by Dan Rhodes
Even the few people who passed through the building who could not be counted as decent folk gave her no trouble. After all, it was never good luck to get on a widow’s bad side – nobody wants to be tormented by the protective ghost of a dead husband. And so she had lived there, year in and year out, with nobody really getting to know her.
Aurélie had been the same as everyone else. She had greeted her on the occasions when their paths had crossed, and sometimes they had gone as far as exchanging comments on the weather, but that was all. Aurélie had no idea that Old Widow Peypouquet had taken quite an interest in the girl from the apartment across the landing.
The knocking continued. There was no escape.
‘I’m coming, Madame Peypouquet,’ she said. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’
She opened the door just a crack. ‘Hello, Madame Peypou-quet,’ she said. ‘How are you today?’ At once Aurélie regretted the question. Every day must have been a living hell for Old Widow Peypouquet as she lamented the loss of her husband, and to enquire after her wellbeing had been tactless.
‘I’m the same as always.’
‘Good. I mean . . . at least you’re not any worse than usual.’
Old Widow Peypouquet stared at her.
‘So how can I help you this morning, Madame Peypou-quet?’
‘Do you have a baby in there?’
She might have been old, but she wasn’t deaf.
‘A baby? No. There’s no baby here.’ She opened the door and swept her arm around, indicating the entire apartment in a single gesture. She had folded the buggy and put it in the shower, and put all the other incriminating evidence on the bed and thrown the duvet over it. There was no sign of a baby.
‘Ah. Then the sound must be coming from somewhere else.’
‘Yes. Now, you have a good day, Madame Peypouquet. I think it’s going to be sunny.’
‘Yes. Well, it’s got off to a clear start. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mademoiselle Renard, but I could have sworn I heard a baby’s cries coming from your apartment, and I’ve been wondering what was going on, that’s all. You will forgive an old woman’s curiosity.’
‘Oh, Madame Peypouquet, you’re not old.’
Old Widow Peypouquet gave her a look.
‘OK, yes, you are quite old.’ Aurélie was about to close the door when a gurgle came from the other side of the room. Before she could do anything about it, Old Widow Peypouquet had invited herself in, and was looking around for the source of the noise. She soon found it, lying on a blanket on the floor on the far side of the bed: Herbert.
‘What’s this, then?’ she asked, pointing a bony finger. ‘What’s this if it’s not a baby?’
‘Oh, that? It’s, well, you know . . .’ Her mind raced as she tried to think of a reasonable explanation.
‘Yes, I do know. It’s a baby.’
‘A baby? That thing?’ Aurélie faked a laugh. ‘No, that’s not a baby.’
‘Not a baby?’
‘No.’
‘Then what is it?’
They stood looking down at Herbert, who smiled up at them, and expanded on his previous gurgling. Aurélie was about to panic when the brainwave struck. She was out of trouble. ‘It’s rubber,’ she said.
‘Rubber?’
‘Yes.’
Old Widow Peypouquet scrutinised Herbert, who was looking up at her with his big blue eyes. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Madame Peypouquet. It’s all rather embarrassing, and I was hoping you wouldn’t find out.’
‘It looks very realistic to me.’
‘I know. It’s quite incredible really. It’s a wonder of modern science.’
‘But why, exactly, do you have a rubber baby?’
Aurélie recalled Sylvie’s tales of the years of her childhood when her only friend had been a Tamagotchi, and her thoughts began to fall into place. ‘Madame Peypou-quet, please sit down. I have something to tell you.’ Old Widow Peypouquet lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, and Aurélie continued. ‘I’m broody. I really want to have a baby of my own.’
‘A baby? But you’re not ready. You don’t even have a husband. As far as I can see you don’t even have a boyfriend. There was that handsome boy, the tall one who came to see you a few months ago, but I’ve not seen him since.’
Sébastien. So Old Widow Peypouquet really was the observant type.
‘No,’ said Aurélie. ‘No, he didn’t. And I’m so glad you understand my problem. I went to the doctor, and told him that even though I don’t have a boyfriend I’m desperate to have a child, and he gave me this. It’s a computerised baby simulator. It’s full of wires and things like that. I have it for a week so I can find out exactly what’s involved in looking after a baby, and then I’ll be able to make an informed decision about whether or not to have a real one myself. They’re hoping it’ll put me off the idea, for the time being at least.’
‘I hope they’re right. So how does it work?’
‘With technology, mainly.’
‘Technology, you say?’
‘Yes. And the technology makes it do lots of babylike things. All the babylike things, in fact. It cries in the middle of the night, it demands to be fed . . .’
‘What do you feed it?’ Her eyes were narrow.
‘Milk, baby food.’ She realised what she was saying, and came to her own rescue. ‘It’s a sort of electronic computer milk. And computer food. It’s all very scientific, and I don’t quite understand it. Somewhere inside is a microchip the size of a grain of sugar, and it records everything that happens to it, and at the end of the week I’ll take it back and they’ll plug it into a computer and it’ll give me a mark out of ten for my parenting skills.’
Old Widow Peypouquet was silent for a while. ‘May I have a closer look at it?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Aurélie bent down and scooped him up. ‘Here it is.’ Herbert was looking around the room. He smiled at Old Widow Peypouquet, who still looked suspicious.
A bony hand reached out and grabbed the baby’s leg. ‘Hmmm . . . It looks right, but it doesn’t feel right. It feels too rubbery. I can’t believe some of the things they make these days. I tell you – things were different in my day. I only hope it does its job, Mademoiselle Renard. Your time to have a child will come, though. Why not invite that handsome boy here again? Just be sure and wait until you’re married to him before you get one of these though.’
‘That’s very good advice, Madame Peypouquet. Oh, and please don’t tell anyone else about this. I’m a little ashamed about the whole business.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘And it is rather a delicate medical matter, so confidentiality is paramount.’
‘Of course. One last thing, though. What’s its name, this rubber baby?’ But before Aurélie could answer, Old Widow Peypouquet made a disgusted face, and held her nose. ‘Vive la France! The manufacturers have gone too far – no real child makes smells as awful as that.’
Old Widow Peypouquet shuffled out of the apartment, and Aurélie shut the door behind her. She gave Herbert a big cuddle. Already she was quite used to the extraordinary aromas he was capable of producing. ‘That was close,’ she said. She was feeling claustrophobic, and knew then that they had to stay out of the building as much as possible.
Fifteen minutes later, Herbert was in a clean nappy and proper clothes, and just as they were about to leave she glanced around the room and saw, lying as innocently as anything on her bedside table, Sylvie’s gun. Old Widow Peypouquet couldn’t have noticed it, as she had said nothing. She picked it up. She didn’t feel as confident about it as she had the night before. It seemed a lot heavier, and more awkward in her hand. She put it in her bag, but it seemed to weigh her down, as if it was telling her to leave it at home, that only trouble would come if she took it out with her. Resolving to stick to only well-lit public places, she opened a drawer, took the gun out of her bag and hid it under some clothes.
She and Herbert left the apartment, and soon they were at th
e foot of the stairs. Just as she was about to leave the building, she heard a man’s voice. ‘Ah, it’s the rubber baby.’
She turned to see Monsieur Simoneaux from the second floor, standing in his pyjamas and slippers, his grey hair wild, as if he had only just woken up. Monsieur Simon-eaux’s grey hair always looked like this, and she had only ever seen him in his pyjamas and slippers. She had often wondered whether he owned any proper clothes. He must have heard them coming down the stairs, and rushed out to see the phenomenon. News of the delicate medical matter had already reached that far.
‘May I see?’
Monsieur Simoneaux approached the buggy, and looked at Herbert. ‘Amazing,’ he said. He reached out and pinched the baby’s cheeks a little bit too hard. Herbert pulled a face. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘A boy.’
‘He looks very realistic, but Old Widow Peypouquet’s right – he doesn’t feel like the real thing. He feels too rubbery to be a proper baby. I have an idea – let’s find out what happens if you grab him by the ankles and smash him against the wall.’ He crouched down and squinted as he searched for the buckle that would release him from his buggy.
Aurélie wrestled him away. ‘Er, no, Monsieur Simon-eaux. Please don’t. I would lose points if you did that.’
‘Then maybe we could throw him to one another for a while, like a rugby ball?’
‘Best not to. I’m not that good at catching, and it would be picked up on the microchip. I’d lose points.’
‘We could go to the top floor and dangle him out the window, like Michael Jackson did that time. I bet that wouldn’t be picked up by the computer. And if we drop him, it won’t matter too much. He’s only rubber, after all.’
‘No, Monsieur Simoneaux. I have my score to consider, so no smashing, no throwing and no dangling. Please. And if we break him, I’ll be liable for the cost of a replacement.’
Monsieur Simoneaux sighed. ‘Fair enough.’ He scratched his head and looked a little rueful. ‘To be honest, I was trying to lower your score. Old Widow Peypouquet asked me to see what I could do to help. She’d prefer you to fare badly. She’s worried that if you do well you’ll get yourself a real baby, and she’s convinced you’re not ready.’
‘It’s nice of her to be concerned,’ said Aurélie, ‘but I think I’ll be getting a low enough score without anyone’s help.’
‘I hate to go back to Old Widow Peypouquet without any kind of result, though. She was almost weeping with concern for you, Mademoiselle Renard. She said she doesn’t want to see you make a terrible decision. I promised her I would do whatever I could. Could you not just put him on the floor and let me stamp on his head a couple of times?’
Aurélie shook her head. ‘That’s a definite no, Monsieur Simoneaux.’
‘Very well. I have to say though, he’s quite a machine.’ He smiled and nodded his approval of this technological wonder. ‘It’s just as well he’s only rubber. It’s close to zero outside this morning, and he hasn’t got a hat on. If he were real he would freeze to death in minutes. And so will I if I don’t get back in my apartment. As you can see, I’m only wearing my pyjamas and slippers. I’ve not put on my proper clothes yet. I do have proper clothes, you know.’
‘I’m sure you do, Monsieur Simoneaux.’ Aurélie said goodbye, and she and Monsieur Simoneaux hurried away in opposite directions. He had been right about the weather – summer was definitely over. She reflected that if Herbert really had been a rubber trial baby, she would have lost points for taking him outside bare-headed. Monsieur Simoneaux had missed a trick there – the built-in thermometer would have recorded her mistake.
While she waited for the bus to come she felt her way through the baby’s bag in search of his hat, which she put on his head. As she did so, she was haunted by l’esprit de l’escalier: she would have saved a lot of bother if she hadn’t hidden Herbert from Old Widow Peypouquet, and had just told her that she was looking after the baby for a friend who was out of town for a few days. It would have made a lot more sense. The bus came, and they struggled on.
It was still too early for the shops to be open, but she was going to head for Le Marais anyway. She wanted to get Herbert some slightly more normal outfits than yesterday’s effort, and she knew there were some children’s boutiques around there. And besides, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his mother’s scarf. She had been spending so much that money had almost become abstract, and she decided she might as well treat herself. She was going to find La Foularderie. She planned to be waiting on their front step when they opened.
It had been miserable walking the streets of Le Marais with all the shops shut. The last time she had been in the area she had been with Sylvie on a typically busy Sunday afternoon, and they had gone from shop to shop looking at clothes, shoes and all kinds of things they couldn’t afford. For some reason they had both been fixating on expensive chairs that day. It was only later, over falafels, that she found out that Sylvie had recently worked for one of the shops they had gone into, a high-class stationer. When she had left the job, the owner had refused to give her a day’s pay that she was due. She never let anybody get away with ripping her off, so on this trip she had stolen stock worth three times as much as she was owed, to get her own back. She had also, without Aurélie noticing, discreetly taken a bottle of ink and emptied it on to the carpet. ‘Nasty bosses deserve to be screwed over,’ she said, smiling, and Aurélie had to agree. She showed off her haul – two fancy pens, a novelty pencil sharpener and a silver-plated letter opener. She gave one of the pens to Aurélie, who was delighted to be a part of Sylvie’s deft and righteous revenge.
That had been a good day, but it had been no fun seeing all the shops with their lights out. A few key holders had come in early, and were shuffling around as they prepared for the day, but nowhere was open for business. She looked for La Foularderie, but she couldn’t find it. She would ask someone later on.
She made her way to the Place des Vosges, lit a cigarette, put the used match back into the box and thought about how her project was going. It wasn’t going very well at all, and it was only then that she realised she had come to the wrong place to dwell on that. The square was lined with commercial galleries containing work by artists who had made it, or who at least had made it far enough to have their work on sale in the Place des Vosges. She had walked around these galleries on happier days and seen pieces with big price tags. She had never been interested in the show business side of art, but she was neither wealthy nor stupid, and she realised that if she was going to take her work seriously she would have to make at least some money from it as she went along. She tried to picture her current project fitting into one of these galleries, and it didn’t even begin to. It was stupid and misconceived, and so far it had been poorly executed too; she wasn’t drawing nearly as well as she knew she could.
She decided not to depress herself by taking Herbert to look in the galleries’ windows. In the past she had been very impressed with a lot of the work she had seen there, work that had a point, or beauty, sometimes even both. She could really imagine people wanting some of these pieces in their homes, and the thought made her all the more disappointed in her own efforts. Nobody would want to look at it for a moment, let alone own it. She had given up on the idea of her project ever being a triumph: throwing stones at babies was never going to make for good art. Who in their right mind would ever want to hang a picture of a wounded child on their wall?
She didn’t want to be kicked out of college. It would break her dad’s heart. She had no choice but to carry on – even if the project was doomed to fail, she wasn’t going to give up on it. If she could just make it good enough to get the mark she needed to pass her year she would be OK.
Herbert had fallen asleep, and she stubbed out her cigarette, put the butt in the matchbox and brought out her sketchbook. It would be yet another drawing of a sleeping baby, but it was going to be the best one yet.
When the concept had first struck
her, as she had waited for her appointment with Professor Papavoine, she had imagined her stone bouncing gently from the shoulder of someone who would make an ideal subject. Her number one choice would have been a Jesus-type, a tall, handsome man with shaggy hair and a beard, and with eyes that were at once piercing and warm. He would invite her into his hygienically Bohemian life for a week, taking her back to his large apartment where he would recline naked on the parquet reading Balzac and de Beauvoir as she drew pictures and took photographs of him before putting her pencil and camera away, and taking off her own clothes to join him in a union of the artistic and the sexual. And when the week was over he would ask to see her again, and she would think for a while and say, Maybe.
Even as she had been imagining this scenario, she had known that it wasn’t going to happen. It was just a daydream. The other possible subjects she had hoped for, these ones a touch more realistic, were an incredibly photogenic old person so she could somehow trace their personal history through their day-to-day activities, or someone from a marginalised ethnic minority so she could document their trials and triumphs, or even a worn-down office worker so she could follow a narrative trail through the most humdrum working week imaginable. It wouldn’t even have been too bad if her stone had hit The Russian. Then she would at least have found out how he spent the rest of his day. At no point had she imagined that her subject would be a baby, let alone that she would be in sole charge of that baby.
It was falling apart on so many levels. The most obvious difficulty was that a baby’s activities are very limited, and she was personally orchestrating his every movement. An adult would have gone here and there under their own steam, around a life that they had carved out for themselves. She could have captured them at home, at work and at play. But not Herbert. Herbert was just a baby, and the project was supposed to be all about exploring other people’s choices as they navigated the world around them. He was a cute baby, very cute, but that was all he was: a baby. He had people, in this case her, to make his decisions for him. She couldn’t even draw him at play in his own home. It was all wrong.
