by Dan Rhodes
Aurélie and Herbert stood on the corner of a busy street, where there were always taxis going by. Now though, for the first time ever, there were no taxis going by. As she waited and waited, the world around her started to lose focus. She wondered whether it was possible to fall asleep while standing up, and received her answer when she fell asleep while standing up. The loss of balance woke her, and when she opened her eyes it was to see an empty cab going by, just too late to hail.
Minutes later another one came along at last, and she wrestled Herbert’s buggy into the boot and got into the back seat, clutching the baby close and hoping the driver was a safe one. She gave him the address, and the next thing she knew they were in an unfamiliar but pleasant street, and the taxi driver was laughing at her. She sensed that her mouth had been hanging open, and she had probably been snoring. At least she had instinctively kept a tight grip on Herbert.
She paid, retrieved the buggy and found the door. She stopped for a while. She thought of her dad, who would never have dreamed of cheating on his wife, and had never found anyone to replace her. He lived his life alone, while these Sébastiens and Léandre Martins and Professor Papavoines oozed around, getting it wherever they could. It was sickening. At least Professor Papavoine’s wife knew what was going on, and even seemed to be an enthusiastic supporter of his behaviour. That was a small consolation. But even so, it was wrong of him to turn sleazy on his students, and she was going to feel no guilt at all about turning up on his doorstep and using him as a babysitter, and his home as a crash pad.
She pressed the bell, and the man himself answered. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Aurélie Renard,’ she said.
‘Mademoiselle Renard!’ He sounded delighted to hear from her. Of course he did. He thought she had been driven out of her mind with desire for him, and was desperate to take off her clothes and rub herself against him, and maybe even his wife at the same time. She wondered how their conversation had gone, and whether his wife had mentioned that she would be bringing a baby with her, and what they were going to do about that, logistically. Maybe they were prepared to wait for the child to fall asleep before stripping her and licking her up and down, or perhaps they had agreed to take turns with her, rather than both going for it at the same time. She didn’t really know how things like that worked, but whatever they had in mind, they were out of luck. ‘I’ll be right down,’ he said.
He buzzed her into the building. The lobby was a lot more spacious than the one in her building, and it was better kept. She didn’t have long to inspect her surroundings though, as Professor Papavoine was running down the steps two at a time.
‘Hello, Mademoiselle Renard,’ he said. ‘What a pleasant surprise. And you’ve brought a friend. Let me help you. We’ll be here all day if we wait for the lift.’ He took Aurélie’s bag and the buggy, and together they went up the single flight to the Papavoine home.
Aurélie looked around. Their hall alone was bigger than her entire apartment. The parquet shone, and instinctively she took off her shoes. It was that kind of place. Dotted around were beautiful artworks.
He saw her looking at them. ‘All by students of mine,’ he said. ‘We buy them discreetly. I don’t want to fuel any resentment or rivalries. You know what artists can be like.’
Aurélie smiled. She knew. She tried to imagine her work alongside these highly accomplished pieces: a video projection of a stone hitting a baby’s face. It didn’t really fit.
‘Come in,’ said Professor Papavoine. He ushered her through to the lounge, another large room with yet more art on the walls and an enormous sofa. She sat down, and lay Herbert beside her. He started happily rolling up and down. He had been doing that a lot more today than he had on previous days. It seemed to be his latest hobby. He was going to need a lot of watching to make sure he didn’t do another of his plummeting tricks.
‘So,’ said Professor Papavoine, ‘can I get you anything? Coffee?’
Aurélie shook her head. ‘Where can I go for a cigarette?’
‘You don’t have to go anywhere. I’ll bring you an ashtray.’
He took one from a sideboard and put it on the coffee table in front of her. He also produced a lighter. It seemed very civilised to be smoking indoors, and in such surroundings. It felt like lighting up in a museum. She blew the smoke away from Herbert.
‘I can’t have you smoking alone,’ said Professor Papavoine. He lit a pipe. Aurélie loved the smell of pipe tobacco. It reminded her of her grandfather.
It was a very comfortable sofa, and as she smoked on she felt her eyes going again. She wondered where his wife was. Changing into her sex gear perhaps, or quietly fuming somewhere. She could well have been bluffing about how pleased she would be to meet her. Aurélie thought back to their conversation; there was every possibility that her voice had been dripping with sarcasm. Maybe she was sharpening an axe, ready to behead the girl she was sure was trying to steal her husband. Then she appeared, all smiles and warm greetings. Automatically, Aurélie put her cigarette in the ashtray and stood to greet her.
Professor Papavoine’s wife kissed her, but Aurélie felt no sexual charge. It seemed she was just being friendly, and putting her at her ease. She was all It’s so nice to meet you, and Please call me Liliane, and I hope I didn’t sound brusque on the phone, but I’m always a little perturbed when I don’t know who I’m talking to and Can I get you anything? She was youthful for her age, slim, ash blonde and very well dressed. Aurélie felt crumpled and red-eyed in comparison.
With both Papavoines there, she said what she knew she had to say. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t want to have sex with you. No threesome, OK?’ She looked at Professor Papavoine. ‘Not even a twosome. It’s nothing personal; it’s just not my thing. All I want to do is sleep. And that’s not sleep. I mean actual sleep. Oh, and just so you know,’ she addressed Professor Papavoine’s wife, ‘there’s nothing going on here.’ She pointed at the professor.
Professor Papavoine and his wife looked at one another, then burst into laughter. ‘You were right,’ said Professor Papavoine’s wife. ‘She did think that.’
Professor Papavoine looked embarrassed, but amused at the same time. ‘I’m very sorry, Mademoiselle Renard,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to forgive my total incompetence when it comes to life in general. There’s no need to worry – we’re not trying to have sex with you.’
‘Why not? What’s wrong with me?’ They laughed, and Aurélie was surprised at having been able to joke while only partially conscious. The release of tension from the atmosphere was palpable. ‘But seriously, that’s a relief. So do you hand out cards to all your students?’
‘Er, no. Please let me explain.’ The professor’s embarrassed look returned.
‘You can tell me later. I’ll sleep first, and give you a few more hours to work on your innocent explanation.’ She remembered the conversation she had been rehearsing as she had lain awake all night, and returned to her script. ‘And because it’s all your fault,’ she said to him, ‘you’ll be taking the baby until I wake up.’
‘It’s all my fault, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is?’
‘Everything. Him, for a start.’ She pointed at the baby. ‘He’s not mine, by the way. I’ll explain when I’m awake. But maybe you’ll be able to work it out for yourself.’
‘OK, I’ll get thinking.’
‘He’s so cute,’ said Madame Papavoine, picking him up and bouncing him.
Aurélie agreed. She tried to imagine how her week would have gone if Herbert had been a plain baby, or lacking in personality. She wondered whether she would have cared about him less. She hoped not, but she suspected she probably would have. She would never know.
‘What’s he called?’ asked Madame Papavoine.
‘Herbert.’
‘Air-bear?’
‘No. Herbert.’
‘Is he English?’
‘Does he look English to you?’ Aurélie was on au
topilot.
Madame Papavoine examined the baby, then shrugged. ‘Maybe a little, around the chin.’
‘But never mind that now,’ said Aurélie. ‘I’ll tell you everything when I wake up.’ She ran through the other points she had intended to raise with them. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Before I forget, one more question – you’re not child molesters, are you?’ She had decided that they didn’t look or act like child molesters, but she felt she had better ask anyway.
‘No,’ said Madame Papavoine, ‘we’re not interested in anything of that nature. We’ll take great care of Air-bear . . . Hair-bear . . .’
‘Herbert.’
‘We’ll take great care of . . .’ She closed her eyes in concentration. ‘. . . Herbert. Now you come with me, I’ll pop you into bed, and you can tell us all about it when you wake up. Don’t you worry about your . . .’ She gave the baby a squeeze. ‘. . . incredibly cute little boy.’
‘Well, as I said, he’s not my little boy. I’m . . .’ On reflection, she didn’t want them to do too much speculating about his provenance and get suspicious and call the police, so she used what was becoming her signature line. ‘. . . I’m looking after him for a friend.’
‘Whoever’s he is, we’re going to have great fun together.’
Madame Papavoine led Aurélie through corridors into a small but immaculate guest bedroom at the back of the apartment. She told her to hang on for a minute, then came back with a large glass of water, which she placed on the bedside table. There was an en suite shower room. ‘Towels here,’ she pointed, and Aurélie could tell from looking at them that they were so much softer and fluffier than the laundry-hardened ones she had at home. ‘There’s a robe on the back of the door. You sleep as long as you like, and don’t you worry about Herbert. Is there anything else I can get you?’
Aurélie shook her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’ll go as soon as I wake up. I just need to get some sleep.’
‘I understand.’
Madame Papavoine left the room, and for the first time in days Aurélie was alone. She closed the curtains. They were thick, and the room was now almost pitch dark. Madame Papavoine seemed so nice. Her blue eyes sparkled, and her smile lit up the room. Even Professor Papavoine seemed OK. He was a lot less sleazy than he had become in her mind. She was ready to believe that he hadn’t been trying to seduce her, that it had all been a big misunderstanding. She would unravel everything when she was able to think straight again.
She supposed she ought to have a shower, but first she would try the bed for comfort. She lay down. It was just right. She fell asleep.
In the living room, Professor and Madame Papavoine looked at the boy as he lay on their sofa. He was grinning up at them. For a long while, neither of them spoke.
Professor Papavoine broke the silence. He turned to his wife, his face drained of expression, and his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Though I am ashamed of it now,’ he said, ‘I had begun to lose faith. I had been starting to wonder whether this day would ever come.’ He returned his gaze to the baby as he continued to address his wife. ‘We must not waste time. I shall prepare the altar, you fetch the knife and ready my robes.’ He looked upwards, to the ceiling and beyond, and closed his eyes. He raised his hands high. ‘Thank you, oh great one,’ he said, addressing an unseen higher power. ‘Thank you for bringing us the boy child.’ He fell to one knee, his arms still raised but his eyes closed and his head bowed. ‘We shall do as we have been bidden.’
He was knocked out of this apparent state of religious ecstasy by his wife, who jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her knuckles. She couldn’t stop herself from laughing, though. ‘Enough of that, Papavoine,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think it’s just as well we never had one of our own. You’d have scarred the poor thing for life with your jokes. I’m still not quite sure how you’ve managed to land us with a baby for the day, but this is a big responsibility. Now, let’s get the toys out.’
She pulled out the hamper containing the things that they kept for visits from their grandnieces and grand-nephews, and started to sift through it. She found a plastic battery-powered tortoise, which, when pressed, played ear-splitting electronic renditions of nursery rhymes. Herbert loved it.
Professor Papavoine looked on. ‘So what do you think of our Mademoiselle Renard?’ he asked his wife.
‘She seems very nice, if a little unhinged. Let’s hope it’s just the sleep deprivation. I wonder if we’ll ever find out what her visit is all about.’
‘We’ll have to cancel lunch with the Thibodeaus,’ he sighed.
‘What a shame.’ She hid her relief. She couldn’t stand the Thibodeaus, and had been dreading this lunch ever since it had been arranged, just as she had dreaded every appointment they had ever made with the Thibodeaus. She looked at Herbert. He was much better company than they would ever be, and her relief grew into elation. She was so happy at getting her day back that she could no longer contain herself. ‘Tell you what, let’s not reschedule.’
‘But they’re your friends.’
‘No, they’re not, they’re your friends.’
‘I thought it was you who liked them. I can’t stand them.’
‘Neither can I!’
‘Why have you never said anything?’
‘Why have you never said anything?’
They fell about laughing at the realisation that for over thirty years each had been stoically enduring these people for the other’s sake. Once they had even gone on holiday with them, spending an entire week on a failed hiking trip, sheltering from the rain inside a Bavarian log cabin, each Papavoine believing themselves to be the personification of self-sacrifice as they tolerated the other’s interminable, humourless friends. They were both drunk on the relief they felt at the thought that they would never have to see them again.
Madame Papavoine had an idea. ‘Instead of meeting them four or five times a year, let’s have four or five Thibo-deau days – days when we do something we wouldn’t otherwise have done. Something that would be more interesting than spending time with them.’
‘Eating my own kneecaps would be preferable to spending time with the Thibodeaus.’
Her plan began to take shape. ‘For our first Thibodeau day, let’s go to Euro Disney.’
‘Yes!’ cried Professor Papavoine. ‘You’re a genius, Liliane! I knew I married you for a reason. I’ve always wanted to go to Euro Disney – I’m going to have my picture taken with Goofy. Fuck the Thibodeaus!’
‘Language.’
‘Oh. Yes. Sorry, Herbert, I was getting carried away.’
The baby looked up at them, gleefully clutching his excruciating tortoise.
‘You are a highly valued visitor,’ continued the Professor. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, we might have been stuck with those boring bastards for the rest of our lives.’
‘Papavoine! Watch your tongue.’
‘Oh. Yes. Sorry again, Herbert.’
Herbert acknowledged this apology by pulling a face. Then there was a squelch, and a smell.
‘Your turn,’ said Madame Papavoine.
Professor Papavoine emptied Herbert’s bag on to the floor, and picked out everything he would need to change a nappy. As he got ready to wipe the child’s bottom, he found himself recalling his unexpected meeting with Le Machine. It all seemed quite serendipitous.
XXI
The arts editor of L’Univers always rose late on a Saturday. His butler was under strict instruction to leave him in peace until precisely noon, at which point he was to bring him his silver breakfast salver and, beside it, an ironed copy of the paper.
When the butler had made his delivery to the four-poster bed, accepted his customary scolding and left the oak-panelled room, the arts editor of L’Univers chewed on a chunk of croissant, and picked out his supplement. He could see at once that something was not quite right. But what was it? He moved the paper around, looking at it from a number of angles, and at last he found the offending detail. It was the
headline. For some reason it now read: The End of Life? Where had the question mark come from? First thing on Monday morning he would track that sub-editor down and have their guts for garters.
He was eager to find out how Jean-Didier Delacroix had skewered his subject. He knew he could trust him to have done it with a delicious deftness, and no little humour. That was why he had chosen him for this assignment.
He began to read. Pure Jean-Didier Delacroix, he thought. This is why we pay you so much, you little scamp. But as he neared the end and realised what his chief arts correspondent had done, he inhaled a chunk of croissant in shock, and began to choke. Turning purple, he reached out and rang his golden bell, and moments later his butler glided in, and after a few hard but futile white-gloved pats on his back, followed by a far more fruitful Heimlich manoeuvre, the errant bolus was dislodged.
‘Save me faster next time, you ghastly little man,’ wheezed the arts editor of L’Univers. ‘Now get me my telephone.’
The butler left the room, and returned moments later, wheeling a gigantic and ancient telephone on a silver trolley. He plugged it into the wall, and went away.
Jean-Didier Delacroix was also in bed, and like his superior he was reading the arts supplement of L’Univers. His was a little crumpled. He had always felt sure that one day he would be the arts editor, and he would have a butler to iron it for him, but now, for the first time in his life, he wondered whether that would happen. Everything seemed upside down.
He had woken in a panic, sure that he had made the biggest mistake of his career. As he thought back to the evening before, he felt he must have been having some kind of breakdown. Was there any way he could really have written what he had?
He stared at the paper, and began his fourth read-through of the morning. It was pure Jean-Didier Delacroix: perceptive, passionate, wise and grammatically beyond reproach, and it was all suffused with his trademark wit. And yet it seemed to go against everything he had ever believed in; he felt as if he had entered a new world, a world in which the old certainties had been swept away.
