Consolation (7 page)

He leans over, places his hand on her knee and looks up at her: ‘You know that you’re going to die someday, too? You know that, my sweet? That you too are going to snuff it?’

‘He really has had too much to drink!’ she protests, forcing a laugh, then thinking better of it: ‘Get up, please, you’re hurting me.’

There is an uneasy silence over the sugar bowl. Mado looks questioningly at her youngest daughter; Claire signals to her to go on drinking her coffee as if there were nothing wrong. Stir, Maman, stir. I’ll explain. Kazatchok makes a joke that falls flat, and the country bumpkin grows restless.

‘Right,’ sighs Edith, ‘let’s get going. Bernard, will you call the children, please?’

‘Good idea!’ adds Charles, ‘pack ’em all up in the big SUV!
Hey
, champion? Now that you’ve got that lovely SUV? I saw it just now . . . Smoked glass, an’ all . . .’

‘Charles, please. You’re not funny any more.’

‘But . . . I’ve never been funny, Edith. You know that perfectly well.’

He gets up, stands at the bottom of the stairs and shouts, ‘Mathilde! Come on, heel, dog!’

Then turning to the assembly of dumbstruck jurors: ‘Don’t panic. It’s a private joke.’

Embarrassed silence suddenly broken by delirious yapping.

‘What’d I tell you?’

He spins around, holding onto the brass knob, and says sharply to the queen of the party, ‘It’s true she’s a pain, your kid, these days, but y’know what? She’s the only beautiful thing you’ve ever given me.’

‘Right. Let’s go,’ says Laurence, who’s had enough, ‘and give me the keys. I’m not letting you drive in that state.’

‘Well said!’

He buttons his jacket, submits.

‘Good night, all. I’m dead.’

4

‘BUT HOW?’ ASKS
Mado.

‘That’s all I know,’ replies Claire, who has stayed behind after the last farewells to help them shake out the tablecloth.

Her father has just joined them in the kitchen with a pile of dirty plates.

‘Now what’s going on in this madhouse?’ he sighs.

‘Our old neighbour died . . .’

‘Which one this time? Old Madame Verdier?’

‘No. Anouk.’

Oh, how heavy the plates seem suddenly. He puts them down and sits at the end of the table.

‘But . . . When did it happen?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘An accident?’

‘We don’t know, I said!’ says his wife, annoyed.

Silence.

‘And yet she was young, she was born in . . .’

‘She was sixty-three,’ murmurs her husband.

‘Oh . . . it can’t be. Not her. She was . . . too alive to go and die . . .’

‘Maybe it was cancer?’ suggests Claire.

‘Yes, or . . .’

Her mother glances at an empty bottle.

‘Mado . . .’ frowns her husband.

‘What, Mado? What, Mado? She drank, and you know it!’

‘She moved away such a long time ago . . . We don’t know how she lived after that.’

‘Always ready to defind her, aren’t you?’

How nasty Mado seemed all of a sudden. Claire reckoned that
she
had missed a few episodes, but had never imagined they’d still be at this point this evening . . .

Charles, herself, and now her father . . . A fine game of skittles.

Oh, it was such a long time ago, all that. But no, on the other hand . . . Charles losing his grip and now you, Papa. I’ve never seen you look as old as in this light . . . You . . .

Anouk. Anouk and Alexis Le Men. When will you leave us in peace? Just look at them, Charles and his dad . . . The grass never grew back after you’d been through here.

Right. Now get out of here. Get lost.

You don’t go shooting at convalescents.

‘Pass me the glasses, Maman.’

‘I just can’t believe it.’

‘Maman . . . Enough, now. She’s dead.’

‘No. She isn’t.’

‘What do you mean, she isn’t?’

‘People like her lot never die.’

‘They do, too! Proof is . . . C’mon, give me a hand, I’ve got to get going.’

Silence. Purr of the dishwasher.

‘She was mad.’

‘I’m going to bed,’ announces her father.

‘Yes, Henri, she was mad!’

He turns around, very weary. ‘All I said was that I’m going to bed, Mado.’

‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking!’

She was silent for a moment, then in a flat voice, looking away, out of the window, at a shadow that no longer existed, not caring whether anyone heard or not: ‘One day, I recall – it was at the beginning, I hardly knew her – I’d given her a plant . . . or a flower in a pot, I don’t remember . . . To thank her for having Charles over, I suppose . . . Oh! It was nothing special, right. A silly little plant that I must have brought home from the market . . . And a few days later, when I’d utterly forgotten about it, she rang at the door. She was in quite a state and she was bringing my present back to me and shoving it into my hands.

‘“What is it?” I muttered, “is something wrong?” “I . . . I can’t
keep
it,” she spluttered, “it . . . it’s going to die . . .” She was white as a sheet. “But why do you say that? The plant looks absolutely fine!”“No, look . . . There are some leaves that have turned yellow, there, look . . .” She was trembling. “Oh go on,” I said, laughing, “that’s perfectly normal. You just pull the leaves off, and that’s it!” And then – I remember as if it were yesterday – she began to sob and she pushed against me to put the plant down at my feet.

‘We could not get her to calm down.

‘“Forgive me. Forgive me. But I can’t,” she hiccupped, “I just can’t, you see . . . I haven’t the strength. I have no more strength . . . For people, yes, for the children, yes, I can make an effort . . . but sometimes even then it does no good, I . . . they’ll leave me anyway, you know . . . But now, when I see this plant is dying, too, I . . .” A veritable fountain. “I can’t. And you can’t make me. Because . . . it’s not as important, you understand . . . Huh? Don’t you see, it’s less important?”

‘She frightened me. It didn’t even occur to me to offer her a coffee or tell her to come and sit down for a while. I watched her blow her nose in her sleeve with her eyes popping out and I said to myself, This woman is mad. She is completely bonkers.’

‘And then?’ asked Claire.

‘And then, nothing. What did you expect me to do? I took the plant, put it with the others in the living room, and I probably had it for years.’

Claire was struggling with the bin liner.

‘What would you have done in my place?’

‘I don’t know,’ she murmured.

The letter . . . She hesitated a split second, then tossed the leftovers from the plates, the bits of fat and the coffee grounds on top of all she had left of Alexis. The ink ran. She pulled the liner closed with all her strength, the plastic tie snapped. Oh shit, she moaned, shoving the bin into the pantry. Oh, shit.

‘But . . . you do remember her, don’t you?’ insisted her mother.

‘Of course . . . Could you just move, there, so I can wipe here with the sponge?’

‘And you never thought she was mad?’ she went, putting her hand on Claire’s to force her to pause for a moment.

Claire straightened her back, blew sideways on a lock of hair that was tickling her eyes, and looked at her mother. Her mother,
this
woman who had lectured her so often with her principles, her morals, and all her good manners: ‘No.’

Then, concentrating again on the grain of the wood, ‘No. I never thought she was mad. At all.’

‘Oh?’ went her mother, somewhat disappointed.

‘I always thought . . .’

‘Thought what?’

‘That she was beautiful.’

Wrinkles of disapproval: ‘Of course she was pretty, but that’s not what I’m referring to, am I, I was talking about
her
, her behaviour . . .’

I figured that much, reflected Claire.

Rinsed out the sponge, wiped her hands, and suddenly felt old. Or was it that she felt like a child all over again, the littlest one.

Which amounted to the same thing.

She kissed her mother’s worried brow and went off in search of her coat.

From the front door she called out a farewell to her father. He had remained within earshot, that she knew, and she closed the door behind her.

Once she was in the car she switched on her mobile – no messages of course – put her sidelights on, glanced in the rear view mirror before pulling out and saw that her lower lip had doubled in size. And that it was bleeding.

Stupid idiot, she scolded herself, while continuing to nibble at exactly the spot where the pain felt so good. Poor little black robes, when you wear them you’re capable of holding back millions of cubic metres of water while you lean against a monstrous dam, but you’re utterly incapable of stopping three little tears: soon you’ll be carried away on the current, drowned by a ridiculous sorrow.

Go to bed.

5

SHE HAD FOLLOWED
him into the bathroom.

‘Air France left a message. They found your suitcase.’

He mumbled three words, rinsing his mouth. She added, ‘Did you know?’

‘Sorry?’

‘That you left your case at the airport?’

He nodded and their reflection deterred him. She turned away and started to unbutton her shirt.

She continued, ‘Any reason why?’

‘It was too heavy.’

Silence.

‘So you left it.’

‘That’s a new bra, isn’t it?’

‘Any chance I can find out what is going on?’

The scene was taking place in the mirror. Two half-length portraits. A second-rate Punch and Judy. They went on staring at each other for a long time, very close but never really looking.

‘Any chance I can find out what’s going on?’ she repeated.

‘I’m tired.’

‘And it’s because you’re tired that you humiliated me in front of everyone?’

No answer.

‘Why did you say that, Charles?’

No answer.

‘About Mathilde, that is.’

‘What is this? Is it silk?’

She was on the verge of – then thought better of it. Left the room, switching off the light.

*

She sat up when he leaned against the armchair to take his shoes off, and it was a relief. If she had actually fallen asleep without removing her eye make-up, that would have been a sign that the situation was really quite serious. But no, she hadn’t reached that point yet.

She would never reach that point. It might flood, but only after she’d done her eyeliner. The earth might tremble, but you go on moisturizing.

You go on moisturizing.

He sat on the edge of the bed and felt fat.

Or heavy. Yes, heavy.

Anouk . . . he stretched out with a sigh. Anouk.

What would she have thought of him nowadays? What would she have recognized? And the postmark . . . Where was that place, exactly? What was Alexis doing living so far away? And why hadn’t he sent a proper announcement? An envelope with a black border. A more precise date. A place. Names of people. Why? What was this? Punishment? Cruelty? A simple piece of information, my mother has died, or an ultimate spit in the face, and you’d never have known a thing if I hadn’t had the immense kindness to spend a few cents to announce it to you.

Who was he nowadays? And how long ago did she die? Charles hadn’t had the presence of mind to look at the date on the postmark. How long had the letter been waiting for him at his parents’? How far had the maggots got? What was left of her? Had Alexis donated her organs the way she had so often made him promise he would?

Swear you will, she said. Swear on my heart that you will.

And he swore.

Anouk . . . Forgive me. I . . . Who was it that got you, in the end? And why didn’t you wait for me? Why did I never go back there? Yes. I know why. Anouk, you . . . Laurence’s sighs put an abrupt end to his ravings. Farewell.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing, sorry. I . . .’

He reached over, found her hip, placed his hand there. She’d stopped breathing.

‘Sorry.’

‘You’re so hard on me,’ she murmured.

He didn’t know what to say.

‘You and Mathilde . . . You are . . . It feels like I’m living with two teenagers . . . You make me tired. You wear me out, Charles . . . Who am I now, for the two of you? The woman who opens her wallet? Her life? Her sheets? What? I just can’t take it any more, I – do you understand?’

Silence.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

He said nothing.

‘Are you asleep?’

‘No. Please forgive me . . . I’d had too much to drink and –’

‘And what?’

What could he say? How much would she understand? Why had he never talked to her about all that? What was there to tell, anyway? How much was left of all those years? Nothing. A letter.

An anonymous letter ripped to shreds, at the bottom of a rubbish bin at his parents’ house . . .

‘I just found out that someone died.’

‘Who?’

‘The mother of one of my childhood friends.’

‘Pierre?’

‘No. Someone else. Someone you don’t know. We . . . we’re not friends any more.’

She sighed. Class photos, buttered toast,
The Magic Roundabout
on telly, not really her thing. Nostalgia was a bore.

‘And you suddenly turn unbelievably obnoxious because the mother of some guy you haven’t seen in forty years just died? That’s what you’re saying?’

That was exactly what he was saying. What a fabulous gift she had, she could always sum it all up, fold, label, put away, and forget. And how he had loved that side of her, her common sense, her vitality, her ability to toss it all out, the better to see which way things were headed. How he had clung to that, all these years. It was so . . . comfortable. And it was probably what had saved him.

So he clung to it, once again. To her spirit, to whatever credit
he
still had left with her, so that he could move his hand and slide it down her thigh.

Turn this way, he begged in silence. Turn this way. Help me.

She didn’t move.

He pulled his pillow closer to hers and curled up against the back of her neck. His hand continued winding up her nightgown.