‘You want to leave here?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. What do you think you’re going to find “outside”? Problems, boredom, other people. That’s what you’re missing?’
‘No! No, but we can’t just stay here! That would work for, what, a fortnight? A month? Two months? And then what would happen?’
‘What about now? Don’t you ever think about the here and now? Always after, after, after! Do you think you’re immortal?’
‘Calm down, Martine. It’s true that we’re good here, very good even, the two of us in the house, and that I would also like it to last for ever. But that’s exactly why I’d like to find a more … lasting solution.’
‘You know, you’re a bastard, you really are. You just don’t get it. And why not a mortgage plan as well? You ruin everything; you talk about the future like a little old man. In fact you are old, too old to have another life – you haven’t the balls.’ She had risen and was circling the table. Fabien painfully swallowed the pipe juice, which burnt his tongue.
‘Martine, you misunderstand me. I’m thinking of our happiness, of yours as much as mine.’
‘What do you know about my happiness? You’re just like Madeleine – all she wanted was for me to be happy, and all the others before her. I don’t give a shit about happiness. I want to be left in peace whether it’s for an hour or for a hundred years, I don’t care! I’m fine here. So listen to me: no one’s coming in, and no one’s going out, no one!’
Fabien almost vomited and felt a rush of blood to the head as she kicked his wounded calf. For several seconds he was incapable of uttering a sound. The searing pain caused an incandescent red mist to descend. Then he closed his eyes and groaned.
‘Don’t expect me to help you back upstairs. Good night!’
‘Coffee?’
Martine was busy clearing the table of leftovers from the evening before. Fabien hadn’t had the strength to go up to the bedroom. He had spent the night in the armchair, shivering with cold, fever and pain. His leg had swollen and he had had to remove the dressing, now stiffened with dried blood.
‘I’m ill. I want to lie down.’
Martine stared at him for a moment, then set down the plates she was carrying and went over to him.
‘Put your arm round my shoulders. Ready?’
It proved laborious. Fabien was trembling all over; his moist hands slipped on the banister. He was so spent and exhausted, like an old washcloth turned inside out, that once he was lying down, he thought he would vomit.
‘Would you like me to bring you up some coffee?’
Fabien shook his head and passed his tongue over his cracked lips. Martine poured a glass of water and made him drink a little.
‘I’ll be back soon.’
It wasn’t raining any more but the sky was overcast. As if it still had more to say. The sight of the cows dragging their udders from one tuft of grass to the next brought tears to his eyes. All around him, normal life was continuing, full of normal people calmly looking after their cows, little suspecting that Fabien Delorme was in the process of dying like a dog a few hundred metres away. But over there in the forest how many creatures were also in the process of dying? Insects, slugs, rabbits, even wild boar, all those that weren’t killed by hunters or eaten by others. What became of those that died of old age or illness? You never saw the corpses of animals when you were out walking … Flesh and skin would of course decompose or would be devoured by vultures, but what about the bones? Forests were swarming with game – wouldn’t one expect to find tibias and shoulder blades all over the place? Martine did not leave him time to elucidate this mystery. She had brought the radio back.
‘Here, take your pills.’
She didn’t seem angry, absent more like. Fabien swallowed the two tablets.
‘Aren’t you going to redo my bandage?’
‘No, not now.’
‘But look at the state of my leg!’
‘Not now, I said.’
‘You want me to die? Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get out of here! Please, Martine, it’s serious! You can’t leave me like this! Or else shoot me now, and get it over with.’
Martine didn’t reply. Her face was as smooth as a mirror, completely devoid of any emotion.
‘I’m going to make your lunch. Sauerkraut – would you like that?’
‘Don’t talk to me about fucking sauerkraut! Shit!’
By the time he’d located something to throw at her, Martine had gone. The ashtray smashed uselessly against the door.
‘Fucking bitch! You want to kill me, is that it? You’ll see. I’m not going to let you!’
He used his teeth to wrench off strips of sheet and began to clean the coagulated blood with some water. Then he wrapped the rest of the material round his calf. His eyes were popping out of his head with rage, and he ground his teeth.
‘You’ll see if it’s me that dies, bitch!’
He spent the next two hours picturing himself strangling her with his bare hands, suffocating her with his pillow or crushing her skull with a chair. But for any of that he would have had to be able to find her. She must suspect what he was thinking of doing. He would have to lie low and wait for the opportune moment.
He didn’t see her again for two days. When he slept she would leave two tablets and a carafe of water on his bedside table. But no food. The only other sign of her presence was the ashtray on the floor near the chair at the other end of the room. She must watch him while he was asleep. That was the most disquieting thing, the empty chair over by the wall. He felt incredibly weak and hollow-boned. Had it not been for his leg which was heavy as lead, he would have floated about the room like a balloon.
He had redone his bandage once or twice with the means at his disposal, and then he hadn’t bothered any more. It was too disgusting; it stank. He only took the pills out of habit. The pain arrived when it wanted to and shredded his nerves. He fell into periods of apathy, of varying lengths, and delirium. His moments of lucidity were rare. The cows had abandoned him.
Martine reappeared on the third day, carrying a kettle of hot water, a basin, compresses and many other things that she put on the bedside table. Fabien watched her sit down on the edge of the bed and make a face as she unbandaged his leg. He would have been completely incapable of making a move and she knew that.
‘Hello. I’m going to have to make an incision to let the pus out. It’s going to hurt. Do you want to have a drink first? I’ve brought some brandy.’
‘And a cigarette for the condemned man?’
‘We’re not at that point yet.’
She offered him the bottle and lit a cigarette for him. He took his time emptying the bottle and smoking without taking his eyes off her. She looked out of the window, her hands between her knees, impassive.
‘I’m ready, you can do it now.’
She might as well have been preparing to cut his nails for all the emotion she showed. He felt as if he were at a tea ceremony, with the clean towel under his leg, the sparkling penknife, the boiling water and the compresses. Each of her precise movements seemed charged with heavy significance. He felt no fear.
When the blade cut into his flesh, a current of pain ran through him from top to bottom. He thought his teeth would explode he was clenching his jaw so hard. The worst part was knowing that the incision was just the beginning.
*
‘“When Tahar lost sight of him, he turned his head towards the square. The two North Africans who, from a distance, had kept an eye on his car and who had made sure Betsy Lang had not been trailed to their meeting point …” Shall I stop reading? Do you want to go to sleep?’
He was too tired to want anything; nothing mattered to him. The reading aloud of the old Paul Kenny, its cover curled by the damp, had been part of the silence, like the staccato rhythm of the rain on the tiles, the groaning of the woodwork, or the scampering of mice in the attic above his head.
‘I’m going to have to go back int
o town; we’re out of everything. Is there anything you would like?’
‘No, nothing. Will you be gone long?’
‘I’ll be as quick as possible.’
‘Yes, because I don’t like being left on my own. It’s miserable being alone. Everything seems too big. Too cold.’
‘Don’t worry, you will never be on your own ever again. I’m here.’
‘Help me sit up; I want to look out of the window … Aren’t the cows there any more?’
‘Too wet; they have to be kept inside.’
‘Like me.’
‘Exactly, like you.’
‘And you? Do you need me?’
‘Of course. We need each other. Shall I put the radio on for you?’
‘No, I don’t like all those voices in the room; I can’t understand what they’re saying. It’s tiring.’
‘Right, I’m off. Consider me back already.’
‘See you later, Sylvie.’
Martine didn’t react. He was sitting up in bed lost in contemplation of the pale rectangle of window when she left the room.
‘I called her Sylvie … But what’s the difference after all? I should have asked her to bring those biscuits … Too bad. I can live without them … The wall, the road, the meadow with its tree, the edge of the forest, the sky, that’s all I need of the world. Nothing can go wrong with those. I wonder why I’ve resisted so long …’
He stared at the grassy meadow until everything was green, green inside, green outside, a big curtain of green in front of his eye, exactly what the cows must see as they grazed. That was when he saw Gilles. It was weird; he was walking in the soaking-wet field, lifting his knees high as he went. ‘Fabien! Hey, Fabien!’ He was calling him, making a megaphone of his hands … Fabien blinked. Gilles was still there.
Two large tears rolled down Fabien’s cheeks. The first time he’d seen a human being in the meadow, and it was his old buddy. He took a few minutes to believe what he was seeing, and to drag himself over to the window. The fresh air was like a bucket of cold water in his face. For a second it took his breath away. Gilles jumped up and down, waving his arms.
‘Fabien! For God’s sake! Fabien! Come down and let me in; it’s locked.’
‘I can’t … You’ll have to climb over the wall.’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t got the keys.’
‘What the hell is going on? OK, I’ll climb on the roof of the car. Hang on a minute.’
Fabien got back into bed. His head was spinning. He couldn’t have said whether Gilles’s appearance in his little world pleased him or not. He heard a sharp snap followed by breaking glass then footsteps on the stairs.
‘Well, my old friend, what’s with all this crap? Christ! What’s happened to you?’
The presence of Gilles in the bedroom seemed indecent. His voice was too loud, his gesticulations too emphatic. He was too real.
‘Are you unwell? What’s wrong with your leg? Say something, damn it!’
‘I’m getting better. I was shot.’
‘Shot! What kind of messed-up situation have you got yourself into?’
‘It’s complicated … I wouldn’t know where to start. But anyway what are you doing here?’
‘You’ve been gone for more than two weeks! Don’t you remember? You gave me the name of the village. I borrowed Laure’s car and I asked for directions in the village, a house with two women. They told me about this dump but they said there was no one here. I came anyway just to check … You look like shit. Are you all alone?’
‘No. Martine has gone into town for some shopping.’
‘And she locks you in when she goes out? Why are the shutters closed? And the other biddy, where is she?’
‘I can’t tell you, Gilles. My head’s spinning. I’m tired.’
‘It doesn’t matter, you can tell me about it later. But I’m not leaving you another minute in this house, it’s downright sinister. You’ll have to see the doc. Have you got clothes and things, a bag?’
‘I can’t leave just like that. Martine …’
‘What Martine? She’s completely nutty, the witch, leaving you rotting away in bed. No, my friend, we’re getting out of here and that’s all there is to it. I’ve seen all I need to.’
‘Gilles, it’ll take too long to explain, but I can’t …’
‘That’s bullshit! What do you think? That we’re going to chat about the rain and the beautiful weather and then I’ll say, “Cheerio, see you soon!” I’ve no idea what’s going on here, but it stinks. Anyway I’m not asking your opinion; you’re in no fit state to decide. I’m your friend, for heaven’s sake! Your friend!’
Fabien didn’t know what to think any more. He would have liked to go to sleep, right there and then.
‘Can you walk? No. I’m going to carry you on my back. Put your arms round my neck … There, OK like that?’
Fabien let himself be carried like a parcel as far as the top of the stairs.
‘Wait, I’m going to see if I can open the door. That’ll be easier than getting you out of the window. Sit down on the top step.’
All that was needed for a quiet life was to say yes to everything. Gilles went downstairs and across the hall.
‘Oh great, it’s open! Do you hear that, Fab—’
He didn’t see Martine bursting out of the sitting room. His head exploded under the impact of the bullet fired at point-blank range. For a few seconds the noise of the detonation hung in the hall before being replaced by the habitual silence. Martine lowered her arm and turned to look at Fabien. He had watched the scene with as much emotion as the stuffed stag’s head under which Gilles’s body now lay. Everything appeared to be stamped there for eternity. There was nothing to say, nothing to do; perfect order reigned.
Martine put the revolver down near the telephone on the little table and went up to join Fabien on the landing. She looked tired, that was all.
‘Come on, I’ll help you back to bed.’
They were like two mirrors face to face, each reflecting the abyss in the other. Fabien felt that every movement was incredibly slow and every sound echoed as though he were underwater. He let go, collapsing onto the bed, as if sinking in quicksand. ‘A few minutes ago, Gilles was in this room. He carried me on his back. He went down to open the door. Martine shot him. He’s dead. There’s a lot of blood on the wall under the stag’s head.’ He replayed the film forwards and backwards, without being able to take it in.
‘Is Gilles down there? Is he dead?’
‘Yes. Was he a friend of yours?’
‘Yes. He came on his own. He wanted to take me with him.’
‘I saw his car when I got back. I have to go and tidy up downstairs. Do you want anything to help you sleep?’
‘Yes, I do. Can you wait with me until I’m asleep?’
She came and curled up beside him.
‘Are you going to put him in the freezer as well?’
‘I don’t know. If there’s room … I’ll have to take his car back as well.’
‘It’s Laure’s. Two years ago we went to Amsterdam in it. At Hallowe’en. Laure, Sylvie and me. The weather was like this – rain, rain, rain …’
Martine listened to him, her eyes closed, her cheek resting on her clasped hands.
‘Fabien! Fabien, wake up, we’re leaving.’
‘What? Where are we going?’
‘I don’t know. But we’re leaving.’
She helped him put on his clothes as if she were dressing a sleeping child. It was still dark. Fabien recalled going off on holiday with his father at four or five in the morning to avoid the traffic jams. The sleeping pill had dried his mouth out.
‘I’m thirsty; give me a glass of water. Why do you want to leave now?’
‘I parked your friend’s car in the garage. We could go to Amsterdam.’
‘To Amsterdam?’
‘Yes, you were talking about it earlier. I don’t know it.’
‘It’s far away … I’ll ne
ver make it. My head hurts. You said we must never leave this house, never!’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I didn’t think anyone would come here. It’s not the same any more.’
‘Oh yes, Gilles … Shit! Léo …’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A little boy of five, his son … Oh my God! Everything’s ruined now. I think I’m going to throw up …’
But it was his head, his heart that was overflowing, not his stomach. He spat a little thread of bile into the basin Martine was holding out for him. Between two hiccups he repeated, ‘There’s nothing left now; shit, there’s nothing …’ He pictured the three of them, Gilles, Léo and himself, waiting for Big Tits to lower her metal shutter, the shadow of the plane trees on the boulevard, the noises of the city …
‘It’s all right, I’m here.’
Fabien looked up at her, his face streaming with tears and snot and drool that he would have liked to rip off like a mask.
‘I didn’t know it was possible to hurt so much.’
‘Don’t think about it. It’s over. We’re going to leave, you and me. We can’t let each other go ever again; we’ll always be together. Always.’
In the hall there wasn’t a single trace of blood; the stag with glass eyes remembered nothing. It was best to act like the stag: look straight ahead without seeing. Installed in the front passenger seat, Fabien watched the gates open like two great white hands. Never had the night appeared so vast to him.
‘Is your leg all right?’
‘What leg?’
Fields and forests flowed past on either side of the road like watercolour paintings. Rabbits petrified in the glare of the headlights froze between two furrows. At the edge of the woods the eyes of larger animals that couldn’t be seen danced like fireflies. It felt good to be admitted to the intimacy of this nocturnal scene. Like sharing a secret. The sleeping villages they passed through were peopled only by dreams. Behind the closed shutters, you could almost hear the creaking of bedsprings, the more or less laboured breathing interspersed with groans. There was not the slightest difference any more between the worst bastard and the most saintly saint. The world was finally at peace.
The Front Seat Passenger Page 8
