And Then Came Paulette (4 page)

In the car Little Lu asked in a whisper why she was so sad, the lady with the donkey. Ludo told him it was because of the storm: the roof of her house was so rotten it had flown away. And now, Madame Marceline was going to die of cold, no doubt about it.

They both remained silent for the rest of the journey.

Once they arrived at the farm they went around the empty rooms trying to find the best place to put the musical instrument. They had understood their instructions well. Not too close to the heat, but not too far away either. As they looked the children asked Ferdinand why he didn't invite Marceline to come live with him. The house was big, there was plenty of room and the roof didn't leak like at her place. He laughed and replied that they didn't know each other well enough to suggest such a thing. But why? He explained that generally you only shared your house with members of your family, not usually with strangers. Why? Because you didn't feel quite right in other people's
houses, you didn't have the same tastes or habits. Why? At that he just said: Because, that's the way it is. Ludo grumbled: That's not an answer. And Ferdinand agreed with him, but he had no other arguments to offer, so he preferred to leave it at that. It seemed he had more pressing things to do than think about such trifles.

Finally they found the perfect place. They put the swaddled instrument on a table. Then they raised the blanket to look underneath, but there was a case and they didn't dare open that. Next time they would ask Madame Marceline to play the fat violin for them, Little Lu said. The other two smiled.

After lunch Ferdinand took the children home.

When they arrived at the restaurant Mireille was busy cleaning the kitchen floor. She shouted at them to keep off the parts she had washed. They had to wait for her to finish before they could give her a kiss. She warned them that Roland was still asleep, so they couldn't go up to play in their room yet. This irritated Ferdinand but he gave nothing away, just muttering between his teeth: What a damn idiot! Mireille acted as if she hadn't heard and offered him a coffee. He looked outside. The wind had started to blow again and it was raining horribly. He refused, saying he was in a hurry. He gave Ludo and Little Lu a kiss and left.

As soon as the door was closed, Mireille turned to Ludo.

“You and me need to talk.”

All that going on the road with their bikes and giving Little Lu a tow, he'd known he'd pay for it, sooner or later. It was only to be expected, it had been his idea and he was the oldest.

But before she had time to get going he asked, innocently:

“By the way, Maman, will there be another big dinner next week?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondered.”

Little Lu made no attempt to hide his disappointment.

“Sugar! That's awful.”

Which annoyed Mireille even more. So Ludo got a real earful.

So, even if she does go on a bit and sometimes says nasty things—she's quite strict, my mother—I still think it's better when she yells at us, not Papa. He always wants to slap us, or smack us. I hate his face when he gets worked up and his eyes look like they're about to pop out. He goes bright red just like that and his voice goes all high, like a lady shouting. When he loses it you have to make sure you're by the door, then you can get away if he lifts his arm. He never runs upstairs after us, especially now he's got so fat. He gets tired out and he starts snorting like a bull. One of these days I reckon he's going to die of a heart attack. Anyway if he did try to catch us, Maman would definitely stop him. He doesn't dare lift a finger against her. He's too scared she'll leave and never come back. But he says his mother was right about bringing up children. She was called Henriette, his mother. Weird sort of a name. Maman, she tells him she hates people who hit their kids. She thinks it's horrible, reminds her of her parents. They used to hit her all the time when she was little. And one day the police came
to get her and they took her away to live with Uncle Guy and Auntie Gaby. They were nice to her. They didn't have any children, so they spoiled her a lot. She tells everyone they're her real parents, but it's not true.

When it's Maman who yells at us, it's easy. You just pretend you agree with everything she says, even if it goes on for hours and in the end you have to cry real tears, jump into her arms, say you understand and you'll never do it again. Then that's it, it's all over. And afterward sometimes you get to have a glass of Coke and a bag of chips before supper. Once Little Lu managed to get some ice cream bars as well. She was really angry with Papa and she screamed it was all his fault she'd had kids, and because of that her breasts were all horrible and spoiled. If she'd stayed single she wouldn't have had any kids and she'd still be pretty. Little Lu was standing outside the door. He heard everything and started to cry like a baby. When she saw him she cried too, even louder than him. And then she took him in her arms and said it wasn't true. She didn't really mean what she'd said; it was just to wind up Papa.

Maybe. But, I think she's right about her breasts. They do droop a bit.

Anyway that time me and Little Lu got to have ice cream bars. And to be honest, I love that.

Ferdinand passed the track leading to Marceline's house. He slowed down, but didn't stop. He told himself she might take it badly, all these visits one after the other. She might think he wanted to interfere. And he wasn't like that. So he went home. It was pelting down and he didn't feel like doing much, except sit by the stove and have a glass of mulled wine. He thought about switching on the TV but first he had a look at what was on and that changed his mind. Nothing but tedious soaps, he'd have to find something else to occupy him. He went upstairs. Seeing the toys on the floor and the unmade bed where the children had slept, he felt a twinge of sadness. At that very moment they were bound to be getting an earful from their mother. That was OK, just so long as she wasn't too hard on them. It was the most he could hope for. He tidied up and made the bed. Then he started to look for little Chamalo, but couldn't find him anywhere. The kitten must have gone out for a stroll. As it was
tipping down, there was no chance of it coming back in a hurry. That cat didn't like water.

Going back downstairs he did a detour via the room where they had put the cello. He lifted the blanket in which it was wrapped but, like the children earlier, didn't dare open the case to look inside.

Finally, on reaching the kitchen, he stood there aimlessly.

The damage caused by the storm at his neighbor's house, the holes in the roof, the leaks in the ceiling, and the cold and damp which had enveloped her house . . . It made him shudder just to think about it. He tried hard to distract himself with something else: listen to the radio, do the crossword, thumb through a catalog. But he kept going back to it. If he started to work out the answer to a clue, invariably he would raise his eyes to the ceiling and see the leaks again. Listening to the radio was even worse. All they talked about was the record rainfall for the time of year and the plunging temperatures.

So he immersed himself in his DIY catalog. His favorite pages, the last ones, were reserved for inventions. The kind that gets entered for the
Lépine
competition, but a little less glamorous. A pan for sweeping up crumbs, a telescopic pole for taking down jars from a high shelf, a left-handed vegetable peeler or a gadget to pull up your socks without bending down. He quite liked the scrub-free magic sponge that cleaned everything from floor to ceiling, all for a very modest sum. But he was afraid he might be disappointed. Better to carry on dreaming that it would work. Carefully complete the order form and never send it off. And so, once again, that was what he did.

At the end of the day he heated up the remains of the spaghetti from the day before, watched the news on the TV and after channel flicking for a while, found a Western. But for once he didn't enjoy it. The girl was beautiful, but after three days riding through the desert, pursued by baddies, with nothing to eat or drink and no chance to wash, she still looked like she'd just stepped out of the salon, with her
make-up immaculate and barely a crumple in her clothes. Usually that didn't bother him, but right now it was all too much.

He switched off the TV and watched the rain outside.

The cat had not returned. He felt alone and depressed, so he went to bed.

But he didn't sleep.

His mind was in turmoil and his emotions all mixed up. Sadness, shame, anger, guilt . . . He was annoyed with himself, hated his coldness and lack of humanity, came up with excuses, but wasn't convinced. So even after the cat came back and despite the purring in his ear that usually had a strong soporific effect, he got to thinking. Asked himself all those questions: if, where, what, how, not to mention why. The answers seemed obvious. But it was all too easy, so the doubts returned. Worn out by all this back and forth, he came up with a solution: the following day he would ask his best friends, Guy and Gaby, what they thought. That would be more sensible. Just as he was about to doze off in the usual way, he asked himself what his late wife Henriette would have made of it all. And at that point it suddenly became clear to him. Five-thirty in the morning. He still had quite a lot to do and a load of feelings to unpick. But above all he had to put the finishing touches to his idea. Without disturbing Chamalo he got up, made himself a cup of coffee and let his mind wander, waiting for it to be a reasonable hour to visit.

Standing outside Marceline's front door, Ferdinand didn't dare knock. He kept going over in his head what he was going to say. Finding the proper tone, the right words, it was tricky. So . . . Hello, Madame Marceline, it's me again. Ferdinand. I've come back to say that I've been thinking all night about it, I've gone over things again and again, I've weighed it up, dissected it, racked my brains and I'll be straight with you: you can't stay in this house any longer. In the state it's in, it's dangerous. The beams are rotten; the roof could collapse at any moment. You have to leave. Urgently. As you know, since my kids left I've been living on my own at the farm next door. For nearly two months now. I have several rooms not being used, with separate entrances. All the modern conveniences. Not so long ago we were three families living there, you know. Three generations. Without treading on each other's toes. So, there you are, it couldn't be easier. You can move in today, stay till the work's been done, for the winter, and some of the spring, of course. Then if you want there's room in the stable for your donkey and a henhouse for your chickens. And . . .

He knocked.

The dog barked and from inside, Marceline's voice, barely audible, told him to come in.

She was sitting on a chair, shaking and looking dazed, with her cat in a ball on her knees, its fur all matted.

“He's come back. I think he's hurt.”

“Do you want me to take a look?”

“Yes, please.”

Ferdinand felt the cat. The dog anxiously tried to stop him, slipping her muzzle under his hand to move it away, whining, begging him to stop. He gave her a pat. And in a reassuring tone said that nothing seemed to be broken, but it must be quite a bruiser this tomcat, it had scabs all over. No need to worry though, in two to three days he would be right as rain. Cats were thick-skinned. Marceline sighed and bit her lips to stop herself from crying.

A pause. Then Ferdinand helped her out of her chair and put her raincoat over her shoulders.

“Come on, Madame Marceline, you can't stay here.”

He took the cat in his arms, and went out of the house first, with her following. The dog followed too.

Marceline was asleep in the armchair, her cat curled up on her knees and the dog at her feet. They were no longer trembling. Ferdinand took the opportunity to go back to her little house to save those things that could be damaged by the water and cover the rest with tarpaulins. When he returned Marceline was still sleeping. He hung the clothes from her wardrobe out to dry. Then he set off again with the dog, this time to feed the donkey and the hens.

Night fell. He went home, added some wood to the stove, and put the soup on to heat. Little Chamalo burst in, thinking it was dinnertime. Coming face to face with the dog, it stopped dead: with hair on end, and pupils dilated, it arched its back; sprang up, spitting like one possessed, and raced off to hide. After a while overcome by curiosity it came back to see the new arrivals. The old tomcat was asleep. No danger from there for the time being. The dog on the other hand was watching it, her tail wagging and her ears down. What was that supposed to mean? When the cat did that it was because it was angry. But the dog seemed content, even wanting to
play. It was the first time the cat had come across a dog. No wonder it wasn't sure how to handle things.

Ferdinand left them to get on with it. He went to fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar, laid the table and nibbled at a crust of bread to stave off the pangs of hunger. The soup was still warming on the corner of the stove. As he went by he lifted the lid to see how it was doing. He tasted it. Too thick, so he added some water. He stirred it. He looked at the time. Marceline and her cat had been sleeping in the same position for more than three hours. The situation was starting to become worrying. He went over and bent down to listen to their breathing. She was snoring very gently, as was the cat. He felt reassured. At that exact second she opened her eyes, saw him leaning over her and cried out. Ferdinand and the tomcat jumped, the dog barked, the kitten fled.

She looked around her, completely disorientated.

“What's happened? I can't remember.”

“The storm? The roof?”

“Has it collapsed?”

“No, no, just leaks. But they're big ones.”

She got up, the old cat in her arms.

“Cornelius!”

“I've given him something to eat. And your hens too. Everything's fine.”

“Are you sure . . . ?”

“Yes.”

He poured out some soup, invited her to sit down and put the bowl in front of her. He offered her a glass of wine. She didn't dare refuse. After two swigs the color returned to her cheeks and she almost managed a smile. They talked of this and that—nothing in particular. She found it more restful not to think too much at present.

At the end of the meal she thanked him for all his help. So kind and thoughtful of him to feed her donkey and hens while she was asleep.
And now this invitation to supper. She was feeling much better, but it was late and really she had to get back. She got up, put on her raincoat, and gathered her things, which he had hung out to dry a little while before. Ferdinand was desolate. He had been hoping he could make her understand his idea without the need to talk about it. But it was no use. He would have to spell it out, now, find the right words. To gain time he asked her if she wanted to look around the house before she left. She agreed out of politeness. They went through the rooms, left empty since his son and family had moved out. Then they went upstairs. He was still searching for inspiration. Finally he launched into a woolly and convoluted preamble where he talked of an idea, which was not entirely his own, because in fact, it was funny, it had been the children who had thought of it first—by now he was off topic—in short since her house was no longer habitable and there was room here, it seemed only natural to suggest, and of course he would be delighted if she agreed, for her to come and stay. They're so logical, my little Lulus, don't you think? As it happens, this is the room where you'll sleep tonight. The bed's all made up. You just need to lie down. Tomorrow you'll feel more rested and you can think quietly about what you want to do. Good night, Madame Marceline. Oh yes, one last thing. Do you like tea or coffee in the morning?

“Tea.”

“That's lucky, I've got some.”

As he went out he patted the dog's head and shut the door behind him. He was pleased. He'd managed to say everything and seemed to have been convincing. It hadn't been so difficult after all. Well, he'd see what she decided the next day.

She remained motionless a long while, with her raincoat still over her shoulders, the cat in her arms and the dog at her feet. It was as though her brain had short-circuited.

“But . . . well all right, good night then.”