‘Oh! OK then.’
‘I can’t stay in one place. Gotta keep moving. I’ve got mates on the Côte. I’ll visit them and then head back up.’
‘Right, well, if you like …’
‘Can we borrow the limo? Étienne has some shopping to do. He’ll drop me off at the station.’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘It’ll give the two of you some space.’
‘Honestly, you’re no trouble, Agnès.’
‘I know. But we should all be playing with friends our own age. I’ll go and wake him up. My train’s at eleven.’
Étienne was curled up on the sofa with Éliette’s cardigan thrown over his shoulders. Certain pre-Columbian mummies had adopted the same foetal position for their last journey.
‘Étienne! … Étienne!’
Agnès’s face appeared just at the point in his dream when he was finishing setting up a cycle race.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question. Why aren’t you in your room?’
‘I fell asleep in the garden. In the middle of the night I got cold and came and flopped down here.’
‘I thought you were in with Éliette.’
‘And what if I was?’
‘Nothing. My train’s at eleven. Éliette’s lending us her wheels. I’m going to see my mate in La Ciotat. I’ll be back tomorrow night.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The buyer I told you about last night. He’s up for it, but he needs to try it.’
‘And then what?’
‘How should I know? We’ll see what happens. So are you gonna let me do my thing, or what?’
‘Yes. I think I might have a shower and get changed. You’ve got a face like a slapped arse.’
‘I just want to get out of here.’
*
It was the first time the Aixam had left without her. Éliette watched the little cream car disappear at the end of the road and, for want of anything else to do, decided to sort out her paperwork. It felt strange to be alone in the house again. The ‘strangeness’ came from already missing him. Étienne had not been gone five minutes and she was already eagerly awaiting his return. Being alone felt different now. Less serene, perhaps, but how delicious it was to be filled with uncertainty: ‘Is he coming back?’ Waiting for someone, having someone waiting for you … No, nothing had happened besides their two hands pressed together between the sunloungers. Étienne had fallen asleep and she had left him in the care of the star-studded sky. It was important not to make any hasty moves. You didn’t wake a sleepwalker standing on the edge of a roof. Agnès’s departure this morning had not come as a surprise but seemed perfectly natural. She too must have felt that this Wednesday and Thursday were for them … only them. When she opened her eyes again, Éliette realised she had just torn her EDF bill into a thousand pieces of confetti.
Throughout the journey, Agnès had not stopped complaining about how fucking slow the piece of shit toy car was.
‘I feel like I’m in a wheelchair. Put your foot down, damn it!’
‘My foot’s touching the floor!’
For the second time in Étienne’s life, he found himself at Montélimar station. It was no worse than any other station, but he had no wish to hang around there. Agnès got out, slammed the door rather violently and went round to give her father a kiss through the open window.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, Étienne.’
‘It’s me who should be worried!’
‘No. I’m going to do a deal: it’s clear, straightforward; it’s a certain amount per gram. As for you … you’re putty in Éliette’s hands.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Watch out, Daddykins. The most dangerous thing about danger is that it comes where you least expect it.’
‘Well, aren’t you the philosopher.’
‘I’m a wise old woman – older, even, than Éliette. I’ll call you tonight.’
As she ran off into the station, bag slung over her shoulder, Étienne realised he had never seen her on the beach with a bucket and spade. One day they would go on holiday together. One day …
Éliette had given up poring over paperwork and gone back to the Colette biography. She read the first line of the fourth chapter for the tenth time, and still took nothing in. Nothing can fill the gap of waiting, other than a swift blow to the head. She had reached the point of wondering whether to cut her toenails or fingernails when the sound of an engine swept away all such noble thoughts. It wasn’t the Aixam, but Paul’s diesel engine. She let out a curse that was absorbed into the hush of the house.
‘Hello, Paul!’
‘Hi … Éliette. Gonna be a hot one.’
His speech was slurred, his step unsteady. His car was parked at an angle across the drive, its nose pointing into the ditch.
‘Not disturbing you, am I?’
‘Of course not. Fancy a coffee?’
‘Not really the drink for this time of day, but if you like …’
‘A pastis then?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
In the kitchen he instinctively sat at the table and took up the same position as he had the day before, elbows on the oilcloth, shoulders hunched.
‘How’s Rose?’
‘All right. She’s wilting.’
This unusual attempt at humour caught Éliette off guard.
‘What about you?’
‘Oh, just wonderful! One of my lads has just got himself killed and the other’s about to marry a Kraut. May as well get the wedding and funeral done in one go!’
‘You shouldn’t be so hard on Serge. He’s different, so what? He’s hurting too. He loved his brother and he loves you.’
‘Too much love, that’s his problem! You can’t go around loving everybody.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because … Oh, I don’t know. Because it all becomes a mess, one big orgy! There are men and there are women, and it’s complicated enough as it is!’
He downed his pastis in one, ran a hand across his face and looked at his palm as though trying to find his reflection in a mirror.
‘You can’t have it all, is all I’m saying!’ he continued.
‘Why? It’s not a crime! Serge is gay and you’ve known that for years. He and his boyfriend love each other. Where’s the harm in that?’
‘Well, let me tell you, if I feel like doing … with anyone I like, I … It’s a bloody joke! It’s not right!’
Paul had stood up. He had gripped the edge of the sink with both hands and was tugging on it as if he wanted to rip it out. He was sweating heavily and his ears were as red as a tobacconist’s shop sign. He looked to Éliette like a wild boar being chased.
‘So you understand everything, do you? Everything’s normal to you, is it? And what if I told you I’ve wanted you for years? What would you say to that, eh? What would you say?’ he asked insistently.
He was now standing close behind her, his rough hands clamped around her shoulders.
‘You’re hurting me, Paul. It’s the alcohol talking, and the pain you’re in. You should go home.’
‘I’m not pissed. I could drink a whole tank of pastis and I still wouldn’t be drunk. Why shouldn’t I get to do what I want, the way everyone else does? I want you! You have no idea how much I want you!’
Trapped in his gnarly arms, Éliette could do nothing but squirm in her chair, saying over and over again, ‘That’s enough, Paul. You’re hurting me!’
But the harder she fought back, the tighter he gripped. His stubble scratched her cheek. Stale sweat and the taste of aniseed made her retch. They fell to the floor together. Paul’s left hand clasped Éliette’s face, while his right hand groped under her dress. His fingers were like tools, hard and coarse. His breath whooshed in her ear like a pressure hose. The more Éliette squirmed, the more Paul bore down on her, a ton of long-suppressed desire. He was on the verge of penetrating her when a noise rang out like a
gong.
Paul let out a groan and fell onto his side, clutching his head. Étienne was standing above them with a cast-iron casserole dish in his hand.
‘Don’t just lie there, Éliette. Run.’
‘Is he …?’
‘No, just stunned. Get out of here.’
Éliette limped out of the kitchen.
Étienne pulled up a chair and placed the casserole dish on his lap. Paul was moaning and wriggling on the ground like a big flaccid worm. Blood was trickling from his ear. He stammered, ‘I didn’t do anything! … I didn’t do anything!’ Étienne kicked him in the side.
‘Get out.’
Paul propped himself up on his elbow and stared at Étienne, red-eyed.
‘Bastard!’
‘Get out, before I do your face in.’
Paul got up on all fours and ran his hand across his blotchy face. He coughed, spat, and eventually got to his feet.
‘You ain’t seen the last of me …’
‘I’m telling you, fuck off or you’re gonna get it!’
‘This isn’t over … No way …’
Paul glared at Étienne, his blue eyes washed out by pastis, and left, cackling like the witch in a bad dream.
Éliette had retreated to the living-room sofa where she lay huddled, clutching her knees to her chest. She wasn’t crying but was shivering uncontrollably. Étienne sat in an armchair facing her. He was incredibly pale.
‘It’s OK. He’s gone.’
Éliette could not unclench her teeth. Her heart was beating like a banging shutter.
‘What can I do to help?’
Éliette raised her eyebrows, but couldn’t produce a sound. She felt a wave of nausea rising in her stomach. She just made it to the toilet in time to throw up her breakfast. It took a good half-hour in the shower to scrub off the smell of Paul which had seeped into her skin. She got changed and threw her soiled clothes into the bin. Étienne was waiting in the garden, smoking a cigarette.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I think so. It’s just … unbelievable! Thirty years we’ve known each other … I don’t know what got into him … I would never have imagined he was capable of … I don’t know what to do, Étienne. I just don’t know …’
‘He was drunk. Maybe he’ll apologise when he’s sobered up.’
‘Maybe. But I won’t ever forget what’s happened. Things can’t go back to the way they were. What on earth’s been going on the last two days? I don’t have a clue any more! It’s as if the whole world’s gone mad, me included!’
‘That’s life, Éliette, that’s all. You think you’re safe, like when you’re on the motorway; it’s a bit boring, you lose concentration and then … a loose bit of gravel, an insect, and whoops! You’ve lost control, spun round, and find yourself facing the wrong way. But hey, if you’re not dead, you’ll still end up somewhere! I bought some tomatoes and lamb chops. Do you fancy some food?’
‘I’m not all that hungry.’
‘Leave it to me, I’ll sort it out. You have nothing to be afraid of now. I’m here, and I’m glad I am.’
He looked like a kid with his black eye and his cowlick, but Éliette felt safe with him. She took the hand he held out to her, and pressed it against her cheek. He smelt of fresh bread.
The microcar carried them along the winding, practically empty roads that criss-crossed the region for the whole afternoon. They dipped their feet in the emerald-green pools of the Escoutay and lay on the warm flat stones beside the river. From time to time a fluffy little cloud drifted across the sky above them and they would watch until it thinned and disappeared as if by magic. The babbling water mingled with birdsong like an advert for paradise, a bucolic, pastel-painted scene extolling the virtues of the afterlife. They stopped off in Alba where, after wandering down unevenly paved alleys that seemed to be populated only with cats, they enjoyed an ice-cold drink at a café under the plane trees in the square. A pair of pensioners were getting some air, sitting in their front garden. Side by side in their deckchairs, they didn’t say a word to one another, looking straight ahead at a future that already belonged to the past.
‘It’s fascinating how still they are, isn’t it? It’s as if they’ve been there for ever.’
‘They probably have. Look at their hands and feet – they’re like roots!’
‘It would be nice to live like a pot plant.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
‘I don’t know. I always feel like there’s someone prodding me on, as if I’m shuffling along in a queue.’
‘Why not leave the queue, Étienne?’
‘I’ve tried, but I’m scared shitless of breaking ranks. Fact is I’m just an average Joe.’
The sun was beginning to yawn above the Roman-tiled rooftops. A handful of people had emerged out of nowhere and were crossing the square, a baguette under their arm, a shopping basket in their hand, everyday people, life’s walk-on parts; Étienne would have liked to swap roles. He sighed and his eyes met Éliette’s lavender-blue gaze. She was smiling.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. You’re sweet when you’re sad. Shall we go?’
In the car, they heard on the news that a twelve-year-old English girl had just given birth. The father was thirteen. When the child reached the age of twenty, it would have a thirty-two-year-old mother. Éliette remarked that, given we were all living longer, it would soon be hard to tell grandfather from grandson in family albums. But another news item, this time from the United States, suggested the opposite: two twelve-year-old kids had just been shot dead by police after gunning down half a dozen of their classmates along with their teacher. Christ dying at thirty-three seemed like a doddery old man in comparison.
They said no more to each other but sat thinking how quickly our time on earth is up, all the way back to Éliette’s house. A crow was nailed to the gate by its wing, its head smashed in. Éliette hid her face in her hands while Étienne pulled the bird free and sent it on one last flight before it landed beyond the bushes.
‘He’s mad! My God, what am I going to do? I can’t stay here any longer! I’m calling the police.’
‘Calm down, Éliette. I’m here. I’m sure we can find a way to sort this out without making a song and dance about it. Trust me.’
Étienne put his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead. Trembling from head to toe, she clutched him tightly. Their lips met. She kissed like a little girl, mouth barely open, the shy tip of her tongue flavoured with diabolo menthe. As they closed the door behind them, Étienne told himself there was no rest in this world until you were six feet under a marble slab.
The telephone rang for the first time while Étienne was making a tomato salad. Éliette went to pick it up. It was Serge. His father had not been seen since that morning and Serge wondered if he might by any chance have been by. After a brief pause, Éliette responded in the negative, then asked after Rose. She was doing OK. The cousins from Aubenas were plying her with sleeping pills, leaving themselves free to sniff around in cupboards, suss out what the land and buildings were worth, and do sums on the backs of envelopes. There was such an atmosphere up there, he wasn’t sure he could stick it out until the funeral. On that note, he wished her a good evening. He would probably pop in to say hello in the morning, just to be around some normal people.
Next it was Agnès’s turn to call. She sounded completely hyper. Étienne could barely make sense of half of it.
‘I can’t understand a thing you’re saying. Speak clearly!’
‘I’m on a boat! It’s awesome! Loads of people and champagne and stuff!’
‘Good for you. What about the rest of it?’
‘It’s all good. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Ben’s giving me a ride – and man, wait till you see his car! It’s Italian, red, a proper racing car. Nothing like Éliette’s little toy!’
‘Are you out of your mind? You’re not seriously planning on bringing this guy here?’
‘Why not? He’s got
the dough, he’s cool. No problemo, Daddy-o. We’ll be able to get moving.’
‘Agnès! Do not bring that man here. Do you hear me? It’s not a block of hash you’re selling, for fuck’s sake. These people could stick a gun under our noses and skin us like rabbits. You’re off your head. You need to drop it and get out of there, Agnès … Agnès?’
‘I can’t hear you! … This phone is a piece of shit … Hello?’
‘Agnès!’
‘I’ll call you back tomorrow. Oh, and don’t do anything silly with Éliette. You know I’m the jealous type!’
‘Agnès …’
‘Love you, you funny old fart.’
Étienne remained in conversation with the dial tone for a few seconds before hanging up.
They picked at their supper of tomato salad and a slice of ham. The bird nailed to the door had cast the shadow of its withered wing over the sunny afternoon. They opened a bottle of rosé and sat on the front step, sipping their wine and waiting for shooting stars to make a wish on. Éliette wished that Paul would fall into a hole so deep and dark he might never have existed. And she had two other, more minor, wishes: that Sylvie’s children be bedridden with measles, and that Marc be forced to cancel his visit because of work (which would hardly be a surprise, after all). As for Étienne, he wished only to go back forty-five years and for a big fat star to hang permanently above his head. But all these comets, most of which were actually Russian or American satellites, were so laden with the petty hopes of humans in disarray that they left nothing but calling cards in the sky, along with the false promise that things would soon return to normal.
Since they could expect nothing from these tin-plated stars, Étienne and Éliette held one another close and waited for desire to make them climb the flight of stairs to Éliette’s room. It was more of a big cuddle than a night of torrid passion. Both of them were tired, moving about in the bed as if in an aquarium filled with thick blue jelly. Having become used to Agnès’s matchstick body – so easily set alight – he struggled to find his way around Éliette’s, made timid and awkward by abstinence. But it didn’t really matter: their fond strokes and caresses were enough to make them feel that one day they would have time, all the time in the world. They fell peacefully asleep, like two prisoners on death row clinging to the tiny hope of a presidential pardon.
Too Close to the Edge Page 6
