...more

Thus, one morning, I went to look into taking driving classes at the driver's ed office. It was a rather large place, almost dark, in the back of which several rows of chairs were arranged in front of a projector screen. The walls were covered with all sorts of street signs, some pale blue notices here and there, faded and dated. The young lady who helped me gave me a list of documents that I had to provide in order to sign up for the course, informed me of the prices and the number of classes I would have to take, a dozen max for the permit, twenty for the license, if everything went well. Then, opening a drawer, she handed me a paper to fill out, which I pushed back towards her without even glancing at it, explaining to her that, no rush, I would prefer to fill it out later, if that was possible, when I would come back with all the documents, for example, that seemed much easier to me.

I then spent the day at my place, read the newspaper, went through some of my mail. Towards evening, it happened by chance that I passed by the driver's ed office again. I seized the opportunity to push open the door, and the young lady, seeing me come in, thought that, in reality, I had come back to sign up for the course. I had to inform her that this was not the case, letting her believe that the process was coming along; I already had a photocopy of my passport and I was planning to find out before too long how I should go about obtaining la fiche d'état civil. She gave me a perplexed look and reminded me on my way out not to forget the photos (right, right, I said, four photos).

That same night, having obtained la fiche d'état civil (I even had a copy made), I went back to the driver's ed office. I halted for a second at the threshold of the door and raised my head towards a sonorous witness, a copper bell being tapped by a little hammer. The young lady explained to me, smiling, that usually she unplugged it when she was there, and, getting up, she walked out from behind her desk and crossed the room wearing a thin, light colored frock to show me what triggered the bell. It was a rather ingenious system, I must say, and we enjoyed ourselves for a few minutes playing with it, cutting off then putting back on the sound, opening and shutting the door, at times from the inside and at others from the outside, when it started to get dark. We were both outside still playing with the apparatus when the phone rang. She went inside to answer it and, while she was talking, I waited next to her, slightly moving objects on her desk, opening random drawers. Once she had hung up, she asked me how my application was coming along, and together we made a sort of inventory of all the documents I had already gotten together. It seemed to me that, in order to be able to turn in the application, the only things that were missing, apart from the self-addressed envelope, were the photos. Before leaving, I let her know that, speaking of photos, a little while ago, at my house, I had found some photos of myself when I was little. Why don't I show them to you, I said while taking out the envelope from my coat pocket, and walking around to the other side of her desk, I went through them one by one, leaning over her shoulder in order to point to what I was I explaining. So, there, I said, I'm standing next to my father and there, that's my sister in my mom's arms. There, we're both with my sister in the pool; behind the mud, that's my sister all right, so little. There, that's us again, my sister and I, in the pool. There you have it, I said putting the photos back into the envelope, I think you'll agree that this is of little use to us (for the application, I said).

When, the next morning, I showed up at the driver's ed office as soon as it opened (I still didn't have the photos, nope, it wasn't even worth asking), the young lady was busy making tea on a little burner. She was wearing a large white woolen sweater over her dress, and looked sleepy. I went to sit down on a chair facing the projection screen and, unfolding my newspaper, started reading it so as not to inconvenience her. We made small talk while I was catching up with current events and, when her tea was ready, she asked me, yawning, if I would like a cup. Without putting down the paper, still reading, I told her no, ou-la-la, what's the world coming to. But a cup coffee on the other hand, I said putting down the paper, I wouldn't turn down. Even some nescafé, I said. While the young lady went to get some nescafé (grab some croissants too, I said, while you're up), I waited alone in the driver's ed office and, so as not to be bothered, I padlocked the glass door. I picked back up reading where I had left off when I heard some cute little knocks behind me at the door. I looked up, saddened, and turned around to see that it was not the young lady, but a young man, an unattractive one at that, wearing a sort of green raincoat and loafers with white socks. I put my paper down again and got up to open the door, he was going to get it, this guy. What do you want, I said. I just turned eighteen, he said (as if he was trying to impress me). We're closed, I said. But I was already here yesterday, he added, I just wanted to drop off my application. Let's not be stubborn ok, I said, slowly closing my eyes. I closed the door. Then, while he walked away, I stayed behind the window for a couple of minutes, hands in coat pockets, looking at the view, pensive. Birds were pecking at crumbs on the sidewalk. The young man, a little further out, had reached his moped and was busy trying to secure his bag to his bike with the help of frayed bungee cords. He turned around to glance in my direction and, getting on his moped, rode off trailing a bus, it's hopeless, now be along. During breakfast, which we, the young lady and I, had together a moment after this in front of the projection screen, having placed a chair in front of us and torn open the longer part of the croissant bag, we chatted about this and that, trying to get to know each other a little bit better. Sitting next to me, legs crossed, she had rolled up the sleeves of her big sweater and was massaging her arm nonchalantly, head lowered, still looking sleepy. We talked about everything and nothing, casually, taking a slow sip from time to time. Then, while she started to clean up our mess, I picked up all the scattered crumbs off the chair and, asking me what I was planning on doing today, I told her that I was probably going to try to get the photos taken care of. She sat back down behind her desk and, busy sorting through some papers, told me, yawning, that at this pace I would never finish my application. Personally, I didn't completely agree. She misunderstood my method, in my opinion, not realizing that my approach, rather obscure to those unfamiliar, was based on the idea that I could exhaust the reality with which I was grappling, like one can exhaust an olive for example, before successfully picking it with a fork, and that my propensity to not hasten matters, far from having a negative effect, in reality prepared for me a good working ground where, when things seemed ripe, I could make my move with ease.