by Dan Rhodes
The cameras rolled, and the gentlemen of the press settled back and let the lilting folk-tinged ballad wash over them. Though they would deny it if confronted, some were seen to wipe tears from their eyes.
XXXXIV
Monsieur Eric Rousset and Doctor Élise Rousset stood in the wings of Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique, peering out at Life. It had been a good run for both of them, and they were going to miss it.
The doctor’s duties had been light. Le Machine had been in good health throughout, his only difficulty being a mild but persistent cold over Christmas. His imaginary knee trouble had given her more to do than anything. He hadn’t wanted to inconvenience her, and after the first times, he had always waited for her to be on a routine visit to the venue rather than ask to see her. She always went away with a message for his new girlfriend, and Élise usually had a message to deliver to him. She had thought this was very romantic, and she hoped it worked out for them. She thought his girl was playing things very well, staying in the background and not bugging him, while letting him know just often enough that she was thinking of him, and would be there when it was all over.
Her only uncomfortable task had been to relay the news to his manager that after the show he would be met by his new girlfriend.
Le Machine’s manager had taken the news coldly, and Élise had read between the lines. The doctor had become a familiar face among the crew, and was kept up-to-date with the backstage intrigue; she had just found out that the sound designer was going to be taking Le Machine’s place in the luxury hotel suite, and that both he and the manager were surprised by how much they were looking forward to it. They had even practised a couple of times behind his mixing desk.
Élise was looking forward to giving Le Machine his final medical. They would at last be able to talk freely. She felt as if they had become close over the course of the run, and she was interested in finding out whether or not they really had done. Maybe once they were able to talk they would find they had nothing to say. However things turned out, it had been a great twelve weeks for her. She felt proud to have played a part in such an incredible event.
Monsieur Eric Rousset could not have been happier. The venue had been packed for the entire run; people had even gone there on Christmas Day, and a full house had seen in the New Year with Le Machine, who on the stroke of midnight had fired a champagne cork into the crowd. All the old cinema seats and spare memorabilia had been sold, and he now had more than enough money to make his refurbishment something quite spectacular. His cut of the box office proceeds had been paid out as they had gone along, and he had spent the preceding weeks booking in the works, and falling in love with the Internet as he built a website with an online box office.
The programme was filling up, as he got ready for the big relaunch in the summer. He was going to turn one of the small screens into a bar, papered with salvaged vintage posters, and fill the main screen with a smaller number of incredibly comfortable chairs. People would be invited to take their drinks through. He wanted his old customers to return, but he also wanted to attract a younger clientele. The art crowd had been a good place to start, and by leafleting Life he had already built up a mailing list of thirty thousand. Tickets were already selling for his re-opening season, which was going to feature the French debut of the 1960s Welsh language classic, Girls Doing Each Other’s Hair. The director, Aneurin Lewis, was now ninety-nine years old, but he had agreed to leave his nursing home in Llandeilo and mark his one-hundredth birthday with an appearance at a Q&A session after a screening. Nearly all the tickets for that were already gone.
He peered out at the man he had to thank. He couldn’t wait to shake his hand, look him in the eye and thank him from the bottom of his heart. He was going to present him with a free lifetime pass so he could come to any film he wanted, whenever he wanted. He hoped they would always be in touch. He had been dropping hints to Élise and Thao, telling them what a fine specimen he was, and how his sperm would be ideal for baby-making purposes. It’s good stuff, he had told them over dinner the night before. You can tell just by looking at it.
From his vantage point, Monsieur Rousset could see some of the audience. The place was packed. He could hardly believe that very soon it would all be over, and he made the most of these last few minutes.
Aurélie Renard and Sylvie Akiyama had found seats in the balcony. They watched Léandre Martin as he paced up and down, and Aurélie’s butterflies were now constant. It was so strange to think that very soon she and he would be alone together. He had requested her presence backstage, asking her to visit him after his medical, when he had put his clothes back on. She had accepted.
For days she had been agonising over what to wear, and on Sylvie’s advice she had decided on the same clothes she had been wearing the first time they met. Added to this was a scarf that she had bought at La Foularderie. The shop had been exactly the wonderland she had been led to believe it would be, and it had taken her over two hours to make her final choice; not a minute of that time had been wasted, because she had narrowed their entire stock down to exactly the right scarf for her. Whenever she had worn it, which had been every day since, she had felt her spirits lift. It wasn’t just cosmetic either; there was snow on the ground, and it was doing a good job of stopping her from freezing.
She wondered what she and Léandre were going to say to each other. She wished there was a way of telling whether things were going to work out between them, but whatever the future held, she was looking forward to giving it a try. She just hoped he would grow his hair back straight away. He looked a lot better with eyebrows.
With minutes left to go, Le Machine walked over to the urinal, and out came a light yellow stream, to the familiar accompaniment of cheers and chants. Even Sylvie and Aurélie found themselves joining in. Le Ma-chine! they chanted, Le Ma-chine! Le Ma-chine! Everybody knew it would be the final one.
Something about this sight made Sylvie remember something. She dug into the pocket of her duffel coat, and pulled out a parsnip. She handed it to Aurélie, who took it, and smiled her thanks. She quite liked parsnips whenever she found herself eating one, but she rarely thought to buy them.
It was too loud in there for Sylvie to tell her the story behind the vegetable; she would have to do that another time.
The day after saying goodbye to Sylvie, Lucien had joined a coachload of Japanese tourists as they started a week-long trip through the French countryside. He held himself together as best he could, telling them all about the places they were going to see, and answering their questions, but sometimes he couldn’t help but let slip a sigh, and every once in a while a tear glided down his cheek. Soon the holiday makers had found out everything that had happened. They all felt very sorry for him.
Two days into the trip they had arrived at a monastery in the Loire Valley, and the tourists had disembarked to spend some time looking around the grounds before heading to the shop to buy the monks’ famous honey. When it was time to go, they all got back on board, and just as they were about to leave they realised that Lucien was not with them. Wait, they shouted to the driver, wait for Lucien, but the driver seemed not to understand them. Just as the coach pulled away, Lucien appeared at the monastery gate, dressed in a habit, and with a perfect circle shaved into his hair. He raised his hand in goodbye.
They all hoped he would find the contentment he sought. They waved until the coach rounded a bend and he was lost from view. They all agreed that he seemed to have a new serenity about him. They would have to make do without an interpreter for the rest of the trip, but everybody understood, and nobody complained.
Lucien settled into monastic life very quickly, and after a few weeks he found it in his heart to write to Toshiro, to ask him to visit and tell him how things were going with him and Sylvie. Toshiro made the journey, and stayed at the monastery for the night. He spent several hours walking around the grounds with Lucien. Neither of them said very much, but Lucien was grateful to Toshiro for travelling all that wa
y. Toshiro told him about Sylvie starting her course, and their move into a new apartment. He waited for a good moment to tell him about the wedding, but it never seemed to arrive. He was relieved when Lucien beat him to it. He had noticed Toshiro’s ring, and asked him about it.
Lucien offered his congratulations, and asked to see some photos.
Toshiro took out his phone, and scrolled through a few pictures from the day. The wedding had taken place on Sylvie’s trip to meet his family, and she had worn a traditional Japanese dress. She looked so beautiful, and she and Toshiro looked overjoyed to be with one another. It was good to see Monsieur and Madame Akiyama again, too. Even Monsieur Akiyama was smiling broadly. Akiko was in some of the photos, and she looked beautiful too, but it was Sylvie who really shone.
‘Thank you, Toshiro,’ said Lucien, handing the phone back to him.
As a parting gift he had offered Toshiro some vegetables. He explained that he spent most of his day tending the crops, and he was looking forward to the spring and summer, when he would be kept very busy. He told him he still wasn’t entirely convinced by the religious aspect of monastic life, but the winter vegetables had been a great comfort to him.
Toshiro accepted his gift of eight parsnips and a swede, and assured Lucien that he would be back in the summer with more news from their lives. Lucien told him that the harvest would be a little more enticing at that time of year, that he would be able to send him home with plums, courgettes and runner beans.
Toshiro told him he was looking forward to them. He said goodbye, and began the long journey back to his wife.
Le Machine emptied the jug into the big urine bottle, which he sealed for the last time. There was an incredible amount of liquid in there. Likewise, there was a deep brown slurry in the faeces bottle. The other containers were less spectacular, but interesting nonetheless. He had scooped out no more than a raisin-size globule of earwax, his fortnightly toenail and fingernail clippings amounted to very little, and his cold had resulted in a fairly substantial green slime in a jar. There were body hairs and skin flakes, and there was semen and sweat.
He walked up and down, looking at it all. This was what he had left behind these last twelve weeks. He could see that people were astonished and disconcerted by the thought that they too would have left a comparable trail over the same period of time. They had been working, and sleeping, and making love, or not making love, and doing whatever else they had done, and without giving it any particular thought they had left so much behind. Above all, though, they were amazed – by their own bodies, and by the strangeness of life.
Léandre Martin had no idea what was going to happen to him. It was too early to say whether he would ever be ready to present Life again, and he had butterflies whenever he thought of Aurélie, which was all the time. He had no idea whether or not they were going to end up together, but he couldn’t wait to find out. Most of all, he just wanted to see her again, to put his arms around her and find out what the future had in store.
He checked the time on the clock in the wings. There was one minute to go. He walked to the end of the runway. He looked around, trying to pick out Aurélie’s face from the five hundred and thirty that were staring at him. He couldn’t see her, but just the thought that she was out there was enough for him to end his exhibition on a high. He smiled as he listened to the sound of his body, and just as suddenly as it had started, the lights went down and the sound shut off.
Before anybody’s eyes had a chance to adjust to the darkness, Léandre Martin walked back along the runway, across the stage and into the wings. Applause thundered through the building.
And that was the end of Life.
XXXXV
A few kilometres away from Le Charmant Cinéma Érotique, another light went out.
Dominique Gravoir had not been well for weeks. He had caught a winter cold, which was nothing unusual, but this time it was as if he had invited it to stay. His mother held his hand. He was thinner than he had ever been, and his breathing was so shallow it was barely perceptible. She let go of his hand, and placed her fingers on his forehead, gently rubbing it, and as she whispered words of love, she felt the room turn cold.
She carried on rubbing his forehead, and whispering words of love. She hoped he had known how much of a difference he had made to so many lives.
‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, my baby boy.’
Table of Contents
Title page
Acknowledgments and Copyright page
Dedication page
Contents
MERCREDI
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
JEUDI
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
VENDREDI
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
SAMEDI
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
DIMANCHE
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
LUNDI
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
MARDI
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
MERCEDI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX
Chapter XXXXI
THE LAST DAY OF LIFE
Chapter XXXXII
Chapter XXXXIII
Chapter XXXXIV
Chapter XXXXV
