‘So what are you going to do now? Turn yourself in? Run off to Rio?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it yet. I’m a bit afraid of the police. Which isn’t the way it should be, really.’
‘Take your time. You can stay here as long as you like.’
‘Thanks. How come Hélène’s not here?’
‘Work problems in Paris.’
‘She was asking me the other day if I’d seen Nat.’
‘Shall we go back? I’m freezing my balls off out here.’
‘Yes … Do you remember last year, with the kids? We had a laugh, didn’t we? You made such a mess of the barbecue …’
‘Yes, we had a laugh. Come on, it’s cold.’
Christophe stretches out his long limbs, taps his shoes together to get the sand off. The sun has left a huge bruise on the sky.
‘Hey, look at that! A nautilus! I’ve never found one as good as that here.’
Christophe shows me a magnificent fossil, much nicer than any I’ve collected nearby. The hanged man gets all the luck.
We get home to find Nathalie giggling on the phone.
‘OK, David, see you tomorrow.’ She says ‘bye’ in English, then hangs up. ‘That was my boyfriend David, from Rouen. I’m going to see him tomorrow. I got pizzas – fancy some?’
This David sounds like a right little shit.
14
The hardest thing was getting the blood out from under his nails. There were still a few traces under his left thumbnail and the nail of the little finger on his right hand. The rest had dissolved in the infinite memory of the Mediterranean. Louis didn’t remember a thing, just a vague headache, that’s all. He worked patiently at the little brown stain under his left thumbnail with the corner of a cigarette packet. He had nothing else to do as he waited for the plane to take him back to Paris. All around him suntanned tourists milled about in flip-flops and frayed Bermudas. The airport resembled a works canteen. At a neighbouring table a group of French people were swapping anecdotes, which they would rehash in the winter when they looked back nostalgically on their holidays. Someone said, ‘Apparently it was fourteen degrees in Paris this morning!’ A disappointed clamour followed that announcement. Louis hoped it would be raining when they arrived, a little drizzle, normal weather. He wanted to get back to his caravan and not see anyone for a while, at least no one he knew. Alice would probably telephone him; he wouldn’t answer. He did not wish to hear about the horrific, incomprehensible death of her parents. You die as you live; the choice is made a long time ago, just as you choose to come out of one belly instead of another. The important thing was that they were dead, that Alice would now inherit, that she would be sheltered from hardship and that it was he, Louis, who had gifted her this radiant and unexpected future. But, God, the old bloke put up a fight! Louis’s fingers tensed at the memory of Alice’s father’s dry, sinewy neck.
‘Would you like a nail file?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’ll never manage with your piece of card. Here …’
A woman of indeterminate age (forty-five? Seventy?) held out a pocket nail file between two coral-polished nails.
‘Thanks. It’s rust; it won’t come off.’
‘I know what that’s like – I ruined a brand-new pair of trousers on the boat, the first day I wore them! It’s awful, rust, and yet, it’s very beautiful. Do you sail?’
‘No, not often. This is from the balcony rail at my hotel. There, it’s gone, thank you.’
The particle of dried blood drifted down to the floor, dust to dust. At the other end of the waiting area, an employee was vacuuming. Louis and the lady watched him for a moment, then they caught each other’s eye. They smiled at one another. A thousand little wrinkles appeared around the lady’s eyes.
‘That’s where everything ends up, in a vacuum-cleaner bag.’
Louis wasn’t quite sure that was what she had said, but that’s what he heard. He made a vague hand gesture that could have meant anything and lit a cigarette. He was embarrassed by the woman, but attracted at the same time. Everything she said seemed to have a double meaning. She was contradictory – old but at the same time young, like two overlaid images.
‘Could I have one?’
‘Yes, of course! How rude of me …’
As he bent forward to give her a light, Louis received a waft of violet perfume full in the face. The woman barely had any cleavage, but it was touching. Somewhere inside the skin sagging around that neck there was a young girl. Because she wore a grey silk turban, it was impossible to tell what colour her hair was. Judging by her eyebrows, it was black. But could you accept the evidence of such well-drawn eyebrows?
‘I gave up smoking yesterday.’
‘Well done!’
‘It was easy – it’s just a question of will power.’
They both laughed, and relaxed. Louis, especially, felt less tense. Good vibrations wove themselves around them.
‘Where were you staying?’
‘Kalymnos.’
‘So was I! Funny that we didn’t bump into each other.’
‘I wasn’t there for long.’
They then exchanged banalities, as you do with strangers. ‘I used to have a little dog called Fidji … I had an absolutely awful Christmas … Lille is a very pleasant city … I don’t like going to the cinema, I prefer watching television … During the war, I was living in Le Var, I was twelve …’ etc.
Passengers for flight 605 to Paris …
‘Ah, that’s us!’
Of course, by the most enormous coincidence they found themselves seated beside each other.
‘I’m Marion.’
‘Louis, so pleased to meet you.’
They fastened their seat belts. The plane took off. The ground was marbled with white clouds. The sea was now no more than a pond. Marion’s hands were like old silk and she wore three rings, but no wedding band.
‘Do you have children, Marion?’
‘Children? Goodness me, no, I never married. Why?’
‘Oh, no reason.’
15
‘It’s funny – the way you’re talking about it, anyone would think you were jealous of him.’
‘Me, jealous of Christophe?’
‘Yes, you; it’s like you’re wishing it was you in the shit instead of him.’
I had to turn to face the wall, muttering, ‘Don’t be stupid, I’ve got enough shit of my own to deal with.’ But the truth is, Nathalie’s right. I’d never admit it, but I’ve always been jealous of Christophe. From when we were very little, when we played football together and he was the goalie. I’d have liked to go in goal – no way, I was far too small. I can see him now, after school, on the patch of wasteland that we used as our pitch for everything. He’d put his jacket down, count four steps and then drop his satchel. He was totally at home between the goalposts; nothing got past him. He had gloves too. Later, I envied the love he shared with Nane, the pain he felt when she left him, the way he cared for his children, his exemplary approach to Nane’s illness, the crap shoes he bought at André and yes, of course, the glorious act he had just committed. He lives, I bluff; he’s a magician, I’m a con artist; he touches, I manipulate. I can’t think about him without comparing myself to him. The fact of the matter is he has always put the spotlight on my own mediocrity. It doesn’t stop me loving him; in fact it’s probably why I do.
In the end, we just had to get on and do it, Nat and me. So many awkward moments! Faced with such firm flesh, breasts and buttocks as hard as tennis balls, it was like having a blank page put in front of me, and scrawling all over it. I felt as if I was putting on a new item of clothing; I’m used to squidgier skins, more practised and therefore more practicable. She must have been taken aback at my shyness. What had she expected?
I didn’t even hear her leave this morning. She left a note on the bedside light: ‘I’ll call you tonight x.’ Her mother leaves me notes everywhere too. ‘See you tonight xxx. Don’t f
orget to pick up the dry cleaning xxx. There’s an escalope in the fridge xxx.’
Downstairs, Christophe is moving pots around. I’ll wait as long as I can before going down, until half past maybe. Someone’s knocking at the door … Christophe goes to answer it … I bet it’s Arlette … What did I tell you! … They’re talking but I can’t hear what they’re saying … Christophe’s coming up the stairs …
‘Are you awake?’
‘Ugh … yes.’
‘It’s your neighbour. She wants to speak to you.’
‘Sod that.’
‘I think it’s important.’
I can tell he’s smelt Nathalie’s perfume. I get out of bed, blushing. He looks at me like a guy who’s just walked into the ladies’ toilets. Arlette’s waiting for me on the doorstep. She has a raincoat on her back and a ridiculous transparent plastic thing over her shampooed-and-set hair. It’s raining.
‘I’m sorry to bother you but it’s Louis. The doctor came and I have to go and get some medicine. I’m afraid to leave him by himself, so if you could stay with him just while I nip to the chemist’s …’
Everything is trembling as she speaks, her cheeks, the tight curls of her hair, the raindrops along the edge of her hood. She looks like a stump of candle wax.
‘Of course, Madame Vidal. I’ll just put an anorak on.’
On the pavement, I ask her what the doctor said.
‘Oh, you know what doctors are like! They use all these words no one understands, but I could see from his face that it was bad.’
Death is yellow, and smells of vanilla. I got a great whiff of it as I entered Louis’s room. I’d like a pair of pyjamas like his, blue-and-white-striped flannelette ones with a darker blue edging around the collar and cuffs. I can’t bring myself to look at the murky puddles of his eyes. His mouth sends out a few bubbles of soapy washing-up water and his chicken-skin hands quiver before resting flat against the sheet. I have no idea what to say to him: ‘Feeling a bit poorly, are we, Monsieur Vidal?’ Or ‘Hey, Loulou, how’s it hanging?’ I make do with smiling like a plaster saint.
‘Righto, I’ll leave you boys to it … I shan’t be long. Are you sure you don’t want anything, Louis dear? … No, all right then, I’ll be off. See you soon.’
She chokes back a sob as she leaves the room. I pull up a chair and sit beside the bed. Louis looks as if he’s struggling to place me. He doesn’t look afraid, just surprised by everything.
‘Lovely pair of pyjamas you’ve got there, Monsieur Vidal.’
His mouth flares open like an old hen’s arsehole, but very little comes out, so he follows up by trying to point at something over my left shoulder. I turn round to look. There’s the window hung with two lace curtains depicting two peacocks facing one another. Nothing else but the raindrops zigzagging across the window panes.
‘Awful weather! Not a good day for a walk.’
This is clearly not the answer he was looking for. Louis keeps pointing to the window with his trembling finger. I stand up and part the curtains.
‘Oh! Look, it’s my house! … Funny seeing it from here – it doesn’t look like the same house at all.’
The bathroom light is on – Christophe must be having his shower. What’s he thinking? Has he come to a decision? Is he disappointed in me for sleeping with Nathalie? … Maybe he’s just looking for a towel. Either way, it won’t occur to him for a second that I’m watching him from a dying man’s window. Louis has completely forgotten I’m here; he’s staring open-mouthed at a corner of the mahogany chest of drawers. It must be an extraordinary piece of furniture to merit such close attention. The poor old thing won’t get to enjoy his new TV for long. Another one who thought himself immortal. And he’d have been right, until yesterday, or the day before. He could buy himself a TV, plan to invite his daughter to come for Easter, think about having a word with the idiot plumber who did a shoddy job of fixing his boiler, consider having a look round the shops in Caen with Arlette on Saturday … That’s over now; time is standing still for him.
Funnily enough, I found a few words written on the back of the note Nat left me this morning: ‘Next Sunday, Louis went to …’ – something I must have scribbled down for my book. I have no idea where ‘my’ Louis was supposed to go, or had gone, but the clash of future and past in the sentence gave me the impression of seeing double. Like Monsieur Vidal, I felt as if I was on standby, not in the past, future, or present. The present is where other people are. Nat, who’s bounding along the platform at Rouen station to throw herself into the arms of a cocky little blond boy; Hélène, who’s biting her nails and drinking coffee amid a sea of printed papers; Christophe, drying his hair and wondering whether or not to hand himself in to the police; Madame Vidal, loading her shopping basket with bottles and tubes of medicine as expensive as they are pointless … I return to my seat. If you’re going to be nowhere, you may as well do it sitting down. But I don’t stay there long. Arlette pushes the door open, smiling weakly, shrouded in a wet mist.
‘I wasn’t too long, was I? There was a queue at the chemist’s but Monsieur Langlois let me go first. I got you a piece of calves’ liver; you can eat that on its own … What? What do you want?’
Monsieur Vidal is pointing at the window again, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
‘You want me to turn the heating up? … There you go.’
While Madame Vidal turns the knob on the radiator beneath the window, Monsieur Vidal looks at me with disgust as if to say, ‘See, muggins, it wasn’t that hard, was it?’
‘Right, Madame Vidal, Louis, I’d better be off …’
‘Of course. I’ll see you out.’
Before opening the front door:
‘So, how does he seem to you?’
‘Oh, you know, I’m no doctor. He’s obviously tired, but … this weather doesn’t help, sunny one day, horrible the next. It wears you down.’
She doesn’t seem entirely satisfied with my diagnosis. Still, I could hardly reply, ‘If he was a used car, he’d be unsellable.’
‘Anyway, if you need anything, don’t hesitate.’
‘That’s kind of you. I’ve called my daughter. She’ll be here on Sunday; she can’t come any sooner.’
Arlette can see from the way I’m dancing from one foot to the other that I’m itching to leave, and I escape out of the door as the first gust of wind blows in. Halfway between the Vidals’ house and mine, I stop and take a detour towards the café without a name. I feel like a beer and a cigarette. By the time I arrive I’m as damp and smelly as a mouldy old sponge. The couple who own the place are the only people there. I drink two halves in quick succession. The owner tells his wife he should have taken the opportunity to repaint the shutters last weekend. She doesn’t respond; she’s hunched over the needlepoint she’s working on, depicting the head of a German shepherd. He should have spoken to me about it – I bet I’d have loads to say on the subject of his shutters. I feel as though I could talk convincingly on any topic. I down a third half and walk back up Rue de la Mer, now as washed out as an old theatre set.
Christophe is doing last night’s washing up. I give him a brief account of my visit to the old couple next door, and ask him if he’s all right. Yes, he slept better than ever and is all the calmer for it. Hélène rang – she’s around until lunchtime. And then Madame Beck called about urgent corrections on a book. He’s thinking of going for a quick stroll down to the beach. Yes, even in this weather. He needs some air; he won’t be gone long. For a moment I wonder if I should go with him, but he doesn’t look like a man who’s about to go and drown himself; still, those I know who’ve done so didn’t look as if they would either. As long as he’s not dead, a living person is still a living person, in the same way a criminal is still an innocent man a split second before committing his crime. I take advantage of Christophe’s absence to do my telephone duties. The ‘please hold’ message that comes ahead of Hélène’s voice annoys me even more than usual.
‘Oh,
it’s you. Is everything OK?’
‘Yes, as good as can be expected.’
‘What’s going on with Christophe? He said he’d done something stupid.’
‘He killed Nane’s mother.’
‘WHAT?’
‘He threw her out of the window.’
Silence. ‘I don’t know what to say … What’s he going to do?’
‘No idea. He’s gone for a walk on the beach.’
Silence. ‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘It wouldn’t change anything. I mean, it might be better if it’s just the two of us, me and him.’
‘Yes, I understand … I can’t believe it … What about you, what do you think about it all?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you mean, nothing? Haven’t you told him to hand himself in? He’s got mitigating circumstances after all! You should give him some advice, tell him to—’
‘Listen, Hélène, it’s his decision. I’m just trying to look after him. What more can I do?’
‘But the longer he leaves it, the worse it will look for him!’
‘Maybe … I’ll talk to him when he gets back. I’ll let you know.’
‘Yes … What a crazy business! … And how are you taking it all?’
‘Oh, you know, so-so.’
‘OK, well, I’ve got a meeting in five minutes … Oh, no news of Nat?’
‘Er, yes, she phoned and said she’s in Rouen with a friend, David – ring any bells?’
‘Yes, he was at school with her last year. Did she say when she’s planning on coming home?’
‘No, she said she was thinking of coming here tomorrow.’
‘And you said yes? … With Christophe there?’
‘He’s not a professional killer.’
‘That’s not what I meant. If you’d rather I didn’t come, I don’t see why you’d want Nat there.’
The Eskimo Solution Page 7
