Paul let go of his gun and fell to his knees. His trembling lips muttered words that could not be made out. Éliette rushed to the sink and threw up the two coffees she had just swallowed. When she lifted her head two minutes later, Paul had not changed position. He was intoning words as though reciting a psalm, something along the lines of ‘That’s it, now, we’re there …’ Étienne had finally managed to wriggle free of Serge’s corpse and was resting his head against the wall. His throat was swollen – he was choking, the handkerchief sticking out of his mouth like a fat purple tongue, eyes rolled back. A ray of sunlight bounced off a kitchen knife on the draining board. Éliette slowly took hold of it, but as she did so, Paul let out a hoarse shout and did something incomprehensible. He undid his right shoe, took it off, yanked off his sock and took the rifle in his hand. Éliette was clutching the knife tightly against her chest when he turned towards her.
‘There’s no need, Éliette. We’re there, we’re there.’
He thrust the barrel into his mouth and used his big toe to pull the trigger.
The minute Éliette had cut Étienne loose he had run into the bathroom with one thing on his mind: to strip off his soiled clothes and wash and wash and wash some more, from head to foot. But as the water ran and the soap lathered up, the bathtub filled with ever pinker liquid. Blood produced blood until the house was nothing but one huge open wound that seemed never to want to heal. He had brushed his teeth several times and still could not get rid of the indelible taste of rust and grease that the dirty hanky had left in his mouth. He needed to jet-wash his entire insides, his memory, his heart, wished he could watch it all disappearing down the plughole. Afterwards, Éliette helped him rinse the white enamel and the tiles. Étienne stared into the mirror, scrutinising his reflection in microscopic detail; every time he ran his hand through his hair, he was sure he could feel scraps of bone and brain under his nails.
‘Jesus fucking Christ! I’m never going to get it out!’
‘There’s nothing left, Étienne. It’s all gone.’
‘No, it hasn’t! Look, here! … And here! It’s still there!’
It took a very long time for Éliette to convince him to see reason. He could not bring himself to move away from the mirror; all the muscles in his body were so tight they could snap. As she draped her dressing gown over his shoulders, she felt as if she was dressing a wooden mannequin. She led him across the kitchen like a blind man, helping him to avoid the pools of blood and the bodies strewn here and there, with bluebottles already hovering above them. When they reached the sitting room she sat him on the sofa and poured him a shot which he downed through gritted teeth. And then, sitting with his head hanging, he told her everything: about the train, the coke, stealing the car, Patrick’s accident, everything, except his relationship with Agnès.
He was sobbing now, his head still down. She had rarely felt so calm, so collected in all her life. Her hand stroked the lump at the nape of his neck; he could have confessed to the most sickening crimes and still she would not for one second have wavered in her love for him. It was a strange kind of love, both maternal and carnal, innocent and perverted, and it made her incredibly happy. For a few seconds, Charles’s face came to her. He was smiling at her from the afterlife the way he smiled when she owned up to a minor sin, and he would shrug and open the paper, whose headlines were full of catastrophes and massacres from one end of the earth to the other.
‘Étienne, you ought to go and get dressed and hide this briefcase of yours. Bury it under the compost heap. I’m going to have to go to the police station. You needn’t worry about anything. Étienne, can you hear me?’
Étienne stood up. With his puffy eye, the lump on his neck and the too-tight dressing gown, he looked like a boxer approaching retirement.
‘Yes, good plan. I feel better. I was so afraid it was going to be the end of me … How on earth did he know it was me? His son, I mean …’
‘Instinct. He was a good huntsman. A good father, too. Will you be all right?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’m off then. Everything’s going to be just fine – you’ll see.’
‘Éliette! … Why?’
‘I love you, and that’s all you need to know.’
‘But what do I …?’
‘I’m asking nothing of you.’
Étienne made no reply. With all his body and soul he wished he could love like she did. He heard the unmistakable sound of the Aixam fading into the distance and went upstairs to change.
He had only black, grey and beige clothing. None of it suited him.
The sound of another car reached his ears as he was pulling on his trousers, a high-power engine, out of place on this dirt track. Through the bedroom window he saw Agnès step out of the Ferrari, laughing, with a thickset guy – not very young, not very tall, not very attractive – following her. When she saw him, she waved up at him. Tangled in his trousers, he didn’t have a chance to shout, ‘No! Don’t come in!’
‘Come in, Ben, let’s have a coffee …’
Agnès froze as she opened the kitchen door. Étienne had come hurtling down the stairs, and Benito was peering over Agnès’s shoulder at the scene before him.
‘Madonna!’
Étienne barged in front of them and tried to bar their way. Agnès stared at him, so pale she was almost transparent. She could not utter a single word. The Italian’s eyebrows were practically touching the roots of his hair. He stepped backwards until he reached the front door, where he turned and ran. They heard quick footsteps on the gravel, the roar of the engine starting up again, and a screech of tyres. Agnès and Étienne stared hard at one another, as if meeting for the first time. Their gazes joined to form a bridge over the unspeakable. The multiple horsepower of the Ferrari gave way to the flies buzzing over the bodies. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed, Agnès looked like a Pompeii fresco.
‘It wasn’t me, Agnès! It wasn’t me!’
Her sunglasses had fallen on the floor. Étienne trod on them; it was like walking on his daughter’s eyes.
‘I’m telling you, it wasn’t me! Go up to your room and get undressed. You were asleep, you heard gunshots, that’s it. Quick, the cops are on their way. I’ll explain later. Run! I have to go and stash the case. Go!’
Agnès stared at him uncomprehendingly, as if trying to find a use for an unfamiliar tool. He had to push her up the stairs. The police van arrived a few minutes after he had buried the briefcase under the compost heap.
For the entire morning, the house was invaded by flies and police. More and more of both kept arriving. There were people taking photos, measuring things, scouring every corner. It sounded like a swarm of bees was nearby: no individual noise, only a worrying murmur. In the garden, in the shade of the summer dining room, an inspector whose slight squint made him always seem to be talking to someone else was taking statements from Éliette, Étienne and Agnès.
Éliette had not batted an eyelid when Agnès appeared dressed in the men’s shirt she wore to bed. All three claimed to have spent the night at the house. In the morning, Éliette and Étienne had heard a noise in the kitchen. They came downstairs and found Paul in a state of extreme agitation. He threatened to shoot them. When Paul’s son and his friend arrived, there had been a brief altercation over a family quarrel, and Paul had fired on them before turning the gun on himself. No, they didn’t know why he had cut the phone lines, or how he had come by his head injury. Clearly he was aware of Serge’s intention to visit Éliette, and he had ambushed him. This moment of madness could be put down to the pain of the loss of his son.
The three bodies were carried out by the men in white and shoved into the back of an ambulance which drove off, its wheels narrowly avoiding the ditch. It was like any of the countless petty stories that made it onto the front page of the local paper before being turned into fish-and-chip wrapping. The inspector with the wandering eye put his notepad away and sighed.
‘Gonna be another hot one today. Right then, w
e’ll need you to stick around in case we require anything else from you, but it all seems tragically straightforward to me.’
‘Inspector, we can’t stay here … It’s …’
‘I understand, Madame. For the time being, nothing is to be touched. A cleaning company will be along when we finish. In the meantime, go and stay with friends or check into a hotel, somewhere we can get hold of you if need be.’
‘In that case, we’ll be at the Relais de l’Empereur in Montélimar.’
‘Ah yes, I know it well. The food’s excellent!’
‘Well, you know …’
‘Of course, sorry. We’ll be in touch with you there.’
‘Would you be able to call us a taxi on your phone? Only my … car can only carry two people.’
‘Oh, the little Aixam! My dad’s got one … Yes, but I could give one of you a lift. Want to hop in, Monsieur?’
Étienne bit the inside of his cheek.
‘That would be great, thanks.’
Two gendarmes remained at the scene. Éliette and Agnès saw Étienne disappear inside the inspector’s car, holding himself upright, almost rigid.
‘Air con all right for you back there?’
‘Yes, fine.’
Étienne was suffocating in the back. The river they were driving alongside was nothing but a trickle of green water snaking between white pebbles, draining away.
‘Always makes you feel guilty, sitting in a police car, doesn’t it?’
‘Not me, no. I’m just …’
‘Of course, of course, sorry. I forgot myself. So what’s the story with that black eye and the bump on the back of your head?’
‘There isn’t one. It was an accident. I fell off a ladder.’
‘Just what you needed! You’re not having much luck at the moment, are you?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘No, apparently not.’
They didn’t exchange another word until they reached the hotel, where the inspector dropped him off and told him not to worry about anything.
In the microcar, Agnès and Éliette had barely more to say to one another.
‘This car is a pile of crap.’
‘It’s a pile of crap.’
‘How are we going to get anywhere in this?’
‘We’ll get as far as the Relais de l’Empereur.’
‘And then what? Some adventure this is going to be.’
‘Don’t you think your father’s had enough adventures recently?’
‘Think he’s ripe for retirement like you, do you?’
‘Ripe for a bit of peace and quiet, I’d say.’
‘I don’t like you.’
‘I don’t hate you either.’
‘You’re making him old.’
‘He wasn’t expecting to meet me.’
‘I was.’
They said nothing more.
As in all the places where Napoleon had left a strand of hair, the Relais de l’Empereur was decorated with golden bees, wall hangings and furniture of uncertain age, and peopled with staff so practised at bending and scraping that an avant-garde choreographer would have applauded them. Agnès smirked when offered a room adjoining that of ‘her parents’.
‘That’ll be handy in case I have a nightmare, won’t it, Papa?’
‘You should go and have a shower. We’ll meet back down here in half an hour.’
Éliette was already showering in her room. Agnès was starting to get on her nerves, along with all the other children in the world. What exactly did they have against their parents? What made them want to spoil what little future they had left? There was Agnès with her double-edged remarks; Patrick, who had, in a sense, caused his father’s end and his mother’s breakdown; even Serge and his provocative love life; even Sylvie, even Marc, who took her for an imbecile, as if she was incapable of leading her own life! Why couldn’t they just leave their parents alone? Why were they still getting under their feet, just as they had when they were in nappies? She wouldn’t be surprised if the younger members of society couldn’t even pay towards their elders’ pensions. Sick and tired of this unscrupulous generation that let the grass grow over the living corpses of their fathers and mothers.
There had been big scientific advances and it was now possible to live to a hundred. It was an old person’s world – they had made it after all, and if it didn’t suit the young, they could make one of their own. Marc and Sylvie were so far removed from her universe that it had not even crossed her mind to contact them. She had stopped being a mother in order to take a second chance at being a woman, barely living in the present moment. They no longer belonged with her. She would call them later. Recent events had provided an excellent excuse to put them off visiting. Afterwards, she would set things straight with Agnès. There was no way she was going to pass on the opportunity of the new life opening up to her like a long-awaited past. She returned to the bedroom with a towel wrapped around her hair.
‘Étienne, I’m going to put the house on the market.’
‘I understand.’
‘Would you … would you like to live with me?’
Étienne propped himself up on his elbow and blinked madly.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m not asking you to love me, just to be with me. I know there’s something between us – I don’t know what it is, but it’s enough. You’re at your wits’ end; you can lean on me. We could be happy together, living in peace.’
‘Éliette! We’ve known each other a matter of days and I’ve brought you nothing but trouble.’
‘Exactly. That needs to change. You can’t carry on living like this. Admit you’re tempted?’
‘I am, but it’s impossible. There’s the case, there’s Agnès …’
‘Forget all that! You have a right to be happy!’
‘I’d love to, honestly, Éliette, but I can’t. I have to see this through.’
‘Through to what? Prison? Death? Do you think that’s what Agnès wants? I’ve a bit put away. If you want we can leave tomorrow. We can give Agnès some money. She’s young …’
‘Éliette, please … I need to think. My head hurts.’
It was true. His brain was being jolted inside his skull like the clapper in a bell. Agnès, Éliette, ding-dong! Left to his own devices, he probably would have gone to the police station and told the bog-eyed inspector everything just to get it over with. The slightest thought unleashed a wave of pain inside him, spreading from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.
‘Knock, knock. Can I come in? … Blimey, why the long faces? Trouble in paradise?’
Éliette shrugged and disappeared into the bathroom. Agnès stifled a giggle.
‘Wipe your nose – it’s covered in coke.’
‘Oh, sorry! Right, well, I’ve got the munchies. See you downstairs.’
Three o’clock in the afternoon. Montélimar was booming like a burst drum. A dreary pizzeria provided a place to sit, stale pizza and dry pasta. At the end of this dismal meal washed down with vinegary wine, Étienne, as if playing the tourist, had the absurd idea of asking what there was to see in the town. After several moments scratching his head with its shiny black mop, the sad Mickey Mouse-faced waiter suggested the Château des Adhémar. He had never been there himself, despite being a native of the town, but had heard it was worth a look. The view from up there was supposed to be amazing.
It was a painful slog up to these ruins, which had been spruced up by generous donors. The sun was not even out; it was just muggy. Agnès moaned at every step, like a child being dragged around beauty spots during the summer holidays.
‘Where are you taking us? … These alleys stink of dog shit … My feet hurt … I need to pee … I’ve got indigestion.’
All three were suffering from heartburn, but they still made it to the foot of a pile of yellow stones. Your twenty-franc fee bought access to the castle’s sad, empty keep and a few metres of rampart.
‘Amazing view? Yeah, right! I get a better v
iew every morning washing my arse. It’s an utter hole!’
‘Agnès!’
‘What? Am I wrong? The whole town’s like a cemetery. It’s like a model someone forgot to finish.’
Below the fortifications, an old woman bent like the arch of the castle’s portal was walking a dog whose hind legs were mounted on wheels.
‘Let’s get out of here, Étienne. There can’t be many places worse than this.’
The wind had picked up. It blew under the Roman roof tiles, playing a monotonous chant as irritating as the songs of the Peruvian bands at Châtelet métro station. They would have liked to shoo it away.
‘Come on. Let’s go before you end up looking like that mutt.’
‘I think your father’s capable of making his own decisions.’
‘Fuck off! He’s not your lapdog.’
Leaving … it was all Étienne had done, his entire life. He envied the stone – or molasse, as it was known here – crumbling where it stood. Swallows punctuated the space between passing clouds like commas. A bell was ringing somewhere in the sky. Éliette leant out to listen.
‘A wedding …?’
Closer to the edge, Agnès replied, ‘No, a funeral. Screw this, I’m off.’
She left them leaning out over the parapet. They watched as the red of her hair bounded down the dark alleyways like a glowing fag end.
Back at the hotel, Éliette called her children. Their voices sounded unreal, like those of air hostesses. Without going into detail, she informed them of the deaths of Paul and Serge. Given the circumstances, they probably shouldn’t come. This was actually for the best all round because, as expected, Justine’s measles had passed on to her brother; as for Marc, a meeting had come up which he couldn’t get out of, and he would have had to cancel anyway. Although, if she wanted to come and stay with either of them … No, she would rather rest, perhaps even go and stay with friends near Marseille, clear her head, she didn’t know, it was all so … She would let them know. They were thinking of her, of course, and she of them. These things happened. Speak soon.
Too Close to the Edge Page 8
