Windows on the World. Frédéric Beigbeder

important in America is beige. The walls are comforting, the carpet is thick, eggshell with a geometric pattern. Your loafers sink into the deep wool pile. The ground seems soft; that should have set us thinking.

      “Keep it down!”

      Half past eight and already the kids are hyper. How old are we when we start to wake up exhausted? I can’t stop yawning while they’re running around all over the place, zigzagging between the tables, almost knocking over an old lady with lilac hair.

      “Stop it, guys!”

      I try glaring at them, but still they don’t behave. I have no control over my sons; even when I get angry, they think I’m just kidding. They’re right: I am kidding. I don’t really believe it. Like all parents of my generation, I’m incapable of being strict. Our kids are badly brought up because they’re not brought up at all. At least, not by us, they’re brought up by cartoon channels. Thank you, Disney Channel, the world’s babysitter! Our kids are spoiled rotten, because we’re spoiled rotten. Jerry and David wind me up, but they have something over their mother; at least I still love them. That’s why I’m letting them cut class this week. They’re completely ecstatic about skipping school! I slump into my rust-colored chair and look round at the incredible view. “Unbelievable,” the brochure said: for once the advertising doesn’t lie. I’m blinded by the sunlight on the Atlantic. The skyscrapers carve out the blue like a cardboard stage set. In America, life is like a movie, since all movies are shot on location. All Americans are actors and their houses, their cars, and their desires all seem artificial. Truth is reinvented every morning in America. It’s a country that has decided to look like something on celluloid.

      “Sir…”

      The waitress is none too pleased at having to play cop. She brings back Jerry and David, who’ve just stolen a doughnut from a pair of stockbrokers and are using it as a Frisbee. I should slap them, but I can’t help smiling. I get up to apologize to the doughnut’s owners. They both work for Cantor Fitzgerald: a blonde who is sexy despite her Ralph Lauren suit (do girls really dress like that anymore?) and a stocky dark-haired man who seems cool in his Kenneth Cole suit. You don’t need to be a P.I. to work out they’re lovers. Would you take your wife to breakfast at the top of the World Trade Center? No…You leave your old lady at home and invite a colleague from the office for an early-morning tryst (the yuppie version of an afternoon tryst). I eavesdrop, I love listening at keyholes, especially when there aren’t any.

      “I’m pretty bullish about the NASDAQ at the moment…” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “Merril’s been upgrading the banking sector just on spec,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

      “Leave your wife,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “So we can be a normal couple?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

      “We’d never be a normal couple,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “You don’t hear me asking you to leave your husband,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

      “I would if you asked me to,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “What we’ve got is special because it’s impossible,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

      “I’m sick of only getting to see you in the morning or the afternoon,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “I’m worse at night,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

      “Jeffrey Skilling invited me to L.A. in his private jet this weekend,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “Yeah? And how are you going to get that one past your husband?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

      “None of your business,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “If you do that, you’ll never see me again,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

      “You’re jealous of Mike but you don’t care about my husband?” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “You haven’t fucked your husband for two years,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

      “Leave your wife,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.

      “You really feel bullish about the NASDAQ?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.

       8:36

      “The Windows of the World” is the title of a song by Burt Bacharach and Hal David released by Dionne Warwick in 1967. The lyrics? They were written in protest at the Vietnam War.

       The windows of the world are covered with rain.

       Where is the sunshine we once knew?

       Ev’rybody knows when little children play

       They need a sunny day to grow straight and tall.

       Let the sun shine through.

       The windows of the world are covered with rain.

       When will those black skies turn to blue?

       Ev’rybody knows when boys turn to men

       They start to wonder when their country will call.

       Let the sun shine through.

      I wonder whether the owner of Windows on the World was familiar with the song.

       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