Last Days of an Ordinary Man

Paris, that rough-skinned old bitch, had, as usual, spread her gray shroud over Louis. And Louis, like a fish out of water, was struggling in this sea of sadness. He was toasting, raising his elbow in an old rade that reeked of lukewarm beer and the sweat of despair, his estaminet of woe. The others, thick brutes, would spit their saucy laughter into the rancid air, laughing at him and his latest bullshit on the job. A grain of sand in the gears, a misplaced comma in the tragi-comedy of life, but for them, it was like a pearl of humor that they chipped away at to the bone.

"That's just like you, Louis! Never at a loss for idiocy!" bellowed a burly man with a puffy face, his moustache twitching like an earthworm with each chuckle. The others agreed, mugs in hand, scratching his back with their sarcasm.

Paris, old Paris, all filthy and decrepit, was the distorting mirror of his life: worn, crotty and without an ounce of dignity. The winding alleys, the dilapidated shacks, the gray complexion of passers-by - everything was painted with his decay.

Louis felt betrayed. By his town, by his pals, by himself. The incessant affronts, the taunts, the mockery had nibbled his confidence to the bone. He saw himself as a nobody, a good-for-nothing, a failure.

In his corner, he swallowed his lukewarm piquette in silence, drowning in his grief and resentment. He ogled the broken faces of the zinc, their faces burnished by years of toil, booze and disappointments. He recognized himself in their hollow gazes. And the future that lay ahead seemed just as bleak.

"Come on, Louis, don't worry," said one of the guys, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder. "There are worse things, aren't there? You could be... dead!" The others laughed, as if it were the joke of the century.

Louis stared at them, grinning yellow. Yeah, they were right. He could be dead. It was an idea that was beginning to tickle his fancy. Death, an escape, a way out of this life that was nothing but humiliation and shame.

Maybe death was the only way out. Maybe it was time to say stop. After all, who would mourn him? Who would miss a man who was a joke to his fellow man?

Louis' life was a grim farce, a mishmash of small, insignificant victories and great humiliations. And that evening, as the laughter echoed through the rotten bar, he wondered if it wouldn't be better to put an end to this pantalonnade.

********

Louis had known less gloomy days, fleeting flashes of light on the horizon of his misfortune, burning for a moment like embers before dying out in the blackness of oblivion. Ah, the time of fleeting little joys. They were little more than drops of water in an ocean of sour wine, but they had the taste of triumph, the perfume of importance.

Louis still remembered the time he'd climbed a rung at the factory. The stunned faces of his colleagues, the pride that swelled in his heart - it had all been true, once. But that victory had turned sour when the plant closed a few months later, leaving Louis and his hopes of greatness on the curb.

And then there was Annette, that cute girl with the jet hair and honey-sweet eyes. Annette, who had played at loving him, or perhaps had really loved him. She had made Louis dream of happy days, of a brighter tomorrow. But Annette had walked away, leaving Louis alone with his regrets and shattered dreams.

There had been other small victories, moments when the world seemed to fit in the palm of her hand. But each time, these victories were eclipsed by greater defeats, more bitter humiliations. It was as if he was destined to remain at the bottom of the ladder, always to be the buffoon, the man not to be trusted.

And then, death had begun to caress his mind. Like a refuge, an emergency exit. Not as a plunge into the void, no, more like a long nap. A way of saying "fuck it" to this cruel world that had never given him anything but slaps and cheap shots. A way of freeing himself from this shitty, aimless, hopeless life.

The idea of suicide had crept into his head like an unwelcome tenant, settled there, made its nest. He thought about the means, the consequences, the fear, the pain. But these dark thoughts were like a poultice on his wounds. They consoled him, gave him something to look forward to.

********

Poor Louis was like a rat in a labyrinth with no way out, a runaway horse running straight into the wall. The dirty, winding streets of Paris had become his labyrinth, his purgatory. The seedy troquets, the bistros reeking of rancid fried food and tobacco, were his only refuges, islands of familiarity in the ocean of his malaise.

He haunted these places, looking for a little human warmth, a friendly hand to shake, a shoulder to cry on. But all he found was the coldness of the walls, the indifference of the regulars, the mocking echo of his own lamentations.

The people he used to know, those he had once called friends, had become strangers. They laughed, they talked, they lived, without seeing Louis' distress, without hearing his muffled cries for help. And every time he tried to get closer to them, to recapture some of that lost camaraderie, he came up against a wall of incomprehension, a curtain of indifference.

He felt like a stranger in his own life, a ghost wandering aimlessly in a world that had forgotten his existence. Familiar places seemed strange, distorted, like theater sets after the show was over. The people he had known had become soulless puppets, automatons endlessly reproducing the same gestures, the same words.

And as Louis wandered through this world that was no longer his own, the idea of suicide grew inside him. It was no longer a vague desire, a furtive thought, but a certainty, a resolution. He thought of the rope, the razor, the river. He thought of fear, pain, death. But these thoughts no longer frightened him.

********

Louis, the indefatigable disappointment, had concocted his end with maniacal care. A blade honed to perfection, a bubbling bath, a glassful of moonshine to get the heart pumping. Everything was ready for his ultimate dance.

He immersed himself in the tub, uncorked the bottle, grabbed the blade. He felt the metallic cold on his skin, saw his blood stain the water. Pain, then numbness, and finally the black veil of unconsciousness.

But existence, the bitch, wasn't done with him yet. Louis awoke in a hospital room, in a bed as white as the shroud of death. The nurses worked around him in monastic silence, giving him pitying looks. He wanted to move, to speak, but his body had ceased to obey.

Fate had mocked him, the Louis, the man who had even missed his exit. It was a bad joke, a desperate irony. He was stuck between two worlds, unable to live, unable to die.

Then came the denouement. Lying in his hospital bed, helpless, humiliated, an ordinary infection, rampant gangrene. An untreated wound, a breeding ground for the most voracious bacteria. And there Louis was, struck down not by the blade of his choice, but by an insidious death.

Thus ended the story of Louis, the man who had sought death and found it where he least expected it. His life, a ballet of small victories and great humiliations, had ended on a note of tragic ridicule, a sinister farce played out by fate. Life was a black comedy, and Louis had been its unlucky hero.