by Bev Spicer
When he knocked and went in quietly to his father’s office, he knew what to expect. His father would not speak at first, as was his habit with clients, and would continue with the work he was doing, running a pen along the lines of a contract, or writing something in the margin for Estelle to correct. He felt the sensation he had had when his mother had taken him to church as a child, speaking in whispers and pushing him forward with a hand at the back of his head, expecting him to know why he was there.
His father’s work was a mystery to him. He only knew that, as an expert in Law, he held the key to something that other people needed and could not access for themselves – and this too made Patrice feel uncomfortable.
The notaire looked up and raised a finger to indicate that he would not be long and that he required silence. Patrice went over to the large window and gazed out onto the street, wondering what his life would be like if he worked in one of the shops or offices opposite, giving up school and further education for what he imagined must be a far simpler life. It was only day dreaming but, for a moment, the urge to turn around and announce his thoughts to his father was so strong that it made him tremble a little, when he thought about it afterwards. He had not so far disobeyed his father, as some of his friends had their parents, and the notion that, one day, he would have to stand up for himself terrified him.
Dumas was aware of his son and, at the same time, concentrated on his work. He accomplished his tasks with ease and a certain amount of satisfaction. In the back of his brain there was a cache of pride that held him up and kept him separate from the people he surrounded himself with, except his son, who would have the same pride as he had one day, allowing him to live a similarly privileged life. The boy was tall and strong, but with his mother’s temperament and sensitive nature, which sometimes made him seem distant, as though he were in another place and not listening properly. This reminded Felix of his former wife’s contempt for him and, occasionally, he became afraid that he might lose his son, too. But Patrice was not his former wife and it was irrational to fear such ridiculous ideas; after all, Patrice was his son too and this was evident in the calmness of his demeanour, his lack of drama. He was a well-balanced boy, with a certain amount of kudos, even at his young age.
The telephone rang and, judging that his son was happy to wait a little longer, he answered it.
‘Felix Dumas… Yes…I see…Excellent work…Yes…I will arrange it…Of course…I have said, have I not? Goodbye.’
Patrice turned around. There was something about the way his father spoke that was very different from the way he normally addressed his clients, and the look on his face was less composed.
‘Well, I think I’ve finished.’ Felix Dumas stood up and pulled on his jacket. ‘Shall we call in for some lunch at Felipe’s. Are you hungry?’ He laughed, knowing that his son was always hungry.
Patrice followed his father down the stairs. It was good to get past the silent disapproval of Estelle and out into the fresh air to refill his lungs, and it was true that he was hungry, especially for the spaghetti carbonara that Felipe served in his small restaurant. So they went directly there and his father told him how much business he had at the moment, saying that he had had to turn clients away that very morning. He seemed delighted about this, and Patrice knew that it was all to do with money; that his father had lots of it and that, because of this, he was careless with his spending and arrogant, yes, arrogant towards other people.
There was something hateful in the way other people behaved in his father’s presence that had something to do with this, but Patrice could not work out exactly what it was. He saw it in Estelle’s stance at her desk and he saw it in Felipe’s eyes, as his father pressed a large tip into his hand and laid a hand briefly on his shoulder. He felt it burning into the back of his head as the other customers watched them leave.
‘Is Felipe an old friend of yours, Father?’ Patrice asked, even though he knew this to be impossible.
‘Why do you ask such a question, my son?’
‘It’s just that… you seem to know him well… by the way that you speak to him.’ Patrice wished he had said nothing, but wanted to know the answer, nevertheless, to his father’s disrespectful behaviour.
‘He is the owner of the restaurant,’ cried his father, rather too loudly, putting the emphasis on ‘restaurant’ making it seem derogatory in some way, so that the boy was afraid Felipe would hear them, even from the street. ‘It is important to make yourself known to these people!’
His father put a hand on his son’s shoulder and shook his head, amazed that his own flesh and blood should be so backward.
Patrice felt a shiver of something run down his spine and, if anyone had asked him why, he would have said that, at that moment, the man who was his father was like a stranger to him.
Thirty-nine
September was not far away and the weather turned a little cooler, although it stayed dry and the skies remained blue. Clement had found a job. He looked out at the day from his desk and thought about the time he had left to settle the now enormous bill for his father’s care. If he worked for six months and lived on the bare minimum, he would be able to pay off most of what he owed, but he did not have six months. What was more, he did not receive his first salary until the end of the month, which left him even less time. Even then, he knew that his calculations were based on wishful thinking.
The office was friendly enough and he found that selling stationery over the phone was not as difficult as he had imagined it would be. He had the right kind of voice, it seemed, so that people did not immediately hang up, as they did so often with some of his colleagues. Luckily for him, they did not hold this against him, saying that it was beginner’s luck and joking that he would soon develop the strained enthusiasm required to alienate people and lose sales. As the salary was based almost solely on commission, he hoped that his luck would hold out for a while, at least until he could find a better job.
‘Could you push the photocopy paper this morning, everyone. We have a bloody warehouse full of the stuff! Special offer details emailed. Hard sell, guys!’ Françoise clapped her hands together to get everyone’s attention, repeating her instructions a second time for those who had not heard. A few people had put their hands over their phones to prevent a client from hearing.
‘Bugger!’ said Sofia, under her breath. ‘I thought I had that one. Why does she have to shout like that? Doesn’t she know that the customers can hear every word she says?’ She shook her head and glared as Françoise went out of the room.
‘Perhaps she’s jealous!’ said Maurice. ‘Stuck in that prison all day, on her own.’ He made a comically tragic face.
‘Yeah! I’m so sorry for her, with her enormous salary and company car. Poor thing!’
‘Now, now. Don’t get bitter and twisted!’ teased Maurice.
Sofia stuck out her tongue and Clement sniggered.
She looked over. ‘How’s it going today, Midas? Beaten my sales for last month this morning?’
He knew that she liked him and so he said that he had beaten them for the year, and she laughed in a way that was half laugh and half sigh, sounding like something deflating under pressure.
‘God! It’s like being a fish in a tank. Swimming around all day in our own shit and going nowhere!’ Sofia gazed out onto the street.
‘Not even a tropical fish tank!’ replied Clement, referring to the lack of heating in the office. Even in September the office was chilly, as the sun did not reach it until late afternoon.
‘You’re not wrong,’ laughed Sofia. Then, swivelling her chair round to face him, she asked, ‘How about coming out for a drink with us tomorrow? You know, Friday night. Let your hair down. Go for a dance?’ She looked around at the others as they waited for his answer.
‘Can’t make it, I’m afraid.’ Clement was thinking of the money.
‘Must have a hot date!’ said Maurice, winking.
He let them think that.
Wh
en he got home there were two messages on his answer-phone. The first one was from Felix Dumas, stating that Madame Dautriche, who had viewed his property nearly two weeks ago, had put in a low offer on his father’s apartment. The second one was from Martha. Clement had wanted to phone her and tell her the truth: that he had not called her because he did not want to spend money on petrol or going out somewhere, not even on a bunch of flowers; that he wanted to see her, but that he had other priorities at the moment. It all sounded very reasonable when he explained it to himself, but he knew that, once he heard her voice, he would not be able to justify himself and she would think him insincere. That would be irksome and tedious. He listened to the message again, which said that she might be in Royan that evening and that they could meet up somewhere. He picked up the phone and put in the number for the notaire’s office.
‘Good afternoon, this is the office of Maitre Dumas. The offices are open from 9.30 to 12.00 and…’
Clement hung up and looked at his watch. It was just before seven, he would have to phone again the next day, if he could get away from work in time. He wondered what the offer might be and cast his mind back to the visit, remembering how kind the woman had been and how much she had seemed to like the apartment. But the offer was low. How low could it be? Perhaps he should have done as Angeline had told him weeks ago and telephoned some other estate agents to get a valuation. The problem was that it was a buyers’ market. Everyone knew that. There were properties for sale on every street – the difference was that Clement might be forced to sell sooner rather than later. It was unpleasant to be in such a position.
He tipped pasta into the boiling water and opened a jar of tomato sauce. If only the first viewer would call. What had been his name? Monsieur Schwartz? He had said he would call. Clement wished he had taken his number. It had been a mistake not to do so, and he felt angry with himself. If there were two interested parties, then surely the price would have to increase? Nevertheless, it was pointless to waste time thinking about it now. He had no means of tracing Monsieur Schwartz. He would just have to wait and speak to the pompous Dumas the next day, hoping for not too low an offer.
The telephone rang and he answered it, still preoccupied with how he would tell his father, wondering whether he could pay off a big enough part of the debt to Maison Verte to keep them happy. But the bills would keep coming. How would he ever catch up?
‘Hello, Clement?’
‘Hello, Martha.’
‘Are you all right?’
He paused and then said, ‘Not really.’
‘Give me your address. I’m parked in the market square.’
He gave her directions and drained the over-cooked spaghetti, mixed it with the sauce and left it on the stove. He was no longer hungry.
Forty
Felix Dumas let the telephone ring. He had phoned Clement Berger from his direct line to leave a message and had told Estelle to accept no calls after six-thirty.
On his desk, he had a copy of a Compromis de Vente with the details for the apartment owned by Henri Berger, born in Royan and presently registered as a permanent resident at Masion Verte, a private care home outside town. Felix Dumas had no doubt that the costs of such care were high and that it would not be long before the sale of the apartment became imperative. He had not enquired about help that might be available with the care payments now that Monsieur Berger’s savings had been exhausted. It was not his job, neither was it in his interests to do so.
He mused for a while about whose number he would call to get the flat ready for his son. There were several suitable candidates who owed him favours. He would call someone in to furnish it, too. Someone who knew about what teenagers these days wanted. And, bubbling up through all these ideas was the thought of the expression of delight on Patrice’s face, when he handed him the keys to his new address. His son would be happy and, as far as the notaire was concerned, it would be more convenient to have the house to himself during the week, although he planned to lay it open to his son’s friends at the weekend, and would call in to see Patrice once a week, to take him out for dinner. It would suit both of them rather well.
At ten minutes past seven, ten minutes later than scheduled, there was a knock on his door and Estelle showed in a tall, thin, well-dressed lady, who entered confidently and sat down before Felix Dumas without having been invited to do so.
‘That will be all, Estelle,’ he said.
The girl murmured something and pulled the door to, behind her.
‘Well?’ Felix opened up a drawer in his desk.
‘A piece of cake!’
The notaire looked up disapprovingly. ‘I hope you didn’t –’
‘What, Felix, dear?’ Her smile was one of playful amusement. ‘You hope I didn’t do what?’
He did not answer her question, but took out an envelope and passed it to her.
‘You should know that I am to be trusted in these matters by now, Felix, darling,’ she said, taking out the notes and counting them. ‘After all, we are old hands at this kind of thing by now, aren’t we, you old scoundrel?’
Neither of them saw Estelle standing in the doorway.
It was the woman who noticed her first. Just as she looked up and said, ‘Five hundred euros, sure enough Felix, as agreed.’
The girl stayed back, knowing she had walked in on something.
When he saw her, Felix Dumas coughed and stood up abruptly, his eye going back involuntarily to the envelope in the woman’s hand, which still showed the protruding wad of fifty-euro notes. The words ‘in flagrante delicto’ ran through his thoughts, making him wince, and he cried out in pain as he caught his knee on the drawer of his desk in his haste to distract his secretary.
‘Estelle!’ he said, rather too loudly. ‘I thought you had gone!’
‘I… I found this on the stairs as I was leaving, Maitre.’ She held out a mobile phone and advanced a little towards the woman, who put out her hand for it.
‘Why thank you, my dear. How careless of me!’ And with that, she pushed the envelope into her bag and fastened the catch.
There was a volley of horns from the street.
Estelle blinked several times.
Felix remained beside his desk.
Mme. Dautriche looked first at one and then the other before saying, in a measured tone, ‘Well, thank you for your advice Maitre Dumas, it has been a pleasure to see you again.’
Felix had been struck dumb and could barely manage a grunt, as he shook hands with his client, watching her walk out past Estelle, who held the door open and would not meet his gaze.
When the woman had gone, Estelle made to follow her out of the office directly, doing her best to hide a small but unmistakable smile as she said, ‘I shall be leaving now. I am sorry to have…disturbed you, but the door was open and I thought you had not yet started your… consultation.’
At last Felix found his composure. ‘There’s no harm done,’ he said, wondering at his secretary’s coolness and deciding what he could say to make light of the transaction she had observed, sure that she had been surprised by the way in which the infernal woman had addressed him in her presence. ‘Madame Dautriche is an old friend of mine. She was in need of some personal advice, which I was able to help her with. I am sure you understand, Estelle,’ he said, slowly, doing his best not to sound as though he were grasping at straws, his words harbouring a subtle menace.
‘Oh yes! I understand perfectly.’ Estelle remained in the open doorway.
Felix was tired and wanted to go home, so he waved her away and started to put away his papers, asking himself why he should care what his secretary might think. After all, what was it that she had witnessed? Two people who knew each other doing a little business. What was wrong with that? Of course, he knew that there was more to it than that but, for the moment, he preferred to bide his time. If anything came of it, which he doubted, he would deal with it then.
As she went down the stairs, Estelle knew that she had witnesse
d something underhand, and that her boss knew it, too. It thrilled her and scared her slightly to have walked in on them like that. What was more, she was sure that she had seen the woman before, although there seemed to be no file on her. She would look properly the next day. Madame Dautriche did not seem like an old friend, although she could not say exactly why. And, if indeed she was an old friend, then why did she at one moment address Felix Dumas as ‘darling’ and the next moment more formally? Estelle went over what she had seen several times on her way home, wondering what she would find out the following day. Just before she closed her eyes, she recalled what had been in front of her boss on the desk. She was sure that she had not typed up the Compromis de Vente and she wished that she had been close enough to read a name or an address.
Suddenly, her job seemed far more interesting.
Forty-one
‘Bonjour, Angeline?’
Angeline did not recognise the voice, with its foreign accent and was about to put the phone down on yet another cold caller. They even used your first name, these days!
‘It’s Martha.’
‘Oh, Martha! Of course. Hello. How are you?’ She wondered whether she wanted to cancel Guy’s lesson.
‘Are you busy this lunchtime? Only… only I’d like to talk to you.’
It was not what Angeline had expected, but the lure of gossip was irresistible. ‘Yes. I will be here at midi – we can eat together, if you would like that?’
‘All right. I’ll be there at twelve.’
