The Eskimo Solution

by Pascal Garnier

  Louis had listened all the way through to this stallholder’s dream and then had ended the conversation, promising to send Agnès a cheque. He’d felt quite emotional after he’d hung up. He knew Jacques, a decent sort who loved Agnès as he himself would have liked to love her, but had never managed to. It pained him to hear that they had worries. The cheque he would send them would obviously not be enough to satisfy their desire for escape, but there was another way he could demonstrate his generosity. Just above Agnès’s number was the number for her parents. There are phone numbers you keep without knowing why, and then one day, you do know.

  Halfway through the butter-rich meal, Louis was already feeling very full. He had to make a superhuman effort to follow the meanderings of the conversation, particularly when Solange was speaking. Raymond mainly contented himself with filling the gaps in the conversation with shrugs and meaningful nods of the head. All the stories were about the misfortunes of people Louis didn’t know, or barely knew, but whom death or illness briefly brought to life.

  ‘Yes, you do! You must remember Jean, “le grand Jeannot” we always called him! He was at your wedding. He was the one who did an impression of a dwarf by putting his jacket on the wrong way round and his hands in his shoes … Well, anyway, he’s dead.’

  And so on and so forth, like the report of a naval battle: ‘Le grand Jeannot, sunk!’ Retirement had been fatal for them. They were slowly shrivelling like two cheese rinds under a glass cover, deaf to everything that happened outside their own four walls. They were adrift on their own ever-diminishing ice floe.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, we like Jacques, but he’s too nice – people are always taking advantage of him. We help them where we can, but we’re not Rothschild’s bank! A little more coffee?’

  Louis hardly spoke. Sometimes he corrected a date, or a detail about a memory from the time he had been their son-in-law. Gradually the conversation began to dry up and he could feel their embarrassment. They had always found him intimidating. Even when he had been with Agnès they had been reserved around him. They were wondering what he was here for. Louis would have liked to stroke them like two puppies in a basket.

  ‘Right, I’d better be going. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.’

  ‘Not at all! Come back and see us again from time to time. We’ve really enjoyed it, haven’t we, Raymond?’

  Raymond acquiesced with a nod of the head, which he used to glance at his watch. It was all right, he wasn’t going to miss the beginning of his television serial. As he took his leave on the porch, Louis checked that the spare key was still in its place in the pot of geraniums. That was where it had been when Agnès still lived with them. No, nothing had changed.

  5

  The clothes I’ve been wearing for more than ten days lie scattered around my feet like shed skin: shapeless tracksuit bottoms, trainers missing their laces, an old paint-spattered jumper. OK, I’ve got a bit of a belly, but I have nice legs and hands. Hmm. Ish. Besides, everyone looks a bit of a twat standing butt naked in front of the mirror. My God, it feels so good to lie down when you’re tired, to piss when you need to, to eat when you’re hungry and drink when you’re thirsty. It’s things like this which really sell life to you, whatever the price. It’s strange to hear sounds being made around the house by someone other than me. I’ve put Nathalie on the sofa in the study and already I’m regretting it. She’s bound to sleep in until midday and I’ll get no work done tomorrow morning. When I stay over at Hélène’s, I like hearing them nattering in the bathroom before bed. From the bed, I picture them in front of the mirror, making faces or twisting their hair, knife-sharp fingernails unleashed on the slightest pimple. The wall between us and the muffling effect of the various objects they hold between their teeth as they talk (grips, tweezers, hair bands) stop me overhearing their secrets, but I sometimes catch the odd word:

  ‘Nicolas? I finished with him a month ago!’

  ‘No, not that pot, it’s mine! It’s not good for your skin anyway.’

  Meanwhile I lie there with my arms under my head, smiling up at the ceiling, happy as a bean sprouting between two layers of moist cotton wool.

  At the dinner table earlier, Nat told me she would only be staying a day or two, just long enough to calm down a bit. Things are not going at all well with her mother.

  ‘She’s a pain in the arse at the moment. You can’t say anything to her. I don’t know what’s up with her.’

  ‘She’s forty.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s no fun.’

  I’ve heard that somewhere else. And it’s not just her mother; it’s school, exams, what’s the point? Life’s shit, may as well just get used to it. Then there’s AIDS, and being bored of the company of people her own age, and old people too. Basically she’s fed up, so she’s come to see the sea.

  I made her eggs with a few leftover lentils. She wiped the plate clean.

  ‘Is there really nothing for dessert?’

  ‘No. I’ve been working all day; I haven’t had a chance to go to the shops. Depression obviously hasn’t taken away your appetite.’

  ‘No, it’s the opposite. I eat ten times more.’

  She’s smoked all my fags, drunk I don’t know how many coffees and never stops talking, sentence after sentence, cigarette after cigarette, throwing in literary quotations she may or may not have understood, all of them heavy with yearning for death above all else.

  ‘Nathalie, look at yourself. You’re like a Sicilian widow, all in black. How do you think—’

  ‘It’s the fashion.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to be like everyone else?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about clothes.’

  She still has an adolescent’s fat nose which she hides by brushing her hair over her face. She still smells of sour milk. It’s weird to see her here without her mother.

  ‘Right, sweetie pie. I’m wiped out. You can sleep on the sofa in the study tonight. I’ll sort you out a bed tomorrow. I can’t face getting all the sheets and blankets out now. Is that all right?’

  Yeah, yeah, whatever. She wasn’t tired anyway; she was going to read.

  ‘Oh, by the way, did Maman call?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If she rings again, don’t tell her I’m here.’

  ‘You’re asking a bit too much, now! You know perfectly well she’ll be worrying.’

  ‘Well, don’t call her tonight anyway.’

  ‘Fine. You can call her tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll see. Don’t you find her a pain in the arse sometimes?’

  ‘No more than anybody else. Don’t you think you can be a pain too?’

  ‘That’s different. She’s the adult, it’s up to her to be understanding.’

  ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’

  Tomorrow is such a handy thing. Everything you haven’t done, everything you plan to do, tomorrow! That must be the most disconcerting thing about death – no more tomorrows. Other than when she gets it into her head to take me to England, Hélène is not too much of a pain in the arse. Apart from when we go to the supermarket: she’s always realising she’s forgotten something when we’re already at the checkout. She’ll leave me there on my own with a trolleyful of stuff, a queue of people fuming behind me and the cashier losing patience. When she eventually returns with that pack of cotton buds she absolutely couldn’t do without, she’ll take all the time in the world meticulously organising our purchases in bags before poring over the receipt line by line, and heaven forbid there’s a mistake! She’s a pain in the arse then, that’s for sure. And when she decides she wants to have sex outdoors. I hate it: the pebbles, the insects, the sand and especially the excruciating feeling you might be being watched. There’s nowhere more overpopulated than a quiet little spot.

  Those are the only things we argue about. And they’re probably what I’d miss most if we broke up. Earlier, Nathalie asked why we don’t live together. I gave her the same answer she gave me about the clothes: ‘I
t’s the fashion.’ It was supposed to be a clever quip, but the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that there’s no other reason.

  What’s she doing? She’s put some music on! An incessant beat is making the flowery wallpaper quiver. You can only hear the bass, like the blood pulsing inside a rotten tooth. I could bang on the wall, but I can’t help immediately picturing myself in a long nightshirt, holding a broom in my hand. I could get up and tell her to turn it down a bit. I could, but I won’t. I don’t want to see her on the sofa, cheek in hand, a book open in front of her, bare arm hugging the curve of her hip, looking at me as if she’s the one standing and I’m lying down.

  6

  I slept really badly. Was it the meal at the Vidals’? Nathalie’s arrival? One guest and suddenly the house is overrun. I’m struggling to put my thoughts in order. I need to move; I can’t decide if I’m coming or going. As predicted, it’s 10.30 and there are no signs of life from Nathalie. I’ve missed my date with Louis and I’m pissed off. Her mother may be a pain in the arse, but at least she gets up at a reasonable hour. What now?

  ‘Good morning, Madame Vidal.’

  ‘Call me Arlette! I’ve made too much beef bourguignon and I wondered if … Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you had company.’

  Nathalie appears doing her best baby doll impression, wearing a long T-shirt, yawning and stretching, her hair all over the place.

  ‘Morning!’

  Arlette seems disappointed. She looks as though she might take the Tupperware back off me, but it’s too late.

  ‘If I’d known, I’d have given you enough for two.’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty, Madame Arlette. This is Nathalie, my girlfriend’s daughter …’

  ‘Oh, lovely, hello, Mademoiselle. Right, I must dash. See you soon.’

  You hear, Loulou? His girlfriend’s daughter! Arty people aren’t just a bit zany, they’ve no morals either! That’s what Madame Vidal will be telling her husband.

  Nathalie scratches her bum and screws her nose up at the brownish-yellow substance inside the box.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Beef bourguignon.’

  ‘Yuck!’

  ‘It’s not for breakfast. I’ve bought you some jam and fresh bread.’

  ‘You’ve been shopping already?’

  ‘It’s almost eleven. Right, I’d better get to work. Will you be all right by yourself?’

  ‘Yep. Look at you all smart today. You’ve shaved and everything.’

  ‘I got changed, so what? See you later.’

  ‘I don’t understand, they were always so careful, especially with the gas.’

  Agnès’s hand trembled as she raised her glass of kir. Mourning really didn’t suit her. Death is always a bit contagious. Louis hadn’t expected her to be dancing a polka, but all the same, he felt she was taking it too far. ‘You know, when you get older, you sometimes forget. What’s so stupid is that it was caused by the bell ringing.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The postman ringing the bell, the explosion. It’s a shame about the house.’

  ‘Oh yes, the house. Yes, but we’re still going to sell it, somehow or other. I just can’t take it in. I’m an orphan.’

  ‘So am I! It comes to everyone sooner or later.’

  ‘Yes, but both at the same time!’

  ‘Perhaps it’s better like that. They were together until the very end. Imagine your mother all on her own … or even worse, your father …’

  ‘Yes, OK, but they were in good health, happy …’

  ‘For how long? Think about Jacques, your children, you. You’re going to be able to buy your van selling frites; you’re going to be able to escape, live how you want. I’m sure that would make them happy. In a way, it’s their last gift to you.’

  ‘Of course, of course. And you, how is it in your caravan?’

  ‘Yes, very good. It feels like living on a boat that doesn’t go anywhere. It’s fun. How is Fred?’

  ‘I hardly saw him at the funeral. He looked like an unmade bed. I’m afraid that no one can do anything for him any more. Do you think about it sometimes?’

  ‘Yes, obviously. I’ve never known how to act with children – I’m a bit too like a child myself; I understand them too well to be a good father and I’m too old to be their friend. He’s right not to love me, it’s understandable.’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’

  ‘Yes, it does, but I’m sure we’ll see each other one day, and that will be the day I’ll be able to help him, to redeem myself in a way. I’ve always thought that.’

  ‘You’re very easy on yourself, as usual. What if he dies before you? It’s perfectly possible, you know.’

  ‘Then I won’t get away with it.’

  Louis was bored with the conversation. He was disappointed. Disappointed that he had failed in his work (although how could he have predicted that the postman’s ring would make part of the house explode? The carbon monoxide from the boiler whose flame he had blown out at night should have been enough), disappointed also by Agnès’s reaction which he had hoped would be more … well, positive. But in any case, time was a healer, and in the end she and Jacques would accept their happiness. It was a first attempt, so certain little errors were inevitable. And some things are unforeseeable. But it was a shame – Raymond and Solange had been sleeping like babies when he’d left them. They must already have been dead when the explosion happened. Apart from the shock, the postman had only suffered some little scratches on his face. The next time, Louis would try to avoid this kind of hitch. At the next table, a couple their age were talking about a Monsieur Milien. They kept repeating the name.

  ‘I said to him: Monsieur Milien, you may be the head of department but that does not give you the right to tell me how to bring up my son. He had nothing to say to that!’

  ‘Milien is a jerk. So did he give you your money?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t really have a choice.’

  Louis would have liked to see this Monsieur Milien. Just see him, that’s all.

  ‘Agnès, I’ve got to go, I have a meeting. I’ve enjoyed this. Stay strong. You’ll see, everything will work out. Kiss Jacques and the kids for me.’

  As he left her in the bleak café, Louis felt like someone who’s abandoned his dog on the motorway. It’s not easy to learn to give without receiving. April is a tiring month. You never know how to dress – coat or light jacket? – you’re too hot, too cold … but it’s pretty. Louis felt he was growing a halo.

  7

  I won’t trust modern technology until it’s 100 per cent reliable, which is yet to be the case. My typewriter has packed up – it’s gone mad, thrown the tabulation all over the place, messed up the line spacing, basically added to the general disarray. I have to try to remind myself that machines are supposed to be at the service of men, though cracking the whip isn’t likely to fix a typewriter. I don’t get on well with machines, I don’t know why – it’s a curse. There’s not a coffee machine that doesn’t spurt in my face, a car that doesn’t belch at my approach, a remote control that doesn’t leap out of my hands to remind me of my age, the Stone Age. In the old days, the worst that could happen was your ink pot might tip over. Now, on a Monday at the beach in Normandy, where am I supposed to find someone to repair a typewriter?

  ‘It’s ready.’

  What’s ready? … Oh, yes, I’d forgotten, there’s someone in my house. What a weird smell! … Nathalie’s dream of no longer being Nathalie suits her.

  ‘I’ve made you a Chinese thing. Rice with your neighbour’s leftovers. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s … a bit strange, but it smells nice.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘My typewriter’s packed up … Jesus, it’s hot!’

  ‘I put some chilli in it. It’s meant to give you a hard-on.’

  ‘Why would you want to give me a hard-on?’

  ‘I dunno, I thought that’s what men needed.’
>
  ‘Not all the time.’

  ‘I’ve done a dessert. Crème fraîche with raspberry jam.’

  I wolf down the spicy nursery food, every so often glancing at her over the bowl. The house isn’t cold, but even so, walking around the house in a vest …

  ‘Aren’t you cold, dressed like that?’

  ‘No. Do you think I should be putting my thermals on?’

  When she smiles, all her teeth show, little porcelain miniatures that remind me of my grandmother’s coffee set. I lower my eyes, and they settle on her breasts. The image of my grandmother’s china vanishes, giving way to an uncertain no-man’s-land I daren’t venture into.

  ‘Mmm. That was delicious! We could pop down to the beach if you feel like it.’

  ‘Have you seen the weather? It’s pissing down.’

  ‘Quite right. I hadn’t noticed.’

  I can’t think of much else to suggest besides the beach. I persevere, because of that uncertain no-man’s-land.

  ‘With a good raincoat on … It’ll get the blood pumping.’

  ‘Off you go then, but I’m going to stay here and watch TV. Inspector Derrick will be on in a minute. I love falling asleep in front of it.’

  ‘I think I’ll call a place in Trouville about hiring a typewriter.’

  ‘OK. I’ll bring you a coffee.’

  I hit the jackpot with the first number I ring. They’ve more typewriters than they know what to do with. If I pop in around four o’clock, I can take my pick. This is disconcerting, not to say disappointing. I had allowed myself to think I might have to spend a few days doing enjoyably little. Never mind. We can still make the most of the next two hours with a pillow under our heads and the TV at our feet. Nathalie brings the coffee; all that’s missing is a little white apron and a Portuguese accent.