“It was on a different level, apart from controversy. I observed that sometimes accident is so perfectly aligned with purpose that it seems impossible that there is no design, but I didn’t push for a conclusion. Hamlet tells Horatio that sometimes our indiscretions serve us well, and then concludes that it’s because a divinity shapes our ends – and I can’t believe that Shakespeare, of all people, was unaware of the rather broad pun. I left that to the audience and dwelt instead upon the many circumstances when that which either you never could have dreamed or that which you fight against surprisingly delivers you to your exact intended destination. You know those film clips, of explosions or natural catastrophes, that are run backwards?”
“Yes, the billion fragments of a vase that has fallen to the floor and been smashed, but all the pieces fly up and reconstitute themselves perfectly.”
“Exactly. That seems to me to be one characteristic of reality that we tend to ignore. In math and physics the three-body problem shows that it’s impossible to predict the behavior of, for example, the components of a fluid. Yet its uncountable, autonomous particles will always align properly and perfectly to flow through a restricted channel, and then break out into seeming anarchy in a bay. It happens over and over again, all the discrete parts of reality hewing to one another, eventually, to make a whole: eppur si muove. Put it this way: sometimes the things you want the least end up saving you, in a flow of time and events that’s impossible to predict and yet ends with all the disparate pieces making something perfect, beautiful, and just.”
At this moment, half a dozen motorcyclists roared past on the boulevard so loudly that Jules couldn’t answer, and both he and Fran?ois turned to look. “The police don’t do that,” Jules said. “Their machines are just as powerful if not more so, but they’re much quieter. I hate barbaric motorcyclists. Ninety percent of their machines are black, as is their clothing. Their helmets completely hide their faces, making them look like space insects, erasing their humanity. They ride around like the Black Knight. I detest knights. Except when I played with lead ones, I’ve always detested knights.”
“Even Sir Launcelot?”
“Even Sir Launcelot.”
“I’d have thought a traditionalist like you would find them admirable.”
“Admirable? The agency that kept all of Europe in a system of slavery? I’d have been with the peasants who pulled them off their horses and killed them as they wiggled like turtles in their heavy armor.”
“What’s going on? Were you just hit by a motorcyclist?”
With a quick shake of his head Jules indicated that he had not been.
“Why then this volcanic eruption? It’s not like you.” Fran?ois checked himself. “Actually, it is, if you remember Sophie.”
“Sophie who?”
“The little girl when we fenced.”
“Oh yes. I had forgotten her name. I remember, vaguely.”
“I’ll never forget. She was tiny, about twelve, maybe eleven. Whenever a man was paired against her, we went easy. It was the beginning of paternal love for us – perhaps a little early for university students, but we wanted to protect her.”
“Except that bastard … where was he from?”
“I don’t remember, and I don’t remember his name. He was huge, and he whacked her until she folded up into a fetal position. You ignored all the rules, jumped in, and even though it wasn’t a match but real fighting, you beat him down until he begged you to stop. And you didn’t. We had to pull you off. Had they been real sabres, you would have killed him twenty times over. What’s up now? Why motorcyclists? You loved Steve McQueen. You wanted a BMW.”
“Steve McQueen’s jacket was brown, not black. No helmet, you could see his face, and the motorcycle was to get to a safe and beautiful place away from the Nazis, not to try to be like them. Not to oppress and terrify everyone else. That’s what it is. The motorcyclists these days, most of them, seem like Nazis: the arrogance, the distance, the assertion of power, the wish to intimidate and the enjoyment when they do. I hate them.”
Fran?ois hesitated for a moment, took in a breath, and said, “I know.”
“And I guess I’m upset. I don’t know what to do.”
“Me either, and I’ve been that way for seventy years.”
“Yes, but I’m in love.”
“Oh no,” said Fran?ois. “That’s ridiculous. Please, not that. You’ll sing like a loon until you finish the soup. Then you’ll slowly become a miserable turkey in a tragicomic farce. Upon starting the salad, Jacqueline will return. By the time the plates are cleared you’ll be staring at the last quarter of your second beer, speaking to me but begging her for forgiveness. You’ll go on to explain to me, indirectly of course, that the life I myself have chosen lacks integrity and maturity, that your present suffering and denial will amount to less than mine at the end. You’ll say, ‘I love this young woman but it’s impossible and inappropriate, so I’ll let her go.’ But Jules, she’s probably no more aware of you than of the location of the nearest fire hydrant ….”
“Oh, but she is!”
“She tracks fire hydrants? I don’t think so. And it’s likely she thinks of you as a kind of walking Egyptian mummy, and that you just ginned her up in your imagination. You don’t have false teeth or a big belly, but unless she’s seen you naked or done a dental workup she’s got to assume that you do. When she arises in the morning she doesn’t look like a punching bag, does she. But you do. Her breath is sweet, her skin tight, her eyes have sparkle. Give it up.”
“I don’t understand. What about you?”
“Me? I’m in worse shape than you. I smoke for Christ’s sake. What an idiot, I know. My teeth are wine-stained. I can’t run ten kilometers. You could probably run a hundred.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“I know. So why do you think I, the male equivalent of a decayed strumpet – if my hair gets any whiter I’ll look like Colette – wake up every morning next to a fresh, nubile, fertile, charming, young woman?”
“Because you’re famous … you have ….”
“You don’t have to be famous. It helps to be rich, which, because of alimony and child support, I’m not. The difference is that I’m not, as you are, the caretaker of another soul. Jacqueline is always with you. She hasn’t quite died, has she?”
“No.”
“You can still love her even if you love someone else, but not if you remain the way you are. You’re more devoted than a priest, Jules. You have only one life, at the end of which there may be nothing. Why must you be so faithful? What is it about you?”
“I try, no matter how vainly, to keep them alive.”
“Who’s them?”