Consolation (32 page)

‘Does he spit?’

‘Sometimes . . . And his spit doesn’t come from his mouth but from his stomach, and it stiiiinks . . .’

‘Tell me something, Lucas, this place . . . What is it exactly? Is it some sort of circus?’

‘Oh, yes!’ he laughed, ‘you c’n say that again! That’s why Mummy, well, she –’

‘She doesn’t like you coming here.’

‘Not every day, no. Are you coming?’

The door was collapsing beneath a riot of . . . vegetation (Charles knew nothing about botany either), vines and roses, right, that much he knew, but also some sort of bright orange climbing things shaped like little trumpets and other incredible purple flowers with a very ornate heart and some . . . stamens (is that what they were?) the likes of which he had never seen, three-dimensional, impossible to draw, and then a profusion of flower pots . . . Everywhere . . . On the windowsills, along the base of the house, crowding in on an old pump or set on wrought iron tables and pedestals.

Cramped and squeezed and piled together, some with labels, even. In every size, from every era, from cast iron Medici pots to old tin cans, by way of buckets that used to house
highly digestible
granules and huge glass jars where long pale roots were visible beneath the
Le Parfait
label.

And then there was pottery . . . Probably made by the children . . . Ugly, rough, funny; then other pieces, older, unbelievable, an 18th-century basket covered with lichen, or that statue of a faun who was missing a hand (the one for the flute?) but whose other arm was still long enough to hold an entire collection of skipping ropes . . .

Cat bowls, dog bowls, a pressure cooker that had lost its handle, a broken weathervane, a plastic barometer singing the praises of
Sensas
fishing supplies, a bald Barbie doll, some wooden skittles, watering cans from a bygone era, a child’s schoolbag covered in dust, a half-eaten bone, an old whip hanging from a rusty nail, a rope with a bell on the end, birds’ nests, an empty cage, a shovel,
some
threadbare brooms, a fire truck, a . . . And in the middle of all this bric-a-brac, two cats.

Imperturbable.

The inner chambers of Ferdinand Cheval’s
Palais idéal
. . .

‘What are you looking at? Are you coming?’

‘Alice’s parents . . . do they run a flea market?’

‘No they’re dead.’

Charles didn’t know what to say.

‘Are you coming?’

The front door was half open. Charles knocked, then placed his palm against the expanse of warm wood.

No reply.

Lucas had slipped inside. The door handle was warmer still, and Charles held it for a moment before daring to follow.

In the time it took for his pupils to adjust to the change in the light, his senses were dazzled.

The return to Combray.

That smell . . . which he’d forgotten. A smell he thought he had lost. Or couldn’t care less about. That he would have scorned; and that was causing him to melt once again. The smell of a chocolate cake cooking in a real kitchen in a real house . . .

No chance to let his mouth water for long, because, as on the threshold a few moments earlier, he could not contain his astonishment.

It was a
substantial
mess, but it left a strange impression. An impression of gentleness, and cheer. Of order . . .

Wellingtons lined up in decreasing size along several metres of terracotta tiles, another profusion of seedlings (cuttings?) in every window in polystyrene boxes or sprouting from former vanilla ice cream tubs, a gigantic fireplace built into the stone itself and topped by a very dark, almost black, wooden mantelpiece, on which lay the bow to a violin, some candles, some walnuts, more nests, a crucifix, an old spotted mirror, some photos, and an astonishing procession of creatures made out of things from the forest: bark, leaves, twigs, acorns, acorn cups, moss, feathers, pine cones, chestnuts, dried berries, tiny bones, shells, burrs, little wings, catkins . . .

Charles was fascinated.
Who
has done all this? he asked into the empty room.

There was an impressive Aga, in sky blue enamel, with its two large domed lids on top and five little doors on the front. Round, soft, warm, inviting you to stroke it . . . A dog lying in front of the stove on a blanket, a sort of old wolf that began to whimper when he saw them, and tried to get to his feet to greet them, or impress them, but then gave up and collapsed on his blanket again with a whine.

And a huge farmhouse table (or was it from a refectory?), lined with chairs no two alike, and the remains of dinner not yet cleared away. Silver cutlery, plates wiped clean, mustard glasses copyright Walt Disney, and ivory napkin rings.

The dishes were a glorious well-used, delicate collection of every imaginable sort of earthenware vessel – bowls, plates and chipped cups. In a recess in the wall was a stone sink, surely not very practical, where a pile of saucepans teetered in a yellowed plastic bowl. Up near the ceiling were baskets, a meat safe with holes in the fly screen, a shelf covered with jam jars, a sort of box almost as long as the table, concave and filled with openings and notches where the history of the spoon through the ages was tranquilly swinging, a fly paper from another century, with its flies who, ignoring their ancestors’ sacrifice, were already rubbing their legs together in anticipation of all those delicious cake crumbs . . .

On the walls, which must have been whitewashed at the time of the Hundred Years War, were numerous cracks, a still life, a silent cuckoo clock, the dates and names of children along an invisible height gauge, and shelves which valiantly attempted to restore some order . . . They attested to a life that was more or less contemporary with our own, straining under the weight of packets of spaghetti, rice, cereal, flour, jars of mustard and other familiar brands, in what were known as family sizes.

And then . . . But . . . It was the density, more than anything. The last rays of sunlight on one of the longest days of the year, through a windowpane festooned with spiders’ webs.

Like the light of an acacia tree, amber, silent. Full of wax, dust, animal fur and ash . . .

Charles turned around: ‘Lucas!’

‘Out the way, I have to get her out otherwise she’ll pooh every-where.’

‘And what on earth is that?’

‘You’ve never seen a goat?’

‘But she’s tiny!’

‘Yes, but she still does a lot of pooh. Pleeaase get out of the doorway . . .’

‘And where’s Alice?’

‘She’s not up there . . . C’mon, let’s go and look for them outside. Drat, she got away!’

The pooh-monger had just climbed onto the table and Lucas shrugged never mind, it was no big deal, Yacine would collect the droppings and put them in a sweet tin and take them to school.

‘Are you sure? The big dog doesn’t seem to like it . . .’

‘Yes but he’s got no teeth. Are you coming?’

‘Don’t walk so fast, Lucas, my leg hurts . . .’

‘Oh, right, I forgot. Sorry.’

The little lad was truly a marvel. Charles was dying to ask him if he’d known his grandmother, but didn’t dare. He didn’t dare ask any more questions. He was afraid of spoiling something, of being vulgar, of feeling even more of a dolt on such a disarming planet, out of this world, a place you reached by crossing a bridge on the verge of collapsing, where parents were dead, ducks were vertical, and goats could fit inside bread baskets.

He placed his hand on Lucas’s shoulder and followed him towards the setting sun.

They went round the house, and through a meadow of very tall grasses where a narrow path had been mown; the dogs from the boot of the car came to join them, and they could smell the odour of a brushwood fire (something else he had forgotten . . .), and finally could see them in the distance, at the edge of the woods, in a circle, calling to one another, laughing and leaping around the flames.

‘Drat, look who’s following us.’

‘Who?’

‘Captain Haddock.’

Charles didn’t need to turn around, he knew which beast it must be this time . . .

He chuckled.

Who could he share this with?

Who would believe him?

He’d come as a rat exterminator, to grapple with his childhood and sell it off at last so that he could start getting old without a fuss, and here he was plummeting right back into it, dragging his peg leg behind him, no way round it, ouch . . . llamas are temperamental, aren’t they? Yes, he was chuckling, and he would have liked so much for Mathilde to be here . . . Oh fuck . . . It’s going to spit, now . . . It’s going to spit. I can tell.

‘Is it still following us?’

But Lucas wasn’t listening any more.

A light show with shadows . . .

A first silhouette turned round, a second waved to them, an umpteenth dog came to greet them, a third figure pointed at them, a fourth, tiny, began running towards the trees, a fifth leapt over the fire, a sixth and seventh applauded, an eighth got ready to follow, and finally a ninth turned round.

Lucas had told the truth: no matter how he squinted and shaped his eyes, Charles could not see a single adult. This worried him . . . There was a smell of burning rubber . . . Wasn’t it dangerous, all these trainers skidding over the embers?

Then he stumbled. His little walking stick had just dodged away from him. The last silhouette had turned round, the one with a ponytail, and she leaned over just as Lucas jumped into her open arms.

Ding.

Like a pinball hitting home.

‘Hellooo, Mister Spider-Man . . .’

‘Why are you always saying Spy-de-Man,’ he asked, annoyed, ‘in the film it’s Spy-
derrr
-Man, I already told you lots of times.’

‘Okay, okay . . . Sorry, hello Mister Spy-
derrr
-Man, how’s life? Have you come to join in our leap of death contest?’

And she stood up to let him run off again.

I’ve got it, thought Charles, eureka! Little Lucas had been pulling his leg. The parents weren’t dead at all, they’d just gone off somewhere, and the au pair was letting them get up to all sorts of mischief.

This au pair, whom he couldn’t see clearly against the light, was clearly not a very sensible creature, but she did have a glorious smile. With a small imperfection. One of her incisors slightly crossing its neighbour.

He slipped into her shadow in order to say hello without being bothered by the light . . . but he was, anyway.

She had lived too much for an au pair, and everything within radius of her smile confirmed as much, made it fact.

Everything.

She blew on a lock of hair to have a better look at him and, pulling a thick leather glove from her hand which she then rubbed against her trousers, she reached out to Charles and filled his palm with sawdust and tiny bits of wood.

‘Good evening.’

‘Good evening,’ he replied, ‘I . . . Charles –’

‘Delighted, Charles.’

She’d pronounced his name in the English way, rather than the French
Shaarrl
, and hearing his name like that, with such a different emphasis, left him feeling pleasantly flustered.

As if he were someone else. Lighter, more pronounced.

‘I’m Kate,’ she added.

‘I . . . I came with Lucas to –’

He pulled a little sponge bag from his pocket.

‘I see,’ she said, with a different smile, even more incisive, ‘the instrument of torture. So, you’re a friend of the Le Mens?’

Charles hesitated. He knew what was customary, but felt it would be pointless trying to give a girl like this the usual chit-chat.

‘No.’

‘Oh?’

‘I used to be . . . of Alexis, I mean, and . . . No, nothing . . . It’s an old story.’

‘Did you know him when he was a musician?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, then I see what you mean . . . When he plays, he’s my friend as well . . .’

‘Does he play often?’

‘No, sadly.’

Silence.

Back to the customary stuff.

‘Where are you from? The land of Her Gracious Majesty?’

‘Well . . . yes and no. I . . .’ She went on, extending her arm, ‘I’m from here.’

In her gesture she included the fire, the children, their laughter,
the
dogs, the horses, the meadows, the woods, the river, Captain Haddock, her hamlet of crumbling roofs, the first diaphanous stars, and even the swallows, which were having a grand time putting the entire heavens between brackets.

‘It’s a lovely part of the country,’ he murmured.

Her smile became dreamy, distant: ‘This evening, yes . . .’

Then back to earth: ‘Jeff! Roll up your tracksuit bottoms or you’ll catch fire!’

‘It already smells like roast pork!’ someone chimed in.

‘Jeff! The
mechoui
! The
mechoui
!’ came a loud shout from across the way.

And Jeff, before sprinting off again, knelt to roll up his tracksuit bottoms.

Hey . . . ‘lovely part of the country’, that was sucking up, thought Charles, but it was her arm you were looking at . . .

Obviously. Have you seen how she’s put together? All those muscles along such a slender arm, it’s quite astonishing, you have to admit.

Yeah, yeah . . .

Uh . . . Excuse me, but lines and curves are part of my profession, after all . . .

Well, now . . .

A magnificent laugh suddenly knocked Mr Jiminy Crap-Talk straight off his perch.

A flutter beneath a broken rib. Charles turned around very slowly, located the source of the wild chimes and knew that he hadn’t come all this way in vain.

‘Anouk,’ he murmured.

‘Sorry?’

‘She . . . over there . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Is that her?’

‘Who, her?’

‘The little girl . . . Alexis’s daughter . . .’

‘Yes.’

It was she. The one who leapt highest, shouted loudest, and whose laugh carried furthest.

The same gaze, same mouth, same forehead, same rakish air. Same gunpowder. Same wick.

‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

Charles nodded. He was overjoyed, in seventh heaven.

For once the rush of emotion made him feel immeasurably happy.

‘Yes, beautiful . . . but a right little monkey,’ Kate confirmed. ‘It isn’t over for our friend Alexis yet. For someone who has always been extremely careful to put things back in their case whenever they were falling out, he’s going to have a right old time of it . . .’