With her eyes cast downwards, Anne Dufour turned and slowly walked back to the living room.
‘Is the nosy bitch gone?’ her husband said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
She stood still and waited for what was to come. Only her galloping pulse betrayed the terror in her heart.
FIFTEEN
The day of his return is mild and sunny.
A rich, earthy smell rises from the muddy ground. On either side of the dirt road, fields of corn extend beneath a rain-washed sky. Long-stemmed sunflowers turn their faces to the light. In the distance, he can see a green tractor lumbering down a track through the fields, like a corpulent bride bearing down the aisle. Otherwise, the road ahead of him is deserted.
Time has always been unhurried here. On the surface, it seems like nothing changes. But if you dig deeper you begin to see the cracks.
Now Armand has been away so long he sees only the tranquil, rural landscape he once knew so well. So much of it is familiar. The buzzing of bees on a sleepy afternoon. An overturned wheelbarrow in the shade of a willow tree. He can almost taste his childhood. The raw texture and smell of milk, brought home at dawn from the farm, straight from the cow’s udder. The milk was poured from a bucket, still warm. Bits of hay floating on the surface. As a child he didn’t mind the dirt. He’d drink the milk to the last drop regardless of what it contained, and feel it trickle through his bones, making him stronger.
It took him a surprising amount of time to find his way back here. Paris to Rennes was easy enough; you just had to follow the signs. In Rennes he stopped for coffee and a sandwich, which he had on a park bench overlooking a children’s play area. There were few people about. A cool wind blew across the square and he wished he’d brought something more substantial than the thin cotton shirt he was wearing.
As a student, he used to drive from Rennes back to his village most weekends. He never thought to look at the map this time. Surely he could still do it with his eyes closed. Only after taking the wrong exit twice did he admit defeat. He stopped at a village very much like the one he was looking for and asked for directions. The young girl he spoke to had no clue but the restaurant owner had a cousin who lived there and gave him detailed instructions. She looked like someone he knew, someone he might have gone to school with.
He didn’t say much, just smiled and thanked her. It’s funny, when he is with César he can talk to God himself, but without the boy he feels lost.
It is exactly as he remembers it. If anything it is smaller and quieter than it was twenty years ago. There is still a bar, a post office and a church. That pretty much sums it up. You have to travel twenty kilometres to find the nearest supermarket and shops. Last time he checked, five years or so ago when he was curious enough to study the latest census, the head count was 522. From memory, two-thirds of these were sanctimonious old biddies whose curtains twitched every time he walked down the street. They tended to stay put from the day they were born till the day they died. But most of their children would have moved on because there was nothing for them here.
He still remembers the names of several of the women who turned up without fail at church when he was a child. They talked to his mother but as far as they were concerned children were there to be seen and not heard. Often they talked about him as if he wasn’t there.
‘He looks placid enough but he can be wily, that child,’ his mother said, and they all nodded like crows at a banquet. Dressed in black from head to toe and with beady eyes. Revelling in the scrutiny of others. Armand held his tongue and listened.
When the women were gone, his mother grew scornful. Armand was suddenly her ally, someone she could vent to about the small-mindedness of her neighbours.
‘Gossipy witches,’ she called them. But then why did she keep inviting these witches back every week, to sit in her living room, drink her tea and eat her biscuits? Why did she put up with their simpering and the way they examined everything, from the frayed cushions on the tapestried sofa to the ugly ornaments his mother collected. Porcelain swans and kittens and turtles, a whole menagerie of prissy pets.
His mother, a devout Catholic, seemed to believe that by baking once a week for these stalwarts of their church she was taking a step closer to heaven. As far as Armand could see, it was more like a step back. These tea parties only soured her.
As a child, until he started school, he’d assumed the world was mainly made up of old people, most of them women without men. He only wondered later where all the men had gone, but as a child he assumed it was the war; the village had a monument to the dead, and there were more names etched into the grey marble than a child could count. Never mind that the war was a thing of the past and could not possibly explain away the widows of today. Later on he knew better, saw the men sitting at the bar not long after breakfast. They were still there at lunchtime, drinking their way into an early grave.
So that left the women. There was the neighbour who sometimes watched over him while his mother ran errands and could barely lift herself out of her chair. She wore thick woollen socks no matter what time of the year it was. At the post office, the woman who weighed letters on a pair of old-fashioned scales looked about a hundred years old. She added up her numbers on an abacus and her mouth was never still as she muttered and chewed over private grievances.
‘Don’t forget to post the letters on the way back,’ his mother would say, when she trusted him to wander off on his own, which was a great deal later than other mothers did. While she searched for the right stamps, the old woman peered at Armand through thick glasses as though trying to read his mind. At the time it was full of thoughts that he would not even have entrusted to the local priest at confession. While he counted his coins, he withstood her scrutiny and tried hard to keep his mind as still and uneventful as a Sunday afternoon.
Now as he walks past the building he sees the post office still there. Through the glass he can’t make out who is inside, and he doesn’t want to slow down to look.
The bar is open but he doesn’t go in. He is not particularly worried about running into people who will recognize him, after all he is nothing like the man who went away, but he’s not going out of his way to get noticed either.
He hasn’t thought about the house he grew up in. It’s not like he’s forgotten it but where it sits in his mind is a tight, enclosed space he doesn’t visit. What would be the point? The house was sold such a long time ago and it has probably changed hands a few times. Any restless spirits have long since moved on.
Instead he seeks a house he has never been to before, but he knows what to look for. There are people who wear their lives entirely on the outside, while inside is like an empty room with open windows and curtains ruffling in the breeze. The man he is looking for, the one he once loved, is one of these people. He isn’t sure why he is here, beyond the fact that César is growing less affectionate and that he, Armand, is lonely and in need of reassurance. That man, that love, once anchored him.
When he finally sees the house, set apart from the others in the street, yet unremarkable, it’s as though he is remembering a place he’s visited many times before. For a moment he stops, uncertain. He can hear the sounds of laughter, two boys chasing each other across a field, digging for treasure, climbing a tree. One was always more nimble than the other. But it wasn’t rare for the nimble one to pretend otherwise, so they would stay together.
A lifetime ago.
He walks around the back first, just to make sure he isn’t mistaken. Behind the house is an orchard planted with apple trees and a sprawling, untidy garden. Scattered petals and deep-green patches of moss fill the shady recesses, while in sunlit places the air quivers with the scent of bruised apples and roses ripe for the picking. A slice of paradise. Someone clearly loves this oasis of greenery and doesn’t intend to tame it.
It is still and quiet. He can hear his heart thudding against his chest. After he knocks he stands back and listens for signs of life. It takes so long for anyo
ne to come that he’s about to give up and turn around when the door opens. He looks at the person standing on the threshold; the two of them mute with embarrassment or surprise, until Armand speaks, with an unfamiliar note of apology in his voice, because he wants to make clear that he has no right to be there, that he is at the other person’s mercy.
‘It’s me,’ he says.
Armand and Charles sit across from each other at the dining table. Though he doesn’t want it, Armand is now holding his second cup of coffee. It helps him deal with the long silences. The house is just as he pictured it, as is Charles. But Armand hadn’t expected to feel quite so raw. Everything comes flooding back, filling his chest like a tidal wave.
He takes deep breaths, focusing on the cup of coffee before him.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ Charles says. He is wearing an expensive pair of brown leather loafers, Armand notices. Though the house is a mess, everything about it spells money. Where they are sitting is a large open-plan area, with sliding glass doors overlooking the garden.
‘How long are you here for?’ Charles asks. What he means is why. Armand keeps his eyes trained on the table littered with junk. Everything is a reminder of the life Charles chose for himself. Crayons, paper, a crossword book.
‘Not long.’ He hazards a look at Charles’s face. The eyes are clear, nothing is concealed. He wonders what Charles sees.
He is asking Charles about his family, his job, his life, but inside his mind is reeling.
You were my soul mate. You meant everything to me once. What happened? Why is it so hard to remember? Revisiting the past is like wading through quicksand.
Charles’s answers are perfunctory, a banal résumé of a seemingly ordinary life. He is droning on about management and mortgages and a litany of things Armand knows nothing about.
The more he talks, the worse Armand feels. Gradually, his world turns black. In his mind he is frantically clawing at the darkness, looking for a way back into the light.
‘Armand?’ To hear Charles saying his name, so close to his ear, gives him a shock.
Charles is leaning over him, with one hand on his shoulder. He is so close Armand can see his pupils, and the brilliant blue of his eyes. He can see the lines carved in his face by the passage of time and the dark blond hairs on his chest, where the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. Charles’s smell is so overwhelmingly familiar. A soapy freshness that makes him suddenly want to weep.
He stands up, as though he’s received a jolt of electricity. How long was he out for? He tries frantically to remember whether he said or did anything embarrassing.
‘Are you OK? You looked like you were about to faint then, I thought you’d passed out, I—’
‘I probably should go,’ Armand says.
‘Finish your coffee.’ Charles is looking at Armand now with, what? Regret, hesitation? Or is it guilt? ‘Are you still teaching?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ Armand feels the sweat against his back as he returns to his seat. The panic has eased and his heartbeat is almost steady now.
‘Where?’
‘In Paris.’
Charles nods.
Armand looks at his watch. He wants to get back to Paris before nightfall if he can. He is not a confident driver by night and besides he is worried about leaving César alone for too long. It’s not as though the boy can’t look after himself, but his surliness worries Armand lately.
The coffee is weak. He remembers a time when he and Charles sat up late together to prepare for exams, and drank coffee to stay awake. Armand’s mother had approved of Charles.
‘You two are such good boys,’ she’d say. ‘Look at the pair of you, working hard.’
Time to go. Armand stands again and hands his cup over to Charles.
‘I have to leave now.’
‘Me too,’ says Charles. ‘I’m picking the kids up from school.’
There is a pained silence as the two stand together at the front door. What are they supposed to do now? Shake hands, like men? Unconsciously, Armand takes a step back. Charles is still a head taller than him.
‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘Sure. I’ll see you next time,’ Charles says.
Next time could be another twenty years, Armand thinks, as the door shuts in his face.
After leaving Charles’s house, he walks back the way he came, to the main intersection. Here the bar and the church face each other. Maybe it’s the relief of being alone again: all of a sudden he’s laughing. It could be the premise for one of those cartoons where the character – Donald Duck or Mickey Mouse, say – is torn between two decisions. On the one hand, an angel is urging them to do the right thing while, on the other, the devil tries to lead them astray.
As far as Armand is concerned neither of the two places is particularly conducive. In any case he should be on his way now if he wants to get back before dark. Still, at the crossing he finds himself hesitating, before turning left, not towards the place where he parked his car but towards the house where Charles grew up.
The house is set apart from the others in the street. It is still concealed by a stone wall covered in vine. A majestic elm tree towers over the wall. There is no obvious way to get in apart from the front gate but Armand knows better. He manages to crawl through the hole in the garden wall and to find a spot in the bushes. He’s been here before.
The garden is empty but a sprinkler has been turned on. He is too far back to get wet. The smell of wet grass and the chugging of the sprinkler soothe him. The day’s drive and his encounter with Charles have worn him out. The sprinkler’s trajectory, around and around, is like a refrain, repetitive and comforting. Armand starts to yawn. He tries to fight the torpor taking hold of his weary limbs but, against his better judgement and before he knows it, he is asleep.
When he wakes up, it takes him a while to realize where he is. This is the house he ran to as a child, every time he could, and he was always welcome here. Now there are other children in the garden, he can hear them though it’s hard to see without being noticed. Then he hears Charles too and realizes these must be his children. Where the sprinkler chugs its way in circles there is a blur of small feet, trampling the wet grass. Shrieks of delight, followed by Charles’s own laughter. He thinks of Charles as he saw him earlier in the afternoon, removed, unsmiling, and tears come to his eyes.
He edges forward just enough to see and still remain invisible. The two little boys and a girl grow tired of the sprinkler and disappear into the miniature maze where Armand and Charles once played, pretending to be lost even though there is little danger of that – it is simpler than a child’s puzzle. There is still delight in solving the conundrum, and now Charles’s children emerge flushed and victorious, as though they’ve found the answer to a riddle. They tumble across the grass and uproot the flowers when the old lady isn’t looking.
The children line up at the kitchen door with their offerings – wilting arrangements of flowers and leaves and twigs. She takes the flowers from them and smiles. He hears Charles’s voice, calling for the children to come inside. He hears the sound of a tap being turned on and off. Two white butterflies chase each other across the lawn. He closes his eyes and smells wet grass and lemons. Bumblebees drone, weaving amongst the flowers. The sky is a billowing blue sheet.
The children tumble out again, followed by Charles and then his mother. She is paper-thin now, with a halo of white hair. She wears a pink and blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Charles leads her to an old wooden bench placed under the large elm. This bench and this tree have always been there, for as long as Armand remembers. Charles’s mother sits there for a while, with her hands resting in her lap, while Charles tilts his head back and soaks in the sun. This is the old Charles, lost to Armand forever. The old lady turns and says something to her son. She seems so content. Armand wonders whether she remembers him at all.
He thinks of César. The boy is so irritable these days, quite unlike his usual self. Maybe it has
something to do with puberty. He seems bored or indifferent a lot of the time. Even his posture is changing. He sits and stands with his shoulders slouched and he never quite connects with Armand’s eyes.
A memory resurfaces in his mind of César, aged eight. They have been together nearly two years now. The boy’s body forms a question mark as they lie curled up together, reading Asterix and the Laurel Wreath. With his forefinger the boy traces the outline of words, and Armand reads them. When César appears on the page, the boy makes a gurgling sound which Armand interprets as laughter.
‘There’s you!’ Armand says. The gurgling sound grows louder. The boy is like a vessel, emptying itself of the debris inside.
These are the only times Armand hears him laugh. When he sees César on the page. The man with the oversized nose and great ambition. Otherwise he is silent. At times he is so withdrawn Armand thinks he will never come out of his shell again.
The problem with time is that it never stands still. Armand wishes he had understood this earlier, he would have held on tight to the things that mattered. This is what he would ask for, if, like in the fairy-tale, he was granted a wish: another chance.
It takes him a while to notice the child crouching in the bushes. Staring right at him. Before the child can utter a sound Armand has turned and is fleeing the way he came, rushing through the opening in the wall so fast he scrapes his arm against the bricks. The pain is searing. Holding on to his arm, he starts running down the road even as he hears the wailing of a child calling for her father.
SIXTEEN
The pastor hurried across the sun-filled courtyard, nodding and smiling to the students he recognized. Many of them smiled back.
Their greetings pleased him. The knowledge that he was well-liked and respected even as he entered his seventh decade was deeply satisfying.
The heat had eased over the past few days. In the courtyard, a family of sparrows sat on the edge of a water fountain, dipping their beaks. The magnificent plane tree which had been left to grow for decades till its branches spread low and wide across the ground gave out plenty of shade.
The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) Page 11
