The Thursday Night Men Read Online Free Page A

altar of deposed masculinity. With prototypes like this one among the brotherhood, there was a good chance he would be a frequent visitor. As for Yves Lehaleur, he would rethink his rejection of psychoanalysis, if it were to prove useful to someone like Denis Benitez.
    Denis went to sit back down in the last row, where he was greeted with a discreet smile from his neighbors, Yves Lehaleur and Philippe Saint-Jean, both of whom were astonished by his performance, admiring not only his nerve but above all his outrageous imagination. Their expressions told him they had heard what he had to say.
    Yves was tempted to climb up on the podium and come out with everything he had on his mind, too—if guys like Denis were allowed in, there was no reason why he, Yves, should have any hang-ups about telling his story. But it was getting late and he would have to keep his anger for another week. As for Philippe Saint-Jean, he would need another session before he could make up his mind about something he now viewed as a social phenomenon. He was curious about this group therapy without a therapist, this astonishing all-male confessional, this occult congregation you could adhere to without any co-optation or initiation rites or preliminary enquiry. He had come there fully prepared to pass judgment or share some savory sarcasm with his entourage. But in fact he had just witnessed a rare moment of tolerance, of the kind you could not label in any way, or subject to even the most woolly dogma. What he did not yet know was the real reason for his presence here. His intellectual curiosity had been satisfied, and it probably wouldn’t take long for his true motivation to surface, one of these Thursday evenings. Philippe was inhabited by absence, and nothing could explain away the pain—and he was someone who was greatly in need of meaningful explanations.
    Before they all left the room, they were informed that the next meeting would be held in the same place. Some of them would not come back. Others would. Between now and then, life could go on.

2
    Some men like to undress a woman with a single gaze; Denis Benitez indulged in a far more presumptuous pastime. He could wrench the hidden truth from every woman who passed him in the street. Since in their eyes he no longer existed, since he was no longer a physical presence in their world, he had discovered that he had a talent for invisibility which allowed him to brush by women like a ghost, to spy on them and steal their secrets.
    Crossing a median strip on the edge of the Place de la Nation, a female figure suddenly appeared:
white flowered dress, her expression that of a mother for whom it has all gone too fast.
    Another woman climbing into a taxi:
blonde, thirtysomething, slightly, but disarmingly cross-eyed, ready to proclaim her independence to whoever will listen.
    With experience he had reached a point where not a single woman in his path was spared, and he only took their age, looks, or clothing into consideration if they provided a serious clue.
    A jogger, all in a sweat, resting on a bench:
very dark eyes, slightly plump, full of a tenderness that no one returns.
    In her newspaper kiosk:
thirty-five-year-old adolescent, displaying her breasts like medals.
    Or that one, in thigh boots and suede:
straight, slow, blasé shadows under her eyes, she dreams more of laughter than of sex.
    The saleswoman smoking outside her boutique:
haughty, classy, no one knows the operating instructions, not even she herself.
    The girl climbing onto her scooter:
badly dressed, strict eyeglasses, ready to fall in love with a man as if he were the last one on earth.
    And that one, standing next to her fiancé, who’s as arrogant as she is:
very modern, ready to elbow her way, and later she’ll say to her grandchildren, If only I’d known.
    Or that one:
pregnant, lovely smooth skin, she knows who she can share her joy with, but not her fears.
    Or that one:
tourist from the north, husband walking way ahead,