Consolation
Authors: Anna Gavalda
Contents
About the Book
An international bestseller and French publishing sensation
Consolation
is a dazzling, heartbreaking tale of one man, two remarkable women and an unforgettable transvestite.
Charles Balanda is forty-seven; a successful architect, he is constantly on the move. But from the moment he hears about the death of the woman he once loved – Anouk, the tragically big-hearted mother of a childhood friend – his life begins to unravel until, one day, he finds himself on a Paris pavement covered in blood. But fate brings him one final chance to be happy in Kate, an enchanting young woman, herself damaged but fearless and in love with life.
The resulting story is a triumphant, spellbinding and ultimately consoling novel about the power of a second chance.
About the Author
Born in 1970, Anna Gavalda was a teacher whose collection of stories,
I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere
, shot her to fame (published in Vintage together with her novella,
Someone I Loved
). Her novel
Hunting and Gathering
(
Ensemble c'est tout
) was a bestseller in several countries, selling over two million copies, and was made into a film. Her books have been translated into thirty-six languages. The mother of two children, she lives and writes just outside Paris.
ALSO BY ANNA GAVALDA
I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere
(published with
Someone I Loved
)
Hunting and Gathering
ANNA GAVALDA
Consolation
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY
Alison Anderson
As selfish
and illusory
as it might seem
,
this book, Charles
,
is for you
.
He always stood off to one side. Over there, away from the fence, out of harm’s way. His gaze febrile, his arms crossed in front of him. More than crossed – twisted tightly, straitjacketed. As if he were cold, or had a stomach ache. As if he were clinging to himself so as not to fall over.
Defying us, every one of us, but not looking at anyone. Seeking out the shape of one lone little boy and clutching a paper bag to his chest.
In it was a chocolate croissant, that I knew, and every time I would wonder if it hadn’t got completely squashed, what with . . .
Yes, that’s how he hung on – the bell, their scorn, the trip by way of the bakery, and all the little spots of grease on his lapel as if they were so many medals, unhoped-for.
Unhoped-for . . .
But . . . In those days, how could I possibly know that?
In those days, I was afraid of him. Shoes too pointy, nails too long, and index finger too yellow. Lips too red. And coat too short and much too tight.
And a dark line all round his eyes, too dark. And a voice that was too weird.
When at last he caught sight of us, he’d smile and open his arms. Leaning forward, silently, he’d touch his hair and shoulders and face. And while my mother moored me firmly to her body, I would count all his rings as he held them against my friend’s cheeks, fascinated.
He had one on each finger. Real rings, beautiful rings, precious, like my grandmother’s . . . It was always just then that my mother would turn away, horrified, and that I let go of her hand.
As for Alexis, no. He never turned away. Just handed over his
schoolbag
and, with the other hand, he ate his snack, and they headed off towards the Place du Marché.
Alexis with his extraterrestrial in spiky high heels, his circus freak, his primary school clown, felt safer than I did, and was better loved.
Or so I thought.
But one day I did ask him, all the same, ‘Well, um, is it a man or a woman?’
‘Who?’
‘The, um, the person who comes to fetch you in the evening.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
Of course it was a man. But he called him Nana, his nanny.
And so Nana had promised, for instance, to bring him some golden jacks and he’d swap them with me for that marble, if I wanted, or even . . . she’s late, Nana, today . . . I hope she hasn’t lost her keys . . . Because she always loses everything, you know . . . She often says that some day she’ll forget her head at the hair–dresser’s or in a fitting room at Prisunic and then she laughs, and says, thank God she’s got legs!
But it’s a man, you can tell.
What a question.
I can’t recall his name. And yet it was something extraordinary . . .
A music-hall sort of name, echoes of worn velvet and stale tobacco. Something like Gigi Lamor or Gino Cherubini or Ruby Dolorosa or . . .
I can’t remember and it’s driving me mad that I can’t remember. I’m in a plane headed for the ends of the earth, I have to sleep, I simply must sleep. I’ve taken some pills, just for that. I have no choice, I won’t make it otherwise. I haven’t slept in so long . . . and I . . .
I won’t make it.
Nothing doing. Neither chemistry, nor grief, nor exhaustion. Over thirty thousand feet, so high up in the void, and I’m still struggling like a cretin to rekindle these poorly extinguished memories. And the harder I blow, the more my eyes sting, and the less I see, the further down I fall on to my knees.
My neighbour has already asked me twice to switch off the overhead light. Sorry, but I can’t. It was forty years ago, Madame . . .
forty
years, don’t you see? I need the light to find the name of that old drag queen. That amazing name which of course I’ve gone and forgotten, since I used to call her Nana, too. And I adored her. Because that’s the way things were with them: you adored each other.
Nana who surfaced like a ruin in their life, one hospital evening.
Nana who spoiled us rotten, who fed us, stuffed us, consoled us, deloused us, genuinely hypnotized us, enchanted us and disenchanted us a thousand times. Read our palms, told our cards, promised us the life of a sultan, a king, a nabob, a life of amber and sapphire, of languorous poses and exquisite love; Nana who left our life one morning with a dramatic flourish.
Dramatic, which was fitting. Fitting for him, fitting for them, the way everything had to be with them.
But I . . . Later. I’ll go into that later. I’ve no strength left right now. And I don’t feel like it, anyway. I don’t want to lose them again just now. I’d like to sit a bit longer on the back of my Formica elephant, with my kitchen knife stuck in my loincloth, with all his turbans and make-up and gold chains, from the Alhambra cabaret.
I need my sleep and I need my little light. I need everything I’ve lost along the way. Everything they gave me and then took back.
And everything they ruined, too . . .
Because, well, that’s the way things were, in their world. That was their law, their creed, the way they lived, like heathens. They loved one another, bashed into one another, they’d cry and dance all night and set fire to everything.
Everything.
There should have been nothing left. Nothing. Ever. Nada. Bitter expressions, wrinkled, broken, twisted lips, beds, ashes, ravaged faces, hours spent weeping, years and years of loneliness, but no memories. Least of all. Memories were for other people.
Overcautious people. Accountants.
‘The best parties of all, you’ll see, duckies, are the ones you’ve forgotten by the next morning,’ he used to say, ‘the best parties happen
during
the party. There’s no such thing as the morning after. The morning after is when you take the first metro and they start harassing you all over again.’
*
And what about her? Yes, her. She used to talk about death, all the time. All the time . . . To defy the bastard reaper, to crush him. Because she knew as much, she knew we would all end up there some day, it was her livelihood to know as much, and that was why we had to touch one another, love one another, drink, bite, take our pleasure and forget everything.
‘Burn it, kids. Be sure you burn it all.’
It’s her voice and I can still . . . I can still hear it.
Wild things.
*
He cannot switch off the light. Or close his eyes. He is going to go – no, he is going – mad. He knows it. Sees himself in the black depths of the window and . . .
‘Sir? Are you all right?’
A stewardess is touching him on the shoulder.
Why have you abandoned me?
‘Is something wrong?’
He would like to reply, No, everything’s fine, thank you, but he can’t: he is weeping.
At last.
I
1
EARLY WINTER. A
Saturday morning. Paris Charles de Gaulle airport, terminal 2E.
Milky sun, smell of aeroplane fuel, immense fatigue.
‘Don’t you have a suitcase?’ asks the taxi driver, pointing to the boot.
‘I do.’
‘Well, you’ve got it well hidden, then!’
He chuckles, I turn around.
‘Oh, no . . . I . . . the carousel . . . I forgot to . . .’
‘Go get it! I’ll wait!’
‘No, never mind. I haven’t the strength just now, I . . . never mind . . .’
He’s no longer chuckling.
‘Hey, you’re not just going to leave it there, are you?’
‘I’ll get it another day. I’m coming back the day after tomorrow anyway . . . I feel as if I lived here, I . . . No . . . Let’s go, I don’t care. I don’t want to go back in there just now.’
‘Hey, you
, clap, clap,
my God, yes you, I’ll come to you on . . . horse-back!
Oh yeah, yes, on horseback!
Hey, you
, clap, clap,
my God, yes you, I’ll come to you on . . . a bike!
Oh yeah, yes, on a bike!’
Pretty lively stuff in Claudy A’Bguahana’s Peugeot 407 number 3786. (His permit is taped to the back of the seat.)
‘Hey, you,
clap, clap
, my God, yes, you, I’ll come to you . . . in a hot air balloon!
Oh yeah, yes, a hot air balloon!’
He calls out, looking at me in the rear view mirror, ‘I hope you don’t mind hymns, by the way?’
I smile.
‘
Hey, you
, clap, clap,
my Lord, yes you, I’ll come to you in a . . . jet propelled rocket!
’
If we’d had hymns like this, we might not have lost our faith quite so soon, would we?
Oh, yeah!
Oh, yes . . .
‘No, no, it’s fine. Thanks. This is perfect.’
‘Where did you come in from?’