A Life on Paper: Stories

by Georges-Olivier Chateaureynaud

  Dear reader, friend and brother! I don't know what you would have done in my place. I know I couldn't let this child leave again with the contents of his tarred canvas sack swinging against his leg. I calmed him, and then sent him off alone toward an altered fate-for I doubt he ever took up his apprenticeship with Mr. Deibler again. After he left, I hid the head and its stinking sack in a cupboard and rang for Edgar. Pleading faintness, I bade him announce that I would see no more patients that day. Then, alone in my locked office, I consulted diverse treatises on pharmacology and toxicology while waiting for my angry and disappointed patients to leave. When at last all was quiet once more, I removed Languille from the cupboard. I spoke to him gently. I listened to him at length. And when I was sure of his resolve, I did what must be done.

  Lozere, February 1992

  The Styx

  n hindsight, I should've suspected something. Strictly speaking, I didn't feel sick, but still, those persistent dizzy spells should've clued me in. I was losing my footing, like at the beach. You walk into the water, it's up to your chin, and suddenly the hard, rippled sand shifts beneath your feet, you feel yourself sinking, right away you close your mouth, pinch your nose, water slaps a cold cap over your head. A quick backward kick and you're up again, like a Cartesian diver… You know what I mean. But I wasn't at the beach, and there was no water, only air and dry land and life. I was losing my footing in life, on the street, in the office, rising to leave a table in a restaurant, or at home, in my own living room-everywhere. It never lasted long: like the diver, I bobbed back up good as new. I was never unduly worried, as these episodes were so brief. No matter what happens, we feel at heart that it'll pass, we tell ourselves it's just a feeling without real cause or meaning. But in the end, with the hindsight I mentioned earlier-the decisive hindsight my new status grants me-I'm uniquely placed to appreciate that everything has cause and meaning. Now when I think back on yesterday's dizzy spells, I realize they were early warning signs, and that if I'd seen my doctor in time I might not have wound up where I am. Bah! If you have to be wary of the least sensation, the slightest tingling, the mildest twinge in any muscle or organ, you might as well give up and stop living. That was, in fact, what had happened: I'd stopped living. I don't know when it started. My doctor couldn't shed any light on that, either. The day I finally went to see him-for something else altogether, actually-he examined me and, with a certain gravity to his voice, said simply: "My friend, I've got some bad news for you. You're dead."

  I didn't get really worked up over it right then. My doctor must've thought I hadn't heard him correctly, for he repeated himself: "You're dead, buddy. Deader than a doornail!"

  This time when he spoke he looked at me from the corner of his eye, as though fearing an irrational reaction on my part-a "despair response, as they say.

  "Do you… understand what I'm saying?"

  I nodded. "I think so. I'm dead, right?"

  He nodded back, and patted me on the shoulder. "You're taking it quite well. Go home. You'll have to tell your loved ones. I can't do anything more for you now. Please accept my sincere apologies."

  His remorse seemed genuine. I felt obliged to say a few reassuring words. "Don't worry, Doc, it'll be fine. Thanks for everything!"

  I paid for the visit and left. Back on the street, I tried to look at things and people in a new light. I wasn't quite managing to, at least not quite enough, and silently urged myself to feel more. After all, not just anything had happened to me: I was dead. And yet, try as I might with all my body and soul, everything in and around me remained the same, just as it'd always been. It seemed like life as usual. And I admit that, after the initial stages of curiosity, almost impatience even-no doubt childish but understandable-I felt deeply, immensely relieved. I'd finished that terrifying chore through which all things on earth come to an end. We make such a fuss about ourselves, I thought, but ultimately it comes to nothing, less than nothing even, a flower, a passing breeze… I congratulated myself on having gotten off so lightly, and for a trifle would've danced in the streets, if I'd known how to dance and dared to do so.

  On the way home, I stopped at the funeral home to sort out the service. Mr. Charon wasn't in. His wife received me. I'd never paid much attention to that tall, brusque, chilly woman with a pike's eyes and teeth. I'd never pictured her also running the parlor. There was no mystery to it, really: Mrs. Charon sold headstones and rented hearses the way the grocer's wife sliced off the mortadella and provolone in her husband's stead. It is a trait of mom-and-pop businesses to perfect their union by hitching couplehood to a single yoke from the morning after the wedding till death do them part.

  Mrs. Charon had been eyeing me more closely than I had her these last few years. She'd noticed me, observed me, and given thought to my situation and my style. At least that was the feeling I got from our meeting. I left having signed off on all her suggestions concerning my casket and its padding, the order and luxury of my cortege, the site and character of my final resting place. As a reward for my obedience, she smiled, showing her teeth. I couldn't help thinking of the man who spent his days and nights with that mouth, and in my head, doffed my hat to Mr. Charon.

  We confirmed one last time the date and hour of the burial, and I went home. You'll permit me to depict only in broad strokes the distress of those dear to me when I announced the event. Naturally, it resulted in cries, moans, sobs, and also accusations, despite the apologies I'd offered to soften the news with: I hadn't done it on purpose, I was the victim here, etc. It was a hideous moment but couldn't have gone otherwise. I was soon sick of it and decided-not without a certain cowardice, or so I thought at first-to go to bed. Later I realized this was, in fact, what my family expected of me. They'd loved me as much as a husband and father could hope to be loved; their pain and suffering were real; if I wanted to make this easier for them, allow them to better manage their grief and roll with the blow they'd gotten, I had to make an effort, too: for starters, staying out of the way of my widow and orphans.

  I made it to the master bedroom. I took off my shoes, loosened my belt and tie, drew the curtains, and lay down on the bed. Whispers, sniffling, stifled sobs occasionally reached me from the dining room. I let myself be lulled by them and soon fell fast asleep. A brief, but restful sleep: when I woke a few hours later, I felt fresher and more alert than ever. It was really inappropriate, I guess. I was brimming with vigor, champing at the bit while my grief-stricken family's only thought was going to bed. While I'd slept, my wife had made a makeshift bed in the dining room. For herself. There was no way she was going to spend the night by my side. Try as I might to point out that I wasn't tired anymore, that she'd get a better night's rest upstairs, and that if need be I'd take happily to the impromptu bed, she refused to hear a word of it. I stopped insisting when I saw her rolling her eyes the way she does whenever she finds my behavior unbecoming. I can assure you this doesn't happen as much as in the early days of our marriage. In the end, this woman who I've every reason to believe loved me tenderly will always have considered me a half-tamed savage, barely presentable, with a few last-minute manners slapped on. Nor is it inconceivable an impartial observer should agree with her. I can't deny I suggested putting a dead body in the dining room or playing a board game with our children that night. As I said, the poor kids were about to keel over, but they would've given in if their mother hadn't flatly refused, citing the late hour and the fact that they had to get up early for school the next day. I knew her well enough to keep from making the case that some things are worth skipping school for. She saw no reason for children who'd already be missing their father to miss a day of school on top of that. So I let them go to bed. Then, just as she was about to do the same, I wished her a guilty little "Well… Good night, anyway"

  "Try not to make any noise when you come in;" she said when she saw me slip on a jacket. "You know I can never get back to sleep once I wake up…"

  The ceremony took place two days later. Mr. Charon was still
nowhere to be seen. One wondered what he was up to. I have to say that Mrs. Charon filled the role perfectly. When it comes to conducting a funeral, courtesy is less important than authority. Mrs. Charon had authority in spades. Something implacable in her kept the cheekiest remarks in check. I can attest to the fact that no one laughed at my burial, and that everything went according to custom, in tasteful gloom.

  I'd taken my place beside Mrs. Charon, who was driving the hearse in her absent husband's stead. The cemetery wasn't close by; you had to leave town and cross the river. The journey's length was not without its effects on those who chose unwisely to make it lying down in their caskets, Mrs. Charon explained. When they got there they were often sick to their stomach, about to throw up, and had to wait until they were feeling better to proceed in proper fashion. To avoid all that, Mrs. Charon employed a trick of the trade: the deceased traveled sitting up, like everyone else. In such conditions there was no reason for him not to arrive in good shape and ready to get down to business. So it was I got the best seat, shotgun in a spacious hearse, while my family and friends were squeezed each into their own cars.

  Despite the qualities she'd shown that day, Mrs. Charon proved to be no more pleasant than usual. Having seated me beside her, she proceeded not to speak a word to me before the river crossing. To be fair, the coin my wife had put in my mouth would've kept me from keeping up a conversation with the desired elocutionary clarity.

  The cortege slowed as it approached the bridge. Mrs. Charon stopped at the toll booth and turned to me. I took the coin from my mouth. I wanted to dry it with my handkerchief before giving it to her, since it was gleaming with spit. She grabbed it from my hand, grumbling something about "morons making a fuss," and tossed it in the basket. The barrier went up. The cortege started over the bridge. It was the middle of the afternoon, but you'd have thought it was dusk. Without my noticing, the sky had darkened while we were driving. Beneath a sky full of somber, heavy clouds hemmed in gold, the river's roiling waters seemed like molten lead. I'd often gone down to the bank as a boy, but I'd never noticed the river's breadth. Was it really a river? It seemed more like an arm of the sea. And this bridge I'd known all my life-only now did I realize what a titanic piece of work it was! Even going at a good clip, it was taking us forever to cross it.

  But cross it we did. Once over, the cortege headed down a broad avenue interrupted, at regular intervals, by smaller streets leading to other parts of the cemetery. I'd expected to see a wall, to go through a bronze gate, monumental at that why not, while we were at it? But no, nothing of the sort. From the looks of it, it seemed the entire bank was reserved for us, the dead, and for a fleeting moment I was worried about the kind of company I'd find here.

  The living, it seemed, couldn't wait to get back across the river to their uncertain shore. In any case they dropped me off, I dare say, with a promptness I would've called offhanded if the sight of my loved ones' devastated faces hadn't inclined me to leniency. Back, back to your hopes and fears, poor things-you're not out of it yet! Take up once more the tunic of flames from which another's death delivers us ever so briefly. One by one, they kissed my forehead. I remembered giving my father the same kiss. I'd had the impression of brushing the stone front of a statue with my lips. I felt feverish. After these final kisses, Mrs. Charon signaled to me to get into the grave and lie down in the casket. I obeyed, not at all reassured. Luckily, it all went quite fast; everyone came in turn and cast a handful of earth down upon me. The living have no idea how irritating this is. When they were done-a bit too symbolic a gesture for my taste-I had dirt up my nose and down the collar of my shirt. Indifferent to my sneezing, the assembled were already turning to go, leaving me to my fate or, if you will, my lack of fate. A relative absence, since something was nonetheless happening: it was starting to rain. It wasn't a very deep grave. I pulled myself up the wall without difficulty and ran to catch up with the cortege. I didn't expect to be greeted with open arms, but if I'd cherished even the slightest hopes about it, I'd have been in for a shock. My wife, my children, and my dearest friends all ignored me. Some met me with stony faces. Faced with my impropriety, they pretended not to see me. But, I was sure they could, for in turning from me their gazes wavered a bit before fixing on the horizon, the way a motorcycle will slip when starting on a slick surface… Others' eyes widened on seeing me, as though at a mischievous child. Still others waved vaguely, embarrassed; some smiled surreptitiously, some shook their heads and sighed. Annoyance? Contempt? Pity? Did they themselves even know? Yet despite their contradictory attitudes, they drew together to keep me from joining their ranks and hurried toward the vehicles. I saw what they were doing and tried to counter by speeding up my own step. I reached the lot first and got into the hearse with a triumphant laugh. My move surprised the group, who hesitated before getting into their cars. Slightly off to one side, my wife and Mrs. Charon had a brief discussion. Its content escaped me, despite my attempts to read their lips. At last, with conniving grins, they split up. My wife rejoined our children in the most comfortable car. Mrs. Charon got in beside me in the hearse. She quickly threw me the fearsome glance of a pike on the hunt, then started the car. I cleared my throat and tried to cajole her.

  "Don't worry," I said, "I'll make sure your fees and costs are covered in full-cash on the barrel."

  She didn't answer. My first impression had been right, I thought: she wasn't someone you could bargain with.

  She released the emergency brake and pulled out.

  "It won't make a difference to you;" I continued. "I mean, if I stay orgo…

  She remained silent. I thought I'd touched on her two soft spots, one after the other: her pecuniary desire and her indifference to others. Boy, was I wrong! The pike has an integrity beyond reproach. Mindful of its mission, it doesn't pretend to hunt small fry through clouded waters and scummy ponds, it lies in wait and snaps them up in its jaws and tears them to pieces once and for all. Mrs. Charon waited until the hearse was rounding the curve leading to the bridge. There she gave a show of determination and sangfroid that left a vivid impression on me. Using the centrifugal force we both felt, with her left hand on the wheel to negotiate the bend, she suddenly flung open with her right the door I was leaning on with all my weight.

  I got up just in time to glimpse my wife's face in the window of a passing car. She was biting her fist, eyes brimming with tears. Was she blaming herself for having gone along with Mrs. Charon's plan? I'm not much dumber than the next man, and I understood her reasons. I wouldn't have been any use in the struggles ahead of her: to survive, and raise the children. Quite the opposite, in fact: I would've complicated, perhaps even compromised everything. Already the other cars had passed me in a great squeal of tires. Already the cortege had reached the bridge and the toll barrier they'd never let me past.

  I shrugged and, turning from the ramp to the bridge, went down limping lightly to the river. I saw then that I'd never wondered where it began, or where it was going.

  Lozere, April 1993

  The Beautiful Coalwoman

  or an audience of two-himself and the wind-Maxence often hummed the only song he'd ever written.

  There were fourteen couplets in all, each as mournful as the last, which he did his best to sing in his most plaintive voice. Long ago-in truth, as long as his youth had held out and he'd passed for a handsome lad-the lament had won him the sympathy of little girls and older women wherever he'd stopped for the night. He sighed. Now women heard his song and poured him a swig of wine before sending him off to sleep alone in an attic or a shed, and little girls no longer listened at all.

  Once, Maxence had knelt with six other young men, none yet of age. The war in its impatience harried apprentices, rushing them through training, and the Prince, as he tapped their shoulders with his sword, believed iron would separate the wheat from the chaff. Of these hastily made knights, two would perish in their first battle. They alone, thought Maxence, could have boasted on reaching heaven of never bet
raying their vows. He tried to remember their faces, but the great wheel of the seasons had rolled thirty times over his memory and the ground where they lay. He suddenly regretted not lying down beside them. He envied those unbearded knights who'd smiled at the augur of death in spring. His own hair had grown, then grayed; he'd known fear and was far from blameless-he'd misused widows and raised a hand to their children.

  He must have tensed his thighs against his horse. The animal had strained to speed. There, there! Easy now! What is it? Do you smell fresh water? Then go ahead, I'm thirsty, too! Maxence loosened his hold on the reins. A hundred yards away, tall and straight on either side of the path, two oaks mingled branches at the edge of a clearing. As he entered the yellowing vault, he spotted a thatched cottage beside a pigsty at the clearing's far end, and reflected that not the haughtiest lord could have wished a more dizzying arch for his estate than the one these two giants formed in the very center of the sky. Not far from the pigpen, a spring trickled from a pile of mossy rocks, and two small children were frolicking naked in the nearby grass. Children of the poor, their clothes hanging out to dry in the sun. They raised their heads at the sound of hoofs and gave out great shouts of joy when they saw the knight. An older boy that Maxence hadn't seen at first stepped between the children and the stranger.

  "Fear not, boy, I only want some water for my horse and myself."