‘You’re right, of course … You know, the strange thing is, the guy never came back for his car. The gendarmes called me earlier. They think it was stolen.’
‘That is odd, yes.’
‘Yes … and what are all these kids doing, driving around like mad things? Five this year, just in our little patch! Last one was young Arlette, Robin the builder’s daughter, remember? In November?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘They think they’re untouchable! How many times did I tell him, “Patrick, you’re better off getting there late than not getting there at all”? Might as well have been talking to a brick wall! He stopped listening to me a long time ago. Thought other people were a waste of space, his father especially. I gave that kid everything … Would you like a bite to eat, Éliette? I’ve warmed up some leftover stew.’
‘No, thank you. I’ve got someone waiting for me at home.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know. I …’
‘It’s fine. Besides, I think your stew’s burnt. I just took it off the heat. Can’t you smell it?’
‘No. Another time, then?’
‘Of course. Do you want one of the pills I gave Rose?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve got that.’
He indicated the half-empty bottle of pastis with his chin.
‘Take care of yourself, Paul. It’s no use letting yourself go. Remember you’ve got Rose to think of.’
‘It’s kind of you to have come, Éliette. At times like this you need your friends.’
‘I was glad to help. You did the same for me when Charles died. And tomorrow, Serge will be here.’
‘Yes … but it’s not the same with Serge, we don’t speak the same language. Patrick and me, we were salt of the earth. We didn’t need to chat … I love Serge just as much … only, I never feel totally comfortable around him.’
‘He’s just very different from his brother, that’s all. I’m heading off now, Paul, so you should go to bed. If you need anything at all, just call. Either way, I’ll pop in tomorrow morning.’
He nodded, but was no longer listening. His gaze was clouding over, his eyes turning the colour of pastis. Éliette patted his shoulder and left the kitchen.
Outside, the smell of thoroughly burnt food lingered in her nose and throat. The rain had stopped and a single star was twinkling above hills as rounded as Paul’s back. Old Bob barely turned his head as Éliette passed him. The look in his eyes expressed something beyond weariness. Éliette started the car, and once the lemon-yellow light of the Jauberts’ window had disappeared from her rear-view mirror, she broke into sobs. It wasn’t only the Jauberts she was crying for, but Old Bob, the single star, the dark hills and herself. The tears flowed on and on like the swollen Lavezon river, washing away all her sadness. Paul and Rose were neither friends nor family, more like fellow passengers on an overnight train. They had nothing in common besides existing in the same space and time.
She had once read a definition of poetry as ‘two words meeting for the first time’. There was an element of that in her relationship with her neighbours. It was so easy to love like-minded people, but when chance threw someone totally different in your path … like the man awaiting her at home, whose name she didn’t even know. What if he had gone? He might well have called a taxi. Éliette lifted her foot off the accelerator. The truth was she had spent the whole time at the Jauberts’ thinking of him. That was probably why she had forced Rose to go to sleep and encouraged Paul to do the same. She had to some extent been trying to get shot of their sadness. And why not? Today was not just any day! Her heart was pounding in her chest as she put her foot back on the pedal. What if he had got hold of a mechanic? What if …? She saw the light at the living-room window and let out a cry of joy. For the first time in so long, someone was waiting for her.
He was sitting by the hearth where a fire was blazing. He straightened up when Éliette came in, as though caught doing something he shouldn’t.
‘You didn’t get through to a garage then?’
‘Er … no.’
‘I’m not surprised – we’re out in the sticks here. At least the rain’s stopped. It’s clearing up.’
‘How are your friends?’
‘He was their favourite son. I gave them some sleeping pills. Nothing else we can do. Such a terrible blow. But it happens all the time round here; people drive like lunatics; they’re a law unto themselves. Every weekend, they roll out of the discos and it’s carnage on the roads … Listen, here’s what I think you should do. It’s too late to find a garage or hotel round here. I have plenty of spare rooms. Why don’t you spend the night here and I’ll take you to a garage tomorrow?’
‘That’s very kind of you, but you don’t know me …’
‘Well then, introduce yourself!’
‘Étienne Doilet.’
‘Éliette Vélard. So, what do you say?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘I’ll warn you now: if you’re a murderer, I have very little to lose, and there’s nothing here worth stealing unless you count the walls. Are you hungry?’
‘I think so.’
Éliette warmed up the leftover jardinière, cracked four eggs into a frying pan and opened a bottle of wine. The fluctuations of the weather served once again to fill the awkward silences. But after two glasses of wine, Éliette’s tongue loosened and she began lauding the region to Étienne, who was a first-time visitor here.
‘You know, the Le Coiron road – it’s on my mind because that’s where my neighbours’ son had his accident – well, it’s magnificent! The landscape changes every couple of kilometres. On the plateau, you’re right up in the mountains. It’s glorious. Oh, by the way, there was a funny thing about Patrick’s accident: someone had left their car in the middle of the road. Patrick was trying to get round it when he plunged into the ravine. And no one ever came back for the car. The gendarmes say it was stolen. Strange, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, anyway. Oh, I’ll tell you another wonderful road: the one from Saint-Thomé to Gras. It follows the river and … is something wrong?’
Étienne was making a strange face, as if he had just bitten into a lemon.
‘No, no. I’m fine!’
‘I’m boring you, playing the tour guide. I don’t get out much!’
‘Not at all, honestly. It’s nice to hear someone talking so passionately about where they live.’
‘Thank you. Hang on, where was it that you broke down?’
‘Me? Um … This is ridiculous, but I have to tell you the truth. I didn’t break down.’
‘Oh!’
‘It’s so stupid … OK, I was in the car with my girlfriend and we had an argument. Things got heated; I told her to let me out and she did. Leaving me in the middle of nowhere … Not clever, I know.’
Éliette burst out laughing. Étienne’s cheeks were red and he hung his head like a little boy owning up to doing something silly.
‘I’m sorry, Étienne. It’s a nervous thing.’
‘Don’t apologise. It was such a childish thing to do, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve never been in a situation like that before.’
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. It’s quite funny, really!’
‘Can I smoke?’
‘Go ahead.’
Smoking was not normally allowed at Éliette’s house. Marc was asked to go and puff on his cigarette outside, and even then only on condition no butts were dropped in the garden. But this evening she was enjoying watching the smoke emerging from Étienne’s nostrils like the genie from Aladdin’s lamp.
‘Where’s the dog?’
‘What dog?’
‘It says “Beware of the dog” on the front door.’
‘It’s a deterrent; we’ve never had dogs. If anyone came to the door late in the evening, I’d shout, “Charles, keep hold of the dog!” … It makes me feel safer. But no one ever does come. That’s why I don’t need a real dog.’
‘Don’t
you get bored here?’
‘You must be joking! I’ve no chance to be bored. Only today I’ve had a flat tyre, a death at the neighbours’ and a stranger in my house! And it’s like this every day!’
Étienne stubbed out his cigarette. When she smiled, Éliette looked like a teenager.
‘Oh, I almost forgot: your son, Marc, called. I think he was a bit taken aback when I answered. I told him you were at your neighbours’ … He’ll call again tomorrow.’
Marc’s phone call brought Éliette back to a reality she would have preferred not to have to face that evening.
‘Yes. I have a son and a daughter and three grandchildren. I’m a grandmother.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know … You have a family … You’re not on your own.’
‘No, I’m not … Goodness! It’s almost midnight! I ought to have been in bed at least two hours ago. I’ll show you your room.’
Out of the bedrooms Éliette offered him, Étienne chose Sylvie’s. Whitewashed walls, film posters, amateur photos of twisted tree trunks and overexposed sunsets, an old teddy bear at the foot of the bed, a bunch of dried flowers in a stoneware pot, a few children’s books, teen magazines, the odd splash of pink.
‘If you get cold, there are extra blankets in the wardrobe.’
‘Thanks. I think I’ll sleep well.’
‘Good. Right, then … Good night.’
‘Good night, Éliette.’
There’s a man in my house, just the other side of that wall, in Sylvie’s room. I can hear him coughing, getting undressed, slipping between the sheets. I don’t feel like going to sleep; I won’t take a Mogadon. I want to play it all back in my head, see him appearing at the bend in the little bridge, changing my tyre, driving home with me in the rain … Then later, when I got home from the Jauberts’ and found him waiting for me beside the hearth. Someone was waiting for me tonight, Charles … I told him about us; maybe I should have said more about you … He’s not asleep; I can hear him turning in bed, see the light under his door … I’m alive, Charles, I’m alive.
Éliette’s nostrils quivered at the wafts of toast and fresh coffee. She opened first one eye and then the other, and sat bolt upright. He’s up already? Yawning, she let her head fall back onto the pillow and stretched out as if trying to touch the walls either side of the bed. The alarm clock showed eight thirty. Slippers, dressing gown, despairing glance in the mirror.
Étienne was at the sink finishing last night’s washing up. The draining rack was sagging under a typically masculine pyramid of precariously balanced plates, glasses, cups and saucers.
‘Morning.’
‘Morning, Éliette. Sleep well?’
‘Very well. You should have left all that; I’d have sorted it out later.’
‘It’s no trouble. I like washing up in the morning. It helps me clear my head. People shouldn’t complain so much about household chores. I’ve made coffee, but maybe you’d prefer something else?’
‘I’m more of a tea drinker, but it’s fine. It’s good to ring the changes.’
‘I can make tea! I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘OK then.’
Éliette sat on a chair, hands dangling between her thighs. The sun filtering through the part-closed shutters cast a ladder of light on the wall. It was strange to have had the role of hostess taken from her. He had robbed her of her little morning habits. She missed the radio and felt vaguely awkward, as if she were in a hotel.
‘I’m not used to being waited on.’
‘It’s not as bad as all that, you’ll see. What do you use to strain your tea?’
‘There’s an infuser in the left-hand drawer.’
Steam rose from the tea and twirled around the piercing ray of sunlight reflected off the glazed surface of the bowls.
‘Not easy finding your way around a new kitchen. I hope I haven’t made too much of a mess of things.’
‘No. Just the bowls. These ones are for soup.’
‘I do apologise!’
‘I suppose I can live with it, just this once.’
‘Madame is too kind!’
They laughed. Étienne unfolded the napkin he had wrapped around the toast to keep it warm. For once, life seemed not to need an instruction manual.
‘It’ll be warm today. Look how the light’s flooding in.’
‘It’s like being on holiday. We could have had breakfast outside …’
‘Let’s do it!’
They sat and finished their bowls of tea on the enormous stone slab that served as the front step. The sun flowed into them like honey trickling deep into their bones. Eyes half closed, Éliette pointed out the features of her garden. It was surrounded by a dry-stone wall, surpassed in height only by a fig tree and a cypress. To the right, an old barn housed a long table and benches.
‘That’s my summer dining room. We’ve had some good times in there: barbecues in the evening with candles in glass holders, the children … I have a telescope. On summer nights you can see the stars up close …’
‘It makes me think of houses in Morocco, the internal courtyards. They smelt of jasmine, incense burning on the embers, fresh mint tea … The drumbeats … as if marking their rhythms on the taut skin of the moon. The stars twinkled, and the sound was like the copper jingles of a tambourine.’
‘Are you a poet?’
‘No, I’m just remembering.’
‘Do you know Morocco well?’
‘I was there for a while.’
‘For work?’
‘In a sense. Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll go and have a shower. Are you … in a rush? I mean, for me to take you to Montélimar?’
‘No, no. Take your time. I’m fine right here …’
‘In that case I’ll leave you to your memories.’
Where would the world be without soap? Éliette sang as the water gushed out of the shower head onto her newly confident body. Étienne was clearly in no hurry to be leaving. It was lovely, what he had said about Morocco. What was he doing over there? And here? … Perhaps they could get the barbecue out? … He looked tired: why not suggest he stick around for a couple of days? The children were not coming until the weekend … It could be a digression, a short aside in the long monologue her life had become.
Plans were building to a lather in her head and the toothpaste was foaming in her mouth when she heard shouts coming from the garden. She ran to the window. A taxi had parked outside the front door. A girl in her early twenties with a messy heap of dyed red hair, in black sunglasses, a T-shirt and ripped jeans, was marching towards Étienne, swinging her bag above her head. Before Étienne could scramble to his feet, the bag hit him full in the face, knocking him backwards.
‘Fucking idiot! What have you done, you bastard?’
The bag struck Étienne a second time on his back as he tried to get up, holding his arms in front of him for protection. Blood was pouring from his eyebrow.
‘Agnès! Stop it, for fuck’s sake! Something in there weighs a ton!’
Éliette raced outside, wet-haired, toothbrush in hand.
‘Whash going on out here? Have you losht your mind?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘The owner of thish house.’ (Éliette spat out her toothpaste.) ‘I must ask you to calm down. As long as you’re on my property, you’ll sort out your quarrels with your boyfriend in a civilised manner!’
‘My boyfriend? Please! He’s my father, my fucking father!’
Open-mouthed, Éliette looked first at Étienne, who was holding both hands to his brow, and then at the girl, who was kicking at every piece of gravel and raising clouds of dust. Meanwhile, the taxi driver had heard all the shouting and got out of his car. Éliette knew him. He had taken her to Montélimar several times before she got her microcar.
‘Is there a problem here, Madame Vélard?’
‘No, it’s fine. Just a family squabble.�
�
‘All right then. Either way, this little madam needs to pay my fare. I’ve got other jobs to get to.’
The girl took a note out of her bag and handed it to the driver without a word or a glance in his direction.
‘Your bags?’
‘Leave them by the door.’
The driver shrugged, waved goodbye to Éliette and drove off. The courtyard was filled with the chirping of crickets, accompanied by cymbal crashes of sunlight.
Éliette leant over Étienne. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘It’s OK. I’m sorry …’
‘I’ll get a cold compress.’
The girl had sat down on the stone outside the door and lit a cigarette. Éliette almost had to climb over her to get inside the house. She heard Étienne mutter, ‘Jesus, what the hell have you got in that bag?’
‘My camera. Sorry. I hope it’s not fucked …’
While she searched the medicine cabinet for a dressing and antiseptic, Éliette heard them arguing in low voices on the doorstep. A name kept coming up, spoken by the girl with a note of panic: Théo. Who was this kid who had just parachuted into the middle of Éliette’s dream? How had she got here? And why? So many unanswered questions colliding inside her head. The telephone rang out like a clarion call. As she passed the front door, she dropped off Étienne’s dressing and ran back into the living room.
‘Hello, Maman?’
‘Yes, hello, Marc.’
‘What’s the matter? You’re out of breath.’
‘I was in the shower.’
‘Oh, sorry. Do you want me to call back?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Who was the guy who answered the phone to me last night?’
‘A friend. I was at the Jauberts’. Oh, Marc, I have to tell you something. Patrick was killed in a car crash yesterday. That’s why I was at their house.’
‘Patrick? … Jesus!’
‘It’s hit them hard. I can’t talk for long, I told them I’d pop round this morning. Serge is on his way.’
‘Yes, I understand …’
‘Are you still coming on Friday?’
‘That’s the plan, yes.’
‘OK, well, I’d better go, son. See you soon! Love you.’
Too Close to the Edge Page 3
