When Jonathan Died

by Tony Duvert

  The two of them, that was it. They were so like each other that Simon didn’t wonder that they enjoyed each other’s company. They were what he was not; he knew that, and accepted it. He enjoyed his own life, after all.

  And Barbara helped him, she was his security. She could make the world alright, bring it down to a manageable scale; grandiloquent, she miniaturised the people who troubled you; and then showed off and magnified the cretins she honoured with her absurdities. She saved his life, although he wasn’t fooled. But who ever said a cur, a mongrel (Simon depressed would think of himself like this), deserved the mistress he adored?

  On the other hand, Simon’s income would soon be more than ten thousand francs a month. It was an achievement. He could see himself opening his own office soon. He had be-come a careerist only for Barbara’s sake, and he had suc-ceeded. That was something in favour of couples, wasn’t it?

  Sitting up in bed, a cigarette in his hand, his last gin on the bedside table, Simon first spoke prudently, flattering Bar-bara’s body, as if in spontaneous praise. He could see its faults, but they didn’t worry him; he liked squashiness. He felt at home there; his character and her flabby masses were the terrain where they met. However, he expressed this comple-mentarity in terms less cynical, and spoke of Man and Woman.

  Barbara was pleased by the compliments, and she put on a certain air.

  ‘I’m going to have to give her one, just for the little bastard’s sake,’ he thought.

  This vulgar expression was inexact; Barbara rarely allowed penetration. Usually, she masturbated herself while sitting astride her husband, who masturbated himself behind her, between the jelly-like buttocks which married so closely with his own slight paunch.

  ‘Serge was talking to me earlier on.’

  ‘What is it this time? Now listen…’

  ‘No, it’s just about that holiday of ours. Well, just for six days, he can miss school, fine, but we can’t leave him here all on his own, can we? And if he went with us he’d be really bored in London. So.’

  ‘London… Yes, but what’s the matter then? Explain a little bit, darling. I don’t understand. What is it?’

  Her voice grew softer as she spoke her favourite words; she was brushing her hair. With each stroke of the brush, the Dutline of her buttock was squashed into waves, like a stirred mayonnaise, and then it returned to its pleasant and photo­genic original form.

  ‘It’s just him,’ said Simon, ‘he wants to go to Jonathan’s while we’re away.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  She had seemed to cry out in exasperation; but she moved her brush from one hand to the other with the gesture of a film star, and she was calm and in high good humour.

  ‘Well, now,’ said Simon, ‘I love Serge very much, but it would be nice not to have him with us for a while.’

  ‘I know, but no!… That’s enough of Jonathan!… It’s not healthy, you’ve got to admit it!… Since he’s come back from there, he’s never been the same, he’s quite impossible. No, darling.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘No! Listen to me: no. It just doesn’t make sense! I’d much rather send him to mother’s. Anyway, she’s asked for him herself, in fact. Oh yes, she was saying, you can imagine, oh so it’s like that again! Oh I understand!’

  ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Well the summer holidays of course. I had to tell her we’d sent Serge to Jonathan’s. What, two months and a bit. And so it started: oh yes, you prefer to send your son to a stranger, of course I never see him, no that’s quite alright, I’m only his grandmother indeed, etcetera.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Well, Simon, you can say what you like. My mother, I don t care, I really don’t give a damn, but just the same it’s not very nice. Not for me at least! I can’t spit in her face, you just realise that, even if I was dying to do it! There are limits, after all. I can’t do it.’

  ‘But he’ll be bored to death over there in Peronne.’

  ‘Now look here, just listen to me! That’s all changed. Now me, when I was a kid, I tell you, it wasn’t every day we had fun. What a lovely childhood that was! But I’ve met a really wonderful girl down there, she’s opened a children’s work­shop — yes, things are changing! — she’s tremendous. I met her through friends, and I’m telling you, it would be really great.’

  ‘But will it be open?’

  ‘Of course. I said to mother, fine, but he’s used to playing outside, take him there, it’s a friend of mine, etcetera. Because otherwise she wouldn’t even give her the time of day, I know that. I do know her, after all. If you want to know, at seven­teen, me, I wasn’t allowed to wear lipstick; you know what it was like.’

  Barbara was combing her hair all over again, with a long comb in clear plastic, and she’d put on a bed jacket.

  ‘No, she’s really good this girl! You can put your kids there almost from morning till night! And she gets them to prepare the food, it’s decent, not like in a canteen, and she teaches them to make cakes and everything, she’s got looms, potting things, I tell you, if you’d seen the little girls, and the boys. Absolutely radiant! Really out of this world! The kids! But I’m sorry, I did see them! No, really! You can see them there, really enjoying themselves. I can tell, I was actually there, you realise. I’ve been saddled with Serge, you didn’t really have that, no, I’m not blaming you, just think a little bit. No, it’ll be good for him. Because I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but he’s get­ting neurotic, that kid of yours. And then there’s their draw­ings! My dear! If you saw them, you’d start painting again. All over the walls! And not like Jonathan’s either, oh no, a bit of air please, a bit of fresh air! And love! And openness, they’re really open! Everything he isn’t, in fact.’

  ‘He’s not very sociable, just now, though, is he?’ said Simon wealdy, ‘Don’t you think that with the other kids…’

  ‘But we haven’t been paying attention to him, you see. It’s a real problem, you wouldn’t know, they need parenting, oth­erwise they just go wrong, straight away. Well, I’m not so good at it, you’re not really that much better. That’s the worst of it. What they want — when you come down to it, darling — they want you to be normal. Hell!… And that’s the whole problem! We were wrong to leave him with J the whole summer. That was really the last thing we should have done. And I did say so. Well, I let it go, but only…’

  ‘No!’ Simon interjected, ‘no, that isn’t true! It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it. And J, well, I know we don’t agree, but as for me, he really is somebody. And Serge didn’t complain, did he?’

  Simon, in his frankness, or in mere sexist solidarity, or because, before the summer, he’d had such a long struggle about this with Barbara, or because he could see perfectly well how strange it was — what colleague from the office would have done such a thing? — to confide his son to a male friend (though for Simon it was freedom, it was Art, it was May ‘68, it was change), reacted badly to this belated criticism from Barbara. She noticed this and replied:

  ‘Alright Simon. Perhaps. There were reasons. Perhaps rea­sons a little bit too much just yours and mine. Weren’t they?’ Because you aren’t going to tell me we were thinking of the kid. No! If we’d ever thought about it, we would never have sent him to J’s. It’s true, listen! In any case, whatever the reasons, our little reasons, we’re paying for them now. And the boy is paying too. You’ve seen him? Fine, enough said. No! he makes me ill. I tell you, what he needs is a bit of normal life. Normal — that’s all. He’s respectable. All children are respectable. Paranoid and respectable. Psychotic, if you like. Well, there’s a solution for that. It’s quite easy. My mother will make him nice little soups, nice little meals with nice little puddings, she’ll buy him books, she’ll iron the little MCP’s nice little shirts, she’ll say, poor thing, he hasn’t got anything to wear — and then fine, he’ll spend the whole day with the other kids. It will be good for him. And then he can express himself — realise himself! — instead o
f just spending his time ignoring us.’

  ‘Uh…’

  ‘But yes, my dear. Drawing, you can’t imagine what it does for a child like that. It liberates them, through and through! They let everything out! It makes them a bit more manage­able. It’s true! But it does, Simon. You just don’t understand, you play the big guy, kids, they just don’t interest you, none of your business, thank you and goodbye. Fine. Only if it’s the chicks who get saddled with them, then you just listen to the chicks. At least. You could do that… Now I’m telling you, these things, the pictures and everything, the children — fair enough, you don’t know anything about it — it’s simple enough: what it is about them, it’s Freudian. All their funny little ideas, they sort them out like that. I swear to you, you won’t recognise him when he comes back!’

  ‘I’m not arguing about that,’ said Simon. ‘I’m just saying what he said to me. I really don’t want to tell him he can’t go down there. You know, he talked to me about it, really seri­ously. He doesn’t talk just for the sake of it. You know that, whatever you say.’

  ‘Oh no! As far as that’s concerned, no, no, and no! There’s no reason — Serge has no reason, no reason at all! — I don’t want him to carry on seeing Jonathan. I don’t want any more of it. No. But are you listening, Simon. I’m telling you I don’t want to hear about it again. There’s something not right about it. It probably not their fault. I’m not saying that, well… But there’s something wrong. I can feel it. I can feel it. And I’m not wrong about that sort of thing. No! Something, I’d rather not tell you what I think. But I can feel it. No, there’s something wrong. No. It’s over, as far as Jonathan is concerned, and that’s it. I tell you we’ll have trouble for years to come if we let it go any further. Fine! Nothing! I’m not saying anything! But it’s over. It’s all over, and that’s all there is to say about it. Serge has become too attached, don’t you see. And I don’t know who to. I don’t know who it is! Yes, that’s what worries me… It’s my right… I produced this child, I don’t know whether you’ve noticed. I can feel it. It’s serious. I’m telling you Simon, drop it! There’s no need for you to send your kid off to your mates. He’s a little bit mine as well, isn’t he? You just don’t notice anything, but I can feel it. It just can’t go on, this business. No. That’s enough. The end. Full stop.’

  ‘Alright then. So what do I tell him?’

  ‘Darling, you just say to him, well, your grandmother wants to see you, it’s almost a year now, etcetera. There — but I’ll talk to him myself if you insist! Anyone would think you were frightened! But listen… it should have been me he talked to about this business with J, don’t you think that would have been normal? He’s quite crazy, that child.’

  ‘Perhaps, after all, it would be better… well, if he came with us?’

  ‘Oh, you really are wonderful! It’s a bit late to be playing the mother-hen, if you don’t mind me saying so! He can’t make a fuss, just about a week, not even a week, without seeing his mother and father, come on! And you can say what you like about my mother, but she isn’t a monster. I had to put up with my mother for twenty years, he can surely cope with her for a week, don’t you think. You really are extraordinary! I tell you, there are times, things you say, I just don’t know, I really don’t!… And by the way, London… You know me, I’m Medi­terranean.’

  ‘From Peronne,’ Simon couldn’t help but adding, defeated.

  But Barbara-Georgette wasn’t cross; she gave a laugh. She had just taken a sip from the glass of gin, and the ice-cubes tinkled too.

  Serge, behind his wall, heard the whole discussion. He car­ried on thinking about it, long after the parental bed had ceased to creak.

  The next day, he made his escape. On his return from the lycee with its competent young women, where he was beginning his secondary education, he discovered, to his great happiness, that the flat was empty. He hurried.

  In the kitchen he dug out a plastic carrier bag; in it he put various clothes, books, writing-books and photos, and he added a little portrait of himself done by Jonathan.

  He didn’t want to steal anything, not even a suitcase or an ordinary bag.

  He went back into his room, knelt by the bed, emptied his pockets and counted his money. It wasn’t the best day, he hadn’t much left.

  He looked out of the window. He became flushed, and his eyes shone. It wasn’t right he should be forced to do it. Why? Nobody knew. Everyone just talked to themselves.He left his room and went back into the kitchen. There was no bread. He took some rusks, an orange, some sugar-cubes, the remains of a bar of chocolate. A tin of something, perhaps? No, it was no good. In the fridge, there were bottles of tonic, but he didn’t like it; he found a last small bottle of Coca-Cola at the bottom, among the vegetables.

  The cat had gone out. Serge hesitated before taking the bottle-opener. He remembered there was a fine-looking one on the living-room table, the one in the kitchen was ugly but it worked better. He could take the top off a bottle with his teeth, providing he was enjoying himself. All alone, no.

  He left his bunch of keys in the door on the landing, and went out the building without meeting anybody.

  He went down into the underground, bought a ticket and got a box of chocolate drops out of the machine. He only had a few small coins left. He was feverish, and didn’t look at anyone.

  He knew where the hitch-hikers went, the exit from Paris which led to the road for Jonathan’s. His own road now. It couldn’t take very long, surely. Not with all the cars. It had to work. There were plenty of people.

  Serge left the underground at the end of the line. Once outside, he got lost; on foot, he couldn’t recognise anything.

  Everything was too big. Everything was difficult. The weather, warm for the time of year, was turning to rain; Serge was wearing his blue jacket with the red white and blue cuffs. He’d chosen it and bought it himself. The collar was red white and blue as well. It had lots of pockets with zip fasteners. You could put all sorts of things in there, when you had things. On a clock, he saw it would soon be six o’clock. He didn’t wonder whether his plan would succeed. He didn’t think about it. Seeing he’d already gone. He’d remembered this road out of Paris, the hitch-hikers; afterwards, who could tell? He wanted to find the place where the hitch-hikers were.

  He got there, along long tunnels, footbridges, paving-slabs marked with yellow stripes, where he was the only pedes­trian. He recognised the pavement, where people usually stood hitching. But there was nobody. The damp cars went past, practically brushing against your arm.

  Damp, because for the last few minutes it had been raining. A rain you couldn’t feel. There was a lot of water, but it didn’t seem to touch you. Commuters were going home; headlights were lit according to the highway code. On foot, you could hear a great deal of noise. It hurt your ears, it rang out brutal and empty, as if a crowd was shouting.

  Serge felt awful, and thought about going home.

  He thought about home. His parents. Her, him. He shiv­ered. His chest tightened in refusal. No. Someone would come and take him away. He would have to walk a bit further, after the fork, to the road on the right, with the red earth and the weeds at its edge. He’d have to cross as well, down there, or he’d be on the wrong side.

  He reached the spot he’d chosen, and walked on a little further. He imagined he was on a journey, as if he were waiting on a station platform. He was going to Jonathan’s. Here, it was a little bit like there, because of the earth and the weeds. Around him, very far away, there were the suburbs, covered in cotton-wool puffs of smoke, drowned in the grey and black rain, jagged like an enormous heap of rubbish and scrap iron. The rain was still gentle, not too wet.

  Faced with all those cars, all those houses, all those miles, Serge suddenly felt so worried it frightened him, and he stepped back among the weeds. He felt an icy wind. He felt the night. He saw he was alone, completely alone, and he cried, despite himself, fiercely, slowly, and loud, without any gasps for breath.


  From a van, there came a long squeal of brakes, and it stopped close by the child. Now everyone had their head­lamps on, and you couldn’t see anything else. The sky, though, was light enough still. Silhouetted in black against it there were office blocks, factories, vast roofs, steel structures, and enormous pipes hanging in the air.

  ‘No,’ Serge replied, ‘I’m waiting for my father, he’s over there. He’s just coming.’

  And he pointed, behind him, towards an open-sided shed, near which there was a yard surrounded by broken fence, where there stood three or four broken-down lorries.

  ‘Oh, your father’s over there. Fine. But you shouldn’t stand at the edge of the road, my boy, it’s dangerous.’

  The man slammed the near-side door, and the van went off again. Serge thought he wasn’t really at the edge of the road when it stopped.

  He went a bit further into the weeds, but it was slippery, because of the dark.

  He’d never be able to think of a lie that would take him far. Everyone would be suspicious. He hadn’t even looked at the driver’s face; just hearing the voice, he’d realised he mustn’t say anything to him. Not to him, nor anyone else.

  He wanted to sit down, because he was tired, because he wanted to think. It was too muddy. He stayed in the middle of the weeds, near a trench dug for a drain. Standing straight, his face turned towards the cars. It would be easy to get through the fence and go into the shed, into the light, but perhaps there would be somebody there. Serge hoped there was someone. He didn’t move.

  He opened the yellow carrier-bag, because the rain was falling more strongly. He wanted to see if it was getting wet inside. It didn’t close very well at the top. He couldn’t really tell, he pushed his hand further in. There were one or two broken rusks, and the chocolate had come out of its torn wrapping.

  It was then, touching the things in his bag, that Serge told himself he wouldn’t leave. Nor would he go home.

  This idea didn’t surprise him: since yesterday evening, he’d been thinking. He’d even imagined doing it. He’d al­ready realised there was nothing else he could do. Because nobody could. Because he knew absolutely that there was absolutely nothing to be done.