-muting buzz, became the norm. Tantôt’s attempts to use those hours of his evening to offer some means of aid and instruction, talking about his experiences—stories which, for the most part, Jérôme had heard in snippets throughout the years—sharing advice, propounding theories on how society should be run, and what qualities Jérôme’s generation lacked in comparison to his own, led Jérôme to accept that, willingly or not, he had taken on the role of Tantôt’s son or some kind of equivalent. His neighbour seemed devoted to the notion of passing something on: concepts, an ethics, his view of the world. Even the literary education, such a feature of the early days, when still occasionally doled out, no longer fed on Jérôme’s actual interest but rather, too, had morphed, ossifying into a matter of dusty inheritance. Tantôt would talk through his considerable library section by section, giving increasingly potted and incoherent histories of movements, moments and individuals, as he did, constantly looking over to Jérôme, whose interest in such things had long since worn thin.

Jérôme was not disinterested per se, some of what the old man said could still break through his disengagement, rather, with time, the perception each had of their debt to the other, the obligation to share time, to provide, to find something of worth among the otherwise sorry circumstance of their newfound closeness, faltered. Jérôme was increasingly unable to pretend that he hadn’t been kicked out by Louise not merely in a fit of pique or a moment of heightened animosity, but with an insistence that gestured ever more clearly to a permanent split. Tantôt, meanwhile, suddenly with a captive audience, a prolonged, consistent presence in his home, a person in his care, under his wing, the simulacrum of the kind of responsibility he had never taken on before, and indeed had avoided, began to see it as something he had missed out on, his resulting grief and the discomfit of it refracting through Jérôme.

But even as their conversation faded, their friendship deteriorating into longer periods of quiet, passing encounters in the corridor, desultory and more abstract exchanges, amid the shimmering of inevitable resentment, the drinking continued. Tantôt, the only reliable audience—other than myself—to Jérôme’s self-justifications, his excuses and evasions when it came to his habits of consumption, never offering a rebuttal, would indulge his guest up to a point, at which he would either forcefully change the subject, launching unbidden into some long-practiced critique of an author Jérôme had never heard of or hammering away in his geriatric Marxist manner about the complacency of the modern voter, or simply stand up to leave, taking whatever was left in the open bottle with him. That had a tendency to shut Jérôme up.

To begin, it was only on rare occasions that such an abrupt end to their subdued festivities would result in Jérôme himself getting up and seeking out his own source of on-going lubrication, heading out to an épicerie on an adjacent street to pick up a outrageously over-priced bottle of nastily cheap wine, along with a couple of individually sold cigarettes. In these moments when he went out, not drunk but with a swagger in his step, Jérôme felt more brazen than he had in years. There was a freedom in stepping directly out into the boulevard without taking care to note if there was traffic coming. They’ll see me and they’ll stop, he would say to himself.

When Jérôme did go out socially, keeping up appearances as he felt he must, and continuing to insist to Louise, despite her growing disinterest, that the social aspect of his job was really quite important and not at all, in fact, insignificant to what hopes he might have for future advancement, a call into said épicerie on the way back from wherever he had been became the norm. He would reward himself for his relative public temperance, his ability, for example, to limit himself to two glasses of wine with dinner or to have turned down a brandy after dessert. Anything he bought from Mehdi, whose name, with frequenting he had come to learn, and who, sweetly, would occasionally charge him for only two cigarettes when he asked for three to keep his total to a round number, did not count towards the tally he kept for himself with the goal of proving his drinking was under control. Those drinks, whether beer, wine or spirits, were something separate, unknown to anyone but him—Mehdi and myself notwithstanding—, with even Tantôt being kept in the dark, or at least not giving the slightest indication that he knew Jérôme ended most nights in the spare room continuing to drink without him.

Following Océane’s rejection, a weekend of more intense drinking than he has done for some time will commence.

*

The school term coming to an end, Louise was taking Théo to join his cousins at the ski resort in the Alps where her family kept a small apartment. Once delivered into his grandparents’ care, Louise would return to Paris, the idea being for her and Jérôme to re-join the family a few days later to celebrate Christmas and stay on through to the new year. This was the plan as it had been the plan for many years now, a permanent feature on the family’s calendar that other than the usual complaints that any such gathering might encourage, Jérôme had never had a problem going along with before. Prior to his parents’ deaths, they had very occasionally celebrated Christmas with them in their Boulogne apartment, but more often than not Jérôme’s parents had opted to spend the holidays in Boston with his brother, a trip Jérôme and Louise had made only once, before Théo was born. That visit had been so uncomfortable, what with the iciness between Jérôme and Philippe, as well as his wife’s odd attitude towards Louise, a feeling that she and Jérôme had shared, though he had been a less perceptive witness of—arguably, I would say, backing her up so passionately more out of his own sense of spite—, it had made the hassle and expense of travelling there, especially at this time of year, distinctly unappealing, not least when there was a far warmer, embracing and fun time to be had heading to the slopes of eastern France.

As a night at Tantôt’s grew to nights then weeks, the couple hadn’t had a conversation about exactly how Christmas would unfold this year, and so it wasn’t until Louise announced via text, and carried by the ease of an assumption that her husband had known it was coming and would understand, that Jérôme needed to say a proper goodbye to his son before they left for the holiday, and that their train would be departing from Gare de Lyon on Friday at five if he intended to see them off, that he realised the extent to which Louise and Théo’s lives were going on without him.

As often, it seems, is the case, when a person gets the thing they have long desired, it is less satisfying than the notion of having it had been. Instead of feeling relieved, of stress, of implication, of responsibility, Jérôme’s immediate reaction was aggrievement. It felt less like he was being left alone, spared, than that he was being left out, discarded or forgotten. There was an injury to it he had not anticipated.

Perspicacious as I am, I am often at a loss in moments such as this, more frequently than I would like to admit unable to understand a great deal of what I see. I follow what appears on the surface of the mirror—either that or what appears there following me—this voice I have, our voice, always preceding, but only just, the projections my aptitude is for describing, but I cannot claim to know the people there, truly, as intimate with them as I am. I see fragments, the things I choose or am able to focus on, what they tell me, those I am able to convey; from everything out of which a person is made, however, their characters, backgrounds, actions and decisions, this really is next to nothing.

And I have precious little past of my own, of course, and, so, vanishingly little to draw on when it comes to understanding the human condition. I have no past, really, which isn’t something we haven’t already discussed, all of what I have not described having always been the same: my place here in the gloom, in the glow, my sitting, standing, pacing back and forth, my placing my hands against the glass.

My father-double, mother-abortive, brother-son have no sense that I am here, and so, for the most part, I go ignored, unacknowledged even when I push my presence on them.

Witness to Jérôme’s disappointment, I have us ask me what it is I want, for what it is I am hoping: I have been longing for Jérôme to join me. I have, compelled to confront it, always thought that that is what I have needed, believing it will save me, having been put here, abandoned, at his inclination. I had imagined that his arrival, finally, would satisfy this niggling impulse to watch, to know what is happening to him, and describe what I see, assuaging the compulsion that has dragged you, too, into the storytelling. Perhaps I have been naïve to think so. It is too late now, though, to change how this tale is going to go.

Rather than argue or challenge with his lack of agreement to the plan, Jérôme reread the message and replied, simply: Sure. following up a few moments later, unable to help himself, with: It would be nice if we could discuss these things before decisions get made, even in this situation. This provoked a flurry of messages from Louise to the end that though they can discuss it, the plans are the plans and tickets have been bought, and had Jérôme wanted to be involved in the organisation at any point in the last month, he could have asked what was going on, his failure to do so being taken both for disinterest with what she has been dealing with as well as what she is up to in general, to say nothing of his more essential attitude of thoughtlessness, him assuming, as ever, that she would take care of everything, and that all he need to is turn up and/or pay for something every now and then while otherwise refusing to engage at all.

To that, Jérôme answered: Fuck off, honestly. And began to type a much longer, accusatory message, which he then deleted before switching his phone into aeroplane mode for the rest of the afternoon. He didn’t turn it off again until he was coming up the stairs of the metro station that evening, when he was perturbed to discover not the dozens of angry replies and missed calls he had been expecting, but no response at all. He went into his messages and deleted the entire thread of conversation with Louise, before going directly to Mehdi’s, where he bought four cans of 1664, a bottle of red and five cigarettes. Tantôt wasn’t home when he got in, but rather than wait for him in the salon, upholding the pretence of social drinking they had maintained until then, Jérôme, cracking open a can no sooner was he in the door, retreated to the spare room, his room, and shut himself in for the next few hours, emerging only to go for a piss, and ignoring his host when he did.

The next day, Thursday, Jérôme sent a series of texts while at work apologising to Louise and trying to explain, or perhaps excuse, the state of mind that he had been in the previous afternoon and why he had overreacted. You know that’s not like me, he added to one of his texts, and it was the first sentiment in an otherwise one-way conversation to which Louise responded. You think, she replied, that just because you know how to stay polite and don’t explicitly insult or threaten me that you’re not aggressive. You’ve got no idea what you’re actually like. The exchange did not continue.

A few hours later, again as Jérôme was exiting the metro, he finally answered: I really am sorry. I’ll make sure to be at the station tomorrow to say goodbye x. Putting his phone in his pocket, he made the conscious decision that he would not drink that night, and crossed the street away from the one which led to Mehdi’s shop. As he passed the boulangerie, he noticed Océane behind the counter, alone.

*

Gare de Lyon on Friday evening is bustling, busier and more-crowded than ever it seems to Jérôme, who has arrived later than he wanted and is forced to battle through the bagarre of hurried travellers, the end of the school term with it clumps of slow-moving families setting off for the holidays and various groups heading out to the resorts, with all the accoutrement that suggests, adding to the customary weekend exodus. Louise, when they finally greet each other, betrays no sign of emotion, neither warmth nor the resentment Jérôme is anticipating; there is only the slightest flicker of relief that Théo has not been let down.

Absolute nightmare, he shakes his head, gesturing back towards the concourse.

It was always going to busy, Louise replies.

Théo, who is sitting on the floor among their bags, headphones on, playing a video game, hasn’t noticed his father’s arrival. Jérôme kicks the sole of his shoe.

Alright, you?

The boy looks up blinking, as though in a daze, and Jérôme feels a brief spasm of dislike and disappointment seeing the dozy look in his eyes. Théo doesn’t seem all that happy to see him either, even though Jérôme, persistently, if to a low degree, hungover, has been making it to breakfast less and less frequently and has been occupied almost every evening recently, meaning they have barely spent any time together. Théo practically needs to be told to put his game away and get up for a greeting. Another awkward embrace follows as Jérôme hugs him, trapping his son’s arms to his sides, console still flashing in his hand.

Excited to see your cousins?

The boy shrugs: Yeah, I guess.

The expression on Louise’s face that greets this response shows her vacant, fed up attitude is not only due to Jérôme.

Here, he says to his son, reaching for the Switch. Give me that. Turn if off for a second. Here—

He holds Théo by both arms as though propping him into standing straight, getting the boy to hold back his shoulders.

Look at me, he says.

Théo rolls his eyes, refusing.

Look at me, Théo. I know the last few weeks have been really weird. It’s really hard for all of us. Mum and me too. But it’s temporary. It’s just something people go through sometimes. Things’ll get better, I promise.

Though no longer resisting, the boy can’t hold his father’s eye. He is tearing up, and doing so is bringing him out in blushes. He glances nervously around.

No one’s paying any attention, don’t worry. No one’s looking, Théo. Just listen, OK? Everything is going to be alright. You’re going to have a great weekend with your mum, thrashing her down the slopes if I know you, and then a great week with your cousins, and in no time at all we’ll be back there with you. And then it’ll be Christmas and all the good stuff with that we’re looking forward to, and we’ll all be together as a family again.

He wipes a tear from his son’s cheek.

By the time we come back home next year, everything is gonna be back to normal. Better even.

The boy is sniffing; Jérôme pulls him in for a hug, holding him tightly, Théo’s arms still pressed to his sides, though he is no longer putting up any resistance to his father’s affections. Louise approaches, and rubs the back of his head, avoiding Jérôme’s when he seeks out her eye.

Come on, Choupette, she says, let’s go and find our seats.

When he comes away, Théo has left a patch of wet on his father’s chest.

He gestures to brush it away, and mumbles: Sorry, dad.

Though he has managed to maintain his composure until now, hearing his son apologize and feeling the glancing touch of his fingers through the damp material of his shirt, causes a jag of emotion in Jérôme. He coughs, turning away, suddenly unable to hold back tears himself. As Théo and Louise are gathering their bags, he hurriedly dries his eyes on his sleeve. He does not want his son’s last image of him to be of the dishevelled man he is now so aware of having become.

Here, let me carry those—

He takes the heavier of the two bags from Louise, and they follow Théo along the platform to the point beyond which Jérôme is not allowed to go.

I didn’t realise you had started smoking again, Louise says, leaning in to take the bag and offer her cheek for a bise.

Not really, just the odd one. It’s been stressful.

Her curdling half-smile wavers between sympathy and dismissal, if not outright contempt.

Something else to talk about when I get back.

As she turns to leave, Jérôme is about to announce his intention to stay at home in the apartment while she is away, having planned it as a means of surreptitiously, avoiding a big discussion, moving himself back in, but some voice within in—not mine—prevents him. Why does he need to announce it? Does he need to ask for permission? It is his home. He can let her know on Sunday when she is on the train back. This weekend, at least, can be his.

On the way home from the station, Jérôme calls into Nicolas to buy a bottle of wine as a gift for Tantôt, a good one, and also gets a cheaper bottles for himself, as well as a bottle of gin. That night, he has decided, he is going to cut loose, after which he will get everything in proper order. He can sleep off the damage the following day, and starting on Sunday, recommit to staying sober to be in good form for the week with Louise to come. Then, hopefully, having some time alone, they will be able to mend some of the damage that has been done, or at least get on the front foot for a new beginning, putting everything from the last few weeks—the last few years, frankly, Jérôme concedes—behind them.

Hello Océane—

She is surprised to be addressed by name.

Oh hi, how are you doing? How’s Théo?

I’ve just left him off at the station, actually, going to join his cousins for some skiing—well, snowboarding, actually, is what he prefers.

Only witnessing her blandly polite, humouring reaction does Jérôme momentarily doubt himself. Having decided to sink a couple of quick beers in a neighbourhood bar on his way home, seeing her behind the counter, he had entered on a whim and is only now starting to realise that what on those drunken evenings had seemed like a thrilling, enticing adventure, today feels ridiculous, tawdry and embarrassing. He can’t remember the girl having looked so young.

She is waiting for his order.

Actually— In fact, I was wondering …

Océane’s face betrays a slight disgust, the façade of her customer-service smile slipping, though not fully yet, into a grimace. She is holding Jérôme steadily in her gaze. He can hear Christmas music playing, its tinpot jollity turns his stomach. Is she going to make him go through with it?

Yes?

I was just wondering, like, what time you finish work. I thought perhaps we could go for a drink or something.

Getting through the sentence, Jérôme feels relieved. Meanwhile, the disdain that had twitched at the corners of Océane’s mouth has flattened into clamped disappointment. There may have been, at some point, some vague hope that if Jérôme were to try it on it might have been with some advance more exciting, something more interesting at least, a more suave manner of approach, the kind he used to appear—and indeed had been—capable, once upon a time; had he managed to imply some intense and boundless feeling, true fascination, real desire, a hint of the disturbance his attraction to her had provoked, anything more than the transparent opportunism revealed by the admittance that his kid is out of town, her displeasure may have been less intense.

It’s a nice idea, but I don’t think so, Océane smiles, her blankness devastating.

She is adequately pretending that she hasn’t noticed him creeping around in the last few weeks, coming into the bakery and waiting, messing on his phone to ensure she served him, holding eye contact beyond what he usually would, allowing a smirk to slur across his lips, which, she assumes, he imagines is beguiling, and perhaps would be were she less attuned to how alcoholics act when they think they are being charming.

He is not too far gone quite yet today, or else she might have told him directly just to go home and go to bed, and may even have felt a little sympathy, seeing him wanting and vulnerable, undoing, and having witnessed, even at such a remove, the change he has recently undergone. The cowardice of his overtures, though, and the stuttering way he has made his attempt have killed whatever tenderness she might have felt. She will laugh about him tomorrow with Cristine, who will feel vindicated in her judgement of him as being too moody to bother with.

Men like that, her boss will say, are all the same, “nice guys” full of resentment. They never have the balls to admit what they want, so everything comes out curdled.

Océane will make no attempt to defend him, and though they will not interact again, from then on he will be confined to the category of men to avoid being left with in the shop alone.

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