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‘Winter 54’ collection. Hector watched her in slow motion; her woman’s mouth opened.

5
    ‘Hello, my name is Marcel Schubert.’
    ‘Like the composer?’ asked Hector, trying to be convivial, and saying the first thing that came to his mind. ‘No, it’s spelt Choubert.’ Once the preliminaries were done with, something happened in the expressions of these two men, something gentle and intimate, something seeming like the evidence of a friendship.
    Choubert was Géraldine’s nephew through marriage. She had come to see him because she knew that this nephew had suffered from compulsive hoarding in the past, and that he had come out of it. She had merely suggested that they meet, and Choubert had appeared in front of Hector saying: ‘Hello, I am Marcel Schubert.’ He had a clear advantage over Hector, as he had not changed collections since 1986. He had a stable passion and presently lived in a quasi-humdrum frenzy. He worked in some bank or another that, thanks to honest bonuses, allowed him to appease his passion. His parents had gone to live in Venezuela (his father had become ambassador as he had not managed to finish writing a novel before the age of thirty) and had left him a sumptuous 65-square-metre pad in the Second Arrondissement in Paris. After a short walk one could reach the Stock Exchange. At the time when the Berlin Wall was crumbling, he had met a Laurence, and they had been building a relationship ever since. Some must know Laurence since she was an attacking player in the ping-pong team whose performance was appreciated during the world championship in Tokyo; the others will get to know her later. The couple had not wanted any children, it was a choice like any other. They sometimes received guests for dinner in an atmosphere that was always very pleasant. When the mood was excellent, jokes could be expected from Choubert as the dishes were being washed in the kitchen.
    This was a happy life.
    The principal information that Marcel divulged to Hector was that there existed meetings of Collectors Anonymous. They took place every Thursday on the first floor of a discreet building. The concierge thought they were a sect, but, greased with gifts, she had stopped thinking about it at all. Hector listened to Marcel; for the first time, he was with somebody who could understand him. From the following Thursday, he went with him. Hector introduced himself to the eight people present at the meeting, and all expressed sincere compassion. He explained how his life had been an absurd chain of absurd collections. His confession relieved him, but far less than listening to the others. The aim of the
Collectors Anonymous
meetings was in fact not to feel isolated anymore. Healing became possible as soon as the suffering of others was acknowledged. It was also the strangeness of all these meetings: what seemed like the height of mutual assistance was the most egotistical enterprise there is.
    Thus strange discussions could be apprehended:
    ‘I had a great “howlophilist” period until March 1977, just before I became a “keyboardophile”.’
    ‘Oh really, you were a “keyboardophile”?’
    ‘Yes, I needed to reassure myself, to hang on to something.’
    ‘That was certainly better than being a “skylightophile”!’
    ‘Oh, how funny!’
    This is just a sample of the pre-meeting ambience. Then everyone would sit down (except the one who was collecting moments of when he was standing), and Marcel led the debates. Everyone spoke in turn, and more time was spent on those who had relapsed during the week. It was adorable. With regard to Hector, everyone agreed that he would come out of it quickly. He was young and the illness had been detected in time. For others (and here we think especially of Jean, completely addicted to miniature trains and to lighters) there was not anything more that could be done – they were euthanising themselves gently during the meetings. And there were also these two Poles who