Le Week-End Page #5

Mmm.

I know it's awful.

I can't wait to be with him

every minute of the day.

He knows everything.

I will never be bored by him.

Suppose he's bored by you?

Really? You think?

I don't believe in that.

"The one."

There are many ones.

That's the problem.

People start to murder you.

You have to be ruthless.

My husband claimed

I was unfaithful.

And what did you say?

I thought,

"What a waste.

"To be accused of being a

whore and to be so innocent."

I'm sorry.

When's the baby due?

Oh, it's for April.

Sorry.

Who are you?

Nick. I'm Nick.

Do you like that music?

Uh... I like all music.

I give it a go.

Good for you.

Do you want a drink?

Aren't you, um, enjoying the party?

I'm not sure enjoyment's

really my thing.

I don't quite fit in.

Even on my own, I don't fit in,

let alone with anyone else.

- You live here?

- Oh, I'm just here for the weekend.

I live in New York.

- Crikey.

- Yeah, Morgan's my dad.

Oh, right.

How's that? Not too bad?

Does he talk in a loud

voice all the time?

Even his emails are loud.

Hi.

- Hi.

- Can I join you?

Please do.

- It's high up, yes?

- Yeah.

It is.

Do you know Paris well?

No. No, not well.

So we have, over there, the Louvre,

la Gare d'Orsay and the Tour

Montparnasse over there.

- Mmm-hmm.

- Les Invalides.

- L'Assemble nationale.

- Oh, yes.

L'Obelisk.

- You see l'Obelisk?

- It's pretty.

I mean, a weekend in Paris.

What a drag!

The more out of it

I am, the better.

You've obviously never

been to Birmingham.

I'd make the most of this

city, if I were you.

- That's what my dad says.

- He does?

He and I don't really

share that many interests.

That's not unusual.

I mean, he likes the

idea of me being around.

He sends me air tickets,

but he really freaks out if we're

ever stuck in the same room together.

He feels bad, guilty, I suppose.

He hates being hated.

What about your mum?

She's okay.

She tried to, you

know, kill herself.

Oh, f***!

Yeah, she, like,

threw herself out of a window.

Oh, my God!

Yeah, but she's okay.

She's over that now.

What are you thinking?

Sorry?

What are you thinking

at this moment?

The, um, situation

of a woman like me.

Boredom, dissatisfaction...

Fury.

And the clock ticking by.

What a great thing.

What?

To be so attuned to

your own unhappiness.

Look...

You see La... La Rue de Rivoli?

Around the corner,

there is a little bar

where we could have a

drink, if you like.

When?

Now, if you like.

What do you do?

- I'm a teacher.

- A teacher?

Yes, really.

Jesus!

Is that a f***ing

monkey I see before me?

Do you know what my

problem has been?

I am one of those

unfortunate people

who is congenitally

faithful to his wife.

Unlike the rest of the population, I

don't want to go to bed with strangers.

I only like her.

For me, there's never been sex

without an attempt at love.

Uh-huh?

Love is the only interesting thing.

It's far, far more

difficult to do than sex.

What is wrong with me?

What's he telling you?

Um, to be honest, it's

difficult to make sense of it.

They want us to eat.

Having a good time?

A man asked me to have

a drink with him.

Did he?

What did you say?

I said yes.

When?

Later tonight.

Don't do that.

Please don't do that.

I want to go.

Um... Here, you should take these.

You might need them.

We are all here to celebrate

the brilliance of this.

Ah!

Bravo!

Bravo! Bravo!

No...

Yeah, which he wrote while

working, while running our lives,

attending to me,

buying art and learning Russian.

Yeah, that's true.

Yeah, he has the energy

of 100 teenagers.

Yes.

But wait. He's dark. He's moody.

Moody?

Yes.

He talks all the time,

all through breakfast.

In fact, he talks even

when he's on the toilet.

I'm stunned. That's dessert talk.

Yeah, he has more exes,

I think, than Pre-Lachaise.

But I... I agreed to take him on.

Mmm, pourquoi? Pourquoi?

Idiocy.

Idiocy? Idiocy?

No, love.

Yes, love.

To you, my love.

To Morgan.

Cheers. Sant.

- Sant. Cheers.

- Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you, sweet. Let me say it quick.

Let me get this over with.

Thank you. What have I done to deserve

such love, and from my wife of all people?

Oh, my golly!

Well, just very quickly,

thank you all for coming.

Those books, by the way, they're

gonna be in a box in the hall.

So on your way out, take five

or ten, as many as you want.

Some are even unsigned. I think

that makes them more valuable.

But may I take this opportunity not to say

anything more about that lousy little book,

which already is, frankly,

wildly out of date,

but about this fella right here?

Nick Burrows, who I found yesterday,

as you do so often with old friends,

kissing a woman

passionately in the street.

He later claimed that

that woman was his wife.

But, no, you know.

I'm thinking back right now, uh, on a

time when you and I were skulking around

and loitering in

gloomy Cambridge pubs,

presuming to figure out

how to fix the world.

I made him take me

on as his disciple

and stalked him at meetings

and followed him around

to these little bring-your-own-bottle

parties in bedsits

and grubby little restaurants

with names like Eros

and The Whim.

He started to shame me

into reading real things.

You made me concentrate for more

than five minutes at a time.

And he made me say true things

for the first time in my short and

well-upholstered Yankee life.

My gosh.

I thank you publicly for

keeping the torch burning,

as you have done so

magnificently over these years.

Ladies and gents, may

we raise a glass

to my friend Nick Burrows.

Thank you, Nick.

To Nick Burrows.

Sant.

Thank you, my friend.

F***.

Sh*t... Um...

F***ing hell.

Thank you for that, Morgan.

I'm grateful for what you said.

Um...

I'm surprised, too, and taken

aback, quite far back.

But I was reminded of something.

Of myself.

Of the self

I hide in myself.

I'm still an anarchist

of the left, I suppose.

I'm still a fool for the truth.

Always my weak point.

So I suppose I should,

on that basis, point out

that the university where I teach

is not a proper university,

but it's an ex-polytechnic, which is now

a factory on the outskirts of Birmingham,

set up to produce only idiocy.

I should point out that

I have just been sacked

for apparently speaking inappropriately

to a female black student.

My older son is a pot-head with rats

in the house that we bought for him

with the last of our savings.

His chosen profession is to watch

television in the afternoons.

I'm broke.

Every bone and muscle in

my body screams with agony

when I attempt to tie my shoelaces.

I'm near shitting myself with fear

and anxiety every moment of the day.

Plus the fact my wife is well aware

that I only cling to her like a

drowning man to a shelf of melting ice

because no one else would touch me.

She's planning, in fact, to give

me the slip later this evening

in order to be with another man.

Well, good for her.

And good for him, too.

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