You have seen, in Uzbekistan, a tiny lake, I said. In an oven.
Now is not the time for the joke, he says.
Not the time for joking, I said.
Now is not the time for joking, he said. It is the end of everything, the permanent alteration of all, a cataclysm beyond—
All right, all right, I said.
You are here to “comfort,” him,oui? he said.
Yes, I said.
To comfort one who remains willfully ignorant of what he has done is to provide no comfort at all, he said. If you truly wish to comfort him, bring him to admit his sin, then repent ofit.
Ours is not an easy road.
Made as we are (of mind, fear, regret) we may become unhinged, prone to unhealthy obsessions. Someone in this state should not be encouraged.
I smiled politely, stepped away to the edge of the roof.
Seen through a scrim of summer branches, the bride and groom were at the main table, being urged by the sound of forks against wineglasses to performatively kiss. In a comic spirit, the bride threw herself at him rapaciously, her hand drifting to the back of his head to pull his mouth to hers.
This appeals to you, the Frenchman said.
Well, yes: the neat rows of white-clothed tables, the peopledelightedly feeding themselves, this young woman coquettishly tossing her thick mane of hair, the ancient lady across from her, as if in response, reflexively adjusting her wig; the string quartet sawing away, the intoning of toasts, the clatter of silverware, the snorting horse-laughter, the yammering, flirting, misunderstanding; the stray fellow, just there, staring off into space as if remembering something wonderful that once happened to him.
It appeals to you too much, he said.
I just like it is all, I said.
A “jet plane” passed overhead.
More poison, he said, and spat.
Everything is poison to you, I said.
It was not always so, he said. In life, I was a happy fellow, often celebrating. A cheer would go up when I arrived at Le Chat de Gouttière. My preferred seat was at the crook of the L of the bar. Then, death.
Yes, I said.
Death, he said.
Yes, I said.
He paused, recalling.
He paused, recalling, for a long time.
Finally, he let out a wet cough that, in the living, would have indicated the beginning of his end. Downstairs my charge coughed identically.
It’s not easy, you know, the Frenchman said. I fly around, observe (I must learn all the languages, in order to understand), appear to those of the weakened living who may see me, interview the recently dead, who tend to resist me. I read over people’s shoulders in darkened studies, spend decades in musty file rooms.
Sounds very challenging, I said.
But I must do it, he said. It is a step along my path to peace. Or, rather, a step along my path toeventualpeace. Just as, for you? This “comforting”? Is a step alongyourpath. God willing, both of us will, in time, know that blessing.
I am entirely at peace, I said.
