This is Life (33 page)

The chauffer-driven limousine pulled up, and in silence the men got in. They were taken directly to the arts editor’s private club; a club so exclusive that even Jean-Didier Delacroix
would not be considered for membership. He had only been there a handful of times, and until he was established as, for example, the arts editor of a major newspaper, he would have to suffer the
indignity of being signed in as a guest. That day seemed farther away than ever as he made his way past marble busts to a private dining room.

They sat across the table from one another. A waiter entered, and poured them each a glass of wine. The arts editor of
L’Univers
found fault with the way he had done this, and with
an explicit threat to the man’s body and livelihood he had efficiently put him in his place. The waiter apologised, as if for his very existence, and left the men alone.

‘So, Delacroix,’ he began, ‘I gave you the biggest break of your career when I took you on. And I took a great personal risk; I would even go so far as to say that I put my
reputation on the line, and you of all people know how highly I value my reputation. I knew that if it was to backfire, if your work was to be anything short of exemplary, your uncle Jean-Claude
and I would be accused of engaging in the most brazen nepotistic practices. You were always well aware of this. I put my trust in you, Delacroix. And how do you repay me? Let me tell you: by going
behind my back and praising an
art show
which we had explicitly agreed had nothing to do with art, and which needed to be destroyed. By putting a love letter to a naked man who shits into
bottles on the front page of
my
supplement. By undermining me, Delacroix.’

Jean-Didier Delacroix knew that the time had come for his veneer of defiance to be succeeded by a more appropriate expression: one of humility. He had to look as if he knew his place, and he
tried to draw inspiration from the waiter’s expression. Humility didn’t sit well with Jean-Didier Delacroix – it required facial muscles that had never been exercised before, and
as these muscles struggled to settle into place the arts editor almost spat his champagne out in mirthless laughter at the sight. Jean-Didier Delacroix said nothing, allowing his superior to
compose himself and continue.

‘And you forced me to go along to a seedy pornographic cinema, and stand – yes, stand – alongside some rather questionable . . .’ He pulled a face and spat the words,
‘
members of the public
to watch this naked man do . . . do what, Delacroix? Tell me what we saw.’

This wasn’t looking good. Jean-Didier Delacroix decided not to go into his feelings about Le Machine, feelings which even days after his first encounter with him were still taking shape,
and to go instead for a literal recounting of events. He cleared his throat. ‘He stood there naked for while, in a state of some considerable arousal, then he took out a test tube, and closed
his eyes, and had a brief affair with himself. And when he had finished he put the results on display for all to see.’

‘And that was just the start of it. What else did he do while we were there, Delacroix?’ The arts editor of
L’Univers
thumped the table. ‘What else?’

‘He had a shower, then he made and ate a terrible sandwich. And he drank some water and a glass of white wine.’

‘And then?’

Jean-Didier Delacroix knew what he meant. ‘And then he urinated, and poured it into a big bottle, where it merged with several litres of urine he had already poured in. After which, he
crouched down and . . .’

The arts editor of
L’Univers
held up a hand to stop him. ‘And you still stand by your recommendation of this . . .
artwork
?’

Jean-Didier Delacroix had been just as impressed by
Life
on this second visit as he had been on his first, but he knew his neck was in the guillotine. The time had come for him to stand
by his beliefs, for integrity to reign. Either that or the time had come to do what he could to save his career.

He looked his editor in the eye, and said, ‘Yes, I stand by what I wrote.’

The arts editor of
L’Univers
leaned back in his chair, fixed Jean-Didier Delacroix with an icy gaze, and very, very slowly raised an eyebrow. Then he spoke. ‘It
is
very
good, isn’t it? I’m rather glad we didn’t close it down. Somehow they’ve pulled it off. I can’t quite put my finger on why it works, but it does. What’s that
Goethe quote? The one about art and life?’

This reminded Jean-Didier Delacroix of the interrogations he had received as a child, and he felt invigorated by it. He knew the answer, of course: ‘“Art and life are different; that is why
one is called art and one is called life.”’

‘Why didn’t you use that in your review?’

‘Because it’s far too obvious, and I knew everybody else would.’ He had read his principal rivals’ take on
Life
. Several of them had used this line, and gone on
for a number of pointless paragraphs about how Le Machine blurred these boundaries.

‘Correct.’

‘And besides, it’s hardly Goethe’s finest hour; I don’t suppose he ever found himself top of his Venn diagram class.’

The arts editor of
L’Univers
put a hand into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a cheque. ‘I brought this with me, in settlement of your dismissal terms. I was in no doubt that
this conversation we are having now would have been about severance, and severance alone, but from the moment I walked in, it was clear that what I was seeing was art of the highest order. God
knows why, though. Thinking back to your piece, I can tell you don’t either. But something is going on there. Never ever quote me on this, Delacroix, not to anybody, but I even found myself
asking some fundamental questions about my own life while I was in there. And I came to a decision.’

Knowing he had been vindicated, Jean-Didier Delacroix’s humility had already evaporated, and his self-assurance was back, stronger than ever. It was as if his flirtation with insecurity
had never happened. ‘Do tell.’

‘I can’t say my decision was entirely inspired by Le Machine; in truth I’ve been weighing up my options for some months now. But around the time he was eating that sandwich,
and my God it was a terrible sandwich, everything seemed to crystallise. It made me acutely aware of how little idea I have of how many days I have left. I am becoming old and emotional, Delacroix,
so it is time for me to leave the stage. I have taken my career as far as it can go, and I am going to retire earlier than I had planned. I shall be stepping down in a year’s time, and
that’s going to leave something of a vacuum. I don’t see why we should go through the charade of making you deputy arts editor; I can’t think of a single reason why you
shouldn’t go straight to the top. Of course I shall have to clear it with your uncle Jean-Claude, but I don’t see him raising too many objections. You have the ability, you have the
profile, et cetera, et cetera, and thus far you have yet to put a foot wrong. How do you feel about becoming the nation’s youngest ever arts editor of a major newspaper?’

Jean-Didier Delacroix allowed himself a smile. Just minutes ago he had felt as if he was leaping from the top of a tall building, but now his birthright was more secure than ever. ‘That is
welcome news,’ he said. ‘And I have you to thank. I’ve had the finest grounding imaginable in my career, and in many ways you shall be carrying on. As my mentor, my successes are
your successes.’ He raised his glass. ‘Father, I wish you a long and happy retirement.’

‘I’m sure you do, Delacroix,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you do. But don’t go thinking I’m going to be spending my days on the croquet lawn. Oh no, I’m
going to be sitting on every committee you can think of. I’ll be advising the government, and taking up every foreign exchange junket I can worm my way on to. I’m going to be a menace,
Delacroix.’ He raised his glass in return. ‘To the future.’

They drank.

‘So, Delacroix,’ said Jean-Didier Delacroix’s father, ‘enough shop talk. I see you’re still with that young lady.’

‘I am.’ She had accompanied him to a weekend get-together at the family’s ancestral château a few weeks earlier, during which she had only smiled once, and that had been
when she had made one of the servants cry.

‘You do know, don’t you, that she is absolutely vile?’

There was something admiring in his father’s tone, and Jean-Didier Delacroix smiled. ‘Oh, yes. Very much so.’

‘You ought to think about sticking with that one, Delacroix. She’s my kind of girl.’

Jean-Didier Delacroix smiled. ‘So tell me, how is Mother?’

He looked triumphantly to the ceiling. ‘Just as appalling as ever,’ he said.

They raised their glasses, and drank to their women, and to their wonderful lives.

MARDI

L
e Machine had not been quite as absent from Paris as his reputation suggested. Often over the past few years, Léandre Martin had left his
home in London and taken a train beneath the Channel to Gare du Nord, where he would go down to the Métro and straight to his old neighbourhood.

Telling no one of his presence but those closest to him, he would stay at his parents’ apartment for a few days at a time, sleeping in his childhood bedroom. He never ventured into the
city, but every morning he crossed the landing to spend the day by Dominique Gravoir’s bedside. He talked to him, read to him and took care of him, feeding him and cleaning up after him. He
was glad of the opportunity to give his mother a break from her responsibilities. Every time he saw her, she seemed older, and more worn down.

When
Life
had started to go into profit, he had bought his friend a new bed, a new mattress, cotton jersey sheets and flannel pyjamas, and he had paid for a carer to come in twice a week.
As his success had grown, he was able to provide even more for him; now the carers came every evening and stayed all night, keeping watch over him while his mother had a chance to sleep
uninterrupted, and his mattress, bedclothes and pyjamas were renewed a little more often than they needed to be.

On his visits he always brought piles of CDs, and loaded his friend’s MP3 player with audio books. He had no idea how his tastes would have developed, so he tried to provide him with as
wide a range as possible, from classical poetry to spy thrillers, and the latest pop music to avant-garde orchestral pieces. He road-tested everything for quality before introducing it to him, so
they were all personal recommendations. It helped that his own tastes were broad; he was always looking for the best of everything. In between visits he would send him packages containing bits and
pieces that he thought he might appreciate, and prior to each staging of
Life
, when he wouldn’t be in touch with him for months on end, he had made sure he had a good supply of books
and music.

Every once in a while, Dominique Gravoir’s condition would be reassessed. The doctor would always say that there was no hope of a recovery, that it was surprising he had lived as long as
he had, and that it was very unlikely that he would be able to comprehend a word that was spoken to him. Léandre Martin and Dominique Gravoir’s mother had no cause to disbelieve the
doctors, and neither was waiting for a miracle. They knew he wouldn’t be coming back, but at the same time they felt that even if the words they spoke to him were never heard, they were not
wasted, because every one of them was spoken with love.

As
Life
had taken off, and he had stood naked on stage in front of decent-sized and apparently appreciative crowds in London, Léandre Martin had a good feeling that his primary
motivation had not been misplaced, that Dominique Gravoir was not living in vain. If it hadn’t been for him, the exhibition would never have taken place: his friend was as much a part of it
as he was, and when he heard stories about how people had responded to the work, he felt gratified on his behalf as well as his own.

Ever since the battle with the cormorant, Léandre Martin had felt that he was living for both of them, and during the bleaker moments of
Life,
when loneliness took hold, he often
had a feeling that Dominique Gravoir was helping him to get through it. He had little patience for tales of the supernatural, but he had a sense that his friend’s condition had become such a
huge part of his own life that it was ingrained within him, and somehow he was able to draw inspiration from whatever strength it was that had been keeping him alive for all these years.

At the end of each run, Le Machine would be handed a large box of mail, with translations attached if necessary. It was always a mixture of demented scrawlings, sexual
propositions from women (some of which he would accept, on the understanding that there was to be no chance of a relationship), sexual propositions from men (who were out of luck), and tales of how
Life
had improved the days of so many people who had been to see it.

These tales touched him to his core. He would read letters from people who had become more aware of their bodies than they had ever been. Some would tell him that they had started fitness
regimes; others had found themselves eating healthier food. Other responses were more oblique, from people who, while watching him, had found themselves thinking deeply about their
own lives, and had made big decisions of one kind or another: some had extricated themselves from bad relationships, others had decided to move house, some had abandoned their jobs and applied for
nursing degrees. Dozens had pledged to get companions for their pet goldfish. Many people had said that while they had been watching him they had realised how simple life can be, and how cluttered
their own life was, and that they had decided to pare back their belongings and lower their material ambitions.

None of these outcomes had been specific intentions of his. All he had wanted to do was display the human body at work, in all its familiarity and wonder, and let the audience think whatever
they wanted to think. But still, he was glad to hear these stories. There had even been people who had written to tell him that they had decided against suicide after watching
Life
,
realising that the body was too incredible a machine to destroy. And every time, without fail, he would receive a handful of letters from people who told him that
Life
had knocked them out
of a state of denial about a medical issue, that they had finally gone to see a doctor about something that had been worrying them, and learned about an underlying condition that would only have
worsened if they had left it any longer.
It could be that you helped save my life
, they wrote.