‘What did I tell you? A little coffee?’
‘Yes please.’
‘I think you might not make your meeting in Avignon.’
‘My meeting? Oh, yes. To tell you the truth, I haven’t got a meeting in Avignon.’
‘What?’
‘No. My wife ’s taken the children to her parents’ for a few days. I took advantage of the break to come and see you.’
‘So you’re not in a hurry?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Do you often tell lies, Monsieur Lorieux?’
‘Of course not! I needed a pretext, that’s all.’
‘Butter me a piece of bread, would you? I can’t manage it with one hand.’
Édouard was taking a mischievous delight in the situation. Jean-Baptiste was really just a big kid caught with his finger in the jam jar.
‘Not too much honey! Just a spoonful or else it gets everywhere. Thank you. Isn’t Thérèse here?’
‘She ’s gone to the market. We had breakfast together.’
‘What do you think you’ll do?’
‘What do you expect me to do? Wait three hours for the mechanic to get here. I’ll go for a walk. Is there a good restaurant here?’
‘No. There are two, both equally appalling.’
‘Oh well, too bad. I’ll make do.’
Monsieur Lavenant lit a cigarette and voluptuously blew smoke towards the ceiling.
‘Do you know how to make rings?’ he asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘Smoke rings. Can you blow them?’
‘No. I’ve never tried.’
‘You should start now; it takes a while. Make your mouth into an “O” and let a little smoke come through; keep it there for a moment until it’s quite dense and then send it out in short bursts with your glottis, raising your chin like so.’
A series of blueish rings issued from Édouard’s lips and hovered for a while before dispersing as they hit the ceiling beams.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’
‘Very impressive.’
‘It works better with cigars; almost perfect rings. I used to be quite an attraction at the end of a meal. What about whistling with your fingers, can you do that?’
‘I … I don’t think so.’
‘Whatever did your mother teach you? Place your thumb and index finger in the corners of your mouth, there, like so. Bend your tongue back as if you were about to swallow it and then blow … Harder! Again!’
Jean-Baptiste was turning bright red but all that came out of his mouth was a damp hissing sound. Meanwhile opposite him Édouard was producing a range of shrill sounds which would have made many a young rascal green with envy. It was like a wildlife documentary, the old blackbird teaching his fledgling son to warble. Just at that moment Thérèse opened the door.
‘What on earth’s going on here? I could hear you all the way down the street! You’re still here, Monsieur Lorieux?’
For an instant both men froze, fingers in their mouths, before Monsieur Lavenant stood up, taut as a bow.
‘Monsieur Lorieux’s car’s broken down. I was teaching him to whistle. He’ll be having lunch with us. I’m going up for my shower.’
The mechanic let the bonnet drop and wiped his hands on an oily rag, shaking his head.
‘Very strange … In theory a bit like that never goes …’
‘Is it bad?’
‘No, but I haven’t got the part. I’ll need to get it sent from Lyon.’
‘Will it take long?’
‘Well … Five o’clock now. If I order it straight away, I’ll have it for tomorrow afternoon. By the time it’s fitted … tomorrow evening, maybe?’
Unable to make up his mind, Jean-Baptiste rubbed his chin, eyeing his car as if it were a UFO. Behind him Monsieur Lavenant was growing impatient.
‘You’ve got no choice. Leave your car to this gentleman here and let that be an end to it. You’re in for another night at our house, that’s all. Isn’t that so, Thérèse?’
‘Monsieur Lavenant’s right, there ’s nothing else for it.’
‘I’m so embarrassed …’
‘Oh, come on, no fuss please. You’ll have your car back tomorrow, no need to make a big thing of it. Let’s go home. There’s no point in standing here.’
Jean-Baptiste handed over his keys to the mechanic and all three of them started for home. If the son seemed upset, the father was visibly in an excellent mood. Between the two, Thérèse didn’t know which attitude she should adopt.
‘Come on, no need for that face. You’ve your whole life ahead of you – that’s what you said, isn’t it? Look, I’ll buy you an aperitif.’
Thérèse was startled. ‘But it’s barely five o’clock.’
Thérèse had a strawberry and vanilla ice cream, Jean-Baptiste a beer and Monsieur Lavenant a perroquet because the lurid green cocktail suited his mood so well. In the square, the shadows of the plane trees made large mauve patches like continents on the dusty ground. According to a changeless ritual, the same scene was played out every day at the same time with the same actors: the boules players in their shorts, caps and old shoes, the old women gossiping on a bench amid the murmur of bees, and the little kid pedalling his tricycle like a maniac. Monsieur Lavenant gave a little laugh.
‘Have you noticed?’
‘What?’
‘They all look alike, the old women, the boules players, the kid, the café owner. All from the same family.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Of course, Thérèse. You can’t miss it. Isn’t that right, Lorieux?’
‘It hadn’t struck me, but now …’
‘It’s obvious! They’ve all come from one stock, the mechanic as well; that nose, those ears …’
‘The mechanic had an Italian accent.’
‘So? What does that prove? His father’s second or third wife might have been Italian. Besides, you’re annoying me, Thérèse, questioning everything all the time! If I say they’re all from one family it’s because I have good reason for it. If there ’s one thing I know about, it’s family!’
‘No need to get on your high horse. It’s nothing to me whether they belong to the same family or not.’
‘Obviously. You wouldn’t know what that is; you’ve never had one.’
Thérèse’s periwinkle gaze clouded and she turned away. Édouard drained his glass as if he wanted to swallow the nasty little words again. ‘I’m sorry, Thérèse. I don’t know what came over me. Besides, I’ve never been one for family. That gregarious need to be part of a whole has always been intolerable to me. We are born alone, we die alone and in between we act as if we’re not. Oh, Lorieux, the vultures! Look how they soar …’
A dozen raptors were initialling the sky with their wing tips above the Rocher du Caire. They didn’t know how to laugh or cry, didn’t wonder about birth or death, they just ate, slept, reproduced but above all they soared.
‘Lorieux, how would you like to go and see them at closer quarters tomorrow morning? I’ve got excellent binoculars. It really is something to see, I assure you.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Will you take us up there tomorrow morning, Thérèse?’
‘Of course.’
‘Perfect. Tell me, Lorieux, do you play boules?’
‘It has been known, but I’m no expert.’
‘I’ll buy some straight away. I wonder why I didn’t think of it earlier; it’s one of the only sports I can play. The tobacconist nearby sells them. I’ll be right back. We ’ll have a game tonight in the street, before dinner.’
Monsieur Lavenant leapt up and disappeared round the corner of the square, leaving Thérèse and Jean-Baptiste a little disconcerted.
‘Is he often like this?’
‘No, not really. For the last week he’s been acting strangely. I think he’s happy that you’re here. He’s behaving like a young man. With me, his life ’s a bit monotonous. Sometimes he’s clumsy but it’s because he ’s not used
to it.’
‘Used to what?’
‘Being happy, I think.’
The boules were sold in pairs in a woven leather bag or in sixes in a wooden case with a jack and a square of chamois leather. They gleamed, nickel-plated and incised with different patterns, in their casket lined with midnight-blue velvet. They were like rare pearls. Édouard felt the weight of one before delicately putting it back.
‘I’ll take them. They’re suitable, I mean, the weight …’
‘I’ll say so! Monsieur Drisse, our local champion, never uses anything else. He’s won three trophies with them so that just shows you.’
Édouard left the tobacconist’s to the tinkling of the little bell which marked customers’ entrances and exits. Just at that moment a ray of sun striking the windscreen of a passing car dazzled him so much that he almost lost his balance. When he opened his eyes, everything was white, incandescent, motionless, as if turned to glass. The noises he could hear were no longer identifiable, compressed into one block of sound. He was suddenly overcome by a feeling of extreme loneliness, survivor’s anguish. ‘There’s no one left. There’s never been anyone … except me.’ Death seemed a thousand times preferable to this prison existence. The boules weighed a ton. He took one step and then another, not to go anywhere as there was nowhere to go in this arid desert, but simply to start moving again.
‘Is something wrong, Monsieur? Not well again?’
Édouard put his hand up to shade his eyes. Before him stood the two women, backs to the light, under the shadow of an enormous umbrella.
‘Where are the others?’
‘The others? People, you mean? Over there, of course, outside the café as usual.’
‘Oh. For a moment I felt I was alone in the world, a sort of survivor. It was awful …’
‘I know what you mean. That often happens to me; I’m an insomniac. Not being able to shut your eyes when everything around you is sleeping is a terrible trial. But don’t worry, everyone’s just where they should be. You’ve bought boules! They’re lovely … For the child again?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘You’re spoiling him. That’s what children are for. Look at that one, pedalling his tricycle like a little racing driver. Isn’t he sweet?’
For a few seconds they watched the little boy as he whirled around, head down, nose to the handlebars of his little trike, raising clouds of white dust.
‘Pity they have to grow up. Well, we’ve got things to do. Have a good day, Monsieur.’
They vanished as they had appeared, in an overexposed patch of light.
Édouard had to make a great effort to hide his emotion when he found Jean-Baptiste and Thérèse again on the café terrace.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘If you want me to make a meal worthy of the name we really need to go now.’
No sooner had they stood up than there was a squeal of brakes from the main road, followed by an almost imperceptible thud which nevertheless froze everyone in a silent scream. The driver of the articulated lorry leapt down from his cab and rushed over to the body of the child, whose mangled tricycle lay there, one of its wheels still spinning. As if everything were being sucked out of the square, the boules players, the old women, the café owner and everyone rushed to the crash site. Only Édouard, Thérèse and Jean-Baptiste hung back. Someone said, ‘It was bound to happen.’
Thérèse claimed to have a letter to write, in order to leave the two men alone in the garden. The night was balmy, lacquered. From her seat at the little desk she couldn’t see them but through the window she could hear their voices clearly, rising with the drifts of cigarette smoke. She had realised that they were linked by more than just a professional relationship but she couldn’t have said what. Besides, she didn’t want to discover the secret. Far from feeling excluded by their complicity she felt quite touched at seeing them circling round each other with the awkwardness of two young puppies, Édouard twice as eccentric and Jean-Baptiste mired in his shyness. Sometimes when the two of them got lost in mutual incomprehension, she was the one they turned to, seeking a reliable mooring in her presence. Aware of her role as go-between, she would calm them with just a word or a smile. She felt useful, and that was enough for her.
Not having anyone to write to, she naturally began her letter with ‘My dear Thérèse …’ then, pen poised in mid-air, allowed herself to be lulled by the murmur from the garden.
‘Have you any photos of your children?’
‘No.’
‘But that’s the done thing. All fathers have photos of their children in their wallets.’
‘Not me.’
‘Nor of your wife?’
‘Nor of her.’
‘That’s a shame. I’d have liked to see them. Do they look like you?’
‘Who?’
‘Your children!’
‘Oh … I don’t know. People say they do. For that you’d have to know what kind of face I have.’
‘Mine, according to Thérèse.’
‘It’s hard with small children, they change all the time. Between taking the photo and getting it developed, they’re already different.’
‘And your wife, what’s she like?’
‘Oh well, blonde, average height, brown eyes …’
‘You don’t seem to be madly in love with her.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You’re giving me an identikit description. What about your job? Do you like it?’
‘I get good results, I think I’m quite competent.’
‘A charmed life, all in all?’
‘Do you turn into a pain in the arse at this time every night?’
‘Ah, finally some bad language! A hint of rebellion and of sincerity. I’d given up hope of that. Shall I tell you something? You’ve no children, any more than you’ve a wife, and what’s more, you don’t work for my company. Don’t deny it. I phoned my offices the day you got here. Not known at this address. You’ve lied to me all along except about one thing. I’m sure you’re my son.’
Thérèse spat out the little bits of plastic from the ballpoint she had been chewing. The silence that followed this revelation made the darkness turn pale.
‘What have you come here for?’
‘I came out of prison a week ago. Maman died while I was inside. I didn’t know where to go. I went by your offices and they told me where you were.’
‘But why all these lies?’
‘I wanted you to like me.’
‘You’ve succeeded there! And what got you into prison?’
‘Fraud. I worked for the Banque Nationale de Paris. I got five years.’
‘I’m wondering whether I should believe you. In the end, I couldn’t care less. Lie for lie, I prefer that one to the pathetic little life that was supposed to win me over. Have you any more nice surprises like that up your sleeve?’
‘No, that’s all.’
‘Pity, it was just starting to get exciting! And what is it you expect from me? A word of apology? Power of attorney over my bank account?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all, I swear to you.’
‘So things are fine as they are?’
‘I’m really stuck. I haven’t any friends or family. My whole life revolved around Maman. We were a sort of couple, like two shipwreck survivors on a desert island. She was always ill. My work suffered … but I wanted to make her comfortable at the end of her life, beside the sea, far away from the lousy one-bedroom flat where we lived in Batignolles. I wanted to give her some fresh air before she died. Fresh air, do you see?’
‘Please, spare me the violins. It might make them cry in the stalls, but not here. You’re a failure. Full stop, end of. Tomorrow, in memory of your mother, if you haven’t cut my throat between now and then, I’ll write you a cheque and you can go and get yourself hanged elsewhere.’
‘But I don’t care about your sodding money! Don’t you understand anything? What have you
got inside that cage of bones, under all that wrinkled skin? Old bastard!’
‘Little prick!’
Monsieur Lavenant didn’t recognise Thérèse’s voice when she shouted ‘ÉDOUARD!’ It seemed to come from deep inside himself, an echo that stopped him in his tracks as he was about to slap his son.
‘Édouard, get up here immediately!’
He looked at his hand as if it belonged to someone else and let his arm fall, while Jean-Baptiste looked straight into his eyes, pale, lip trembling. A light came on in one of his neighbour’s windows and the silhouette of a man with a bare chest appeared, like a shadow puppet.
‘Stop that racket!’
Édouard gave a shrug and went up the steps to the door. Jean-Baptiste lit a cigarette and disappeared into the shrubbery.
Thérèse was standing on the doorstep, unbending as justice, and looking daggers at Édouard.
‘How dare you shout at me like that in front of a stranger?’
‘A stranger? I heard everything. You’re hateful. From tomorrow you’ll do without my services. I’m leaving you.’
‘Why? What have I done to you?’
‘To me? Nothing. But it’s shameful to see a father humiliate his son like that.’
‘My son, my son … a liar, a crook, a thief! Two days ago I didn’t even know he existed. You think someone becomes a father in forty-eight hours?’
‘That’s not the point, he’s a human being. You can see the poor man’s completely lost.’
‘Is that my fault? I’m not responsible for the pitiful state he’s in.’
‘You are a little, actually. He needs help and you’re content to just throw him a bone. Don’t tell me you don’t feel anything at all …’
‘A burning desire to show him the door with my foot up his backside, that’s what I feel!’
‘You’re lying. You’re as lost as he is. Anyone would think you’re ashamed to take him in your arms.’
‘You’re totally mad. You read too many women’s magazines. Paternal instinct, blood of my blood! It’s all nonsense!’
‘But look at yourself. You’ve changed since he’s been here; you never take your eyes off him, as if you’re looking for yourself in him.’
Low Heights Page 6
