by Alain Gillot
“What about his father?”
“He left when he was seven.”
“And your sister has given him to you to look after.”
“Just for a few days.”
“All right. There’s a waiting room on your right. This won’t take long.”
She went back into the room where Léonard was and I stood there in the middle of the corridor. I didn’t feel like being seated. Or facing a gurney. I looked for the nearest exit.
14
The cool air did me good. I leaned back against a wall, not far from the access ramp. I took several deep breaths to try to get rid of the tension inside me. In the building opposite, an old woman was smoking at the window of her room. All at once, she threw away her cigarette and withdrew her head, then a nurse appeared and abruptly closed the window.
An emergency ambulance arrived, siren screaming, and pulled up outside the main entrance of the hospital. The doors opened and the paramedics got to work. The care with which they moved the body, their faces, their general demeanor left no doubt about the gravity of the situation. I thought about my father. About the day he went into hospital, almost certainly like that, and never came out again.
He’d been admitted to the teaching hospital in Toulouse after being freed from his car, which had rolled over onto the shoulder of the highway, near Montauban. What had happened? The theory that had prevailed was that he’d fallen asleep at the wheel, having absorbed all kinds of booze. He’d been taken out of the wreck with terrible fractures, worst of all with the back of his skull smashed in, and had died after three days in a coma, without ever waking up. I’d learned the news by telephone, from my sister. I remember how she’d hated my reaction, which was too cold for her taste: she herself had burst into tears. That was the day she first told me I had a heart of stone, which was fine by me. My father had ended up in a highway ditch, close to his destination. There hadn’t been any obstacle in his path, any treacherous bend, any reckless driver picking a quarrel with him. He had been his only obstacle. His capacity for destruction, especially self-destruction.
“Monsieur Barteau?”
A voice drew me away from my thoughts. It was the child psychiatrist. She was standing against the light and I had to screw up my eyes to see her better.
“You know, Dr. Mérieux is an excellent doctor.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“Because a good doctor doesn’t just rely on what he knows, he also uses his intuition. Have you ever heard of Asperger’s syndrome?”
“No, never. Is it a disease?”
“Not exactly. It’s a condition. A kind of mild autism that often produces exceptional people. Some great pianists have Asperger’s. In all likelihood, Einstein did as well. Bobby Fischer, the world chess champion . . . ”
“Top sportsmen?”
“Not as far as I know, but it’s quite possible. What do you do for a living, Monsieur Barteau?”
“I’m a soccer coach.”
“So you made him play soccer.”
“That’s not quite how it happened.”
“Do you mind telling me?”
Things were going much too fast for me. I felt the need to regain control, or at least try. “Do you mind telling me where Léonard is?”
“Right now he’s playing chess with Dr. Mérieux, and probably making a fool of him.”
“I need a coffee.”
“We can go to the cafeteria, as long as we sit outside. If I drink coffee, I have to smoke. It’s bad, I know.”
There were three tables on a little terrace. At one of them, a blind old man was sitting, smiling at God knows what. Dr. Vandrecken lit her cigarette and crossed her legs. Worried as I’d been about Léonard, I hadn’t realized earlier what an attractive woman she was. But she didn’t seem to attach any importance to that.
“You were telling me he’s been playing soccer.”
“We started out by saying that soccer was a simplistic game in comparison with chess.”
“And that annoyed you.”
“No, I think it’s wrong, that’s all. And since I have a video collection of the greatest matches, I gave him one to watch.”
“To make him change his mind?”
“To help him form a more informed opinion.”
It was obvious that Dr. Vandrecken was evaluating me at the same time as she was asking me questions about Léonard.
“I see. And what happened?”
“He watched the first match very attentively, then asked me for more. And then he went and helped himself from my video collection. In one night, he watched more than fifty, noting down the combinations, putting the moves into categories, calculating the probability of success depending on the players’ decisions.”
“He’s applying what he knows about chess to soccer.”
“Precisely. So I asked him what position he saw himself playing in if a soccer field was a chessboard.”
“And he said goalkeeper.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. But it’s logical. A goalkeeper’s movements are limited. His space easier to grasp. And so you took him to the field.”
“Yes.”
“And what happened?”
“What he did was quite amazing.”
Having reached this point in the conversation, Catherine Vandrecken lit another cigarette. She was nodding her head slightly, clearly weighing up different ideas, trying to draw conclusions.
“You need to have some idea about Asperger’s syndrome,” she resumed, “or there’s a chance you’ll misinterpret things. An Asperger’s sufferer doesn’t see things the same way you and I do. That doesn’t mean he or she is crazy or mentally defective. Quite the opposite. But an Asperger’s sufferer really is different, and we have to be constantly aware of that.”
“Give me some examples.”
“His brain isn’t constructed like ours. To oversimplify, we put our thoughts in boxes that are built into us during our first years of life and allow us to find our way. We take them for granted, we’re no longer even aware of them, but thanks to them we’re able to react in ways that are appropriate to the situations that crop up in our everyday lives. An Asperger’s sufferer doesn’t have those boxes. For genetic reasons, they aren’t built into his brain, so he has to make them up as he goes along. At least if he wants to live in society. To put it very roughly, he’s a Martian visiting earth. He’s from another planet and doesn’t understand anything about the way we function. He doesn’t sleep like us. He doesn’t like to be touched. He never tells lies. He speaks in a very pedantic way.”
“That’s Léonard.”
“In these conditions, what can he do? Either he’s himself, which means that he’ll be misunderstood, rejected, sometimes mistreated. Or else he imitates us so as not to attract attention, to be left in peace, which is his main objective.”
“How can he imitate us if he doesn’t understand us?”
“By using his mental capacities, which gives him the possibility to observe, to classify, to memorize. He’s forced to do that, since he isn’t like us. He must constantly think, look for clues, use the information he has about us to figure out what he needs to do. It’s tiring work, and that’s why he suddenly drops off to sleep when this process drains him of his energy.”
As Dr. Vandrecken went on with her explanations, I saw images pass by. Léonard’s disturbing behavior was starting to make sense.
“Is Léonard playing soccer because he’s afraid I’ll reject him?”
“Partly. But it may also come from a more complex feeling.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“It’s apparently a game he’s established with you. Asperger’s sufferers take an interest in us if we don’t act like idiots. Through soccer, he may have a relationship with you.”
“At firs
t he suggested we play a game of chess. But I can’t play chess.”
“So, since you can’t go into his world, he comes into yours.”
“Yes, at least in his way. I didn’t ask him to cause havoc with my team.”
“Is that what he did?”
“Pretty much.”
“Part of him wants to copy, part of him refuses to . . . That’s the real question for an Asperger’s sufferer. Constructing his identity can be very painful. How’s his relationship with his mother?”
I took my time replying. To me, that was by far the most complicated question. “I don’t know. We don’t see each other very often. She asked me to keep him because she had no other way out.”
“She doesn’t think there’s anything unusual about her son?”
“No. He has his own personality. That’s what she told me.”
“She’s in denial. It’s very common. But for the child it’s more complicated. He wants to please his mother, to behave in a—quote-unquote—normal manner, and, on the other hand, he can’t help expressing his difference. You’ll have to forgive me, but I must go. I have patients to see.”
I stood up to say goodbye. She held out her hand. Then she looked in her pocket, probably for a card. Her pen fell out. I quickly picked it up. She smiled at me.
“Don’t hesitate to call me. If I’m not in the hospital, the office will know where I can be reached.”
15
I waited for Léonard by the car, leaning on the hood. If he was so intelligent, he could easily find me. He eventually came out of emergency and headed straight for me as if nothing had happened, walking in that slightly awkward way of his. He ran his hand through his hair. He could probably feel the stitches.
“I won both games,” he said, coming level with me.
“Get in.”
I drove out of the parking lot, my teeth clenched. And they stayed clenched until we were beyond the beltway and surrounded by traffic.
“Listen carefully, because I’m not going to repeat this. The first thing is that you don’t have to play soccer. Nobody’s forcing you. I’m not going to throw you out of the house or stop feeding you if you don’t play. Play because you want to, and for no other reason. And I don’t care if you don’t look at me, but at least make a sign that you’ve understood.”
There was a moment’s silence in the car, then Léonard made a slight movement with his chin.
“The second thing is that you have a gift. Why or how doesn’t matter. But it’s a fact.”
What followed was what I absolutely needed him to understand. I took my time choosing my words.
“The third thing is the most important. If you want to go back on the field, I have no objections, but there’s one condition. You have to accept the rules of the group. You can’t behave the way you did this afternoon. You don’t talk like that to another player. You don’t lecture him because you think you’re better than him.”
“I was trying to help him—”
“Shut up and listen. You weren’t trying to help him, you just wanted to show him how much you know. You thought you were the teacher, but you’re not. Just because you watch videos doesn’t mean you’re a good player. I want to see you move your chin.”
“I don’t have to, I can speak.”
“Then speak.”
“I understand what you’re saying.”
“That’s fine, then.”
We didn’t exchange another word until we got home, and as soon as the door was open, Léonard went straight to his room. At dinnertime I suggested he eat, and he replied that he wasn’t hungry. I didn’t insist. If he felt peckish during the night, he knew where the refrigerator was. I advised him to take a shower and not go to bed too late. I didn’t see him for the rest of the evening.
I liked being alone in my kitchen. I watched the news channel. A storm had ravaged the coast of Chile. Boston had beaten Miami at basketball. Unemployment had increased by two percentage points in the eurozone. I let the images drift by, but my mind started to wander. I thought about Catherine Vandrecken smoking her cigarette, her legs crossed, in the cafeteria of the hospital. Suddenly, my phone started vibrating. I’d forgotten my sister was supposed to call. This time the number was withheld. She’d changed phones again.
“Vincent, it’s me. Can you hear me?”
“Very well.”
“I couldn’t call you before, the days are really busy, and we have homework to do in the evening. Luckily, Patrice is helping me out, I don’t know how I’d manage without—”
“Who’s Patrice?”
“I told you about him. He’s the guy who’s putting me up.”
“Now he’s putting you up.”
“Don’t you ever listen? I told you—”
“I thought it was for one night.”
“We get on really well, we’re staying together. He’s going to open a bar in Châteauroux. He has these great ideas for ensuring customer loyalty. He wants to invite creative people, celebrities, you should see the contacts he has. And don’t go crazy, but he’d like me to be in on it with him!”
“You mean he wants money from you.”
“Vincent, that’s not funny. It’s a terrific proposition. He doesn’t need my money, he’s rolling in it. It’s because we both have a feel for these things. He doesn’t just want me to work for him as a waitress. He wants us to be partners, don’t you see?”
“And what exactly is he asking you for?”
“Twenty thousand, I mean, come on, that’s nothing at all for a deal like this.”
“Luckily, you don’t have it.”
“What? I can’t quite hear you.”
“I said, luckily you don’t have it.”
“Well, listen to this. I talked to my bank about consumer credit.”
“I thought you were in the red.”
“That’s just it, it’ll pay off the overdraft and still leave me fifteen thousand! We only have the paperwork to do, and I’ll have the money next week. Then all I’ll need is five thousand. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’d only be for a few weeks. As soon as the business is launched . . . ”
I felt the need to sit down. Even though I knew her, she could still amaze me. I was torn between wanting to laugh, hang up, or scream, but I knew I absolutely mustn’t let my emotions get the better of me. I had to keep my eyes wide open when she was doing one of her conjuring tricks. I had to ask the right questions.
“So now you’re asking me for five thousand, is that right?”
“I’ll pay it back with interest, if you like.”
“That’s not the point. You’ve known this guy for a couple of days. Don’t you think you should wait a while and see—”
“Vincent, you don’t get it. This is my big break!”
“We can talk about it when I see you. You’re still coming for your son a week from Sunday, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t you want to speak to him?”
“Oh, you know, he never says anything on the phone, it freaks him out more than anything.”
“It’s up to you.”
“Are you having any problems with him?”
I couldn’t see myself explaining over the phone what had led to that incident on the field, let alone mentioning the conversation with Catherine Vandrecken. I needed to have her in front of me to talk about that.
“Everything’s fine.”
“This soccer thing, is it for real?”
“He tried anyway. Whether he’ll continue is another matter.”
“I still can’t believe it.”
16
By 8:45 A.M., Léonard was under the clock in the hall, waiting to go. He’d had his breakfast, washed his bowl, put on his sweat suit, and was ready. I was also getting ready, but slowly, and the closer the min
ute hand got to nine o’clock, the more stressed my nephew seemed.
I closed the door at two minutes to nine, and didn’t say anything until we were in the Peugeot, but once on board I felt the need to send him a message.
“In my world, you can be five minutes late.”
He’d already put on his gloves as if he wanted to be ready to dive for a ball as soon as he got out of the car. He was making repetitive movements with his fingers.
There was fog in the parking lot. I asked Léonard to wait for me. I had to talk to the others. We couldn’t just carry on as if nothing had happened. I walked down the corridor, which bore witness to how dilapidated the facilities were. Patches had come away from the walls in places, but at least there was light, which wasn’t the case everywhere. I heard the boys through the wall. They were letting off steam, ribbing each other and letting out war cries. I went into the locker room and they almost immediately fell silent.
“Today we’re going to have a little match.”
“Great, sir!”
They saw matches as just another opportunity to let off steam. Which meant I still had a lot of work to do.
“Don’t get carried away. This isn’t playtime. What I want before anything else is for you to apply in a game situation the tactics you learned in the technical classes. Individual feats, assuming you’re capable of them, are for a later stage. I want to be able to evaluate your ability to carry out instructions. A tactical approach, agreed?”
They groaned and started heading for the exit.
“I haven’t finished!”
I looked for Rouverand. He was usually the first out on the field, but now he was behind his teammates.
“Léonard will be with us again for this session. Yesterday’s incident is closed. I’ve reminded him of certain rules of teamwork. He has to get used to it because he’s a bit of a loner. But I also ask you to respect him. The way he reacts may surprise you, but let me be the judge of his ability to fit in or not.”
“He’s a good goalkeeper, sir.”
“That’s all we care about. We don’t give a shit about the rest!”
