Windows on the World. Frédéric Beigbeder

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       8:37

      The kids are bored now and it’s my fault, bringing them to places for oldsters. But they were the ones who insisted! I thought the view would keep them occupied, but that’s done and dusted pretty quickly. They’re like their dad: they get bored with everything pretty quickly. A generation of frantic channel-hopping, schizophrenic existentialism. What will they do when they find out they can’t have everything, be everything? I feel sorry for them, because it’s something I never got over myself.

      I always feel weird when I see my kids. I’d like to be able to say “I love you,” but it’s too late. When they were three, I would tell them I loved them until they fell asleep. In the morning I’d wake them by tickling their feet. Their feet were always cold, always sticking out from under the duvet. But they’re too macho now, they’d tell me to get lost. And I hardly ever look after them, don’t get to see them enough, I’m not part of their routine anymore. Instead of saying “I love you,” this is what I should say:

      “There are worse things in life than having an absent father: having a present father. Someday you’ll thank me for not smothering you. You’ll realize I was helping you find your wings, pampering you from afar.”

      But this time, it’s too soon. They will understand when they’re my age: forty-three. It’s strange, two brothers who are inseparable but always fighting. There’s no need to pity us this morning. The Rice Krispies keep them occupied for a bit: Snap, Crackle, Pop. We talk about this stolen vacation when they should be back at school. David wants to go to Universal Studios again. He spent the whole year showing off in his “I survived Jurassic Park” T-shirt. He didn’t even want to put it in the wash. Is there anything more arrogant than a seven-year-old? Later, kids learn self-discipline, there’s less showing off. Take Jerry for example, two years older and already he’s a man, he has self-control, he knows how to compromise. He thinks he’s all that, too, in his Eminem sweatshirt, but at least he makes less of deal of it: he’s the big brother. David’s always sick with something, I hate hearing him coughing all the time, it winds me up, and I can’t work out if it’s the sound of the coughing that winds me up, or whether it’s anxiety, some sort of paternal love. Deep down, what annoys me is never being sure that I’m good, but being absolutely certain that I’m selfish.

      A Brazilian businessman lights a cigar. You have to be mad to smoke at this time of the morning. I beckon the maître d’, who rushes over to him since, like every other public space in the city, Windows is non-smoking. The guy pretends this is the first he’s heard of it, pretends to be shocked, demands to be shown the smoking section. The maître d’ explains that he’ll have to go down to the street! Rather than stub out his cigar, the smoker gets up and does just that, sprinting toward the elevator; no doubt a matter of principle.