Later, your mother told us that he had spent the night crying, and that the next day he was once again the man he had stopped being the day of your accident.
I continued my nursing studies until the end of my second year and then I gave up. My average, or rather mediocre, grades forced me to. I had to face facts—I wasn’t made for this career path. In reality, I didn’t have any healing talent. I had chosen to become a nurse because my mother had been one, but I soon realized that you can only do the job if deep in your gut you have an irrepressible need to fix other people. That wasn’t me.
After that, I switched to a program in childcare. I spent two years working in the hospital nursery, then I got pregnant with our first child. When she was born, we bought our house and, wanting to raise my daughter myself, I took a parental leave of three years. Our second daughter arrived at the end of those three years, so quite naturally I took a second leave.
As the years went by, your condition improved, so much so that you gradually went back to playing sports. Of course you no longer had the physique of a world champion, but you were still a talented athlete and your limp, less and less limiting, didn’t stop you from playing well. The pain returned regularly, but you had learned to control it. Three times a week, you got in your car and drove the thirty-five miles that separated you from your place of work.
To look at you, it must have seemed as if you hadn’t changed. You had gone back to being the man I’d known and there didn’t appear to be any major differences in your personality. At least that’s how it might have looked to someone who had just run into you. But I shared your life and knew you better than anyone. I could see clearly enough that something inside you had broken. Something that you had eventually put back together but whose delicate equilibrium risked giving way at any moment. Sometimes, for no particular reason, there’d be a stifled surge of rage in you, which I could detect from a gesture of impatience, or a faint sob in your voice, or a bitter laugh.
In those moments, it was as though you were an unpredictable volcano—a simple tremor was enough to make you explode. I remember thinking that you would find peace over time. And we kept moving forward.
We never talked about our aborted wedding. For that matter, we never got married. Sometimes I would have odd dreams in which we did. In those dreams, our clothes sparkled, and we smiled at people whose faces I didn’t recognize. When you slid the ring on my finger, I looked up at your smile and noticed, in stupefaction, that you were missing every other tooth.
The first snow fell heavy in the middle of November. The sky, black in spots, so low you could have punched it back with your fist, promised no improvement. At night, the valley wrapped itself in a premature silence. In the morning, behind the thick mist, not a single jackrabbit was left bounding down the snowy paths. In the village, hens deserted farmyards and hurried to warm themselves against the cows’ boiling flanks.
On November 13, sitting in front of the television, we watched the terrible images of the terrorist attacks in Paris and Saint-Denis in horror. At first, we talked about them all the time—at home, at the grocery store, at the Tennessee, with everyone and everywhere. And then after a week we didn’t have anything else to say. Silence, like the inert snow, gradually settled back in.
The chalet construction, which had begun a few months earlier, had to be interrupted. The early frost didn’t necessarily foretell a long and difficult winter. In Carmac, it was impossible to predict the seasons because fickle nature would regularly contradict our forecasts. And that’s exactly what happened. The snow melted in early January, and as the air warmed, birds once again took up residence in the trees’ black branches. We heard them early in the morning as they jabbed at the bark, hopping on their thin legs.
Construction on the Langlois chalet resumed. We had glimpsed the couple on a few occasions, when they came to see how it was coming along, alone or with their three children. Sylvia was wearing a long wool coat and Bakary a parka with a fur collar and a Russian winter cap whose considerable volume made me smile. The children consistently refused to get out of the car, too busy hammering on their video games. They preferred to purr in the warmth of the back seat rather than confront the cold unnecessarily.
By early spring, the construction was complete. The chalet was the most impressive in the whole region; its appearance prompted both fear and admiration. Curiosity aroused, Abbott and Costello had changed the usual route of their daily stroll to stop in front of the chalet every morning. At their approach, I would open my kitchen window, taking in the air, and observe them. I’d hear them discussing the imposing house, both dumbfounded and dubious. Then they’d stare at it under the timid sun, the way you stare at something you’re seeing for the first time. Hands in their pants’ pockets, they would shrug their shoulders without saying a word.
One morning as I was walking out to meet them, Abbott yelled, Hey, sweetheart, that house is gonna end up blocking your sun!
I forced myself to laugh. We all paused for a moment to stare at the two-story chalet, lifting our heads to admire the thick roof frame in which it was still possible to make out fresh grooves with the naked eye.
It’s good work, the two men agreed. It’s oak or chestnut. That kinda wood lasts forever. Costs a lot, but it’s indestructible.
The Langloises moved in at the end of June. We saw them arrive one clear and sunny morning in their enormous black car, followed by three moving trucks.
Damn, a Hummer. That car’s worth seventy grand! you said from behind our kitchen window as you pulled back the sheer curtains. It wasn’t the only car they owned, we’d later realize.
The first week, I went over to welcome them. They greeted me warmly in return, but I sensed from their rushed movements that they preferred not to be bothered during the move. I had kindly offered my help, which they refused straightaway, claiming they didn’t want to take advantage of me. But they still offered me coffee, which we drank quickly on their terrace overlooking the valley. The stunning view stretched on seemingly endlessly. We could see the black pinewood, the treetops jostled by the wind. The murmur of the river flowing through the valley blended with the sloshing coming from the old wash house. I’d known this place forever, but I felt like I was discovering it for the first time. The terrace was like a gigantic bird perch perfumed with the smell of pine resin carried aloft by the breeze; it made you want to soar into the sky.
In late August, the Langloises sent out invitations to a bunch of us. We got the cards in our mailboxes, which surprised and intrigued us. We weren’t used to such social niceties; we didn’t know what to think. In the village, people hardly ever invited one another over for dinner, and when they did it was usually for a special occasion, like a wedding or a baptism. The rest of the time, you’d drop by someone’s house for coffee or drinks, but it wouldn’t go beyond that.
At the Tennessee, François’s bar, we were all wondering what the dinner party would be like. We asked around to find out who intended to accept the invitation and who would turn it down. We speculated as to whether there would be a buffet or a real meal. We were afraid we wouldn’t know what to say to our new neighbors or that we would get bored, and we comforted ourselves with the thought that we’d be together. We made predictions about what kinds of drinks they’d offer. The oldest among us hoped there’d be Ricard; the youngest, beer; and the children, soda.
A good thirty of us ended up going. By chance, thanks to an Indian summer that year, the mild air allowed us to eat outside. The party took place on the terrace and, as was to be expected, everyone was dumbstruck by the incredible view.
Round tables and garden chairs had been set up everywhere. A multicolored string of lights stretched along the railing and tall outdoor lamps were standing guard in all four corners of the terrace. The warm wind, trapped in narrow lanes, rose weakly, lifting the tablecloths.
An impressive buffet was awaiting us on a long table. Ther
e were shrimp brochettes, potato pancakes, savory cakes (tomato, pesto), fish fritters, tuna tartare, thin melon slices, various kinds of salad, and cheese (Brie, Roquefort, Comté) presented under glass domes and served with walnuts and mesclun; chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese for the children; and for dessert molten chocolate cake, tarte tatin with grilled-almond cream, and chocolate muffins. We drank wine (red and white), beer for those who preferred it, Ricard as an aperitif, port, white martini, soda, mineral water (flat and sparkling), and pear liqueur. A feast that left us all at a loss for words.
At first, none of us dared to approach the table. We kept our distance, shuffling around, hands behind our backs. We didn’t know if we could serve ourselves or if we should wait for someone to offer. Thankfully, Sylvia invited us to come around the table, which we did, still unable to completely relax. Inside, the chalet was tastefully decorated. The high-quality furniture and rugs betrayed a certain affluence. Sylvia and Bakary went from one group to the next, friendly and smiling. Led by their children, our daughters ran through the house, going up and down the stairs, laughing, shouting, without being chastised once by either of our hosts.
Later that evening, a group formed around Bakary. Someone asked him what kind of work he did. He rushed to answer, as though he’d been waiting for that question ever since the evening began.
My wife and I sell dreams. We created a travel agency different from the rest. A dream factory. We suggest trips to unusual places, like Mexico’s Copper Canyon Railroad, for example. Do you know it? It’s amazing! There’s also Lapland on horseback, or immersion with the cowboys of the Outback, or a visit to Japan and its hot baths alongside the snow macaques. Our last idea was a trip around the world in forty days! It didn’t exist before—it was my wife who thought of it. And soon we’re going to offer a night under the stars on the roof of a Dubai skyscraper. It’s looking good, people love it! Or else you can live like Robinson Crusoe on the islands of Vanuatu. And that’s not all, we’ve got tons more ideas!
Bakary took incredible pleasure from telling us about his work and his plans. I remember thinking that those trips had to be expensive and not at all accessible to people like us. Someone else asked him why they had chosen to make our village their home. Once again, his face lit up.
My wife has family nearby. She’s been coming here on vacation since she was little. She’d been dreaming of settling down here. Life is calmer in Carmac than in the city. We’re a one-hour drive from our work, but we’re willing to make the sacrifice!
Bakary liked to talk. And for that matter every part of him talked: his eyes, his hands, his body. It was as if we were giving him the energy, by watching him, that fed his words. Unless it was the opposite. His wife was watching him from a distance, a glass of wine in her hand, with a strange, frozen smile.
You spent the evening with your eyes glued on him. He seemed to have some kind of hold over you. You didn’t approach him that night. You couldn’t. Later, I would catch you on our stoop contemplating the chalet, several nights in a row. It was as though your fascination was keeping you there, out of your control. At the kitchen window, I would part the curtains slightly to watch you. You would stand still, back straight, head raised toward the lit-up windows of the Langlois house, or else sit on the stone steps; some days the pain in your hips was more acute than others. Your mouth spat out white steam. Around you, night would fall little by little.
Bakary Langlois felt at home no matter where he was, with an ease that I found endlessly fascinating. His ability to melt into places and hearts stemmed no doubt from the defining event of his life: his adoption. His biological parents, living in extreme poverty in Gabon, had hoped to be able to provide for their large family (seven children), but devotion wasn’t enough; impoverishment prevailed in the end. With heavy hearts, they decided to put their youngest child—four-year-old Bakary—up for adoption to give him a way out.
Bakary was adopted by a childless Parisian couple, intellectuals who had tried everything to conceive, in vain, as they approached their forties. They were frequent travelers, and Gabon was a country they knew very well, having visited it several times. That’s why, when the time came, they returned and began the process of adopting a child there.
That’s what Bakary told us one day when we ran into him in front of the chalet and he invited us to come have a drink on the terrace.
My adoptive father was a newspaper journalist, he said. There were always people in our house. They came from all around the world. Sometimes there’d be more than fifteen of us sleeping in the apartment. We would put mattresses on the floor and we’d be good to go. My mother was a philosophy professor at the Sorbonne. Her thing was poker games with her colleagues and students. They would play all night long in the kitchen, smoking, eating chips. My mother hated losing; she would yell at everyone, a real battle-ax. . . . She died a few years ago. My father’s still around, not really happy, but not unhappy, either. He does his best. . . .
Bakary stopped short. He looked into the distance, above the pine trees, then turned to us and asked, Does it hit you, too?
Not understanding what he was talking about, we stared at him, waiting for clarification.
Nostalgia, he said. Do you find yourselves feeling nostalgic, too?
We said yes, of course, that we all do.
Bakary had never tried to find his biological parents. In his teens, his adoptive parents suggested a trip to Gabon, to the exact place where he had been adopted, to look for them. Bakary refused. He told us he had no memories of his biological parents and had never felt the need to know where he came from. He had been adopted and had accepted it completely. That was the story of his life; he didn’t want any other.
It had been more than a month since Bakary and his family had moved in, and his pull over you hadn’t diminished. But as we listened to him that day, I felt you relax. When you and I discussed the conversation that evening, I noticed that his sincerity had, in a way, rebalanced how you thought of him, and that your enthrallment had given way to respect.
Starting the next day your relationship took on a new cast. With as much spontaneity as he had shown, you opened up and told him about the tragic event that had upended your life. And since sharing misfortune often brings people together, the simple fact of you having confided in each other created an instant bond.
He started inviting you over on the weekends to hit a few baseballs in his massive garden. He’d belonged to a league for a while, but, as he said in a matter-of-fact way that left no room for regret, he was too old to be playing competitively. Because of your pelvis, you were happy just to catch the balls, which suited him perfectly; he swore that in any case his thing was hitting. When it rained, you and he would watch action movies on his gigantic television, or have a drink in his living room, beside the fireplace where a wood fire was burning. Bakary would invariably offer you a cigar, which you’d gently refuse, or a glass of wine, a nice vintage, that he would hand you, eyes shining, all smiles, adding that it wasn’t exactly a wine from the mom-and-pop’s, you know what I mean?!
The dining room, which was separated from the living room by an alcove, housed a library with bookshelves that covered three of its four walls. In the Langlois home, they inhaled the smell of paper as they ate. The impressive size of the library intimidated you—you’d never been a big reader—and when one day you finally dared to ask Bakary if he’d read all of the books, he burst out laughing, responding that he didn’t see any point in having them in one’s house just to watch them collect dust.
Bakary was more educated than all of the residents of the valley combined and yet nothing in his attitude revealed that aspect of his personality. He never acted like a know-it-all and, more surprising still, he could adapt to everyone, regardless of their schooling or social background. You couldn’t decide if that was a positive character trait or a negative one.
Once, he suggested taking you for a d
rive in his massive black car. You came home pale that night.
I’ve never seen anyone drive that fast, you told me. He was going over one hundred on the back roads!
Bakary loved speed—it exhilarated and electrified him. He was particularly fond of narrow turns. You described how during the drive, approaching one of those turns, he let out whoops of delight that left you with a feeling of unease once the silence had returned.
On top of the Hummer (which I found ugly and flashy), Bakary and Sylvia had two other brand-new cars, a Mercedes and an Audi, which they alternated between depending on their outings and meetings. Bakary claimed that the Audi was perfect for meetings with his clients, that it impressed and reassured them, and established his credibility. The Mercedes, which Sylvia used fairly often, was, according to her, the ideal car for long drives or going to the movies or a restaurant.
Bakary had two fairly spacious garages built for the three cars, but most of the time his Hummer was parked in front of the house, like a guard dog of steel. He wasn’t too meticulous about his vehicles but made it a point of honor to keep their hubcaps clean and shiny. He cleaned them almost every day with a dry rag and on the weekend with soap and water. That compulsion left you perplexed, especially since he didn’t seem interested in the rest of the bodywork.
In reality, the more time you spent with him, the more inscrutable he became. He was both a thing and its opposite. It was as if multiple planets had violently collided, but instead of exploding, they fused together.
That guy, you would say, is the opposite of the big bang!
That was why you started calling him that, though only around me. At night, you would say, You know what Big Bang did? Or, You know what Big Bang said?
And then eventually you dropped the Bang and only kept the Big. You felt like Big went well with his build. And Bakary was in fact big and tall. Actually, everything about him was big, including his appetite for life. He was the kind of guy who would welcome everyone, man or woman, with a hearty pat on the back, radiating an unusual vitality. He was more alive than any of us had ever been, and all of us were grateful for his big beaming smile. Everyone here adopted him in the end. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that everywhere he went, he was greeted with the same warm welcome.
People Like Them Page 5
