Darkness Ad Infinitum

by Regalado, Becky

  Isolated from the road by a gravel driveway, the farmhouse was exactly as I had imagined. Set on one level, it looked over the chapel of Le Carde and across the hills beyond, its pale structure lined with dark veins of stained oak. I found the keys amongst the bright flowers in the ornamental cartwheel that lay beside the pond, just as we had agreed with the owners. My legs ached from driving and I felt like hell. We had arrived, and I was done.

  “I have to sleep.”

  Hours later, I woke to the comforting sound of Joseph splashing in the pool, warm French sunlight beaming on my face from the skylight above the bed. I knew we had nothing in the house and that I would need to get the local village of Masseube to pick up essentials, so I got up straight away. Joseph got dry and dressed quickly, unable to contain his curiosity to explore the locality. Within minutes we were on the road again, crossing the eight kilometers towards the small settlement and leaving Kelly to sunbathe beside the pool. We were halfway there when I realized the satellite navigation had stopped working.

  Nevertheless, we had no trouble in finding the supermarket outside Masseube, which was well marked and larger than I had expected. Simply stepping out of the sunshine and into its air-conditioned coolness made me feel exhilarated for the first time since arriving. Alongside the wine, cheeses, and fresh bread, we crammed the trolley with unnecessary treats and I made the mistake of telling Joseph that he could have whatever he wanted.

  When he returned, he was grinning and holding a jar of foie gras. I made him put it back on the grounds that it was too expensive, but part of me wanted to buy it because I knew exactly what he would have done with it. He would have taken it back to England, carefully wrapped in clothes, where it would have taken pride-of-place on the special shelf; that most hallowed of all sanctuaries, reserved only for the most bizarre and exotic trophies from across Europe and beyond: the clear vodka lollipop, complete with scorpion inside; the shiny remains of a long-dead stag beetle; a dried, baby crocodile, and finally, the foie gras—in all its glory—potted in glass with roughly-woven sacking fastened about its neck by a ribbon. But it was not to be.

  While checking out, I asked in staggered French for directions to Le Carde because I knew I would struggle to find the farmhouse again without satellite navigation. The girl behind the register drew a map and gave it to Joseph with a kind smile.

  When we got back in the car, I noticed a little old French woman who I immediately recognized from the supermarket queue hobbling towards us, carrying shopping in one hand and waving frantically with the other.

  “What does she want, Dad?”

  I opened the window as she approached. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis but her misty blue eyes caught me with an unnerving intensity. When she spoke, she did not blink.

  “Monsieur, faire attention. Il ya des serpents sur les collines dans Le Carde. Il n’est pas sur. Il est très dangereux,” she pointed to Joseph in the backseat with a twisted finger, “. . . pour l’enfant.”

  I thanked her hastily and drove away in the direction of Le Carde. In the rear view mirror I could see the old woman standing alone in the supermarket car park, pale faced and hunched, staring on at us intently.

  “Dad, she was creepy. What did she say?”

  “She said there are snakes on the hills in Le Carde. And that we need to be careful, because it’s dangerous.”

  We drove in silence for a time. In the back seat, Joseph had rolled down the window and was staring at the dried foliage on the verge as we passed the sunflower fields. He was looking for snakes. Less than a kilometer from the farmhouse, he called out.

  “Dad, behind us!”

  I barely had time to check the mirror before the Daimler was right up against us.

  Up ahead, the road meandered to a blind corner, but I instinctively knew what was about to happen. The Daimler silently accelerated and came alongside us, passing in a blur of tinted glass and black metallic paint. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver: a silver-haired man with sharp nose and high cheekbones. But almost in the same instant, the car was gone, into the blind corner and out of sight.

  Later that evening, after we had eaten and Joseph was taking a final swim with Kelly, I wandered to the end of the driveway and leaned against the wall to light a cigarette. From here, and at this time in the evening before sunset, the countryside was absolutely still. At the very edge of a wooded area across the dry landscape, a motionless deer stood in a parched field. Far above it, a solitary bird of prey circled the area. A warm breeze stole across the fields for a moment, carrying the scent of dry earth and sweet wild flowers.

  And then I saw it for the first time: the other farmhouse, across the fields, half-hidden by tall fir trees. I could see that it was accessible from a track that snaked past the chapel ruins and down into the valley to the other side. The black nose of the Daimler poked out from the side of the house and though the fir trees offered only a limited view, I could see the thin silhouette of a man standing on the main lawn, staring back at me. In the stillness, he raised a hand and waved once.

  I did the same, and we stood motionless for some seconds before I turned and walked back to the house. It was a strange moment. It stays with me, even now.

  Later, when Kelly and Joseph were sleeping, I strolled down to the wall again, where a faux Victorian lamp post cast a pool of amber light over the entrance to the driveway. Bats flickered in and out of its humming brightness, undisturbed by my presence. Across the fields, the lights from the other farmhouse shone out like a skeletal face leering across the blackness of the valley.

  I began to relax properly over the next few days. In the period leading up to the holiday, I’d barely had a moment for Joseph. A sudden dip in the markets had caused a flood of investors to buy at what they considered to be a “low point”, and we had struggled to make all the trades before the inevitable upturn began. But now, far away from anywhere, in the warm sunlight, I could forget all about the mundane and repetitive world of finances and concentrate instead on the important things: ping pong, swimming, and snake-hunting with Joseph.

  Kelly and I hadn’t taken a week’s holiday in over three years and we were loving every second. The accommodations were basic—the furniture a mismatch of different styles and ages, the kitchenware a senseless combination of random sets—but it was all perfect for us. All we needed was the sunshine, and each other. It was bliss.

  I always knew that the French were keen on recycling, so it was no surprise to find the collection of communal wheelie-bins parked behind the ruined chapel: green for bottles, red for cans and plastic, black for household waste.

  The clouds had thickened that morning and hung like the belly of a huge grey beast over the fields. The humidity was high and had brought with it an unpleasant stillness that seemed to make the flies more active, especially in the dusty clearing around the bins. I brushed them from my face as I clanked empty wine bottles into the quietness. From where I stood I could see the crumbling headstones and jagged iron crosses in the shadow of the ruins. There was a terrible smell about the place; not just the smell of rubbish, but something else beneath that—a sweet and nauseating stench, like the smell of rotten meat. I was about to close the bin lid when I heard the voice behind me.

  “Good morning.”

  I turned to see the black Daimler parked in the road. The driver’s window was open and inside a dark-haired woman smiled from behind large, bug-like sunglasses. I took her to be around sixty-five, although it was hard to tell given the amount of pale makeup covering her face.

  “Judith Westhoff.” She reached out her hand. “From the farmhouse across the fields. How are you settling in?”

  “Pretty well, thanks. I’m Tom.” I shook her hand, which felt oddly wet and boneless beneath my grip and made me want to pull away immediately. She removed her sunglasses and peered with concern across the cemetery.

  “The rain’s coming. It’s always like this before the rain. I so hope it does. It’s been twenty-three da
ys now.”

  I could see her more clearly now: grey roots against black hair-dye, eyes a fresh marine color that belonged to someone far younger.

  “Yes, it certainly needs—”

  “Morris and I were wondering if the three of you would like to come around to the house tonight,” she interrupted suddenly. “For drinks. We could tell you all about the area. We’re easy to find—just walk around the track to other side of the valley and we’re there on the left.” She pointed through the tinted glass of the Daimler to the fields beyond.

  “Okay. I mean, yes that would be lovely. Thank you.”

  “Excellent. Let’s say seven, then?”

  Soon afterwards the Daimler purred away, leaving me standing in a cloud of swirling dust. I thought for a moment as the sky darkened that rain would come, but it did not.

  Back at the poolside, I told Kelly about the invitation.

  “I cannot believe you agreed to that without talking to me first. Did it even cross your mind that, just maybe, I would not want to spend the second last evening of our holiday doing that?”

  “Oh, come one. It’s just for an hour. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Yeah, Mum,” Joseph said, pulling himself out of the pool. “It might be fun.”

  Kelly stood up and wrapped a towel tightly around her waist. It was impossible to ignore the sarcasm in her voice.

  “I tell you what then,” she said as she walked away from us. “Why don’t we just take a vote? That would be the fairest way, wouldn’t it?”

  By six-thirty, all three of us were dressed and ready. Kelly was wearing a loose white top and jeans. I had forgotten how beautiful she was with a tan; the way it lifted her green eyes. Joseph had copied me to the letter in beige shorts and a navy blue t-shirt. He had even combed his dark hair back and used my gel to realize the most perfect imitation ever.

  We locked up the house and walked slowly in the oppressive heat, past the war memorial and towards the ruined chapel of Le Carde. Joseph raced on ahead to get there before us and Kelly stopped and turned to me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wrong to react like that before. It’s just that I’ve loved it so much here, just the three of us. It’s been perfect. I couldn’t bear to think of anything spoiling what we’ve had. I am sorry. And I’m sure it will be fun too.”

  She reached out and touched my face. We kissed tenderly for a long moment, and then continued towards the chapel.

  We took a break when we reached the dilapidated wall of the cemetery so that we could take a proper look. The structure of the chapel remained more or less intact, although the roof was collapsed and dried ivy tendrils crept from its shadowy interior and flowed over its thick, flint walls. The cemetery was a mess of brambles and reeds. Fragmented gravestones rose from the foliage and only glimpses of the fractured soil could be seen beneath. The scent of old death hung in the warm air.

  “It must have been like this for decades,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead.

  “I don’t think so,” Kelly replied quietly, as though worried she may disturb the quietness around us. “Look.”

  She was pointing to a clearing in the brambles where, beneath a crumbling headstone, the soil was darker and did not have the same line-cracked quality as the rest. There was no doubt the earth had been disturbed there.

  “Dad, check it out.”

  I turned to see Joseph gazing into the distance where black clouds had gathered over the jagged outlines of the Pyrenees. Tiny veins of lighting flickered intermittently from the darkness and into the mountains. A flock of white geese flew overhead in formation, winging away from the storm. One cried out like a child in terrible pain.

  “It’s coming our way,” I said. “Come on, let’s get going.”

  The Westhoff residence was bigger than I had imagined. As we crunched along the gravel driveway beneath the fir trees, lawns rolled out before us, perfectly trimmed and impossibly green. The swimming pool looked brand new, too. Swallows glided down to skim its surface in turn before rising up again and disappearing into the heavy skies.

  “Dad, what’s that?” Joseph had stopped and was looking at a large wicker object at the edge of the lawn.

  “It’s a lobster cage,” I said. “They use it to catch lobsters.”

  The house itself was constructed in a similar style to the one we had rented—red brick with oak-stained beams lining its breadth—Tudor in style, but on two levels. The windows were leaded in the traditional style but looked new. They had spent money here.

  As we approached, Judith Westhoff appeared in the doorway to meet us. I introduced Kelly and Joseph before we were ushered into a wood-paneled hallway adorned with stuffed deer heads and antelope horns. I looked at Joseph, who was smiling in bewilderment at it all.

  “This way,” said Judith. “Just through here now.”

  I hadn’t realized until now just how tall she was, and how thin. Her black evening dress hung loosely from her shoulders. She wore thin gold jewelry about her wrists and neck. Wafts of floral perfume lingered in the air as we followed her beneath an old stone archway and out onto the patio behind the house. I again saw the grey roots at the base of her hair as we stepped into the dim light, and it struck me that, in spite of the expensive surroundings, she probably didn’t entertain very often.

  From there, the view to the mountains on the horizon was breathtaking. Fields overlapped one another in pale shades of amber and green. Farmhouses and dilapidated outbuildings lay scattered around the valleys like broken bones beneath the heavy clouds. The storm was edging closer now. The first fragmented rumbles of thunder sounded across the landscape.

  “It’s beautiful,” Kelly said. “Stunning.”

  At the far end of the patio, where the view was best, a white table bore wine glasses, canapés and clean plates, all sheltered beneath a pale blue parasol.

  A man’s voice sounded behind us.

  “Yes, we are lucky here. Very fortunate indeed. You missed the sunflowers, though. A month ago the world was yellow.”

  Morris Westhoff was a small man with thick silver hair and high, feline cheekbones. His linen suit flapped about his thin frame as he approached us. He smiled to expose a perfect set of white teeth that spread impossibly across his tanned features.

  Judith poured red wine and gave Joseph lemonade with ice. I left Kelly and wandered to the edge of the patio with Morris.

  He explained that they had bought the house just over six years ago, after he had retired from his career as a Research Scientist at a cosmetics laboratory in Berkshire. I asked him if he missed England.

  “God forbid! Look around. What could we possibly want for?”

  I shared my views on current market trends and the world economy at large. Morris listened intently, taking in every word from behind small grey eyes. I got the feeling he enjoyed significant wealth and investment experience. His questions were detailed and company specific. In truth, I struggled to keep pace with them, as he must have known.

  “The wine is fantastic,” I said as he refilled my glass.

  “It’s the local drop. Very good, I agree. Try some cheese.”

  I thanked him and took a cracker with Roquefort.

  “They certainly get it right with the cheeses and wines,” he said, “but to my mind they fail abysmally on the cooking side.”

  Just then, Kelly and Joseph came over to join us. I put an arm around Joseph and smiled as Morris continued.

  “For example, have you tasted the local duck foie gras?”

  “No,” I replied. “I can’t say I have.”

  “Ah, well in that case, you must try some.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  I smiled over at Kelly who was staring hard at me with serious green eyes.

  “When in France . . .” I said to her quietly.

  “Judy, darling,” Morris called out. “Bring out the foie gras, please.”

  I excused myself to find the toilet on the ground floor, whi
ch was situated off the main entrance hall.

  Inside, the walls were clean and white. A solitary color photograph hung in a wooden frame above the sink—a portrait of Morris many years earlier, dressed in a clinical white lab coat, smiling his wide smile at the camera, all-white teeth showing. In the background, wire cages were stacked on either side of the corridor behind him. The face of a small monkey peered out from one of them, a forlorn expression stretched across his face. Until that moment, I hadn’t really considered what being a Research Scientist for a cosmetics company actually meant.

  “Now, here we are,” Morris said as I joined the group again.

  The table beneath the parasol had been cleared now except for two plates. A pale round slice of foie gras sat on each. Joseph craned his head to take a closer look, then moved away again as the rich scent caught his nostrils.

  “Would you like some, dear?” Judith asked. “It’s very tasty.”

  “No, thank you.” Joseph recoiled in a clumsy backwards step. “I don’t want any at all, thank you.”

  “Ah, now that is a shame. You look like you could do with some fattening up. How about you, Kelly?”

  “I won’t. Thank you, Judith, but I disagree with it entirely.”

  Morris cast a quizzical look in her direction. “What is it exactly that you disagree with, Kelly?”

  “The way it’s made is cruel and inhumane. I don’t know how anyone could eat it.”

  “And yet we accept the idea of fattening turkeys for Christmas,” Morris said, raising a silver eyebrow, “and all of the chickens that line our supermarket shelves.”

  “It’s different,” Kelly said evenly. “They’re not force fed.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Morris nodded and smiled to himself. “That, I did not know.”