Talking to Ghosts

by Hervé Le Corre

  17

  Victor gripped Julien’s throat, his fingers locked either side of the boy’s larynx, aware of the hard, dry feel of his scrawny neck, this living bundle of bones and tendons that quivered every time the kid tried to swallow. The boy’s eyes rolled wildly, pleadingly, and his head, nodding frantically to let Victor know he agreed with every word, banged against the side of the bath into which the two of them had fallen after they grabbed each other around the neck and started tussling.

  “You just keep your trap shut, you little shit. This is nobody’s business but mine, so you don’t say anything, you don’t know anything, otherwise I’ll drill a hole in your head, you got that, dickface? Did you hear what that guy said? He said he’d torch this place if we talked. D’you see what he did to the old man’s place? So you know he’s perfectly capable of doing it. And besides you were there with me so you’re an accomplice. I’m not going to take the heat for this alone.”

  Julien blinked. He face was flushed red, he seemed unable to move.

  Victor loosened his grip around the boy’s throat and helped him to his feet. Julien sat motionless on the side of the bath, his head down. He was gasping, his mouth wide, his chest heaving violently.

  “Oh, come on, you’re O.K. Fuck’s sake, I hardly touched you.”

  The kid shook his head as though he did not quite agree. Gradually his breathing subsided. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks, then a huge sob shook his body and he let out a high-pitched wail, almost a shriek, his mouth stretched into a horrible rictus.

  “You hurt? I didn’t …”

  Julien got to his feet and took a step towards the door.

  “Shit. What’s the matter with you?”

  In two minutes, Nicole would come up to see what they were up to.

  “Don’t cry, O.K.? Let’s go outside.”

  Julien nodded and they crept soundlessly out of the bathroom, Victor putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder to reassure him or to prevent another crying jag.

  Once outside, they went and sat on the bench under the oak tree. Fretfully they watched a hornet circling above their heads in the leaves, then seeing it fly off, both boys heaved a sigh of relief.

  Julien was still sobbing and sniffling. He stared straight ahead of him, his eyes vacant.

  Victor asked him what he was blubbering about and the kid looked up at him with sad eyes.

  “You do understand what I was trying to tell you?” Victor said.

  “We have to keep the secret, otherwise we’re screwed. We’ll be hauled up in front of the judge again and everyone will be pissed off. They’ll send us off to another foster family and we’ll be in the shit.”

  Julien said nothing, staring into space. The hornet was back, buzzing loudly, and Victor could not take his eyes off the insect’s fat yellow body.

  “You scared me,” Julien said, “I thought …”

  The hornet disappeared into the foliage.

  “You thought what? You thought I was going to strangle you, is that it?”

  He shook his head. He wiped away another tear and sighed heavily.

  “Maman used to do that. Sometimes she’d get really mad with me and she’d squeeze my throat like you were doing. Then after she’d hug me and she’d be crying. But, really, she wanted to kill me. That’s why I was taken into care.”

  Julien picked up a stone and threw it at a plastic chair which gave a hollow rattle as the pebble rolled around and then came to a halt. The boy stared at the chair, clearing his throat. Victor laid a hand on his bony shoulder. He struggled for something to say, but it was difficult because he was suddenly convinced that his mother was listening to them and he did not want to disappoint her.

  “I was lucky,” he said.

  Julien leaned back against the bench. He sniffled, wiped his mouth and his nose on the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  “When Maman was sad, she used to hug me and tell me she loved me. She said it was our secret.”

  Julien looked up at him, his eyes still glistening.

  “You’ve got a lot of secrets, you.”

  “No, not really. Now you know them all.”

  “Just me?”

  “Yeah. Just you. That’s why …”

  “I’d never give away a secret.”

  “I hope not.”

  The muffled roar of the vacuum cleaner broke the silence between them.

  “When are they burying him, the old man?”

  “Dunno. Tomorrow, maybe. They had to do an autopsy on him.” Julien pulled a face.

  “You mean like in films when they cut dead bodies open? That happened to Papa. But the old guy died in the fire, didn’t he?”

  “He might have been dead before.”

  “On account of the snake?”

  “Of course not. Because of the other guy, I told you already how they were fighting and everything.”

  “Jeez, this is serious.”

  “Yeah, it’s serious. That’s why we can’t say anything. We’re witnesses, you get it? We saw the guy. But being a witness just gets you in more shit. They’d ask us what the fuck we were doing up there.”

  The kid hunched his shoulders.

  “Do you think it got burned up, the snake?”

  Victor shrugged.

  “Yeah, sure, along with everything else.”

  “But Denis and Nicole said there was still furniture and stuff up there. The police go through everything in cases like this. With tweezers.”

  Victor looked at him. The boy was biting his nails and looking around with wide, astonished eyes and it was obvious he was lost in his own unfathomable thoughts. They sat in silence for a long moment amid the hum of insects bustling in the summer morning and the wind moving through the dense foliage. The sun was high already, it must have been about 10.00 a.m., and the light was searing, the warm breeze blew on them now and then tracing a line of sweat down their necks.

  “We’ll go up and see tonight,” Victor said, “when it’s not so hot.”

  Julien nodded gravely, pursing his lips, then slowly got to his feet.

  “I need to pump up my bike tyres,” he said decisively.

  Victor looked up towards the leaves of the oak where the hornet had reappeared. It seemed even bigger now and its abdomen looked like a blister filled with venom. The boy fought the shudder running down his back and decided to stay where he was, under the circling poisonous insect, to master his fear as he had with the snakes, because his mother would have been proud of his bravery.

  They grew bored and they lingered in the shade, seeking shelter from the scorching heat beneath trees or in the house, which was only slightly cooler. Then Julien suggested that they go down to the estuary because he had spotted the burrow of a river rat you could see only if you stood out on a pontoon. They got their bicycles and arched their backs against the sweltering sun.

  After half an hour’s ride they dismounted and scrabbled up a grassy bank from which, between the trees, they could see the still expanse of thick, muddy water flowing out to sea. It was low tide. The mud stank, and they walked carefully between the reeds on the hard crust of mud that dried in the heat of the day between tides. They easily got through the makeshift gate – a metal frame with a wooden door painted khaki – which Berlan, who owned the fisherman’s hut, had installed to prevent people wandering onto the pontoon. They sat down and caught their breath for a moment in the shade of a tree that grew out over the water from the bank.

  Julien showed Victor the burrow and whispered that they had to wait, to be patient, because the river rats did not come out much during the day.

  “But they’ve got babies,” he said.

  “The mother takes them out swimming with them on her back while they feed.”

  “They swim on their backs?”

  “No … She carries them on her back. The females have their teats on their back, so they can feed their babies while they swim.”

  “Are you kidding? Teats on their backs? Where do you come up with this
shit?”

  “Denis told me. And anyway, I read about it in a book. River rats are also called muskrats. They come from America.”

  Victor nodded. Not taking his eyes off the burrow. He did not believe this story about them having teats on their back, but he did not want to argue with the kid. Julien took a catapult out of his backpack.

  “Here.”

  Victor looked at the forked stick with the ribbon of thick black rubber but did not touch it.

  “What about you? Have you not got one?”

  “This is for you. I’ve got another one for me. I found this yesterday when I was rummaging around.”

  Victor grabbed the catapult and tried it out several times, drawing back the rubber as far as he could, then letting go. The wood was still rough and uneven, it had not been dirtied or worn smooth by any hand. It was brand new. The kid who had made it for him now watched him toy with the catapult, swinging his legs in the empty space below the jetty.

  “Where’s yours?” Victor said.

  Julien rummaged in his bag and took out a second slingshot that was almost identical.

  “I know how to make them. A friend taught me. You know Felanzino?”

  Victor pulled a face.

  “Ferreira. Marina’s brother. He’s the one who gave me the elastic. And he gave me ball bearings too, look.”

  He opened his hand and the steel balls glittered and clacked sharply as he rolled them around his palm.

  “You can use these to hunt,” he said.

  “You can kill animals. Even people.” Victor took a ball bearing. It was heavy and warm. He rolled it between his fingers, brought it up to his face to study it more closely.

  “You ever tried?” he said.

  “Yeah. With cats. But I don’t kill them, it just hurts them. Jesus, you should hear them squeal, the little bastards!”

  The kid was squirming, excited at recounting his heroic deeds, and the jetty rocked a little, shaking under his bony arse. Victor did not try to persuade him to stop shooting at cats. He did not want the kid’s high rasping voice drilling into his ears. Julien must have realised this because he said no more and turned back to the burrow, catapult ready for action, a steel ball bearing in the pocket of the elastic.

  They sat there in silence, but for the faint rustling of the tree above their heads, and from beneath, the sound of the river heading for the sea, lapping at the bank. Victor gazed at the dark, pungent silt encircling them and he felt he could almost taste mud at the back of his throat; he spat twice and coughed vainly, trying to get rid of the taste. He remembered his adventures on the Garonne near his house, and the vast Cité Lumineuse building he had watched being demolished as a child. He and a gang of other boys used to wander among the reeds below the embankment and every now and then rats would scuttle out of nowhere, their shrill squeaks terrifying the children who would try to hit them with sticks, or goad a dog into giving chase, and sometimes the rats would fight back, rearing up on their hind paws, baring their teeth and uttering piercing shrieks. The smell of silt was the same, that sickly stink of shit carried on the water, rising from the wastes of fetid mud that sucked at their shoes and threatened to trap and swallow up anyone who ventured into the sludge, before drying in the heat to a brownish-grey dust like the skin of a dead animal.

  The river rats appeared after half an hour, first the one Julien called the mother, who sniffed the air, sat up on her hind paws, scraped her big yellow teeth with her claws and then trotted along the dry riverbank with two little black rats dashing after her and disappearing into her fur. The ball bearings disappeared into the mud, raising clouds of dust. Julien cursed his slingshot every time he missed, then the animals themselves when they disappeared back into their burrow and refused to come out again. The boys waited around for another half-hour, slingshot elastic taut, then, without exchanging a word, they got to their feet simultaneously. The tide was rising and the estuary seemed to swell with a low murmur of wind and a rush of water as though the ocean’s dull roar reached even here.

  “Let’s go, yeah?” Victor said.

  The kid nodded without looking at him, already terrified at the idea of going back to the house where the old man had died. They passed through the fisherman’s gate and walked back between the reeds across the crusted rivulets of sun-baked mud.

  “What about the police?” Julien said anxiously as he picked up his bike.

  Victor shrugged and stood up on the pedals as he set off. They rode quietly through air so still, so warm, that their sweat did not dry. They got off their bicycles just before the last turn and cut around the back on a dirt track between the vines so as not to be seen.

  Just about all that was left old Georges’ house was a scorched wall, its empty windows gaping like huge eyes ringed by streaks of soot that looked like lashes. A police car was parked in the drive and the two boys, crouching on the far side of the road, saw a man wearing white overalls sifting through the rubble. They set off again, skirting around the vineyards to get to the other side of the house, where they might get a better view. They ran, bending low beneath two rows of vines already heavy with green grapes. Here, the wall had partly collapsed and the shed where the old man had stored his equipment was nothing but a black and tangled mass in the midst of which stood a bicycle frame. Nothing in the house had been spared and the two policemen nosing about inside had to stoop to duck under the charred, collapsed beams of the roof.

  “That snake’s gone for good,” Victor said.

  “Look, there’s no table there anymore.”

  Julien heaved a sigh.

  “They said the old guy was completely black and shrivelled up,” he said, “so a snake …”

  “I told you we were never in any trouble.”

  “What are they looking for? Money?”

  “I don’t know. Fingerprints, maybe.”

  Julien almost cried out in fright. Victor reassured the kid, telling him he was only joking, that everything had been burnt to a crisp, that the police always did this, he had seen it on T.V.

  They watched in silence as the forensics officers bustled about, raking through the blackened rubble, sometimes showing each other charred artefacts that the boys tried in vain to identify. Then Victor signalled it was time to leave, giving Julien a little tap on the back of the head to shake him – nose pressed to the chicken wire, crouching behind a mimosa – from his rapt contemplation of the painstaking comings and goings of the two men in white amid this expanse of blackness. Calmly they walked back to their bicycles, pausing here and there to pilfer a few warm, pink grapes that were already sweet. The sun had dropped and already a little shadow began to pool at their feet and in the deep furrows, but the heat was still sweltering, and they could feel the sunlight coming over the leaves of the vines and hitting their faces. They shivered as a cool breeze blowing in from the estuary caught their bare legs. On the road down to the village, they let out whoops of joy, letting go of their handlebars, sometimes freewheeling, sometimes pedalling like demons. As they approached the house they slowed down, let their breathing settle to normal. Denis was sitting on the kitchen step smoking a cigarette, still covered in plaster dust, his hair almost grey. He hardly acknowledged their greeting.

  “We’ve been waiting for you so we can eat,” he said as they passed.

  “What the fuck were you up to? Where have you been at this hour?”

  “We were watching river rats,” Victor said.

  “We didn’t notice the time. Sorry …”

  “Well, don’t do it again. Round here we eat on time, understood? Just look at yourselves, you’re filthy.”

  The man blew a long stream of smoke in the direction in which he was idly staring. They went into the silent house. The T.V. was turned off. Nicole was in the kitchen making a large pizza, and as they went to get a drink from the fridge, she asked them where they’d been. They told her about the river rats. Nicole said how much she loathed the little beasts.

  “Honestly, have you
nothing better to do with your time? Those filthy things are full of diseases. And look at you, you’re all red and sweaty. Go on, go wash your hands at least. Have you seen the time? I was wondering what you were up to.”

  “Where’s Marilou?”

  “She’s with Rebecca. Out the back. Go and tell them dinner’s ready.” Victor felt his skin tingle. He went out onto the back terrace and saw her, sitting on a bench, her black hair hastily pinned up into a bun. Marilou was lying in the hammock chatting to her, but she trailed off when she saw Victor arrive. He said hello and took one of the white plastic chairs, his damp skin immediately sticking to it. The girls did not reply and they sat for a moment like this, not saying anything, Marilou almost dozing, her tanned legs crossed, Rebecca sitting cross-legged on the bench playing with her mobile, her back straight, almost stiff, her shorts hitched up over her thighs. A gust of wind darted between the branches above them and Victor hoped it meant there would be a storm tonight. He longed for a downpour, for thunder, for something violent that would shake everything from the torpor in which it was mired, a torpor into which he could feel himself sinking. Here, gazing at Rebecca’s mute, headstrong beauty, he longed for a cataclysm that would sweep everything away, leaving behind it only desolation and sobbing and the despair of the survivors. He looked up at the drab sky, greyish-green perhaps, but leaden in the west as though something were brewing over the ocean.

  Nicole called for them to come and eat and they got up without a word. Victor could feel Rebecca walking behind him, her breath almost ruffling his hair, so close that he had to resist the temptation to turn around suddenly so she would bump into him, and he let his hand dangle next to his thigh in the hope that she might brush against it.