Framed

by Tonino Benacquista

  “No?”

  “Yup.”

  “I wish you the best, then. In terms of diminished responsibility, you’ve got a chance. First to ten, then, no more. With every point, you get to play again. Don’t forget what’s at stake. You start.”

  René comes closer, Angelo stays over by the scoreboard, chalk in hand. Benoît still can’t make up his mind whether to watch or not, and slips quietly off to the balcony. Linnel is shaking slightly and admits he feels completely lost.

  “Bend your knees a bit, your bodyweight has to be evenly distributed,” offers René.

  As his opening shot he miscues, the tip skids off the ball and lands against the baize, almost tearing it. Then, bracing my body towards the balls, I do almost the same thing.

  “Do you think there’s any point going on?” Linnel asks me.

  “More than ever.”

  Quarter of an hour later, no visible improvement. We’re still at 0–0. I’m like one of those old men still trying to walk as he did in his prime. Suddenly, having spent a good while thinking, Linnel plays a shot. An easy one, granted, the two balls that need touching are almost stuck to each other. His sets off rather lamely but goes and brushes gently past the other two. A simple point but it has the advantage of being the first. He gives a little cry and misses the next shot, which is even easier. René comes closer still and tries to catch my eye. Far away, in the dark, Benoît turns his head towards us. Angelo writes the number one in Linnel’s column. I score another, just after him.

  It’s 3–6 to me. Linnel is catching up, he is getting more and more confident but I can see what’s wrong with his shots. He hits right in the middle of the ball and far too hard.

  “You won’t do this one by thumping it like that. Just skim the red, and yours will go off all on its own.”

  Angelo can’t stand still and René kneels down so that his head is level with the table. I’ve never seen them so nervous.

  Linnel asks, “Will you go and see Hélène when she’s out in the country?”

  “Play . . .”

  7 to him.

  “This time put a bit of left sidespin on the ball, it will come off the cushion and touch the right of the red. Don’t worry about anything else.”

  He respects my instructions to the letter. His ball comes to a halt, kissing the red. He closes his eyes. It’s as if I’m playing for the first time myself all over again. The others, who are used to watching matches between real masters, think it’s fantastic. This mad game has become an ode to personal bests. The struggling cripple and the non-believer just discovering the faith.

  “Come on, get a second point while you’re on a roll, it’s not a difficult one.”

  I show him how to go about it. His hand holds so much promise. Benoît, mesmerized, watches in the distance.

  Linnel tries to imitate my position as best he can. He’s starting to look like that metal portrait of himself from ’62.

  He plays the shot.

  He shouts for joy.

  “Tell me, Linnel. Tell me who that gentleman really is. And whether I’ll ever have the good luck to see him again some day.”

  He’s no longer there, off in other spheres.

  “No one knows who he really is. Delarge wouldn’t have been able to tell you either. He was used as a forger sometimes, but I think he had other ambitions. Then something forced him to disappear into the shadows, anonymity and lies. Everything Edgar was offering him. The only thing I’ve managed to find out is that he has Les Demoiselles d’Avignon tattooed on the top of his left shoulder. Hey, which direction should I be trying to spin this one?”

  “Do whatever feels right.”

  A Picasso reproduction on his shoulder . . .

  I don’t think he’ll get away from Delmas a second time. It won’t be an interrogation he’ll be subjecting the gentleman to . . . but a valuation.

  8 all.

  His ball sets off, straight for the target.

  We’re all there, hypnotized.

  I close my eyes the better to hear the collision.

  8

  For a moment I’ve stopped listening to the lulling music of the surf.

  The sea brought me back to life after a week in jail. Old Hélène is safe now. Linnel was punctual. While I wait till nine o’clock on September 3 for the next stage of the case, I’ve been granted a few weeks when I can forget it all somewhere between the deep blue of the sea and the azure blue of the sky. But it hasn’t taken long for my sun-lounger to get on my nerves. Before the summer season hit I swam a couple of times, completely alone. Preoccupied . . . but still serene. Or almost. I very soon felt slightly anxious at the prospect of so many long slow days to come. But that’s also what I like about Biarritz.

  I’m in the bedroom at the top. The veranda has undergone a subtle transformation over the weeks. It’s become a sort of no man’s land that even my father doesn’t dare cross.

  “Are you coming and having this cup of tea or not . . .?”

  “Coming!” I say with no intention of actually doing so.

  I’ve spent too much time concentrating on this thing. And just now, after a good hour of prevarication, I can feel something coming. Nothing dramatic, no, just a little door opening, in the right-hand corner of the picture. A few trails of colourwash that suggested some sort of order to me. I mustn’t mess it up. My left hand is applying itself as best it can. It’s being very patient too. I can feel it going along with me so wholeheartedly. My partner.

  I’ve got so much time. I so badly want bright, light colours and gentle movements. And perhaps, one day, some skill. Who knows?

  “Hey come on, your green period can wait another fifteen minutes. The tea’s going cold.”

  He wants to talk, my old man. He’s intrigued by my daubing. He didn’t turn a hair when I asked for a corner of the veranda to set up a canvas, then two, then a basin of water and a tarpaulin, and a couple of paintbrushes, then three. He never comes and disturbs me. I like unfinished things, he says. They, my parents, they’re just happy to know that I’m still like the person they used to know. But they’ve kept the newspaper cuttings all the same.

  The old man comes over towards me and doesn’t even try to sneak a look at the transparent colours splurging from my paintbrush.

  Colourwash. Colourwash. Colourwash . . .

  He puts the cup down and moves away. Back on his sun-lounger, he asks me: “What are you doing? Are you looking for something? Are you having fun? Is this serious?”

  “Yes, I’m having fun. Yes, I’m looking for something. No, this isn’t serious. It’s not creative, it’s not artistic, it’s not symbolic, it’s not full of meaning, it’s not complicated, it’s not particularly beautiful or particularly new.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced.

  “Yeah . . . but you’re still painting.”

  Yes. Maybe. Well, anyway, one thing’s for sure. I’ll never show him what I’ve got before my eyes, now, at this precise moment.

  I hear him laughing, close by.

  “Dad, in your opinion, what colour would you say doubt was?”

  “White.”

  “And remorse?”

  “Yellow.”

  “And regret?”

  “Grey, with a hint of blue.”

  “And silence?”

  “You’ll have to work it out for yourself . . .”