‘Like I told you on the phone the other day, I’ve brought the file. You’ll see, it’s a gold mine! But we can talk about that later, can’t we?’
‘Whenever you like.’
Then, as nothing could top that, the conversation lapsed into more anodyne subjects like the weather forecast, the swift passage of time, the peaceful beauty of the Swiss landscape and, finally, the recipe for the onion soup. By coffee, absolute silence reigned over the cups and Édouard almost knocked his over by nodding off at the table.
‘You’ll have to forgive me, I need to rest for a little while. Wake me in an hour, Thérèse.’
‘Of course, Éd— Monsieur Jean.’
To hide the confusion which was making her blush, Thérèse began clearing the table. Sharon did not appear to have noticed her slip. She was inspecting her chewed nails with a look of disgust.
‘I’ve tried everything – lacquer, medication, therapy. I can’t do anything about it; it’s been like this ever since I was tiny.’
‘You must have an anxious nature.’
‘That’s for sure. I wonder whether I get that from my mother or my father … While we’re on the subject, Thérèse, how do you think my father is?’
‘But … well. He’s made a very good recovery. It’s not out of the question that he might regain the use of his arm some day.’
‘I didn’t mean physically. Still, I have to admit I’m amazed to see him in such good health. AIDS doesn’t usually regress like that.’
‘AIDS?’
‘You do know my father’s HIV positive?’
‘Yes, of course … But Monsieur Jean is someone of great courage, a real fighter.’
‘That must have happened late in the day. The last time I spoke to him on the phone he seemed, well, resigned.’
‘He has his ups and downs like everyone else.’
‘No doubt. But even before he was ill I never saw him look like that, fierce, authoritarian. I don’t know whether to be glad about it or frightened. It’s as if he were possessed.’
‘By who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He’s seriously ill; seriously ill people are always unpredictable.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. You know more about it than me. How long have you worked for him?’
‘Nearly a year.’
‘A year! Why has he never said anything to me about you?’
‘I suppose he didn’t want to worry you.’
‘And he’s never spoken about me to you?’
‘Not in so many words. He ’s a very private man.’
‘Very! But I’m bothering you with all my questions. I’m sorry, Thérèse, it’s because I’m concerned about him.’
‘That’s only natural.’
‘I think I’ll have a short rest as well. See you later.’
Jean had AIDS! Of course, with the life he led, that emaciated body, the thin hair and the whole heap of medicines in the bathroom. Why hadn’t Thérèse thought of it earlier? But she had never mixed with that kind of people. For her it was a young person’s disease … And she didn’t know any young people. She knew next to nothing about the disease, only what she ’d heard on the TV and radio … Leprosy, the Black Death, she could have coped with them, but AIDS? How was she going to be able to answer Sharon’s questions? Once she had rinsed the sink, Thérèse took off her rubber gloves and looked at her hands. They were redder perhaps than the young woman’s, but in a better state. If her own nails were short it was because she cut them regularly every week for reasons of cleanliness. She had never bitten them, even at the most anxious moments of her life. She’d broken some, of course she had, scrubbing other people’s toilets or scouring the bottoms of their saucepans, but she had never bitten them. They were strong, hard as horn. A pretty girl like that with such ugly hands, she must have been through some really tough times! She wasn’t a bad kid, even if she did give herself airs, a little girl who’d put on her mother’s high heels, that was all … The concern she showed for her father was touching … touching but really annoying.
Thérèse gripped the edge of the sink with both hands as if she wanted to pull it off.
‘Oh, Édouard, lies are so complicated!’
The house whistled like an ageing lung. Outside, the wind prowled in search of cracks and already raindrops were splattering onto the picture window. Sharon had never liked mountains; they made her feel like listening to Wagner and she loathed Wagner. She disliked the house too, unless it was the other way round. All the empty, silent space was crushing her.
There was nothing in the desk drawers, nothing of interest except for the photo of herself and her father, torn and stuck together again, and a small women’s pistol which she had put in her pocket after discovering in the wastepaper basket three crumpled pages covered in her father’s signature, going progressively from the clumsiest to the most assured.
‘Who are these people?’
The photo trembled in her hand. The rip was vertical as if someone had wanted to separate the two figures. Sharon had just turned eighteen and she was meeting her father for the second time. The snap had been taken the day after she arrived on the beach at Essaouira. A powerful wind was whipping up the sand, stinging her arms and legs like buckshot. As she huddled against her father for protection she had felt him stiffen. He said, ‘I’m sorry,’ in a strangled voice, the way people do when they bump into someone on the train. It had been Omar holding the camera, the son of the people who were renting the house to her father. She had been in love with him for the week of her visit. Unfortunately Omar preferred her father.
Sharon closed her eyes. Who was this man who was passing himself off as him? It was clear: in the photo the scar ran down the other cheek. It wasn’t really fear that she felt, but a sort of stage fright. She found herself in the position of an actor who had been put on stage at the end of a play without knowing its denouement. No doubt she had a part to play in it, but which one? Murderer or victim?
It wouldn’t be long now. The sky was chewing iron, sharpening its lightning bolts on the peaks of the mountains.
‘Let it out, let it all out.’
At last his bladder let go and blissfully, eyes half closed, Édouard relieved himself before noticing, as he did up his flies, that he ’d urinated on his wardrobe.
‘Oh shit! Well, if people keep changing the layout of the rooms all the time without telling me!’
Whose fault was it? Huh? Whose fault? That slattern Thérèse’s, of course! You couldn’t rely on her. Oh, she was very good at daydreaming in the kitchen. But when it came to informing him the toilet had been moved, she was useless! Useless! In any case, he didn’t need anyone any more; he’d give her notice tomorrow and good riddance! Because he had work to do – he wasn’t just an extra on this earth, he had a task to accomplish, something brilliant that had come to him in his sleep: the essence, get back to the essence of things … His previous night’s work was just a preliminary; he had to rub, keep rubbing, right down to the canvas and beyond! And next … He could no longer remember but there was a next, he was sure of that …
He put on his yellow shoes without tying the laces and almost fell flat on his face on the staircase.
‘Are you going through my drawers?’
‘Oh, you’re awake now? I was looking at our photo.’
‘Which photo?’
‘This one, at Essaouira.’
‘Oh yes. You haven’t changed.’
‘You have.’
‘That’s because old people age more quickly than young ones. That’s nature, you can’t do anything about it. I’m sorry, but I’ve got work … What’s got into you?’
Sharon was aiming the little 6.35 at him.
‘Who are you?’
‘What d’you mean, who am I? Your damn fool of a father, that’s who!’
Édouard and Sharon both jumped at the same moment. The lightning must have struck not far off. Édouard was the first to regain his composure.
‘How much do you need?’
‘You’re not my father!’
‘But what makes you think that?’
‘The scar on your cheek, the three pages of practice signatures … And then your tone, your expression, the way you move, that energy! My father had AIDS, he was worn out. Damn it, I am his daughter, after all.’
‘Oh, here we go, blood ties, family feeling, all nonsense. Enough, let’s get this over with. You’ve come to get money out of me, that’s the sole reason for your visit. Well, forget about the violins, how much do you want?’
‘What have you done with him?’
‘Aargh, she ’s so annoying! All right then, he is dead, dead and buried. How much? You can double it.’
It was almost dark. Sharon put on the desk lamp. The pistol appeared fake in her hand, as harmless as a cigarette lighter. With her other hand she took a mobile phone out of her pocket.
‘I’m calling the police.’
‘We ’ll see. Do you think that thing’s going to work round here in weather like this? He’s dead, I tell you, stiff as a board and eaten by worms by now, like any self-respecting Christian. You’ve arrived too late, I’m afraid, but I can take his place very advantageously.’
‘You killed him for his money?’
Édouard burst out laughing, slapping his thigh, and yet he didn’t want to. Big Teeth was beginning to seriously rattle him He was going to squash her with the back of his hand like a gnat.
‘Oh, my poor dear, I’m much richer than him. Go on, put that … thing down and we’ll talk business. I’ll leave you all his possessions and add half as much again for emotional collateral damage. How’s that?’
‘I don’t know who you are but one thing I’m sure about is that you’re utterly mad.’
‘But your father was mad too. I knew him better than you did and for much longer. One father or another, for what you need him for, we won’t quibble …’
‘Murderer! I’m calling the police.’
They both screwed up their eyes as if looking into the flash in a photo booth. The lightning stopped time for just long enough to see Thérèse brandishing the bronze stork over Sharon’s head.
‘No! Don’t do that, Thérèse!’
Édouard stretched out his arm, his hand open.
A gunshot rang out and Thérèse’s menacing form vanished at the same time as the room sank into total darkness.
‘The light, for God’s sake, the light!’
Sharon’s presence was evident now only from a poodle-like panting, which was answered by Thérèse’s moans.
‘Put the light on, damn it!’
‘The power’s gone.’
Édouard lit his cigarette lighter and got down on all fours beside Thérèse. She was lying on her back, eyes wide open, pink blood frothing at the corners of her mouth. The lighter flame was burning his fingers. He had to keep relighting it.
‘There’s a candle on the desk. Quick, give it to me!’
In the light from the flame, Thérèse appeared to be smiling: ‘You were right, Édouard. It’s not really that terrible … It happens so fast … I thought I was doing the right thing. I’m sorry about Sharon. I know you can’t hear me, that my heart has stopped beating, that I’m dead. But I have no regrets, Édouard. I loved you, very much …’
‘Is … is she dead?’
Édouard stood up, his face blank, devoid of all expression.
‘When you shoot someone at point-blank range you have to envisage this kind of eventuality. You have just killed the most innocent of creatures.’
‘But she was threatening me. It was self-defence!’
‘Oh please … This isn’t the moment. Keep it for your lawyer and your judges. And put that gun down; you’ve done enough, don’t you think?’
‘No, you’re going to kill me.’
‘Are you completely stupid or something? What would I do with your body? I need your arms. There’s a spade in the shed. They may not have known each other long but Thérèse and Jean seemed to get along well.’
‘You’re useless! Your omelette ’s foul. Thérèse had her faults but she never ruined an omelette. Besides, you’re clumsy with everything. You managed to decapitate your father when you were digging the hole for Thérèse.’
‘You’re vile!’
‘No. I like work done well. I’ve always been demanding with my employees, firm but fair.’
‘I’m not your employee!’
‘As good as. The choice is yours. Either I sign everything you want, the money’s yours, and you can set up wherever you want, or we both get dragged into sordid legal proceedings. I would remind you that you have your whole life ahead of you and where I’m concerned my past has no future. Do you understand? I’ll give you two hours to think about all that. The clock’s ticking and your mobile is in your pocket. See you later.’
Édouard wasn’t sleepy. It was nice walking among the pine trees. A subtle smell of mushrooms was coming from the undergrowth. A quilt of white mist still covered the lake. Édouard sat down on a rock. A bright-orange slug was nonchalantly moving among the bedewed blades of grass.
‘You should have let me sort this business out on my own, Thérèse. I’d soon have got that kid to change her tune. I shall miss you. I already miss you.’
Sharon’s bag was waiting in the hallway like an overweight dog. The taxi would be there any minute.
‘You’re really going to stay here?’
‘Of course. I like it here. I liked it the moment I set foot in the place. This is my home. It’s different for you, and it would be best if we never saw each other again. A regular cheque as we agreed, but nothing else.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of coming back here.’
‘Then all’s well. Ah, there ’s your car.’
The Mercedes bumped along the track and drew up in front of them. The driver, a small stocky man with an exotic accent, greeted them and stowed the luggage in the boot while Édouard took Sharon in his arms.
‘See you soon, my dear, take good care of yourself.’
‘Murderer.’
‘You too, you too …’
The car turned round and disappeared behind the trees. Édouard rubbed his aching back and went to glance over the flower bed. Rhododendrons, maybe, or canna lilies? That would look classy …
‘Hello?’
‘Monsieur Marissal?’
‘Speaking.’
‘I’m ringing about the advertisement, the live-in nurse.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m interested in it.’
‘Do you have references?’
‘Of course.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Forty-five.’
‘That’s very young.’
‘Do you think so? Generally people find the opposite, that …’
‘It’s not important. Aside from your professional skills can you cook, look after a house?’
‘Certainly. I’ve already …’
‘And gardening?’
‘I love the countryside; I spent my entire youth there.’
‘The location is quite … austere.’
‘That doesn’t frighten me. I don’t like cities.’
‘You know my conditions, no visits, one day off per week and …’
‘I know about them, they’re fine and so is the salary.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Carmen.’
‘You’re Spanish?’
‘No. My father loved opera.’
‘When can you start?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Good, take a taxi. I’ll expect you at eleven o’clock. Be on time, I hate waiting.’
‘You can count on me. See you tomorrow, then. Goodbye.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
Carmen, what a name! She’ll be called Thérèse and that’s that.
Then he went to make too generous a lunch, as if he were expecting a visit. From two ladies passing by,
perhaps?
About the Author
Pascal Garnier was born in Paris in 1949. The prize-winning author of more than sixty books, he remains a leading figure in contemporary French literature, in the tradition of Georges Simenon. He died in 2010.
Melanie Florence teaches at the University of Oxford and is a translator from the French.
Also by Pascal Garnier:
The Panda Theory
How’s the Pain?
The A26
Moon in a Dead Eye
The Islanders
The Front Seat Passenger
Boxes
Too Close to the Edge
The Eskimo Solution
Copyright
First published in France as Les Hauts du bas
by Zulma
Copyright © Zulma, 2003
First published in Great Britain in 2017
by Gallic Books, 59 Ebury Street,
London, SW1W 0NZ
This ebook edition first published in 2017
All rights reserved
Copyright © Gallic Books 2017
The right of Pascal Garnier to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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