by Adam Thorpe
‘Ever so clever—’
‘I’m stopping stupid ballet. I hate it. I’m crap—’
‘Darling—’
‘Shut up.’
‘Ever so clever—’
‘It was total bloody crap. Bloody. Stupid stupid stupid,’ she said, shoving the floppy bag into her mother’s hands. The bag fell on the floor and I picked it up.
‘That’s OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll take it.’
We were outside, now, leaving the courtyard. It had stopped drizzling. Jocelyne didn’t seem to have noticed me. She was like a three-year-old, throwing a tantrum. She marched ahead of us and kept fiddling with her hair, which was still tied up in places. She shook her head and her curls came back, falling over her ears. My heart bounced. Her bag was quite heavy and smelt of make-up and sweat. I was carrying it over my shoulder. It wasn’t zipped up to the end and I could see her swimsuit-thing in it, all orange with wavy green lines. Jocelyne was taking no notice of me on purpose. It didn’t make me feel small, though. It made me feel grown up. She was the one being small. The car with the broken windscreen was still there, the broken glass exactly like frost because of the lamplight glittering on it.
‘Can we hear any shouting and screaming?’ Jocelyne’s mother called out, as if we were little kids. ‘Any sirens?’
We couldn’t, anyway, above the usual rumbling of invisible traffic. The streets at night reminded me more than before of when Carole and I put up the Vietnam posters. Then, passing the end of another street, I thought I saw the grocery store with the realistic fruit and vegetables painted either side of the window. I didn’t dare tell them, though.
Raymond was in the sitting-room when we got back, pacing up and down and puffing on his pipe.
‘Roche has closed the university,’ he said.
Jocelyne had disappeared upstairs, still without saying hello to us. The phone went and Raymond picked it up. As he talked and nodded and talked, Jocelyne’s mother was peeling off her gloves and apologising to us for her daughter. My mother was saying that she must be tired, Gilles gets like that before he has a migraine, he gets ever so bad-tempered. I put Jocelyne’s bag down and stood there, keeping quiet. My confidence was draining away now we were in the house. I felt as if I didn’t matter. As if I shouldn’t even be here.
‘I’ll end up in La Salpêtrière, at this rate,’ said Jocelyne’s mother, collapsing into the chaise-longue, ‘with all the other barmy women. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to – please forgive me, Danielle. How is she?’
‘That’s quite all right. She’s much better, thank you.’
‘I’d get you all a drink, but I can’t do another thing. I’ve had such a day. Raymond, please don’t be long,’ she added, in a loud voice. ‘These people need a drink. I need a drink.’
Raymond was nodding and grunting into the phone. He hadn’t heard.
‘We’re all right,’ said my mother, still standing up. Her head was bent forward like the old priest’s when he blessed us. ‘I think we ought to go, don’t you, Gilles?’
I shrugged, an empty room appearing inside me again. I was thinking how stupid and spoilt Jocelyne was.
Jocelyne’s mother said, ‘You can’t go without eating. I bought trout. Very good fishmonger’s in the Rue du Dragon but you have to pay for it. Let’s have a drink first. Raymond! Good God, he’s so awful. He never does anything. The fish won’t take two minutes. I do hope these student protests won’t go over the top. You know in Brazil it’s been rather bloody. But that’s Brazil. They’re much more excitable. They didn’t like the food in the canteen or something and burnt everything down. I think it’s such a pity that revolutions always have to burn things down. The Tuileries Palace, for instance. Such lovely chandeliers.’
‘Did you see them, then?’ asked my mother.
‘My dear, they burnt it down nearly a hundred years ago! Raymond’s heroic Communards. And now all we have instead are a few municipal flower beds. So unimaginatively planted, too, all violets and pansies. Ah, here’s the master himself. How nice of you to join us. Your cousins are here. Have you noticed, darling?’
Raymond smiled, half hidden in pipe smoke.
‘Enjoy the ballet?’
‘Oh yes. Ever so.’
‘Danielle thought it was very clever, darling. But Gilles is the expert. Knows all about it. How’s your head? No concussion?’
‘They’ve closed the university. Roche announced it about an hour ago. The CRS are thrashing old ladies and tourists and women with babies. Won’t you sit down?’
We sat down, my mother sitting on the edge of the comfy chair. I had an old wooden chair with grapes carved on the back and threadbare material on the arms that felt all smooth.
‘We’re parched,’ said Jocelyne’s mother, thumping a cushion. ‘Get a drink and tell Priscillia to prepare the trout. Where’s that tiny country? The one with the principal river?’
‘What would you like to drink?’ asked Raymond, slowly, as if it was a trick question.
‘Oh, anything at all,’ said my mother.
‘Have we parsley?’ asked Jocelyne’s mother.
‘I’ve a very decent vin de noix, if you like home-made concoctions. The walnuts are from the Grenoble area.’
‘Fine, thank you, Raymond,’ my mother replied, nodding away.
‘What about the young man? Are we allowed the real thing? Do we always desire,’ he asked, raising his pipe in the air, ‘what is good?’
‘Morally good, or selfishly good?’ asked Jocelyne’s mother, with her eyes closed.
‘Ah, but is that a false opposition?’ asked Raymond, putting the pipe-stem back in his mouth so that it pulled the lower lip right down. He had blackened gums, I noticed. I couldn’t understand why they were just asking questions without trying to reply.
‘I’d like a grenadine,’ I said, weakly.
‘Of course you may,’ said Raymond. ‘Where’s Jossi?’
‘Sulking upstairs. She danced atrociously. She hasn’t said a word to our guests. A dreadful age. I’m sure girls are worse. I’d have much preferred a boy, personally. One simply repeats all one’s mother’s mistakes, with a girl. I’m reading this book about families by a Soviet psychologist. Devastating. Never remember titles. Of course, if everyone exercised properly as they do in China. They do it everywhere, even old people. Keep fit. They close their eyes for five minutes every hour in school which is why no Chinaman wears glasses, is that right, Raymond?’
Raymond raised his eyebrows, turned on his heel and went out. I had gone red at the mention of ‘Jossi’.
‘Gilles,’ said Jocelyne’s mother, ‘I order you to pick up your moorings and go upstairs and knock on the first door on the landing, the one with the soppy heart on it, and ask your dreadful cousin what she would like to drink.’
I pulled a face.
‘Be a helpful boy, dear,’ said my mother.
‘Too sweet of you,’ Jocelyne’s mother said, as if I’d agreed. She was flicking her hair with her fingers as if there was dust in it. ‘There’s no doubt the Chinese are superior. It’s all frighteningly simply, really …’
I got up and went out through the hall past the gold-framed mirrors. I was glad to hide my blush, in fact.
I climbed the stairs and came to a pale blue door with a red heart on it. I listened, staring down at my shoes. There was a faint rumbly sound coming through the door. The landing corridor had dark, shiny old floorboards that creaked every time I moved. I stayed very still, feeling my blush cool down. The little heart on the door was made of padded felt and had shiny bits in it; I couldn’t help stroking it with my finger. The panels in the door had a crack in them, and there was dirt in the crack. I wished, now, I had brought Christophe along. I didn’t want to knock, but I didn’t want to go downstairs without knocking, either. I wanted to impress Jocelyne’s mother. She made me feel as if I was special. I noticed the nails in the floorboards had uneven heads, like spots of black chewinggum. The floor just lay there, without hav
ing to do anything. I wondered why it was so complicated, being a human being. Day after day after day.
I knocked.
Silence, apart from the rumbly sound.
I knocked again, a bit harder.
I didn’t know what to do, now. I realised I was scared.
Jocelyne, I told myself, mouthing it in a sort of whisper, is my cousin. Second cousin once removed, or something, but still a cousin. I had the picture of Giuseppina Bozzacchi to show her. I was told to come up and knock. I gripped the old doorknob – it was the same type of doorknob as in Carole’s home, a bit like a rose. I turned it and opened the door and poked my head in. I could see that it was quite dark inside. There was music playing – classical music like the ballet’s. The only light was from a lamp in the corner with a blue-green shade. A smell of make-up and sweat and something I’d never smelt before, which was sour but also quite sweet, made me feel as if I couldn’t go in – it was like an invisible wall. The first thing I could make out was a fancy table with a little pincushion on it.
‘Jocelyne?’
Something moved on the bed. Jocelyne was lying on the bed, her hair in a golden splat round her face. The smell of the room really made me want to go out. She wasn’t looking at me.
‘To be taken after meals,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You’ve been sent up.’
‘Yeah.’
‘To sort me out, like constipation.’
‘What would you like to drink?’ I asked, stepping in.
‘Kiss me,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Kiss me.’
‘Oh.’
I swallowed complicatedly.
‘That’s the best medicine,’ she said, curling up a bit and tucking her hand between her knees. ‘Bet you can’t. Bet you’ve never even talked to a girl.’
‘I talked to you. At the posh lunch.’
‘Posh!?’
‘Quite posh,’ I said, confused.
‘And that lovely décor. Such good taste. Anyway, it doesn’t count.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re my cousin, apparently.’
She gave a little laugh and covered her face.
‘That’s gorgeous,’ she said. ‘That’s too much.’
‘What is?’
‘The way I said apparently. I’m so brilliantly unpleasant, sometimes. I’m going to be remarkable, you know,’ she added, looking at me.
I didn’t quite understand her.
‘All we’ve had is boring generals,’ she said, drumming her fingers on the wall. She sighed. ‘We haven’t done a proper hello, you know.’
‘Hello.’
‘That’s not a proper hello. Come here and do a proper hello.’
I went over to the bed, my heart thumping so hard I could feel it in my fillings. She’d slipped down so her arms were now spread out on the pillow above her head and her legs dangled off the bed-end. I was very hot on the face. I held out my hand for her to shake, and she laughed again.
‘I’m your cousin, apparently,’ she said. ‘A proper hello, please.’
The distance between her face on the bed and mine in the air was enormous. I thought she would sit up, at least, but she didn’t.
‘On the mouth,’ she said, closing her eyes.
‘What?’
‘Here. This is called a mouth.’
She kept her lips pouted and put a finger on them, pressing the lower one so that it was squashed. She looked like someone pretending to puzzle something out in a lesson. Thoughts were rushing through my head, the words ‘air-cooled engine’ echoing away, for some reason. It was, in fact, just like a jet fighter’s roar in my ears.
I bent over at the waist and blocked the light. She was suddenly in shadow. She was in shadow suddenly and I dipped my head down too fast and my mouth hit something quite hard that knocked against my front teeth. Her face slipped away completely.
She was sitting up against the curly iron bed-end. One of her hairs was on my lip. I hadn’t aimed properly.
‘Aiee,’ I said, as if I’d hurt myself instead of her.
She was rubbing her cheekbone, frowning, not saying anything.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered.
‘So am I. Didn’t know you were a vampire.’
I wanted to ask her if I could try again. Instead, I just stood there while she rubbed her cheekbone. I didn’t know what to do with my arms. The hair in my mouth was irritating and I was afraid it might choke me, but I couldn’t take it out in front of her.
‘I’m instituting divorce proceedings immediately,’ she said. ‘On the grounds of cruelty. And the colour of your shirt.’
I didn’t understand what she meant, so just shrugged and then stepped back and folded my arms. Things were easier with my arms folded.
‘It was good, the ball—’ I swallowed by mistake. ‘The ballet show.’
‘Don’t mention that abominable event.’
‘I thought it was OK.’
She covered her face in her hands. I thought at first it was because of my missing her mouth.
‘They kept teasing me, afterwards,’ she said.
‘They’re stupid, then. Just stupid.’
I felt a warmth in my chest, defending her like that.
‘So what did you think of the one who played Swanilda?’ she asked
‘Armande?’
She looked at me, surprised.
‘You can’t know her, surely?’
‘Your mother told me.’
‘And?’
‘What?’
‘Did you think she was any good?’
She was almost glaring at me. I shook my head.
‘Weak feet,’ I said. Wobbly arabic … arabico …’
She held her hands up to her mouth and started shaking, rocking forwards at the same time. Snorts of laughter came out.
‘That’s delicious!’ she cried. ‘Weak feet! Wait till I tell her!’
I started to feel all raked up. I leaned against the wall on my shoulders, my hands behind my back, stroking the patterns on the wallpaper with my fingers.
‘Why did you want to know?’
‘She got at me after the show. Mya mya mya. She said I hadn’t rehearsed enough. Old cow. I’ll tell her about her weak feet. Armande, listen. In the expert opinion of my cousin Gilles, your feet—’
‘I’m sure you did rehearse. You were really good,’ I lied.
The feeling of her cheekbone hitting my front teeth had stayed, like a sort of taste. There was a sort of taste, when I touched my lips with my tongue. Perhaps her make-up.
‘You were good,’ I repeated, nodding like a real expert, bouncing slightly on and off the wall with my shoulders.
She didn’t say anything, though – just stared at her legs in their jeans. My mind went blank. The weird smell of her room still made me feel as if I shouldn’t have come in. I could see loads of dolls in long pinnies on the cupboard; they all had shiny white faces and fat white hands. A poster on the wall next to me showed a woman in a long white dress, with chestnut hair down to her waist, running away into a dark brown lump, perhaps a cave. The woman’s face and bare arm glowed, almost as if covered in fluorescent paint. The music came to a stop and the stylus clicked back into place.
‘Mahler,’ she sighed. ‘The only one who speaks to my tortured soul.’
‘I think they want you to go downstairs,’ I said.
‘They can shut up. I hate them.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t you hate your parents?’
I gave a pathetic little chuckle.
‘What does that mean?’ she demanded, glaring at me.
I shrugged.
‘My father’s … Well, he’s not here. I mean, he had this bad fall—’
‘Oh yes. Maman told me. How convenient. You’re the one with the uncle as his stepfather. Like Hamlet. I’d forgotten.’
I frowned; she was suddenly talking about me as if I was a complete stranger. My chest prickled
.
‘Like who?’
‘Hamlet. Please don’t say you don’t know what Hamlet is.’
‘Of course I do,’ I snorted, panicking. ‘It’s a cigar.’
She laughed horribly with her eyes squeezed shut, as if I’d made a joke, so I smiled as if I knew I’d made one.
‘Papatito said we’re off to Elsinore,’ she said, ‘when we went to the meal. Even your … you know … although it’s not his sister in the real one. It’s his girlfriend. Who goes loony.’
She looked at me a bit nervously, then, as if she was being daring. But I didn’t understand what she was saying; I just shrugged. She sighed and sat up straighter, making the bed squeak. The curly iron bed-end was like a gate behind her head. She picked up a fluffy toy rabbit next to her and held it to her bosoms.
‘What’s your favourite, night or day?’ she asked, in an almost baby voice.
‘Day,’ I said, too quickly.
‘Boring. I’m a creature of the night, deep down. I like owls and moonlight and cedar-trees. Like that woman, there.’
She threw the cuddly rabbit at the poster of the woman running away. The rabbit rolled to my feet. I looked at the picture. I noticed a very thin moon on the right, behind some pine branches. All the white parts of the picture stuck out clearly, even in the bad light. The running woman’s glowing face was looking back over her shoulder, as if she wanted you to follow her. On the bottom of the poster, in yellow letters, it said: Moritz von Schwind, Galérie des Beaux Arts, 29 juin – 5 septembre 1966.
‘She’s not a real woman,’ Jocelyne said. ‘She’s a vision in the forest. That’s what I’d like to be. A vision in the forest.’
‘Why?’
She tutted and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling.
‘Don’t ask me that,’ she said.
There was an embarrassing silence. I stood up straight.
‘I’ve got something for you, in fact,’ I muttered.
I pulled out the page from my inside jacket pocket and unfolded it. I handed it over to her.
‘Who’s this?’ I asked.
‘Who’s this?’ she echoed, wrinkling her nose. ‘No idea. Sacha Distel in drag.’
‘It’s Giup …’ My mind went blank.
‘Who? Jupe …?’
‘Giuseppina Bozzacchi,’ I almost cried out, the name punching into my head like a computer card.
