‘You just said “straight ahead”.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry, I must have been daydreaming out loud.’
‘That’s all right. One more for the road?’
‘No, I won’t, thank you.’
‘If you’re sure … So, she’ll be here tomorrow!’
‘Who?’
‘The newcomer, of course, the single lady.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right.’
‘What do you think she’ll be like?’
‘I don’t know. Odette thinks she’s a widow.’
‘How funny, that’s what Marlène says too! She could just be divorced.’
‘Or she might never have married.’
‘Exactly! Why do they insist on her being a widow?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe the thought reassures them; it implies someone respectable and dignified.’
‘Dignified? Please! I knew a widow in Limoges, by God, she was a feisty one! Listen to this, one day I got back to my hotel and …’
After casting a furtive glance towards the house, Maxime leant close to his neighbour’s ear. Martial could not stand people sharing these sorts of secrets with him. They brought out the same feelings of shame and disgust as when he saw his first porn magazine. Thankfully, Odette and Marlène chose that moment to come out onto the deck and Maxime pulled away with a wink, holding a finger to his lips.
‘We all know women like to gossip, but look at the men! Martial, have you seen the time?’
For the past week, Odette had been trying her hand at exotic cuisine, cooking anything and everything as long as it originated from the other side of the world. Distance seemed to be a key ingredient in the recipe. On the menu that evening was that dish Mexicans went wild for, chicken cooked in chocolate. She had spent most of the afternoon making it. Martial sat back while Odette served him, keeping his mouth shut. It looked like coq au vin, but smelt like a dessert. He took a mouthful. Though his taste buds had had a few days to adjust to their culinary world tour, his tongue was immediately on fire.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No, I do! It’s just very hot …’
‘Maybe I put a bit too much ginger in.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘What were you talking to Maxime about?’
‘This and that … animals.’
‘What about the widow?’
‘Come on, Odette, why are you so set on her being a widow?’
‘Why shouldn’t she be? Anyway, Marlène agrees with me.’
‘And what does that prove?’
‘Women can sense these things.’
‘Oh, right! Look, I really couldn’t care less. We’ll soon find out one way or the other.’
‘We will, won’t we?’
Martial woke up with a start in the middle of the night. It was not a nightmare, more a sense of having forgotten something important, like turning off the gas or a switch … something vital … It had something to do with the dunes at Wissant … At least, he thought it did … His throat raging, he got out of bed to fetch a glass of water and was amazed, looking down, to see his erect penis straining the fabric of his pyjama bottoms. In the kitchen, he swallowed one of Odette’s pills with his water.
Léa took one last walk around the house before turning off the lights and going into her room, where she fell back on the bed, arms outstretched.
‘My final resting place …’
She had never pictured it like this. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Madeleine had always been generous towards her, but with this bizarre gift she had ensured her dreadful taste would live on after her death. That said, Léa would not have been at all surprised if this unlikely inheritance (the house and a comfortable pension) had been somewhat cynically arranged by the family of the deceased, all too happy to see the back of the very personal assistant to the owner of Lomax pharmaceuticals. Madeleine would have signed anything at the end. It was only right to provide for a faithful … employee. Perhaps if she had pressed the solicitor to look more closely at the will, Léa might have got more out of it, but what was the point? There was nothing else she needed now.
Good old Madeleine … Perhaps she might have preferred to end her days here herself, rather than in her mansion on Paris’s Avenue de Wagram. She liked the simple things in life: going for walks, watching TV, eating stews … That was pretty much all they had done together for the last few years, yet they were both contented. Each of them had looked back at her own life and realised that past a certain age, independence begins to feel like a trap. What they had never amounted to love, but the arrangement they had come to many years before had fostered a tenderness that was something like it.
Léa rolled onto her side. She felt acid rising in her throat. It must have been those red-hot fritter things Madame Sudre, Odette, had served.
She had been a little taken aback to find the four of them on her doorstep. The removal men had only just left and she had barely had time to get her breath back. They stood there smiling like Jehovah’s witnesses, the tall one especially, Maxime Node. He was the one who introduced everybody, showing them off as though trying to get a good price for them. Then they had all begun talking at once, each of them impressing on her their willingness to help. They didn’t seem like bad people, but they still frightened her a bit. Too eager, too smiley, too many outstretched hands … so old and wrinkled it was hard to tell whether they were grasping or giving. She couldn’t turn down their invitation to the buffet party they had put on in her honour at the Sudres’, the house closest to hers. The four of them seemed to get on well and to be happy living there. It was strange, but Léa felt straight away as if she knew them, or rather recognised them as people she had crossed paths with long ago, colleagues or classmates … The clown, the shy one, the flirty one, the swot … It was always the same. Claiming tiredness after a long day, she managed to escape, though not without assuring Odette of her support on two apparently burning issues: opening the clubhouse and filling up the pool.
‘Because, you see, there are five of us, now that you’re here. Five!’
Those greasy fritters were not going down well at all. Using a pair of nail scissors, Léa tore open a box marked medicines in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom. She dropped two Alka-Seltzer tablets into the tooth glass. She could see the Sudres’ window from hers; their light was on too. Her gaze was learning its limits.
‘We still don’t know if she’s a widow or not.’
‘And what does it matter to you?’
‘It doesn’t! I’m just interested, that’s all. Anyway, she’s a thoroughly decent woman; she agreed straight away about the clubhouse. I’ll call Dacapo tomorrow.’
‘You do that. Can I turn out the lights?’
‘Yes. She must have been very beautiful once.’
‘She still looks good.’
‘A bit too good. It makes me wonder what she’s doing here.’
‘What a thing to say! She’s come for the same reasons as the rest of us, for the peace and security. It makes even more sense for a woman on her own. And she might want to meet people.’
‘What people?’
‘Well, I don’t know. There’ll be others, could be some single men, who knows?’
‘You don’t get many single men at our age. Good night, Martial.’
‘You see, Marlène, that’s what I call class, high class even! Well-spoken, well-mannered, but not all la-di-da, not snobbish, just very natural and … classy!’
‘If only the same could be said for everyone.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘If you could have seen yourself, poor old sod! Thank God you can’t die of shame.’
‘What exactly are you getting at? I was just being friendly!’
‘A bit too friendly, if you ask me.’
‘For goodness’ sake, you’re not going to go all jealous on me, are you?’
‘Not at
all. I just think she seems like a very nice woman and I don’t want your silliness to put her off us. You need to get it into your head that you’re nothing like her type.’
‘And what is her type, may I ask?’
‘A man with class, that’s what.’
‘Like your son?’
She was quiet for a moment. ‘You’re disgusting.’
That had to be it, up on the hill, that pink spot that looked like an army camp. Les Conviviales. Nadine pulled up on the verge and lit a joint, the weed home-grown in her garden between rows of tomato plants. Well, she needed something to buck her up before walking into the lions’ den – even if the lions were toothless. Why had she taken the job? Because it was a job, after all, and those didn’t come around very often. And, as usual, she was short of cash. What was she going to get these old folk doing? Macramé? Model-making? Silk painting, pasta necklaces? Until now, she had only run workshops for children, plus the odd class for bored housewives. As for the elderly – oops, ‘senior citizens’ – she didn’t have a clue. Calling to offer Nadine the job, Catherine had assured her it would be no more of a pain in the arse than looking after kids; old people moved around less and were worn out more easily. One day a week, 200 euros a pop. The guy Catherine knew from the property company, Dacapo, had called the previous day. He needed someone, anyone, to look after the clubhouse of a retirement village, starting as soon as possible. Two hundred euros … one day a week …
Nadine wound down the window. The thick smoke from the spliff rose up in the air like a wad of grey cotton wool. She sat watching it for a while, the back of her neck pressed against the headrest. She really wasn’t looking forward to this. Catherine was always coming up with these half-arsed plans. How many times had she dragged her into some crazy scheme? It was a laugh when they were younger, but now … Nadine would be forty-five next month. She had had enough of dunking small hands into paint pots and clay. It was becoming unbearable. The sight of a child’s painting repulsed her. They were all as useless and badly brought up as each other. So really, why not give the oldies a go? Not that they were so much older than her, anyway … It was only one day a week; she’d still have another six for painting her little watercolours and smoking little joints in her little house.
As the hash began to take effect, Les Conviviales, framed by the windscreen, took on the glossy veneer of a postcard. The whole thing looked fake, like a hurriedly assembled stage set daubed with unsubtle colours: blue sky, pink walls, chalky white ground streaked with patches of green. Nadine aired the car for a few minutes before turning the key in the ignition.
Monsieur Flesh eyed Nadine suspiciously, clearly tempted to act the policeman and circle her clapped-out Clio before letting her through.
‘And you are?’
‘Nadine Touchard. I’ll be running the clubhouse. Weren’t you told I was coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘So … can I come in?’
‘Yes.’
The gate opened slowly, as though equally reluctant to let the little red car in.
‘Could you possibly tell me the way?’
‘Straight on, you’ll see it, by the pool.’
‘Thanks. Have a nice day.’
She had trouble deciphering the grunt she received in response. Caretakers are gruff types. Nadine drove slowly, as though following an invisible funeral cortège.
‘Jesus, it’s completely dead.’
Bland bungalows ran along both sides of the road like so many polished tombstones; it was enough to make you fear for a somewhat monotonous ever-after. At the end of this ghost road that seemed to go on for ever, the blue rectangle of the swimming pool came into view, and behind it, the chalet-style clubhouse. A small group of men and women were waiting outside. They all stopped talking the minute they saw Nadine’s car, and didn’t take their eyes off her until she came to join them. It was like a scene from a spaghetti western.
‘Hello, my name’s Nadine Touchard.’
Five right hands were thrust in her direction, some wearing gold rings or bracelets, all of them crisscrossed with swarms of thick blue veins under sagging, spotted skin. As Nadine shook each one in turn, she felt strangely as though she were offering her condolences.
Everything in the ‘leisure centre’ was new, from the electric kettle in the kitchenette to the computer, not to mention the snooker table. So sparklingly new that nobody dared touch anything, nor even sit down. Anxious to give the impression she had everything under control, Nadine walked breezily through the building, nodding her approval at the quality of the furniture and equipment that had been provided. The truth was, she was a total technophobe and had never picked up a snooker cue in her life. What the hell am I doing here? The others stared silently at her, as though watching the slow, painful death of a fly trapped in a blob of honey. Nadine was beginning to regret smoking that spliff. The silence seemed to press on her eardrums and subliminal images flashed before her eyes. She had to take charge of the situation, and fast.
‘Great. What do you say to getting to know each other over a cup of coffee?’
At this, they all seemed to loosen up and the atmosphere instantly became friendlier. Léa and Marlène offered to make the coffee while the others settled into the sofas in the reading corner.
Over the course of two hours, they covered every subject, except the one they were supposed to be discussing. Catherine was right; it was quite straightforward dealing with old people, you just had to go along with whatever they said.
‘Isn’t that so, Mademoiselle Touchard?’
‘Call me Nadine. Absolutely, absolutely …’
Once she had identified the leaders of the group – Odette Sudre being the serious one and Maxime Node the joker – she could let it run on autopilot. Martial constantly rubbed his hands together, stopping only to surreptitiously pick his right ear. Marlène kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, looking daggers at her husband. And Léa had worn that same lovely little sad smile throughout. She had clearly had a lot of practice at politely putting up with being bored stiff, and Nadine instantly warmed to her. She didn’t belong here either. What was she doing here?
Taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, Odette cleared her throat.
‘Good, that’s all very good. See you same time next Thursday.’
With great solemnity, Madame Sudre closed the folder marked ‘Clubhouse’. Inside was a pad of paper, blank but for the page on which she had just written: ‘Clubhouse Meeting 9 a.m. Thursday 14th. Agenda: Suggestions for activities.’
They parted beside the pool, chorusing how nice it had been to get to know each other. Nadine got back in her car. Once the gate had closed behind her, she lit a joint and took a long drag on it. The hills rolled ahead of her, as far as the eye could see. She decided to stop by the beach before heading home. She felt a desperate need for space, to feel the wind.
Yes, it was like living on holiday, the only difference being that holidays came to an end. It was as though they had bought themselves a ticket to the afterlife; they no longer had a future. Which just went to show you could do perfectly well without one.
Martial put down his watering can. It was barely nine o’clock and it was already hot. This palm tree looked bloody silly. It reminded him of the office junior at the ministry whom everyone called Gaston Lagaffe after the disaster-prone comic strip character, a long-necked simpleton who wandered around with his head permanently in the clouds. No one could believe it when he was arrested for armed robbery. You never can tell … It was Odette who had brought the palm tree home from a shopping trip with Marlène. She wanted her own patch of garden to make her mark on and fill with her choice of rare, exotic flowers. You could get away with it in this climate, she said. Some plants died within days, others clung on. It was hard to make sense of. Nature’s a funny old thing, it does whatever it pleases. He had always been a little afraid of it. He tiptoed into forests, speaking in a whisper, as though entering a church. Nature was mysterious
, incomprehensible, impenetrable, off limits, like the ladies’ toilets.
‘OK, I’m ready. Shall we go?’
Odette had put a blouse on over her swimming costume, as flimsy and brightly coloured as butterfly wings, along with a white swimming cap and a pair of sunglasses. She was getting quite tanned. It suited her, just like her shorter, newly highlighted hair. They had taken to going to the pool every morning at nine o’clock, ‘when it’s quieter,’ said Odette. ‘Quieter …’ It made Martial smile. For the time being, there were still just the five of them, with no new arrivals on the cards. They weren’t exactly fighting for space in the pool. In fact, it was starting to feel a bit weird, all the empty houses. Maxime had joked about it the other night.
‘What if they’re watching us, like guinea pigs in a lab? They could secretly be filming us and studying us like rats …’
‘Why us? There’s nothing out of the ordinary about us. We’re just normal people.’
‘Really? How many “normal” people do you know? Everyone’s got a few skeletons in the cupboard.’
‘But who would be watching us?’
‘I don’t know … Other people, on the other side of the wall … Martians!’
OK, he’d had a bit to drink, but ever since then, Martial had looked at the CCTV cameras differently.
Odette was the first to get in.
‘Come in, the water’s lovely!’
No. To him, it felt icy cold. His toes curled around the rungs of the steps.
‘Come on!’
He let go. It was like being born, a great big slap in the face. But didn’t it feel wonderful afterwards! Martial did a couple of lengths as quickly as he could, so he could get them out of the way. It wasn’t to do with the temperature of the water, he just found swimming boring. You never got anywhere and you had to constantly jig your arms and legs about to avoid going under. All around, there was nothing to look at but blue. It was a bloody waste of time.
Moon in a Dead Eye Page 3
