This is Life

by Dan Rhodes

  They drank their coffee as Olivier showed off his new crawling skills to his delighted mother, and as she watched him in wonder, Aimée told Aurélie all about her younger sister, how she had insisted on taking him for the week while she was away being the maid of honour at a friend’s wedding in America, a wedding that had been booked before the baby had even been conceived, and from which children were banned. Her friend had turned out to be the worst kind of Wedding Nazi imaginable, and Aimée, her savings drained, hoped never to see the joyless harridan or her dismal, cowed husband ever again.

  In the run-up to the trip, Aimée’s sister had become indignant when it had been suggested that their mother would be the obvious choice of sitter. ‘She’s never been the most responsible person, but she assured me that everything would be fine, that I needed to trust her. Look . . .’ She reached for her phone. ‘She kept sending me these texts.’ She read them out:

  —Olivier is very happy – we’ve been doing potato prints.

  —Olivier has a little bit of a cold today, but don’t worry – I’m giving him lots of cuddles.

  —Olivier and I did baby Reiki today, and he responded to it very well.

  —Olivier seemed to say ‘I love my mummy.’

  Aimée put her phone down. ‘All made up. God knows where she sent them from. And today, this.’ She scrolled through her messages.

  —Oops, I can’t make it round to yours as planned. Hopefully Olivier will be with a girl – mousy hair, kind face, one ear sticks out a bit more than the other – in that square by the Métro about now. Go and get him, quickly. Hope you’re not too late.

  Aurélie had never liked that woman, and now she liked her even less.

  Aimée continued. ‘She’d told me she would be here at nine with Olivier, that was always the agreement, and I was tearing my hair out when she didn’t show up. I must have called her twenty times. She didn’t even send that message until it was gone ten o’clock, and it drove me out of my mind with worry. I’ve never run so fast in my life.’

  Aurélie was relieved to think that she looked good in comparison to Aimée’s sister.

  ‘The sad thing is, I can guess what she’s done. She’ll have run off on tour with a drummer. It’s always a drummer. Maybe I wouldn’t mind so much if she had gone off with a proper musician for once in her life, but a drummer . . .’

  ‘That’s really sad – she must have very low self-esteem. But maybe she’s moved up in the world. Maybe it’ll be a guitarist this time.’

  ‘I doubt it. At best it’ll be a bass player. Let’s see.’ She switched on speakerphone, and dialled.

  —Hi, Aimée, came a perky voice.

  ‘Hi, Justine.’

  —So you got Olivier back?

  ‘Yes, he’s here now.’

  —Sorry I couldn’t be there. I’d run out of something and had to go to the shop at the last minute, so my friend stepped in.

  ‘What did you run out of?’

  —Er . . . cheese.

  ‘Well, that explains it. I can see how important it must have been for you to get some cheese. It’s terrible running out, isn’t it?’

  —It is, yes.

  ‘But thank God your friend was there to help you out. She’s very nice, isn’t she? What’s her name, again?’

  —Her name? You don’t need me to tell you that.

  ‘Don’t I? Why not?’

  —Well, this is typical, isn’t it? I’ve known her all my life – she’s my best friend. She was always there when we were growing up, but you never even noticed her. You and Mother were too busy coddling the baby to ever pay attention to anything that happened to me.

  ‘So the middle child syndrome’s still raging?’

  —I don’t have a syndrome, I just see the facts as they are.

  ‘But never mind all that now. Her name has completely slipped my mind. You must remind me.’

  —It’s . . . er . . .

  ‘You can’t remember it either, can you?’

  —Well, it’s just . . . we always used to call her by her nickname.

  ‘Which was what?’

  —Dumbo.

  ‘Dumbo?’

  —Well, Semi-Dumbo.

  ‘Semi-Dumbo?’

  —Yes, Semi-Dumbo – it’s because of her . . .

  ‘I know why you would call her that, but I find it hard to believe that you’ve forgotten your best friend’s real name because you only ever think of her as Semi-Dumbo.’

  —Well, I do remember her name, as a matter of fact. She’s . . . er . . . Véronique. Yes, that’s right – Véronique. She’s definitely quite Véroniquey. Some people just suit their names, don’t they?

  ‘Are you sure she’s called Véronique? I thought she said it was something else. It’s just I was so pleased to see Olivier again that I lost concentration.’

  —Ah, no, it’s coming back to me now. It’s . . . wait . . . she’s . . . er . . . Aurélie, that’s it. I always get those names mixed up.

  ‘If you say so. Anyway, how’s the drummer?’

  —He’s fine . . . Hang on, no, I mean, what drummer?

  ‘What’s his group called?’

  —I don’t know what you’re . . . She knew the game was up. She sighed. Herbert, she said. They’re called Herbert.

  ‘Air-bear?’

  —No, Herbert. Pronounced the English way. They’ve never made it as a French band, so their manager has made them reinvent themselves as an English band, and they’ve given themselves the most English name they can think of. They sing in English, and pretend they’re from The Deepings, apparently that’s a place in England, and they tell people they’re called things like Desmond and Roy. My one pretends he’s called Rodney. And it’s worked, too. They made up all these fake press cuttings about how everyone in England thinks they’re the new Beatles, or the new Smiths, and they’re getting the bookings.

  ‘And where are you now?’

  —Somewhere between, er . . . Toulouse and Toulon, I think.

  ‘How’s the tour going?’

  —Pretty well. They had sixty people in last night, which is a record. I work the stall, and I even sold a T-shirt – their first one. We were all pretty excited about that. And nobody’s realised they’re French yet. If they ever think someone’s starting to suspect, they just start acting as English as they can by bumping into things and saying ‘crikey’, or drinking too much and being sick all over the place.

  ‘I’m delighted for them. I’m sure they’ll become really, really famous. But never mind all that. Guess what I’ve found out: I know for a fact that you’d never met Aurélie before you gave her Olivier. She could have been anyone. You do know, don’t you, that I’m never going to trust you with him again?’

  —What? Why? You can’t stop me from seeing him. I’m his aunt – I have legal rights, and anyway he’s OK, isn’t he? I don’t know why you’re being so uptight. That girl looked after him, didn’t she? I knew she would. She has a kind face.

  ‘She has an exhausted face right now. She’s done a good job under the circumstances. And what about all those texts you sent, telling me what you and Olivier had been up to?’

  —Well, pardon me for putting your mind at rest. Hey, did that girl tell you about how she threw the stone? That was so funny. How could that ever be a good idea for an art project? What an idiot!

  Now she was telling tales, in the hope that she would begin to look better in comparison with Aurélie. Fortunately, Aurélie had already confessed to the stone throwing. Aimée hadn’t been delighted by the story, she had even cried a little bit, but Aurélie had been so mortified that Aimée couldn’t help but forgive her.

  ‘She told me everything.’

  Aurélie looked at her shoes. She hadn’t told Aimée everything. The sisters’ conversation carried on, but she stopped listening and started worrying.

  Aimée put the phone down. ‘Well, that’s answered the big question. Who is to blame for this mess? It’s me! I’m the one who entrusted Olivier
to a pathological liar with terminal middle child syndrome. That’s the problem with the government’s big scheme to get people breeding. It’s all very well giving people tax breaks to have a third child, but they haven’t thought of future generations. How is the country ever going to function with an underclass of middle children with chips on their shoulders, creating dramas to draw attention to themselves, living in fantasy worlds and lacking direction in their lives? For one thing there won’t be enough drummers to go round. Whatever was I thinking, giving my eight-month-old baby to my messed-up sister?’

  ‘Isn’t he a nine-month-old baby?’

  ‘He’s a eight-month-old baby. He won’t be nine months old until next week.’

  ‘OK, let’s work this out. If he’s Aquarius, then . . .’

  ‘Aquarius? Who said he was Aquarius?’

  Aurélie didn’t have to answer. Aimée sent a text to her sister: What is new boyfriend’s star sign?

  Seconds later, the answer came back: Aquarius. Perfect for me, I know!

  At least this cleared up the mysterious non-appearance of the stranger in yellow.

  As Aimée and Aurélie talked, Aimée went through her suitcase. She had bought some clothes for Olivier while she had been in America. Picking them out for him had been the only aspect of her stay that she had enjoyed, and she was impatient to see him wearing them. She pulled out a red-and-black striped sweater.

  ‘Let’s put this on you,’ she said.

  Aurélie turned cold with fear. ‘I should go now,’ she said, and stood up.

  ‘No, you sit down. You have to see Olivier in his new sweater.’

  ‘No, I’ve taken up enough of your time.’

  ‘Nonsense. Sit down.’

  Aurélie didn’t see any alternative but to do as she was told.

  She popped Olivier on her knee, and took off the top he was wearing. He sat there in his vest, and she put the sweater on her hands, ready to put it on him. Then she noticed something.

  ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Olivier . . . how . . .?’

  She pulled back the strap of the vest, and stared at the wound. It was worse than Aurélie had ever seen it. It was healing, but the scabbing looked awful, almost black, and there was a yellowness and a tightness to the skin surrounding it.

  ‘Aurélie,’ said Aimée, ‘what happened to him?’

  Aurélie looked at her shoes. ‘He fell.’

  Aimée looked at the wound, then back at Aurélie.

  Aurélie could see from Aimée’s face that her explanation hadn’t been adequate, that she needed to know more. And she knew Olivier’s mother needed to know everything, really everything this time. But to tell her everything would be the end of her. She tried to find the courage. ‘He fell . . . on to . . . a bullet.’ Aurélie realised how stupid this sounded. She had to stop slithering around, and start telling the truth. ‘I shot him.’

  Aimée held her baby tight. ‘Olivier,’ she said, ‘what have I done?’

  Aurélie carried on looking at her shoes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  She could feel Aimée looking at her, and she looked back.

  ‘Aurélie,’ said Aimée, ‘this is too fucked up. I can’t deal with it any more.’ She took Aurélie’s bag, with the gun in it, and put it between her feet. ‘I’m going to call the police.’ She picked up the phone.

  Aurélie felt no urge to wrestle her gun from her bag and point it at Aimée’s head to get her to put the phone down. She never wanted to touch the thing again. She felt awful. She was beyond feeling sorry for herself; now she just felt sorry for her dad. He was going to find out what she had done. She loved him so much, and he didn’t deserve to have such a ridiculous and horrible daughter.

  ‘I was drunk,’ she said. ‘It was a big drunken mistake. Maybe you’ve never made a big drunken mistake. If you haven’t, you’re lucky.’

  Aimée put the phone down, and went back to getting Olivier into his new sweater. It suited him very well. She lowered him on to the floor, and watched him dart away. She clamped a palm to her forehead and slumped back in her chair. ‘So tell me what happened,’ she said.

  Aurélie told her everything. Aimée listened in silence, and when she had finished, Aurélie said, ‘Are you going to call the police now?’

  ‘I ought to. People who shoot babies should go to prison.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But when you asked me if I had ever made a drunken mistake, well, guess what – I have made a few in my time. Most of them were pretty trivial in the scheme of things. But sometimes . . .’ She picked up Olivier, and held him close. ‘. . . good things come from drunken mistakes. Wonderful things, even.’

  Aurélie wondered what she meant.

  Aimée continued. ‘A couple of years ago my work transferred me to England, and I made the basic error of embracing the local culture. You’ve probably heard what it’s like over there.’

  Aurélie nodded. She had never been, but she had heard plenty of stories; life across the Channel seemed to be one big drunken mistake.

  ‘One night I drank much too much, much too fast, and nine months later this little character came along. I never even knew his father’s name. I can barely even remember what he looked like. All I remember is that he was English.’

  ‘So Olivier is half English?’

  ‘Yes. You can see it from some angles – particularly around the chin. But he’s still my baby, and I love him no matter what. Anyway, when I found out I was pregnant it felt as if it was going to be the end of the world, and it’s not been easy, but I can’t imagine life without my little boy.’ She looked long and hard at Aurélie. ‘Maybe something good will come from all this too. What do you think?’

  Aurélie nodded. She was going to make sure of it.

  XXXXI

  While Sylvie Dupont was working, Toshiro Akiyama had gone to spend a few hours at the House of Soundwaves, a permanent exhibition of sonic marvels that had been established by a group of enthusiasts, including Le Machine’s sound designer. He had sent her a text message, in comprehensible French: Museum very good.

  She was missing him like mad, and couldn’t wait for her shift to end. She came to the end of a trip around the neighbourhood, and pulled up at the top of Montmartre. She waved off her passengers, and the moment they were out of the car, her friend Aurélie Renard got in, diving on to the back seat.

  ‘Just drive around the block,’ she said, ‘and pretend you don’t know me.’

  Sylvie drove off.

  ‘I’ve got your gun,’ said Aurélie. ‘Thanks for lending it to me. You can have it back now.’ She took it out of her bag and dropped it on to the passenger seat, still wrapped in its tea towel.

  Sylvie drove on, thinking hard. Then she pulled over to the side of the road. She picked up the parcel, and put it in a paper bag that was full of wrappers from her lunch. Three soldiers were walking by, on one of their regular patrols that were designed to reassure tourists that the streets were safe. Two held rifles, the other carried a pistol. She got out of the car, went over to a litter bin, and right in front of them she dropped the bag in. She smiled at them, and they smiled back. She got back in the car.

  ‘I don’t need it any more,’ she said. ‘I have Toshiro now.’

  They drove on.

  Aurélie looked at her friend. She knew she wouldn’t be seeing much of her for a while, as she and Toshiro spent time getting to know each other. But that was OK. She was so happy for her to have found him.

  ‘Sylvie,’ she said, ‘don’t worry. I’m not going funny on you or anything, but there’s something I want you to know.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Actually, no, I’m not going to say. You’ll just laugh at me.’

  ‘Well, you have to tell me now.’

  ‘Promise you won’t laugh.’

  ‘I promise. So what is it?’

  ‘I love you.’

  Sylvie laughed. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No. I just wanted you to kn
ow, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck, because, if you must know, it just so happens that I love you too, you baby-shooting nutcase. Now get out of my car, I’ve got a living to make.’

  They were back where they had started. Aurélie opened the door, and found a middle-aged German couple waiting to take her place. They had a happy black Labrador with them, and Aurélie gave him a quick cuddle as they passed. She was used to having someone to put her arms around, and she was going to miss it. She let the dog go, and it jumped on to the back seat, and sat between his owners. She watched them pull away. When they had vanished over the brow of the hill, she began her long walk home.

  THE LAST DAY OF LIFE

  XXXXII

  Aurélie walked around the same hall where she had first met Sylvie at the college open day. Today it was filled with the second-year students’ finished projects, and they were all there to see what everyone else had produced. She had been really impressed with everything she had seen: people had been working hard and coming up with decent work. She stood in front of her favourite so far – one of the girls had painted what looked from across the room to be a quartet of giant penises, but on closer inspection they turned out to be detailed physical maps of places that just happened to be penis-shaped: Manhattan Island, Sweden, the Republic of Benin and the Kintyre peninsula. They made her smile, and reminded her, as if she needed reminding, that Léandre Martin would be bringing the curtain down on Life at seven o’clock that evening.

  She had mixed feelings about that. It was going to be so strange seeing him again, and she had butterflies whenever she thought about it, which was most of the time. She didn’t know if they would ever be able to recapture the magic of their first meeting; she mainly hoped it wouldn’t be too awkward.

  She moved on from the maps. Another student was holding a free raffle every few minutes. Whoever held the winning ticket got to load up a small cannon with the fist-sized paint pellet of their choice, and fire it at a giant canvas that was leaning against the wall. Aurélie won the round she entered, and she chose bottle green. She aimed and fired, and while she was relieved that it had hit the canvas, it had splattered a long way from where she had been aiming. She decided there and then that her days of marksmanship were definitely over. She was given a round of applause, and was pleased to see that her splatter looked pretty good among all the others. She wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the canvas once it was covered, but she told herself that one day when she had a bigger place she would get him in to help decorate. She hadn’t expected there to be quite so much fun going on.