Patrick
One morning last summer, my sister and I talked a guy out of jumping off the Pont d’Austerlitz. I don’t think about it much, but today I read this in The Buddha’s Return by Gaito Gazdanov:
“but now he was old and, physically frail, and for many years had led the life that his former acquaintances were now leading, and he fancied if nothing were to change in the near future, there would only be one thing for it - suicide.”
(tr. Bryan Karetnyk)
Reminded of that day, I looked up the date on which it had happened and, to my surprise, it was almost a year ago to the day (21/08/20).
On the basis of this odd and vaguely literary coincidence, here’s a story I wrote at the time.
*************************************************************************************************************
Patrick
Patrick was sitting on the coping stone, feet dangling over the balustrade. Until then the holiday had gone perfectly to plan. All that remained was to get Katarina to the station. Her train left at just after ten and the plan had been a leisurely stroll through the Jardin des Plantes with breakfast somewhere around Gare de Lyon.
*
For all she makes out the trip is tiresomely routine, I know she still gets anxious that we’ll be on time. She can’t see, in the midst of her mature pantomime, that her worry doesn’t show in how she answers my inquiries, but rather in the insistence of the questions that she asks.
*
The Jardin des Plantes was a picture book, a collage of pleasant vignette and rosy detail. In the fresh sunlight, we’d meandered through the park and its late summer flowers. We’d skirted and taken in the botanical gardens and the zoo, then looped backed for the museums and the carousel. We could hear the clatter of the métro cars as they came and went on the raised line into Austerlitz; the traffic too, odd horns, a distant siren, the beeping of pedestrian crossings and the dull clunk of the buses’ warning bells as they pulled into the lay-by at the gates. The sky was cut by the fine, fluffed trails of aeroplanes, and I’d thought, ‘all that’s missing is a hot-air balloon.’
*
I was still shaky as we looked for her carriage. The instructions from the gate attendant had been to find his colleague, who would then make sure Katti got to her seat and take care of her for the rest of the journey. Not being a traveller, what with the new restrictions, I wouldn’t be allowed on board. I noticed her, petite and chipper, in a charcoal and burgundy ensemble, a little way up the platform. Her business-like affability projected competence and control.
*
Before we approached, I pulled Katti behind a pillar, away from the boarding passengers. I squatted, took down my mask, and hugged her. She hadn’t said a word in I don’t know how long. She hadn’t asked me anything, the questions she was grappling with perhaps too large to get her twelve-year-old tongue around.
*
I held out my hand which was still trembling. I wanted her to see that I was upset but that I was ok despite it. I offered it as an oddity, with a smile and eyes that I hoped said ‘crazy, no?!’ but didn’t express my fright. Pressing a fifty euro note into her palm, I told her to get whatever she wanted once she was on the train. “Make sure you eat; you need some sugar. Get whatever you like, but get some proper food too, make up for breakfast.”
*
If I put my mind to it, I could pinpoint the day. But as it takes no effort not to think about it, it rarely occurs to me to do the calculation. It’s not one of the things I associate with my first year in the city. It’s almost as though it happened in a parallel timeline. Certain moments in life appear as aberrations. I just put it down to that.
*
“You’ve got you phone, your tablet? You’ve got you ticket and your passport and your wallet? Everything’s going to be ok, honey. Mum’ll be waiting for you at the other end. I’m going to call her now and tell her what happened. Just try to relax as much as you can. This is Gloria. She’s going to help you if you need anything, ok? And call me if you want to talk. And keep me up to date so I know you’re alright, ok? Hey, give me a smile there. You saved a man’s life today.”
“I didn’t do anything, dad.”
*
For twenty minutes after her train departed, I walked around the station, circling the various stalls and picking my way between groups of masked travellers. He’d been wearing a royal blue polo shirt and maybe jeans? Lighter trousers. I looked for the blue. He had silver hair, still black in spots behind his ears, but it was his shirt I kept my eye out for. I knew he’d made it as far as the station. I’d seen him wandering around the entrance when we’d arrived.
*
There was no sign of Patrick anywhere. Why hadn’t I taken his details? I hadn’t even thought to ask for his last name. I looked for security. I should’ve given him my number at least. But what good would it have done? Verónica hadn’t responded to my message yet. I sent a text to my sister and the same one to Sara: Stopped a guy jumping off a bridge this morning. I couldn’t bring myself to write from committing suicide. Less so that I’d saved somebody’s life.
*
“And he was threatening to kill himself? In the station?” The fire marshal frowned. In fifteen years of living here, I’ve rarely felt more of a foreigner. The words just wouldn’t come. But even in English, I think, I’d have struggled to give a clear explanation.
*
Walking home meant retracting my steps. I hoped I’d see him, though I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I did. Offer more platitudes? Call the pompiers? The police? Why hadn’t I got his details? The whole time he’d had his Navigo pass in his hand. It was there, in his fist, when he was sat on the edge of the bridge. What, did he think he was going to hold onto it when he hit the water? Was that how he thought they’d identify his corpse?
*
As soon as I’d seen him, I knew something was up. The way he was sitting and the place he was sat. It was too late in the morning, and he was too still, to be an after-hours reveller making his way home. All the same, the hour felt too early for an addict or a drunk. Neither his clothes nor his posture fit for someone living on the streets. I’d spotted him as we crossed the road. Once we’d reached the pavement, under the pretence of switching the hand which was pulling her suitcase, I’d moved around Katti and put myself between them.
*
It was a long time before I could talk about what happened; until it had the distance of anecdote. Even now, there’s only a handful of people who know.
*
He’d looked back just as we approached. Until then, he’d been so still. Perhaps he heard our footsteps or maybe Katti. She’d been chatting away the entire time but, since noticing Patrick, I hadn’t caught a word of what she said. As we got closer to him, it was as though she’d been put on mute. Everything else too, the sounds of the cars, the city. When we got alongside him, he turned to us and said ‘adieu’. I dropped Katti’s hand, her bag, and dashed towards him.
*
At the bridge, there was a police car parked in the central reservation. He fucking did it, I thought. He came back and did it anyway. I got a kick of adrenaline and felt like I was going to vomit. I must’ve paled; I’d started to sweat. But there were no officers around and no commotion. There was nothing happening on my side of the bridge, nor was there any activity below, neither on the motorway which runs along the quays nor on the banks. The bridge was empty of pedestrians, except for me and two yellow-vested workers on the opposite pavement, their flatbed parked up, smoking. I continued on my way without stopping.
*
Sara called. “Oh my god, that’s terrible. Are you ok? How’s Katti? What happened?”
I gave her the story. “The first thing that crossed my mind was that I wasn’t about to let my daughter witness a suicide. I wasn’t thinking of anything more grandiose than that. And then, when he actually got down and I had his name, I asked him the stupidest question. ‘Is there anybody you want me to contact?’ And you know what he said? ‘No, I’ve got no one. There’s nobody at all.’”
*
Heading back through the Jardin des Plantes, I tried to recall our oblivious conversations. We’d talked about the week just passed, Katti’s favourite parts, the best food that we’d had. I’d made the same dumb jokes I always make when we pass by the Galerie de Paléontologie, with its model stegosaurus and mammoth outside. “We’d better go quickly so we don’t disturb the dinosaurs! Katti! Shh! Tiptoes!” The kind of thing that’s not going to fly with her much longer.
*
I imagine he’d arrived at dawn and watched the sun rise over Créteil.
*
“And he didn’t tell you anything more?”
“I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to ask another stupid question, so I just invited him to have breakfast with us. I tried to chat, like it was the most normal thing in the world, like any two strangers might. I introduced Katti and told him we were on our way to the station so she could take the train to Barcelona. And when I said that, he repeated it, ‘Barcelona’, as though he’d never heard of it before and had no idea what the syllables meant.”
*
I stopped in Franprix and bought a box of twelve Heinekens, a bottle of red, some Pringles and a big bag of peanut M&Ms.
*
“And what was I supposed to tell her, Veró? Gimme a break! I did my best to reassure her, what more could I do? It wasn’t really the best moment to explain to her that, yeah, you know, some people want to end their lives because they think that death is preferable to –
I tried to reassure her! I thought the most important thing was that she didn’t miss her train, actually. I mean, as far as I know she just thinks the guy was drunk or in a funny kind of mood … No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. Of course she knew there was something wrong. But she doesn’t necessarily know what, and I wasn’t about to send her off alone for hours on a train after casually introducing the notion of fucking suicide into her life!”
*
“I wonder what you do with the rest of your day,” Sara said. “I mean, like, where do you go after – not, like, metaphysically speaking, just practically. Do you just go home? I mean,” she laughed nervously, “he can’t have had anything planned for the day. I shouldn’t joke, but you know what I mean. Where do you even begin?”
*
I remember looking at the sky.
*
That afternoon I did some googling. France has one of the highest suicide rates in western Europe, but I couldn’t find much about methods. An article about the Paris River Police from the New York Times said they pull around a hundred people a year out of the Seine, but they could just as easily be accidents as suicides. That was from 2011 anyway, so who knows if the numbers have gone up over time. According to a story in the The Local, within three weeks at the start of 2019, four bodies had been found.
*
“And where did he go?” Sara asked.
“He headed in the same direction we were going, towards the station. We followed at a distance. When we saw him again, around the entrance, he looked right through us. Like, we passed really close, but he was miles away – really somewhere else. That’s what most sticks in my head now, his eyes. He had the darkest rings around his eyes and his pupils looked as though they were submerged. You could barely see through to them, through the constant flow of water, but there, deep under it, were these, like, black, little stones.
*
When I got home and had cooled down, I called Verónica and apologised for hanging up on her. We were able to have a more productive conversation. After that, I texted Sara to cancel the tentative plans we’d made.
*
In an article on Euronews, I read about a WHO reported which had insisted on highlighting research showing that the majority of people who survive a suicide attempt do not go on to die that way. That chimed with a factoid I remembered hearing about the change from gas to electric ovens in the UK, in the 60s or maybe 70s. The switch had precipitated a massive drop in the number of suicides, most of which, it seems, occur when periods of pointed crisis meet with opportunity.
*
“That’s something else I can’t get out my head, like, he turned around and said goodbye. It makes me think he didn’t really want to do it, if you see what I mean. Like he was waiting to be interrupted.”
“Was there anybody else around?”
“I don’t think so. I was in a kind of tunnel vision, to be honest. But it didn’t take any time to convince him either. He didn’t need much persuading. It even crossed my mind that perhaps he does it all the time. Like that’s his thing, you know? Every Friday go down and perch on the bridge, waiting for someone to come and help him. That’s why no one else had noticed him or was bothered, like, ‘yeah, that’s just Patrick, doing his thing.’”
“That’s a very Jewish way of thinking,” Sara said, without explaining what she meant by it.
*
Katti texted to say goodnight, like she does every day that we’re apart. I didn’t see her message until the next morning. Verónica had also sent a text and had tried to call me later too. There were messages from Sara in my voicemail.
*
“I’m so sorry. I’ve been so stupid. I’ve ruined your morning and taken all your time.”
“Not at all. No. It’s not the case at all. It’s alright, Patrick. Don’t worry about it. Come on. Come with us. We want you to. We going to get some breakfast. Come and have breakfast with us, please.”
“No, I’m going to go. Thank you. It’s very kind. You’re very kind.”
Well, take care then. Please. Take care of yourself. You’re a good man.”
*
I’d fallen asleep on the futon, which was still folded out in the living room. When I woke up, around 6pm, I went to buy another bottle of wine.
*
“The other thing I keep thinking is, like, what gave me the right?”
“Alex, come on, you can’t be serious with that.”
“I don’t mean I wouldn’t have stepped in, but like – you said it yourself before, Sara, what’s he going to do now? What’s he going to do with the rest of his day? The rest of his life? I don’t have any way of contacting him. For all I know – What’s my responsibility there? I can’t check up on how he’s getting on. Just, yeah, there you go, off you pop back to whatever situation took you to the brink in the first place.”
“If you’d called the pompiers or whatever, what do you think they would’ve done?”
“Kept him somewhere for observation? Medicated him or something? I don’t know how it works, but they would’ve done something.”
“You did something.”
“I didn’t do a fucking thing.”
*
I dreamt I was travelling on a bus through the night. I was sitting at the back and Katti was down front. I could see her fine because there were so few other passengers. Everything was very peaceful. Reaching a stop, we pulled up under a streetlight. The driver turned on the lights and called “end of the line.” People started filing out. Katti too. She waited to let everybody pass and then got off without looking back. I didn’t move. Switching off the lights, the driver got out and locked up. I was left there. If I just stay put, I thought, eventually he’ll come back, or a replacement driver will, and they’ll take me back to where I came from. I couldn’t remember where that was, so staying onboard seemed to be the safest choice. Though I tried to look for Katti out the window, I couldn’t see past my own reflection. Beyond the ring of the streetlamp’s halogen, the air was black. The engine started up again, and I relaxed. Good thinking, I told myself, not to have got off. I stretched out my leg along the seat, slouching into the corner to wait. As the motor rumbled, the bus began to fill up with exhaust.
*
September started, and, in the rush of la rentrée, I didn’t think of Patrick once. Weeks passed.
*
When the second national lockdown was announced, I ended things with Sara. The choice was to split up or move in. With all my work now being done télétravail, I told her that we’d been discussing a move down south, perhaps even to Barcelona itself, so I could be closer to Katti. I implied Verónica had suggested it, but to be honest it was just a vague idea of mine.
*
People rarely ask, but if they do, I tell them I put my arm through a window. I either say breaking into my old house, having been locked out, or that I drunkenly walked through shut French windows at a barbecue. Something like that usually suffices. Both stories have their variations too. I think I told Sara that coming home late, drunk, as a tearaway teen, I’d discovered my parents hadn’t left out a spare key.
*
I went to get the package from La Poste the day before my birthday. I recognised the postmark before I did my daughter’s handwriting; it’s changed so much. Now she writes like an adolescent, all the letters squat and round, the glittery, turquoise ink giving off the whiff of bubble-gum. On the card inside her name was written in strawberry pink and the dot on the i was a fat little heart. As I tore at the gift’s wrapping, not waiting to get home, a piece of paper slipped out, drifting to the floor. It was a note from Verónica: I don’t know exactly why this what she wanted to get you, but she insisted and said you’d understand. Happy birthday. V.
*
My sister had texted:
- Oh god, how awful! How’s Katti? Is she still with you?
- Yeah, we were on our way to the station. She’s fine. She’s on the train. Veró knows
- And how are you?
Alex is typing …
Alex is typing …
Alex is typing …
- I need a drink
- I bet!
Do you want me to call? I’ll be free over lunchtime if you need to talk
- Thanks Emma but I think I just prefer to be on my own for a bit
- Are you sure? Promise me you’ll call me if it gets too much
Is there somebody there that you can talk to? Just if you need to?
- Yeah. But I’m ok, really. Just a little shaken.
- I’m here if you need me, Alex. You’ve done something incredible today. I’m proud of you
- Yeah. I don’t know
Thanks Em
- We love you, Alex. Please, take care X
*
I think he said he was from Melun. Either Melun or Saint-Maur. All I could make out was the ‘m’ sound. When he said it though, I nodded along as though I knew exactly what he meant. I might’ve even said “nice!” I’d given him a potted history of my life, just trying to keep the conversation going. I still wonder why I didn’t think to get his details, or why it didn’t occur to me to call the authorities until it was too late. Perhaps it wouldn’t have helped either way. I say helped; I mean soothed my conscience.
*
On the day itself, I wore the shirt. I’ve always looked good in blue; it brings out my eyes. Though I’d normally talk to them from bed, the kitchen, or wherever I am when they call, the arranged nature of the birthday breakfast Skype had me set up like I would be for class: sat at my table, in front of my well-curated bookshelves, although now with plenty of photos of Katti on display. Usually, with students on, I take the personal stuff down. As well as pastries, juice and coffee, I had some other cards laid out to make a bit of a show of opening things. I’d pretend I hadn’t opened hers, but, in the circumstances, I thought it would be easier if I already had the shirt on. Mentally, I rehearsed the twirl I’d do when she appeared. As I sat waiting for the screen to load, I took in my reflection. A year from forty. I raised my eyebrows and tried to smile, a face which said “crazy, no?!” without giving anything away.