Low Heights

by Pascal Garnier

  It was when they had started their first year at the Lycée du Parc in Lyon that they had discovered this odd whim of nature. Although their surnames differed the teacher had seated them side by side like twins. Other than this incredible physical resemblance, however, they differed in every respect. Édouard came from what is known in Lyon as the hill that prays, Fourvières, and Jean from the hill that works, Croix-Rousse. Édouard was as reserved and studious a child as Jean was exuberant and mischievous, attracting attention from those around him wherever he went. Right from the start Édouard suffered horribly from the existence of his double, but Jean very quickly grasped the benefits to be gained from their extraordinary likeness. For over a year Édouard had, like Dr Jekyll, to put up with the dire consequences of Mr Hyde’s misdeeds. It was during a science lesson where they were dissecting frogs that Édouard put an end to this unjust fate by gashing Jean’s cheek with a scalpel. The punishment was severe but he accepted it unflinchingly, even with relief. Henceforth, no matter what happened, people would always be able to tell them apart. From that moment, Jean’s attitude towards him changed radically, resulting not in a real friendship but in a sort of complicity which made them respect each other. They were nicknamed ‘the Duellists’. Then when they reached adulthood life took them in different directions. Édouard carried on his father’s business and Jean embarked on a career as an artist. They had never seen each other again. With the tip of his finger, Jean stroked his scar, almost invisible now, masked by wrinkles.

  ‘I daren’t count the years.’

  ‘No point. What are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s a meeting place – as you can see. I lived in Morocco for a long time but the climate no longer suited my health. Since I work with galleries in Geneva, Basle and Lausanne, I settled here.’

  ‘Are you still painting?’

  ‘Let’s say I exist now only by virtue of having existed. What about you? Are you here on business?’

  ‘No, it’s out of my hands now; that’s the right expression for it!’ Édouard raised his crippled arm, letting it fall back onto the table. ‘A stroke, several months ago.’

  ‘So you’re here to convalesce, as it were.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  A young man with curly hair and eyes like a gazelle, dressed in a tight-fitting black T-shirt, laid his hand on Jean’s shoulder and whispered a few words in his ear.

  ‘No, not tonight, Mehdi. Another time. Yes, I’ll call you. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Bristol, but we won’t be there for long. I’d like to rent a house far away from it all; I need quiet.’

  ‘I know of some. I live right up in the mountains, half an hour from the city. Speaking of which, what are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Nothing special.’

  ‘Then why not come over? I’ve got a splendid view over the lake, and I’ll bring you back after dinner. It will give me a chance to get to know Madame. You’ll have to excuse us, this meeting was so unexpected …’

  ‘Not at all, I quite understand. We’d love to. What do you think, Édouard?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Thérèse had insisted on getting into the back, to give the two men a chance to reminisce, but neither of them seemed to want to take advantage of it. No doubt they needed some time to start up the time machine. The road looped round and sometimes your view plunged down to the mist-covered lake, sometimes your gaze came up against a phalanx of black pointed fir trees against a reddening sky.

  The chalet was built on a rocky cliff, almost balancing on the top. A gap in the forest opened up a clear view over the lake; all that was visible of the opposite side were glimmering lights like fireflies, beyond which nothing else seemed real. Leaning on the balcony rail, Thérèse and Édouard silently drank in the peace of this majestic spectacle, which reminded them somewhat of the Rocher du Caire.

  ‘This is exactly what we’re looking for, a real eagle ’s nest.’

  ‘You don’t know how true that is. There are lots of them here. I spend hours watching them circling in the sky. Would you like a drink?’

  Resinous scents wafted in through the wide-open picture window like incense. The living room where they drank champagne was vast and practically empty, minimally furnished with a table, sofa and, at the back of the room, a desk flanked by an armchair. Nothing on the walls, not one picture. The sole item of decoration was a sort of bronze wading bird some fifty centimetres tall, in a niche behind the sofa. It looked like a house someone was about to leave or had just moved into.

  ‘It’s a little bare but I love the space. I never have visitors. Before, I used to love objects. My house in Morocco was a veritable souk. I left everything behind. You change. With time, you prefer travelling light.’

  ‘And it’s easier to look after.’

  ‘Exactly. You’re quite right, Madame.’

  Jean and Thérèse argued politely over who should make the dinner, and Thérèse won. Wouldn’t you expect two old friends to have some time on their own? But above all she felt an overwhelming need to be in a kitchen again, to handle pans, plates, cutlery and glasses, things she understood, which understood her and which she had missed dreadfully since their departure from Rémuzat. She had a connoisseur’s appreciation for the cleanliness of the place, the simplicity and quality of the utensils and the practicality of the way things were arranged. It was surprising for a bachelor. Jean showed her where to find everything she might need and in less than five minutes she was going backwards and forwards between oven and fridge, as much at home as a goldfish in its bowl. She threw herself into making a rice salad with tuna.

  It was a house like this that they needed, quiet, far away from everything, with, if possible, this magnificent view, which at every hour of the day would remind them of the peace and sweetness of life. She would furnish it differently, of course. You could bring a little more warmth to the pretty chalet: carpets, curtains, these little nothings which mean everything. Aside from his manner, which was rather precious for a man, Jean was a charming person, attentive, delicate. A little too much so. When he smiled, and he smiled often, there was an air of melancholy about him which made you want to throw yourself out of the window. Men on their own … If they could find a similar house somewhere nearby, Édouard and he would be able to see each other, exchange ideas, talk about the good old days. It would do them good … The sound of the timer dragged her from her daydreams; the eggs were done.

  To be honest, Édouard was no keener than Jean was to bring up the good old days. What preoccupied them, though they didn’t mention it even as they stole glances at each other, was not this chance present but their future, as brief as it was uncertain. Jean emptied the last of the bottle into their champagne glasses, before sliding a silver powder compact out of the coffee-table drawer.

  ‘May I?’

  It was filled with white powder. Using a razor blade, he made a line of it on the mirror on the inside of the lid and then inhaled it through a straw.

  ‘Are you taking drugs?’

  ‘I’m anaesthetising myself. Does that shock you?’

  ‘No. At our age we all have our drugs.’

  ‘Thérèse?’

  ‘Thérèse isn’t a drug.’

  ‘Forgive me. She’s charming, very … unspoilt. From you, that astounds me. You were always keener on women who enhanced your worth.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not worth much any more. You live here alone then?’

  ‘Solitary as a monk. When I have needs I go to the Bains des Pâquis, but that’s less and less often now. I hadn’t set foot there for six months. I was about to leave when I noticed you.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid of problems?’

  ‘What sort of problems? Oh, the powder, the boys? What do you think could happen to me now? Besides, this is Switzerland. If you have a bank account and make sure to cross at the crossing everything’s allowed. Besides … whatever I do I’m not risking a life sentence. You’ve seen the way I look, I’
m already a condemned man. It’s only a matter of days, hours … I’m not even seeing my doctor any longer.’

  ‘Are you frightened?’

  ‘No, not really. It’s a bit drawn out …’

  ‘And the painting?’

  ‘I gave up a long time ago. You know, I’ve never been a great painter, an artist. I’m much too cowardly for that. Skilled technically, no more than that; bogged down in formal beauty, and charm. I painted portraits my whole life without realising that, contrary to appearances, behind every man and every woman there was a human being. But tell me, what are you in search of here?’

  ‘Another life.’

  Jean’s face lit up like a lantern and he started laughing, which almost choked him.

  ‘Another life? Is that all? At your age, aren’t you ashamed? Wasn’t your own enough for you?’

  ‘That wasn’t my life. I’m firmly convinced it was a mistake. Anyway, I’ve hardly any of it left; I’ve erased it all. Apart from this arm, which I don’t miss, I’m in excellent health and ready to start all over again.’

  Jean appeared to be weighing him up like some curious object found in a junk shop.

  ‘I believe you could … Why not? You’ve no children?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘True, what for? They’re no use; people like us have no need to live on. And yet, sometimes, without intending to, you know, like with plants, you end up producing offshoots.’

  ‘I’ve never had green fingers. I’ve killed artificial flowers before now.’

  ‘You always were a dried-up old stick.’

  ‘So? The desert’s dry but that doesn’t stop it being alive.’

  ‘And going on and on for ever … I know a bit about that, I’ve done it enough. All the same, Switzerland, for two old sods like us …’

  Jean’s laughter was as false as his teeth. Between the two men was everything that separates the beginning from the end, an uncertain and illusive no man’s land. Jean lay back on the sofa cushions, eyes closed and hands behind his head.

  ‘One day – I must have been eighteen – my father asked me, “What are you going to do with your life?” I had no answer for him. And today if I ask myself what I’ve done with my life, I’m just as mute. What happened in the meantime?’

  Dinner was light-hearted and convivial. In earlier days Jean had liked cooking. Thérèse and he exchanged recipes, tagine with prunes for blanquette à l’ancienne. The wine was excellent. Édouard rather overdid it so that by the cheese course he was beginning to nod into his plate. Only snatches of conversation reached him now, or even just words like ksar, moucharabieh, medina with which Jean spiced the stories of his travels. Occasionally, after a juicy anecdote, Thérèse’s laugh made him jump before he sank back into the sweet torpor of a child who falls asleep at the table.

  ‘Édouard? … Édouard? I can’t wake him. I’m embarrassed; he’s not used to drinking so much.’

  ‘Let him sleep then. There’s a guest room. You can spend the night here and I’ll take you back tomorrow morning.’

  ‘But what if he wakes up … He’ll be completely lost. Since his stroke his mind has gone blank at times …’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m an insomniac. You go to bed. I’ll stay here beside him. When he wakes up I’ll be with him.’

  ‘That’s very kind. It’s awful, he won’t accept …’

  ‘Being his age? Me neither. Don’t worry about anything. The bedroom’s at the end of the corridor, on the right, next to the bathroom. I’ve had a lovely evening.’

  ‘So have I. Don’t hesitate to …’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘“Le héron au long bec emmanché d’un long cou …” Well, Lavenant, I’m waiting for the next line – haven’t you learned the text by heart? “The heron with a long beak …”’

  Behind the sofa, the bronze bird was pointing its long sharp beak at Édouard. On each side its glass-paste eyes were peering into the darkness. Someone was murmuring at the other end of the room. Édouard propped himself up on one elbow. Jean was on the telephone, stooped over in the cone of light from a desk lamp.

  ‘I can’t speak louder, there ’s someone sleeping … No, it’s not what you think. The past, nothing but the past. I’ll tell you about it. What time did you say your plane was arriving on Wednesday? … Ten seventeen in the morning. I’ll collect you … Did you find the catalogue at the Guggenheim Museum?’

  Suddenly it was obvious to him. All that stood between Édouard and his new life was this alter ego, this ghostly double who was spluttering on the phone. By staring at him, he now saw Jean only as ectoplasm, a pallid shapeless form. There was no such thing as chance; matters were arranged with an implacable logic. Now he understood why Jean had led him here and why nature had made them both in the same mould. During dinner, Jean had, while speaking about his health, quoted a sentence: ‘Death will catch me unawares, because I want it to.’ Édouard grabbed the metal bird’s feet and got up noiselessly. He was in his stocking feet, something Thérèse had seen to, no doubt.

  ‘Three years since we last met? … Possibly … I don’t notice. Time stands still here; nothing ever happens … Excuse me a second … Édouard?’

  The bird’s beak went a good ten centimetres into Jean’s forehead. He had the same incredulous expression as Jean-Baptiste when the root had come away in his hands before he toppled into the void. The receiver fell to the floor, emitting ‘Hello’s like the cries of a rat. Édouard crushed it with his heel. Jean’s arms flailed about in the air before he fell backwards, taking the armchair with him. The wading bird embedded in his skull seemed to be slaking its thirst on the dark blood running from the wound. Édouard seized the cigarette which was burning away in the ashtray and took a long drag. It tasted of dust. It didn’t take long for Thérèse to appear.

  ‘What’s going on? Oh God!’

  Hands clasped to her mouth, she fell to her knees in front of Jean’s body, his legs still twitching convulsively. Édouard stood contemplating the scene reflected in the window. It was like one of those stupid depictions of the Descent from the Cross.

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘It was suicide.’

  ‘No! You’ve killed him. It’s a crime!’

  ‘Call it whatever you like.’

  ‘You’re insane! I’m calling the police.’

  ‘The phone’s not working.’

  ‘But why? Why?’

  ‘You couldn’t understand. It’s between him and me, a pact, an exchange. In any case he didn’t have long to live.’

  ‘But … This isn’t a natural death.’

  ‘What does that mean, “natural death”? All deaths are natural or else it’s death itself which isn’t. Don’t just stay there in front of that chair, shaking like a jelly! Do something … well, I don’t know what … coffee, yes, make some coffee!’

  Like an automaton she stood up and made her way to the kitchen. Édouard shrugged his shoulders. He was cold. As he went to fetch his jacket from the sofa he slipped on the pool of blood.

  ‘Oh, it’s disgusting! All that’ll have to be cleaned up, do you hear me, Thérèse?’

  The soil was loose at this spot in the garden, but despite all the strength in her arms it still took Thérèse almost two hours to dig a hole deep enough to lay Jean’s body in.

  ‘That should do, Thérèse. We ’ll bend him a little if needs be. Get out of there – it’s almost dawn.’

  Somehow or other they managed to bundle their host into his last resting place and, after covering him with earth, planted various flowers, taken from their pots, here and there on top to form an attractive flower bed.

  ‘It’s as pretty as a roundabout. All it needs now is an old wine press.’

  ‘I can’t think how you still have the heart to laugh. What are we going to do now?’

  ‘Move in, of course. We were looking for a house, we’ve found it. You like it, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s not the point. Sooner or late
r someone’s going to worry about Jean’s disappearance.’

  ‘But Jean hasn’t disappeared. He’s right here in front of you.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me that …’

  ‘Yes! Didn’t he benefit from our amazing twinhood for a good part of my youth? It’s my turn now. Believe me, I know him better than you do and he wouldn’t hold this against me.’

  ‘It’s impossible!’

  ‘No one’s indispensable, you’ll see. It’s a second life I’m giving him. Put my jacket on, you’ll catch a chill.’

  The ribbons of mist were fraying on the tips of the pine trees. It was still too early to know whether it would be fine or not. What was certain was that a new day was dawning. A few skilful cuts from Thérèse’s scissors and another man’s face was appearing, with a towel knotted round his neck, in the bathroom mirror.

  ‘The hair’s fine but what about the moustache?’

  ‘Let’s say I shaved it off last night. It made me look old. Surely you’re entitled to a change, aren’t you? Or else I’ll grow one.’

  ‘And the scar?’

  ‘A detail. Give me the razor.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Give me the razor and clear off!’

  What pain was there to fear since this face was no longer his own? With no hesitation and a steady hand Édouard gashed his cheek and indeed felt nothing but a sort of leaking, the hissing of a punctured tyre. Alcohol on the wound had the effect of an invigorating slap like the one they give new babies to give them a taste of life. Once he’d put a sticking plaster on, Édouard smiled at himself in the mirror.

  ‘Bloody Jean, indestructible!’

  Jean’s style of dress was sporty but understated, clothes in good taste and of good quality. They might have been made to measure for Édouard except for the shoes: in contrast to him, Jean’s left foot was bigger than the right. He struck some poses like a toreador in front of the wardrobe mirror then, satisfied, joined Thérèse.

  ‘What do you think then?’