by Anna Gavalda
I said, ‘Of course, of course.’ I even joked with him a little, until he handed me the bottle. It was plum brandy.
The alcohol had rendered them harmless, but I gave them each a dose of Ketamine. I didn’t want them twitching around. Then I saw to my own comfort.
I put on my sterile gloves and washed everything thoroughly with Betadine.
Next, I pulled the skin of the scrotum tight. With my scalpel blade I made a small incision. I pulled out the testicles. I cut. I ligated the epididymis and the vessel with catgut No. 3.5. I put it back in the sac and made a continuous suture. Good, clean work.
The one who’d been on the phone had been the most brutal, since this was his home. I grafted his balls just above his Adam’s apple.
It was nearly six in the morning when I stopped by my neighbour’s. Madame Brudet was seventy-two years old, and had been on her feet for a good while – all shrivelled up, but brave.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to go away for a while, Madame Brudet. I need someone to look after my dogs, and the cats too.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll be happy to keep an eye on the cats, although I still say it’s not a good idea to fatten them up like that. All they have to do is hunt field mice. The dogs … that’s a little harder because they’re so big, but if it’s not for too long, I’ll keep them here.’
‘I’ll write you a cheque for the food.’
‘That’s fine. Just put it behind the TV. Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Tttttt tttttt,’ I said with a smile.
Now, I’m sitting at my kitchen table. I’ve made some more coffee and I’m smoking a cigarette. I’m waiting for the police car.
I only hope they don’t use the siren.
Junior
HIS NAME IS Alexander Devermont. He’s a young man, all pink and blond.
Raised in a vacuum. One hundred per cent pure soap and fluoride Colgate, with short-sleeved check shirts and a dimple on his chin. Cute. Clean. A real little suckling pig.
He’s almost twenty – that discouraging age where you still think anything’s possible. So many prospects and so many illusions. So many knocks to take, too.
But not for this rosy young man. Life has never done him any harm. No one’s ever pulled his ears till it really hurt. He’s a good kid.
His mum’s a social climber – she farts higher than her arse. She says, ‘Hello, this is Elisabeth De-vermont …’, separating out the first syllable. As if she still hoped to fool someone. … Tut tut tut. … You can pay to have a lot of things these days, but for the particle – those two little letters that mean your ancestors were nobles – no way.
You can’t buy that sort of pride anymore. It’s like Obélix, who fell into a pot of magic potion when he was a baby and ended up invincible: you have to luck into it when you’re little. That doesn’t stop Junior’s mum from wearing a signet ring engraved with a coat of arms.
What coat of arms? I wonder. A crown and some fleurs-de-lis jumbled together on a heraldic shield. The Association of Pork Butchers and Delicatessens of France uses the same one on its syndicate letterhead, but she doesn’t know that. Phew.
His dad took over the family business – a company that makes white resin lawn furniture, known as Rofitex.
Guaranteed ten years against yellowing in any climate.
Of course, resin kind of makes you think of camping trips and picnics in the back garden. It would have been more chic to make stuff out of teak – classy benches that would pick up a nice patina over time, and some lichen, under the hundred-year oak that great-grandpa planted in the middle of the grounds. … But, oh well – you have to take what they leave you, huh?
Speaking of furniture, I was exaggerating a little when I said earlier that life had never dealt Junior any harsh blows. Of course it had. One day, while he was dancing with a young lady from a good family, flat and pedigreed like a true English setter, he had his share of angst.
It was during one of those elegant little get-togethers that the mums organise at exorbitant cost to keep their progeny from venturing one day between the breasts of some Leïla or Hannah or some other girl who reeks of heresy or harissa.
So there he was, with his neck bent and his hands sweaty. He was dancing with this girl, being extra careful not to let his fly brush against her belly. He was trying to sway his hips a little and beating time with the heels of his Westons. Like that, you know, kind of laid-back. The way young people do.
And then the babe asked:
‘So what does your father do?’ (It’s a question that girls ask at this sort of affair.)
He pretended to be distracted, spinning her around as he answered:
‘He’s the CEO at Rofitex – I dunno if you’ve heard of it. … Two hundred empl – ’
She didn’t give him time to finish. She stopped dancing at once and opened her setter’s eyes wide:
‘Hold on … Rofitex? … You mean the … the … the condoms, Rofitex?’
Now that, that was the best.
‘No, the lawn furniture,’ he answered, but really, he’d been ready for anything but that. But really, what an airhead this girl was. What an airhead. Fortunately, the music had stopped and he could head for the buffet to drink a little champagne and digest it all. Really.
Turns out she wasn’t even one of the society girls – she’d infiltrated herself.
Twenty years old. My God.
IT TOOK YOUNG Devermont two tries to pass his baccalaureat, but not his driving test. That was all right. He just passed it, and on the first try.
Not like his brother, who had to retake it three times.
At dinner, everyone is in a good mood. It wasn’t in the bag, because the local examiner is a real arsehole. A drunk, too. It’s the country here.
Like his brother and his cousins before him, Alexander got his licence over the summer holiday, out at his grandmother’s place, because the fees in the provinces are a lot less than in Paris: nearly a hundred and fifty euros difference for the driver’s course.
But finally, the drunk was more or less sober and put his scrawl on the pink slip without being too clever about it.
Alexander’s allowed to use his mother’s Golf as long as she doesn’t need it. Otherwise, he’s supposed to take the old Peugeot that’s in the barn. Same as all the kids.
It’s still in good condition, but it smells like chicken shit.
IT’S THE END of the holidays. Soon he’ll have to go back to the big apartment on Avenue Mozart and get into the private business school on Avenue de Saxe. A school that’s not yet accredited, but whose name is complicated, with lots of initials: the IHERP or the IRPHE or the IHEMA or something like that. (The Institute of Higher Education My Arse.)
Our little suckling pig has changed a lot over the summer. He’s been dissolute – he’s even started smoking.
Marlboro Lights.
It’s because of the new company he’s keeping: he’s grown chummy with the son of a big local farmer, Franck Mingeaut. This kid is a piece of work – filthy rich, flashy, rowdy, and loud. Says ‘hello’ politely to Alexander’s grandmother and checks out his younger cousins at the same time. Tut-tut.
Franck Mingeaut is happy to know Junior. Thanks to him, he can enter society, go to parties where the girls are slender and pretty and where they serve the families’ own champagne instead of cheap Valstar beer. Instinct tells him that this is the way to go if he wants to land himself a nice cushy set-up. The back rooms of cafés, unsophisticated Marylines, pool tables, county fairs – none of that stuff lasts. Whereas an evening with the Widget girl in her home at Chateau Widgetière … now there’s energy well spent.
*
Junior Devermont is happy with his nouveau riche friend. Thanks to him, he skids through gravel courtyards in a sports convertible, he charges down the back roads of Touraine, giving peasants the finger to get them to move their old Renaults out of the way, and he tr
eats his father like crap. He leaves an extra shirt button open, and he’s even started wearing his baptismal pendant again, like a tough guy still tender at heart. The girls eat it up.
TONIGHT IS THE party of the summer. The count and countess of La Rochepoucaut are receiving in honour of their youngest daughter, Éléonore. All the upper crust will be there – from Mayenne down to the far end of Berry, from the Society Pages, you name it. It will be raining young virgin heiresses.
Money. Not the flashiness of money; the smell of it. Low necklines, creamy complexions, pearl necklaces, ultra-light cigarettes, and nervous laughter. For Franck-of-the-bracelet and Alexander-of-the-fine-chain, this is the big night.
No way they’re going to miss this.
To those people, a rich farmer will always be a peasant, and a well-brought-up industrialist will always be a tradesman. All the more reason to drink their champagne and jump their daughters in the bushes. The young ladies aren’t all antisocial. They’re direct descendents of the crusader Godefroy de Bouillon, and they have no problem pushing the last crusade a little further.
Franck doesn’t have an invitation, but Junior knows the guy at the door – no problem, you slip him twenty euros and he’ll let you in. He’ll even bark out your name like they do at the Automobile Club shows if you want.
The big hitch is the car. The car makes all the difference if you want to clinch the deal with the ones who don’t like prickly bushes.
If some pretty young thing doesn’t want to leave too early, she’ll bid her daddy good night and find an escort to take her home. If you haven’t got a car out here, where everyone lives miles apart, you’re either hopeless or a virgin.
And right now the situation is critical. Franck doesn’t have his chick magnet – it’s in for a service – and Alexander doesn’t have his mother’s car. She took it back to Paris.
What else is there? The sky-blue Peugeot with the chicken droppings on the seats and along the doors. There’s even straw on the floor and a ‘Hunting Is Natural’ bumper sticker on the back. God, it’s disgusting.
‘What about your father? Where’s he?’
‘Out of town.’
‘And his car?’
‘Uh … it’s here. Why?’
‘Why’s it here?’
‘Because Jean-Raymond has to give it a clean.’
(Jean-Raymond’s their groundsman.)
‘That’s brilliant! We’ll borrow his car for the night and bring it straight back. There you go – what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’
‘Uh-uh, Franck, that’s not an option. Not an option.’
‘Why not?’
‘Listen, if anything should happen, I’m dead. Uh-uh, it’s not an option. …’
‘But what do you think’s going to happen, arse-wipe? Huh? Just what do you think’s going to happen?’
‘Uh-uh …’
‘Holy shit! Knock it off with that “uh-uh” – what the hell does that mean? It’s fifteen kilometres there and fifteen back. The road is perfectly straight and there won’t be a soul out at that hour, so just tell me, what’s the problem?’
‘If we should get into any shit at all …’
‘But what kind of shit? Huh? What kind of shit? I’ve had my licence for three years and I’ve never had one single problem, do you hear me? Not one.’
He flicks his front tooth with his thumb as if to yank it loose.
‘Uh-uh – no way. Not my dad’s Jag.’
‘Fuck, this can’t be for real, are you really this stupid? This cannot be for real!’
‘…’
‘So what are we going do then? We show up at La Roche-my-balls in your shitty henhouse on wheels?’
‘Well, yeah. …’
‘Hold on – weren’t we supposed to pick up your cousin and her girlfriend at Saint-Chinan?’
‘Well, yeah. …’
‘And you think they’re going to put their pretty little arses on your shit-covered seats?!’
‘Well, no. …’
‘Well, what, then? … We borrow your dad’s wheels, we ride in style, and in a few hours we put it ever-so-gently back where it came from. And that’s that.’
‘Uh-uh, not the Jag …’ (silence) ‘… not the Jag.’
‘Listen, I’m going to find someone else to take me. You’re too fucking stupid – it’s the party of the summer, and you want us to show up in your cattle truck. Out of the question. Does it even run?’
‘Yeah, it runs.’
‘Fuuuck, this can’t be for real. …’
He pulls on the skin of his cheeks.
‘Anyway, without me, you can’t get in.’
‘Yeah, well, between not going at all or going in your dustbin, I don’t know which is worse. … Hey, watch out there aren’t still chickens in it!’
ON THE ROAD home. Five in the morning. Two drunk, tired boys who smell of cigarettes and sweat but not of fornication. (Nice party, luck of the draw … it happens.)
Two silent boys on the D49 between Bonneuil and Cissé-le-Duc in Indre-et-Loire.
‘Well, see … We didn’t crash it. … Hey, you see … It wasn’t worth pissing me off with all your uh-uhs. Big ol’ Jean-Raymond can polish your daddy’s car tomorrow. …’
‘Pfff. … Lot of good it did us. … We might as well have taken the other one. …’
‘You’re right on that front. No joy. …’
He touches his crotch.
‘… Not a lot of action for you, huh? … Anyway … I’m hooking up with a blonde with big tits tomorrow, to play tennis. …’
‘Which one?’
‘You know, the one that – ’
He never finished his sentence because a wild boar, a pig of at least a hundred and fifty kilos, crossed the road just at that moment, but without looking either right or left, the brute.
A wild boar in a great big hurry who was maybe on his way home from a party and afraid his parents were going to yell at him.
First they heard the screeching of tyres, and then an enormous thunk up front. Alexander Devermont said:
‘Oh, shit.’
They stopped the car. They left their doors open and went to check – the stiff, dead pig and the stiff, dead front end of the car: no more bumper, no more radiator, no more headlights, and no more bodywork. Even the little Jaguar on the bonnet had taken a hit. Alexander Devermont said again:
‘Oh, shit.’
He was too tipsy and too tired to say anything more. Still, at that precise moment, he was already clearly conscious of the immense expanse of shit that was waiting for him. He was clearly conscious of it.
Franck gave the boar a kick in the paunch and said:
‘Well, we’re not leaving it here. At least if we bring it back, we can have a barbecue. …’
Alexander started to laugh very quietly:
‘Yeah, that’s good stuff, roast boar. …’
It wasn’t at all funny – actually, the situation was somewhat tragic – but they got the giggles. Doubtless because they were so tired and nervous.
‘Your mum’s going to be so happy. …’
‘Oh, yeah – she’s going to be thrilled!’
And those two little jackasses laughed so hard their stomachs hurt.
‘OKAY, THEN. … SHOVE it in the boot? …’
‘Yeah.’
*
‘Shit!’
‘What now?!’
‘It’s full of stuff. …’
‘Huh?’
‘I’m telling you, it’s full! … Your dad’s got his golf bag in there, and cases of wine. …’
‘Shit. …’
‘What do we do?’
‘We’ll put it in the back, on the floor. …’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah, hold on. I’ll put something down to protect the seats. … Look at the back of the boot – see if you can’t find a throw. …’
‘A what?’
‘A throw.’
‘What’s that?’
‘… That thing with the green and blue squares, right at the back. …’
‘Oh, the rug! … A fancy-schmancy Parisian one. …’
‘Yeah, whatever. … Come on, hurry up.’
‘Hold on, I’ll help you. No point staining his leather seats, too. …’
‘Got that right.’
‘Fuck, he’s heavy! …’
‘No shit.’
‘He stinks, too.’
‘Hey, Alex … it’s the country. …’
‘Screw the country.’
*
They got back in the car. No problem getting it started again – at least nothing had happened to the engine. That’s something, anyway.
And then a few miles farther on: a big, big fright. It started with some noises and groans behind them.
Franck said:
‘Fuck – he’s not dead, the bastard!’
Alexander didn’t answer. Enough was enough, already.
The pig started to get back up and turn every which way.
Franck slammed on the brakes and yelled:
‘Let’s get out of here!’
He was all white.
They slammed the doors shut and moved away from the car. Inside, it was total shit.
Total Shit.
The cream-coloured leather seats, destroyed. The steering wheel, destroyed. The elm-veneered gear lever, destroyed; the headrests, destroyed. The whole interior of the car, destroyed, destroyed, destroyed.
Devermont Junior, devastated.
The animal’s eyes were popping out of their sockets, and there was a white foam around his big curving teeth. It was a horrible sight.
They decided to hide behind the door, pull it open, and then climb up and take refuge on the roof. It might have been a good plan, but they never would find out, because in the meantime the pig had stomped on the automatic lock and locked himself inside.
And the key was still in the dash.
Oh, that … you could say, when it all goes to hell, it all goes to hell.
Franck Mingeaut pulled his mobile out from the pocket of his chic dinner jacket and dialed 999, totally embarrassed.
When the firemen arrived, the beast had calmed down a little. Barely. Let’s just say there was nothing left to destroy.
