Before I could answer, I saw in Simon’s eyes that he had understood that we weren’t. His facial expression went from enthusiastic to dismayed and then, in his desperation not to react, comical. Lucie nervously touched her hair and looked at Simon in a silent plea for help. I stammered out a few words, claiming a visit to my parents, and rushed inside our house quickly, leaving them both a little lost, torn between wanting to be with the Langloises and to stay away in solidarity with us. Through the sheer curtains of our kitchen window, I saw them hurry into the chalet like the devil was at their heels.
Later, I thought back to Sylvia’s proposition. Had she considered for a single second the humiliating situation I would have found myself in had I accepted it? Serving my own friends? Did she have any idea of how that would have felt? I chose not to dwell on it, telling myself she’d spoken without thinking. I chased the incident from my mind, and my confusion dissipated just as quickly, like I’d pulled out a long splinter stuck beneath my fingernail.
You were oblivious. At least that’s what I hoped. I hadn’t mentioned the incident, and, knowing you, you would have told me if you’d heard about it from someone else.
In the days that followed, you didn’t seem any more perturbed than usual. I concluded, relieved, that nothing had reached your ears.
But then, one night as you walked in, you said to me, Big has a new pet!
Not understanding what you meant, I asked you to explain.
You told me you had spotted Simon and Bakary walking side by side, that it wasn’t the first time, and that it had looked as if they were really close.
You laughed and pretended not to care, but your constant pacing betrayed your nerves. I pointed out that you only had yourself to blame, that if you hadn’t held a grudge against Bakary, he most likely wouldn’t have moved on.
You immediately objected that you didn’t give a damn about Bakary and that everyone was free to do what they wanted. I didn’t believe a word you said, and with a provocative smile, I called you a liar. You erupted in anger.
I don’t give a damn about Bakary! How many times do I have to say it? Fuck Bakary, do you get that? Fuck him!
Your show of anger convinced me that I was right in thinking you missed Bakary and that nothing you were claiming was true. You shut yourself in the bedroom and I thought I heard you bark, Fucking ape.
That should have shocked me. But I didn’t react. It’s out of anger, I told myself. Anger. Or else, which was more likely, I had heard wrong.
One March morning, I entered the Langlois home. Normally, there’d be no one there or else, less often, Sylvia would be waiting for me before she left.
That day, I was surprised to find Bakary and Simon chatting at the kitchen table. They got up as soon as they saw me. I went over to Simon to kiss him hello. He acted embarrassed, like I’d caught him going through a dead man’s pockets. Then I went upstairs to clean the bedrooms. I heard them talking but couldn’t make out anything distinct.
When I came back down half an hour later, they were standing, about to part ways. Bakary, in the doorway, held out his hand to Simon, who smiled, in satisfaction it seemed. Simon said that he would think about it, and Bakary nodded. Both men set off to their respective place of work.
The following Thursday, it was Sylvia who greeted me. She was sitting at the dining room table looking through documents and transcribing sections onto her computer.
She seemed upset, blinking nervously. She didn’t see me right away. But as soon as she looked up, she smiled and greeted me warmly. The worried look in her eyes had set her black pupils dancing. That vulnerability, or turmoil really, which I had never seen in her before, moved me. Instead of working against her, her distress gave her depth.
In a soft, barely audible voice, she told me that she had a little work to finish at the house and that she would head to the office later that morning. I offered to make her coffee. Okay, she said, but only if you have some with me. I brought over two mugs. She thanked me with a slight nod and offered me a seat. I asked her if everything was okay. She answered yes. Yes, yes, yes. After that, not another word. She stirred her coffee, lifting her head occasionally, like someone behind me was calling her. Finally, she sighed weakly and whispered into the silence, What a nightmare . . .
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know if I was meant to notice or do the opposite—ignore her. Was she aware that I had heard her or was she so deeply lost in thought that she hadn’t even realized what she said? Either way she abruptly sat up straight and, slamming one hand on the table, said, C’mon! I quickly understood she was talking as much to me as to herself, which is why I stood right away.
In a more assured tone Sylvia told me it would be good to clean the windows that day, that they needed it. I said okay and headed to the kitchen. Sylvia called me back and, holding out the two empty mugs, asked me to put them in the dishwasher and start a cycle.
Later that morning, after she threw on her coat and before she could open the door, her telephone rang. It was Bakary. After only a few seconds, her voice brightened. That’s amazing. That’s so amazing. Well done, my love, bravo. She yelled out, Bye, Anna, I’m off! I was in the second-floor bathroom. Bye, Sylvia! That same night, as I was closing the shutters in our kitchen, I saw Simon and Lucie go into the Langloises’ house.
The next evening, you called to tell me you were going to grab a drink at the Tennessee, with Simon.
You came home a little after nine and announced that Simon had placed thirty thousand euros in a Swiss account.
One of Bakary’s clients works in finance. He’s offering really advantageous investments at low rates. All you have to do is place your money and let it work on its own. Simon is happy. He’s sure that he’s gonna make a killing!
I was surprised by the amount that Simon had decided to invest.
An inheritance, you told me. His grandmother left him a good chunk of change.
Since I still didn’t understand why he had invested so much money, you explained that the more he put in, the more he would make.
Bakary made him guarantees? I asked.
You reassured me on that point, claiming that he had Simon sign official documents and that everything was in order. You added that François was considering investing money, too.
Then I was surprised to notice that you seemed a lot less angry with Bakary. It was as though this business with financial investments had erased your bitterness toward him just like that.
When our conversation ended, leaving each of us to our own silent thoughts, I detected a faint look of distress in your eyes. You were pensive the whole night. We were sitting on the couch, in front of the television, when I realized that your eyes weren’t focused on anything. You were there without being there, mulling something over. I knew you well enough that I could guess what was weighing on your mind and follow, all too closely, your train of thought.
It was noon on a Sunday, after a visit to your parents. You sat down at the table looking like a man up to no good and said, I’m gonna invest some cash, too!
Our bank account was bone-dry and I didn’t see by what miracle you would go about getting the money. I looked away and acted like I hadn’t heard anything. I didn’t want to talk about that money business in front of our children.
There was a whiff of mutiny in the air. Our daughters were refusing to eat their Brussels sprouts. They smell like butts, protested one, while the other plugged her nose.
I snapped, If you don’t finish your meal, there’ll be no dessert and no treats!
The girls looked at each other and, without a word, resigned themselves to their fate. I had hit where it hurt. They shoved down the vegetables without chewing, accompanying every swallow with a face of disgust and an eww intended to illustrate their sacrifice.
Exasperated by their little game, I begged you to make them stop. You did nothing. In fact, the joking se
emed to amuse you. It’s no big deal, honey bunny. We’re allowed to have fun every once in a while.
Honey bunny. That’s what you called me. Honey bunny. I was so surprised that I stopped eating mid-bite.
Well, what? Did I say something wrong? you asked me. The girls snickered. And you went and made bunny ears over your head.
For a brief moment, I had the unpleasant sensation that everything was slipping away from me, that I was completely out of sync. Like my life was falling apart and I couldn’t salvage any of it. But I composed myself immediately and, glaring at you, asked what you were playing at. You couldn’t find anything to say but Bunnies are cute, honey bunny. Of course, the girls burst out laughing.
Sensing I was about to explode, you gave them a stern look and demanded silence with one finger over your mouth. They stared at you to figure out if your anger was real or made-up. They let a few giggles slip, torn between suspicion and excitement, then, quickly understanding that you weren’t serious and that you weren’t upset with them, they agreed to calm down so as not to rile me up again. After dessert, to my relief, they left the table.
As soon as we were alone, I pressed you to tell me about the money we didn’t have but that you said you wanted to invest.
I have money, you told me, my parents agreed to lend me some.
How much? I asked.
Eight thousand euros.
Eight thousand euros? That’s a lot.
Yeah, I know, but the more you invest, the more profit you make.
Okay . . . but why are you doing this? I didn’t understand.
I already told you, I’m investing!
But what for? I asked calmly. There’s no need to. It’s not even your money. . . .
You stiffened and your eyes widened. It was like you’d just lit up a room that had been plunged in darkness. Then you said: My parents agree. I told them about the financial investments. They think it’s a good thing. With what it’s gonna make us, I’ll be able to pay them back, no problem, and make a profit from the interest.
I’m guessing that’s all of their savings . . . isn’t it?
You nodded yes, as though you were afraid to hear yourself say it. I looked at you. I couldn’t figure out what was motivating you. Money had never interested you, and this investment plan struck me as antithetical to the sense of integrity that had guided your life and ours. I pointed out that your parents weren’t rich and that I thought it was stupid to ask them for all of their savings to invest. What if it doesn’t work?
You assured me that Simon was very pleased with his investment; that, only two weeks after he’d placed his money in the account, Bakary had assured him that it was already paying off and he had nothing to worry about. You had run into Bakary that morning and he was expecting you that afternoon to discuss the plan. You hadn’t said a word to him in weeks and there you were, not hesitating for a second to approach him about some financial investment! You were acting as if you’d forgotten everything—me getting hired by the Langloises, the humiliation you had felt, the anger that had been so hard for you to get rid of. . . . When I pointed all of that out, you dismissed it with one sweep of your hand: You should be happy I’m not bitter!
I was speechless. All of a sudden, my housekeeping job—which, judging from your fits of rage, had verged on being a federal case—had lost all importance to you. It was as if nothing had ever happened.
That night, after you saw Bakary, you were different. The glazed look in your eyes betrayed your anxiety. You seemed to be fighting some prolonged battle with your own thoughts. You had made a deal with Bakary, but I sensed something was dampening your enthusiasm.
You got yourself a glass of water from the faucet, which you drank to the last drop, head tilted way back. Then, slightly out of breath, you said, He hesitated, dammit. He hesitated before he took it. . . .
You put your glass in the sink, looked at me without blinking, and told me that Bakary had seemed disappointed with the amount you wanted to invest.
I don’t see how it’s his business! I responded, appalled. You invest the amount you can!
Your shock at Bakary’s disdain had cast a shadow over your face. He hesitated, you said, over and over, he hesitated.
Of course he hesitated, I yelled. We’re far from Simon’s thirty thousand euros!
I was furious then, and today still, in light of everything that happened, Bakary’s reaction leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Why did he have to turn up his nose knowing that he would, quite clearly, eventually accept the money that he urgently needed? Why the theatrics? Why choose to humiliate you when he could have easily avoided it?
Same as the night before, we spent the evening in front of the television. The volume was loud, but I could still hear the rumbling of your thoughts. You were swinging back and forth between the certainty that you’d made a good deal and the acute pain caused by Bakary’s condescending attitude.
* * *
• • •
One evening, after I’d spent five hours cleaning the chalet, Sylvia told me that she couldn’t guarantee my wages for the next two months. They’d had to do some renovations at their agency and the cost of that update had forced them to reduce their expenses. I was the collateral damage of their austerity plan. She nonetheless promised to hire me again after those two months and apologized for putting me in a difficult position. That’s the expression she used: a difficult position.
Sylvia served me a strong espresso and, as sole consolation, patted me on the hand. I took the news calmly and with some relief. In reality, I couldn’t stand the job anymore. It was time for me to find some real work, not that cleaning their house wasn’t real, not at all; it was far more real than any other job, but I needed to find something “sustainable” and to think about what I really wanted to do with my life.
That night I told you what had happened. You had as much trouble understanding the news of my getting fired as you had when I got hired.
Renovations? Why are they renovating? And they’re letting you go for that?
You picked up the phone to discuss it with them, but I stopped you right away. I assured you that it wasn’t a big deal, that on the contrary it was a good thing and that it would allow me to find a more appealing job. Worst-case scenario, I said, I won’t have a hard time finding a few hours cleaning for other clients. Finally, I asked you to stop your endless meddling in my business and told you that it was starting to seriously annoy me.
I’m a responsible adult—not a child!
You gave me a long stare, then, like back when you used to tell me I love you so so much, you took me in your arms and held me against your chest. I buried my face in your armpit and I inhaled the smell of your sweat. Deeply. It was your smell, but it was also no longer your smell. There was a whiff of something bitter, like it had soured.
The carnival arrived in late August. Like every year, a large platform had been set up in the village square.
That summer, the heat was suffocating. The river had dried up, and the pine trees, burned by the sun, looked like prickly black scarecrows. It was so hot that the old men of the village slept during the day and emerged at night. As soon as the sun set, we would see them hobbling down the road. The old ladies, however, would gather at the chapel in the afternoon. We’re going to pray, they’d say. They went in small groups, carrying handbags and smelling of eau de cologne. They would remain seated for hours on the wooden benches, gossiping quietly. Thanks to the moisture-retaining stones, the women could finally breathe; their bones would straighten out in astonishment, for a few hours. If anyone came through the large oak door, the women would freeze and stare at the figure of Christ with utter seriousness. Then they would go back to whispering beneath the cross, cheerful, liberated.
The owner of the bumper cars had arrived. He parked his trailer under the tall chestnut tree, like every year. His beautiful wife, seated on a
folding chair, was examining her painted nails, spreading her fingers wide. Her dizzying cleavage created an erotic swell, prompting quivers even from the tree branches she was sitting under. She was the reason the teenagers all came.
Check out that pair of titties.
They’re fake.
No way, fuckwit.
Shut it.
Dumbfuck.
Shut it.
You’ve never even touched a girl.
Shut it, you little bitch.
Go get Mama 93 to suck you off.
Still better than getting assfucked by Abbott and Costello.
Dickwad . . .
That’s what we’d hear, with a few variations, whenever we walked past them. They’d set off before midnight on their noisy mopeds, promising to meet up the next day, same place, same time, not forgetting their evening farewell: Good luck humping your dog, asshole!
The night of the village festival, the air was warm and humid. A large tent had been erected in the common field and long tables covered with white paper were set up around it. Since that morning, the women of the village (the same ones always glued to the chapel benches) had been busy preparing a gigantic cabbage soup.
Every year, more than two hundred people would come, including those from the neighboring villages. After eating the soup, folks would hit the dance floor set up in the square. Children would go on endless bumper car races as they sucked Orangina through a straw and licked Frizzy Pazzy crystals beneath paper lanterns stretching from one tree to another.
People began arriving in the early evening. Sausages and cabbage were steaming in crusted casserole dishes, black from overuse. The aproned cooks had magenta throats and fog-coated glasses. They were stirring the soup with long steel spoons and serving it with ladles as big as a baby’s head.
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