“My dear Monsieur Zura, how could I forget you?” he was saying. “Are you not my superior, rankwise? The key thing is to make an appointment so that we can meet at the notary. I am setting aside one of my best properties for you, I promise. It’s already well planted with trees and, believe me, the neighborhood is pleasant and clean. Trust me, this is an exceptional deal for you.”
M. Zura thanked him and went away without noticing Paul. Looking at the typist who was working across from him, Louis Normil saw that she was staring at something just behind his chair. He suddenly turned around.
“You!” he exclaimed, catching sight of his son. “What can I do for you?”
Paul looked at his father for a moment, then shrugging:
“Nothing,” he answered.
“But come here. Do you need me?”
“No, I was passing by, so I walked in.”
“Are you sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me, some bad news?”
He went pale as he uttered those words, and Paul saw him looking for a place to rest his hand or elbow on the table.
“No, Papa, no, really, it’s nothing.”
He suddenly left his father and made for the exit. He strolled until lunch and found the whole family home. The grandfather and the invalid mingled their mumbling voices in prayer. He took his seat and ate in silence.
“Claude, have you had your bath today?”
“Yes, Mama, Grandfather bathed me as usual.”
“What happened to your hands?” Rose exclaimed. “They’re covered with scratches.”
“I was playing with branches and they had thorns,” he said coldly.
“What branches, what thorns?” Paul asked skeptically.
The mother looked at the invalid’s hands at length and then at the grandfather. He was slowly chewing his food, distant and indifferent to what was going on around him. Indeed, he didn’t seem to hear the child who now turned to him.
“Grandfather,” he insisted, pulling on his sleeve. “Didn’t I get these scratches from the thorns? Grandfather?”
The grandfather came back to himself and, turning to the child:
“What, who doesn’t believe you?” he asked. “And why would you lie? We only lie out of fear. And who could you be afraid of at this table?”
“In any case,” the mother added, “it would make sense to dress these scratches before they get infected. Come with me, Claude.”
She rose and took the invalid in her arms. He sought the grandfather’s eyes, ready to protest at the least sign of encouragement.
The mother took the child upstairs into her room. She opened his hands and dreamily stared at the bright little wounds.
“Are there more, Claude? Do you have scratches anywhere else?”
“Anywhere else? No, Mama. Why would I have scratches anywhere else? I was just playing with the branches, not rolling around on top of them.”
He laughed nervously, resting his overly large, sleep-deprived eyes on his mother.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m telling you, nothing.”
His deformed feet dangled lifeless at the bottom of his pants. He was dressed in white and the long sleeves of his shirt concealed his scrawny arms.
“It’s much too exhausting for you,” the mother gently said to him, “too much for a sick child who barely eats anything. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He frowned and his gaze suddenly became severe and distant.
Fearing a tantrum, the mother did not dare insist.
At that moment Jacob came in. He had brought a deck of cards that he cheerfully spread out on the table.
“So, shall we resume our game, old friend?” he said in a jovial stentorian voice that immediately filled the house.
“No,” the grandfather answered laconically.
“You don’t want to play with me?”
“Yes.”
“And what are your reasons?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Come! Come!” Jacob said in a conciliatory tone. “You’re not going to give me the cold shoulder just because my sciatica kept me home for a few days. It wasn’t for lack of wanting to see you, I swear.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Often I waved to you and you never bothered to wave back. And you’re the one who’s upset, really now, should you be the one to be upset?”
“Jacob,” the grandfather replied ominously, “take care lest God’s holy fury rise up in me, and get out.”
“But for what reason?” Jacob insisted.
“I tell you again that there is no reason,” the grandfather yelled. Jacob picked up the cards spread on the table and left without daring to say another word.
“Is it really true that there’s no reason why you’re chasing away your friend?” the child asked.
“There are reasons, little one, good ones, I’d even say very good ones. But never show blood to the person who wounded you. You would only be making him lie to absolve himself.”
The grandfather’s comments probably reminded the invalid of several unpleasant recollections about his mother, for he immediately sought her out and gave her an evil look. She forced me to lie to her, he was telling himself. She forced me to lie to her. He leafed through his picture book, then lifted his head. Transfigured, he stared at the front door, at a vision of heartrending clarity.
The mother had her back to them, facing the window opened wide onto the trees fragrant with fruit.
“Grandfather!” he called quietly. “Grandfather!”
The old man quickly turned his head, stood up and took him in his arms.
For all these days, he had been patiently, cruelly, preparing him for the visitation of the late ancestor. Did he even believe in it himself? In the depths of his soul, legends he thought he had forgotten had been reawakened. Legends he was desperately using as the only weapons available to the revenge-obsessed believer that he had become.
“No matter what you see,” he whispered, “don’t give yourself away. Keep calm, little one.”
The child batted his lashes, his face growing horribly pale. He leaned his head on his grandfather’s shoulder and shivered.
“He is there,” he gasped, “I see him. He’s dressed in a high-collared jacket and a big straw hat. Just as you described him.”
“What is he doing?”
“He’s looking at us. He’s standing by the door and looking at us.”
The mother starting walking in that direction. The grandfather had to restrain the invalid. He was panting, eyes wide, mouth dry. The mother pulled the doors shut and returned to where she’d been standing.
“Good night,” she said. “Sleep well, Claude.”
They heard her walk upstairs, the grandfather clutching the child tightly, asking him:
“Did she lock him inside the house?”
“No. He saw her coming, so he stepped back and disappeared.”
“Ah!” said the grandfather. “The main thing is he has answered our call.”
“His feet were bleeding as if he had traveled a great distance, and he was looking at us with sad, heavy eyes. Are you sure we were right to disturb him? Grandfather, were we right?”
“If even the dead refused to hear God’s voice and come to our aid,” the grandfather replied, “then what would become of us, my child?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The first day of the month of March! the father said to himself. Alone, lying in bed fully dressed, he was filled with thoughts. An hour ago, he had given his wife part of his salary, saying: “Buy some clothes for the children and some medicine too: they need it.” The mother took the money without thanking him and got dressed to go out. Now he was alone and thinking things over. Twenty days had gone by since their property was invaded.
Stooped with age, he was developing a plan of incredible audacity, one worthy of the terrible adversaries he desired to confront. “Find your enemy’s weak point, and you shall be victorious,” he was repeating to hi
mself. That sentence, found somewhere in a book he had forgotten, now resurfaced from the depths of his memory to guide and help him. He was going to risk his life, put it all on the table, he knew that, but he wanted only one thing: to save Rose and Paul at least. Cradling his heavy head with his hands locked behind the nape of his neck, brows frowning, eyes fixed on an invisible spot, he was lost in thought. Sweet, sentimental and importunate memories kept interrupting his dark daydream and he yielded to them, recalling the good old days of happiness and peace, now lost. Slices of his life unfolded before his eyes, and he relived them with depressing intensity and a vague feeling of remorse. How happy we were then! he was telling himself. Despite his father’s hostility toward his wife, despite the birth of the crippled child, how happy they were! In comparison to what they were going through now, everything had really seemed perfect! Of course there had been quarrels between him and his wife, the old man’s fits of anger, the mother’s heartrending tears when she saw the deformed feet of her third child, but on the other hand there had been so many compensations: the perfect harmony between Paul and Rose, studying together at the same table, their heads bowed under the lamp, the grace of their growing bodies, transforming before their very eyes! How had he neglected the opportunity to appreciate all of that? How indifferent he had been about the party the mother had organized to celebrate the children’s twin success in their philosophy exams! He had used an important meeting as an excuse not to attend and had taken advantage of it to spend the night with his mistress. Now he could see the scene in every detail-first the mother’s tears of joy the pride in the grandfather’s eyes that he tried to conceal by declaring haughtily: “That’s no reason to drag in the whole the neighborhood.” But at lunchtime, the old man had taken two envelopes out of his pocket and handed them to Rose and Paul:
“Go on, enjoy this wonderful day, my children.”
The night of the party, he had returned from his mistress around midnight to find the grandfather dancing with an imposing matron, to the delight of the guests. He went up to his room to compose a face in the mirror; the face of a serious man whose tired features revealed that he was still absorbed by his pretend business meeting. He had noticed his wife dancing with Dr. Valois, Anna and Paul off by themselves in a corner of the living room, Rose dancing by herself, her whirling hair in her eyes, and the invalid, who had refused to go to bed, lying on the sofa, smiling. Could it really be that this was just six months ago?
As he got up from the bed, he again saw Rose dancing by herself, her face happy and carefree, hair in her eyes, and as if to convince himself he suddenly said out loud: “It’s not possible, there’s just no way she gave in to the Gorilla.” Everyone around them seemed to have no doubt it was true, but this was nothing but wickedness on their part and sheer boasting on the part of the Gorilla. M. Zura put so much stock in it that he had suddenly begun to flatter him to get on his good side, outdoing himself trying to be friendly. Thus Louis Normil was becoming despite everything, a power broker, and he vowed to use that to his advantage. He had approached the Gorilla only once, in tears, to beg him to spare Rose. It was on that day, upon the unexpected reaction of this uniformed man, that he discovered hatred. The echo of demonic laughter that greeted his tears had suddenly awakened it inside of him. He had raised his head and dried his tears to look at the other man for a brief instant. But that instant had been enough to prove to him that he was capable of killing as calmly and quietly as the most ruthless murderer. This discovery had terrified him then, but he’d gotten so used to it that he grew cynical and now played the great man of the hour, honored and protected by the authorities, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“They guard our yard night and day,” he assured M. Zura in a loud voice. “The trees are full of fruit and thieves are everywhere. We want to sell it but there is so much demand we’re afraid of making people jealous.”
This meant that he was increasingly pestered by his boss, who now wanted to be included in the list of buyers.
He rarely went home for lunch now. He went to bars and public places in the company of the director, always surrounded by uniformed men.
“Your daughter’s friend is very powerful,” M. Zura had whispered to him once he thought he could speak as a friend. “His protection is rare and enviable.”
“What do I care!” Louis Normil felt like shouting. “He’s a murderer moonlighting as a thief!” But he had controlled himself enough to offer a friendly smile.
“So, that’s you, you’re the girl’s father!” a man in a black uniform cried out that day as he shook his hand.
He went along with it, accepting the familiar slap on his shoulder, as several colleagues stared at him coldly with poorly concealed disgust. Who are they to judge me? he thought. Are they going to get me out of this mess? And weren’t they the same ones treating me as if I had the plague? He accepted such encounters and would only be seen in the company of the most decorated, most highly visible men in black uniform, and in their presence would praise the generosity of his daughter’s protector, swearing that he would one day show his gratitude.
“My word, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a father so admire his daughter’s lover,” one of them declared.
He couldn’t go on after that and felt his courage flagging. He left them and called a car. He sat down, took off his hat and burst into tears. The driver turned around and saw him holding his arms out, hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him, his chest heaving with such deep and convulsive sobbing that the driver cried out:
“Really now, sir, why are you crying like that? These times we’re living in are no joke, it’s true. I’ll tell you, sometimes I start shaking for no reason when I see the Blackshirts and hear the things they say. But to cry like that! Ah! That, no!…”
He grew quiet and felt ashamed, put his hat back on, and sat with his head down, handkerchief over his mouth. So she did it, he told himself, so she really did it! And as he repeated this to himself, he realized that he had known for a long time.
The next day, he was at a restaurant with M. Zura. He was joined by several men in black uniform that he didn’t know, and when they were introduced to him and heard his name they nodded and gave him a friendly smile. He was raising his glass to his mouth when he saw the Gorilla walk in. The sight of him so repelled him that he felt like fleeing so he wouldn’t have to shake the man’s hand. But he fought the urge and, like M. Zura and the others, stood when the Gorilla approached. The reception given this man, scrawny and fattened with weapons, astonished him even as it convinced him of his popularity and power. M. Zura was the first to leap out of his chair to greet him. The others, stiff as posts, stood at attention, clicking their heels together loudly. Then they surrounded him, all of them talking at the same time. An immense man who looked like a boxer put a hand on the Gorilla’s shoulder in a familiar way, and he looked so diminished and ridiculous in contrast that two waiters by the door started whispering to each other.
“Where is the reward I was promised?” the Boxer asked as he leaned toward the little man and put his mouth against his ear. “I gave you five traitors I caught plotting in your midst. Where is the reward I was promised?”
“Can’t you wait a little?”
“I need that land.”
“And you’ll get it, but you need to wait. There are still a few formalities to wrap up.”
“Bull!” the Boxer answered impatiently. “You’re always doing whatever you want.”
He straightened and stuck out his chest, looking so menacing that the little man capitulated.
“Give me a few more days,” he snarled.
“Don’t forget me, please,” another begged humbly. “You promised to reward me, and I too want a piece of land.”
“I’ve been waiting a year,” another protested, “and I’m still paying rent.”
“So stop paying rent,” the little man said coldly. “I’ll protect you in court.”
Visibly unhappy
, he tried in vain to escape this horde harassing and suffocating him. Standing on his toes in a desperate attempt to get a little air, he said in a cutting voice:
“And now, gentlemen, let me through.”
The group parted and the little man found himself in front of Louis Normil, who was sitting quietly with his drink. He hesitated, then took a few steps to the table, holding out his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” Louis Normil said, returning his greeting. “I actually wanted to see you again so we could talk alone.”
He saw the Gorilla’s long hairy hands shaking. From fear or rage? Louis Normil thought. Someone in the room frightens him, but who? He turned around and caught the Boxer looking at the Gorilla. And suddenly he was filled with new strength. The Gorilla had taken a handkerchief from his pocket and was patting his face as he stared at Louis Normil with distrust.
“Did you want to talk alone so you could start crying again?” he asked impertinently.
“The time for tears has come and gone,” Louis Normil said, and burst out laughing.
“Come, then. I’d like to have a talk with you as well.”
With a hand on one of his guns, he walked to an isolated table, called for a waiter, and turning toward Louis Normil:
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“A whiskey-and-soda,” Louis Normil replied.
“Two whiskey-and-sodas,” he ordered.
And leaning toward his interlocutor:
“What do you have to say to me?”
Louis Normil took the glass the server had just put on the table, raised it, and raised his voice to say:
“To Rose’s health!”
“Ah,” the dumbstruck man said, “if that’s how you’re taking it…”
And then he started laughing, his eyes on Louis Normil, whose face suddenly hardened for a fleeting instant.
“My daughter cares for you,” he said with a frozen smile that pulled at his lips but left the rest of his face unmoved. “So I look the other way…”
Love, Anger, Madness Page 29
