French Leave (3 page)

I smiled. Just a faint smile. I'd just made a spot on the armrest and now I had to juggle with my Kleenex. What a mess.

 

“And are you going to get dressed in the car, too?”

“We'll stop somewhere just before . . . Hey, Simon? Can you find me a little side road somewhere?”

“One that smells of hazelnuts?”

“I should hope so!”

 

“And Lola?” asked Carine.

“What about Lola?”

“Is she coming?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know?” She looked startled.

“No. I don't know.”

“This is unbelievable. Nobody ever knows anything with you guys. It's always the same thing. Complete bohemian shambles. Can't you just for once get your act together? Just a little bit?”

“I spoke to her on the phone yesterday,” I said curtly. “She wasn't feeling too good and she didn't know yet whether she could make it.”

“Well well, what a surprise.”

Oooh, just listen to that condescending tone of hers . . .

“What's surprising about it?” I said, between my teeth.

“Oh, dear! Nothing. Nothing surprises me anymore with you lot. And if Lola is that way, it's her fault, too. It's what she wanted, right? She really has a gift for ending up in the most incredible fixes. You just don't go around—”

 

I could see Simon in the rearview mirror, a few lines suddenly creasing his brow.

 

“Well, as far as I'm concerned . . . ”

Yes. Exactly. As far as you're concerned . . .

“ . . . the problem with Lo—”

“Stop!” I exploded, in midair, “stop right there. I didn't get enough sleep, so . . . leave it for later.”

 

Then she got all huffy: “Oh, well! No one can ever say a thing in this family. The least little comment and there's a knife at your throat, it's ridiculous.”

Simon was trying to catch my eye.

“And you think that's funny, huh? Both of you, you think it's funny, don't you? It's unbelievable. Completely childish. I'm entitled to my opinion, no? Since you won't listen and no one can say a thing to you, and no one ever does say a thing, you're untouchable. You never stop to question the status quo. Well, I'm going to give you a piece of my mind—”

But we don't want a piece of your mind, sweetheart.

“I think this protectionism of yours, this way you have of acting like ‘we're all in this together and the rest of you can go hang' won't do you any favors. It's not the least bit constructive.”

“But what
is
constructive here on earth, Carine love?”

“Oh please, spare me, not that, too. Don't start on your pseudo-Socrates disabused philosophers act. It's pathetic, at your age. And have you finished with that goop, it really is revolting—”

“Yeah, yeah . . . ” I assured her, rolling the ball over my white calves, “I'm almost done.”

“Aren't you going to use some sort of cream, afterwards? Your pores are in a state of shock now, you've got to re-moisturize your skin otherwise you'll be covered in little red spots until tomorrow.”

“Darn, I forgot to bring anything.”

“Don't you have your face cream?”

“No.”

“Or moisturizer?”

“No.”

“Night cream?”

“No.”

“You didn't bring
anything?”

She was horrified.

“I did. I brought a toothbrush, and some toothpaste, and
L'Heure Bleue
, and some condoms, and mascara, and a tube of pink Labello.”

She was shattered.

“That is all you have in your toilet bag?”

“Uh . . . it's in my handbag. I don't have a toilet bag.”

She sighed, and started foraging in her make up bag, and she handed me a big white tube.

“Here, put some of this on.”

I thanked her with a genuine smile. She was pleased. She may be a first-class pain but she does like to please others. Credit where credit is due.

And she really doesn't like to leave pores in a state of shock. It breaks her heart.

After a few minutes she added, “Garance?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“You know what I think is deeply unfair?”

“The profit that Seph—”

“Well, that you'll be lovely no matter what. Just a little bit of lip gloss and a touch of mascara, and you'll be beautiful. It hurts me to say it, but it's true . . . ”

 

I was floored. It was the first time in years she'd said something nice to me. I could have kissed her, but then right away she calmed me down:

“Hey, don't use up the whole tube! It's not L'Oréal, I'll have you know.”

 

That's Carine all over. No sooner does she suspect you might catch her red-handed in a moment of weakness than, systematically, after the caress, she plants the needle.

Pity. She's missing out on a lot of good moments. It would have been a good moment for her if I'd wrapped myself around her neck without warning. A big bare kiss, between two trucks . . . Nope. She always has to spoil everything.

I often think I ought to take her to my place as an intern for a day or two to give her a few lessons in life.

So that she could let her guard down for once, let herself go, roll up her sleeves, and forget about other people's miasma.

It makes me sad to see her like that, straitjacketed by all her prejudices and incapable of tenderness. And then I remember that she was raised by the dashing Jacques and Francine Molinoux at the far end of a dead-end street in the residential outskirts of Le Mans and I figure that, all things considered, she isn't doing so badly after all . . .

 

The cease-fire didn't last, and Simon was used for target practice.

“You're driving too fast. Lock the doors, we're getting near the tollbooth. What on earth is that on the radio? I didn't mean twenty miles an hour though, did I? Why'd you turn the A/C off? Watch out for those bikers. Are you sure you've got the right map? Can't you read the road signs,
please?
It's so stupid, I'm sure the gas cost less back there . . . Be careful in the curves, can't you see I'm painting my nails? Hey . . . are you doing it on purpose, or what?”

 

I can just make out the back of my brother's neck in the hollow space of his headrest. That fine, straight neck, his hair cut short.

I wonder how he can stand it, I wonder if he ever dreams of tying her to a tree and running off as fast as his legs can carry him.

Why does she speak to him like that? Does she even know who she's talking to? Does she even know that the man sitting next to her was the god of scale models? The ace of Meccano sets? A Lego System genius?

A patient little boy who could spend several months building an awesome planet, with dried lichen for the ground and hideous creatures made of bread rolled in spiders' webs?

A stubborn little tyke who entered every contest and won nearly all of them: Nesquik, Ovomaltine, Babybel, Caran d'Ache, Kellogg's, and the Mickey Mouse Club?

One year, his sand castle was so beautiful that the members of the jury disqualified him: they claimed he'd had help. He cried all afternoon and our granddad had to take him to the crêperie to console him. He drank three whole mugs of hard cider, one after the other.

First time he ever got roaring drunk.

 

Does she even know that for months her good little lapdog of a hubby wore a satin Superman cape day and night that he folded up conscientiously in his schoolbag whenever it was time to go through the gate into the schoolyard? He was the only boy who knew how to repair the photocopy machine in the town hall. And he was the only one who'd ever seen Mylène Carois's underpants—she was the butcher's daughter, Carois & Fils. (He hadn't dared to tell her that he was not all that interested.)

 

Simon Lariot, a discreet man, who'd always made his own sweet way, gracefully, without bothering a soul.

 

Who never threw tantrums, or whined, or asked for a thing. Who went through prep school and got into engineering school without ever grinding his teeth or resorting to Tenormin. Who didn't want to make a big deal when he did well, and blushed to the tips of his ears when the headmistress of the Lycée Stendhal kissed him in the street to congratulate him.

The same big boy who can laugh like an idiot for exactly twenty minutes when he's smoking a joint and who knows
every single
trajectory of
every single
spaceship in
Star Wars.

I'm not saying he's a saint, I'm saying he's better than one.

 

Why, then? Why does he let people walk all over him? It's a mystery to me. I've lost track of the number of times I've wanted to shake him, to open his eyes and get him to pound his fist on the table. Countless times.

One day Lola tried. He sent her packing and barked that it was his life, after all.

Which is true. It's his life. But we're the ones who are saddened by it.

Which is idiotic, in a way. We've got more than enough to keep us busy on our own turf.

 

He opens up the most with Vincent. Because of the Internet. They write each other all the time, send each other corny jokes and links for websites where they can find old vinyl LPs and used guitars and other model enthusiasts. Simon made himself a great friend in Massachusetts, they swap photos of their respective remote-controlled boats. The guy's name is Cecil (Simon can't pronounce it right, he says, See-sull) W. Thurlington, and he lives in a big house on Martha's Vineyard.

Lola and I think it sounds really . . . chic. Martha's Vineyard . . . “The cradle of the Kennedys,” as they say in
Paris Match.

We have this fantasy where we take the plane and then go up to Cecil's private beach and we shout, “Yoo-hoo! Darling See-sull! We are Simon's sisters! We are so very ahn-shahn-tay!”

We picture him wearing a navy blue blazer, with an old rose cotton sweater thrown over his shoulders, and off-white linen slacks. Straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad.

When we threaten to dishonor Simon with our plan, he tends to lose some of his cool.

 

“Hey, are you doing it on purpose or what?”

“Well how many coats do you have to put on, anyway?” he says eventually.

“Three.”

“Three coats?”

“Base, color, and fixer.”

“Oh . . . ”

“Be careful, and at least warn me when you're about to brake.”

He raises his eyebrows. No. Correction. One eyebrow.

 

What can he be thinking when he raises his right eyebrow like that?

 

We ate rubbery sandwiches at one of those freeway rest stops. It was revolting. I'd been plugging for a
plat du jour
at one of the truck stops but “they don't know how to wash the lettuce.” True. I'd forgotten. So, three vacuum wrapped sandwiches, please. (Infinitely more hygienic.)

“It may not be good, but at least we know what we're eating!”

That's one way of looking at it.

 

We were sitting outside next to the garbage dumpsters. You could hear “brrrrammm” and “brrrroommm” every two seconds but I wanted to smoke a cigarette and Carine cannot stand the smell of tobacco.

“I have to use the restroom,” she announced, with a pained expression. “I don't suppose it's too luxurious . . . ”

“Why don't you go in the grass?” I asked.

“In front of everyone? Are you crazy?”

“Just go a little bit further, that way. I'll come with you if you want.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I'll get my shoes dirty.”

“I don't think so, the time it will take you . . . ”

She got up without condescending to answer.

“You know, Carine,” I said solemnly, “the day you learn to enjoy having a wee in the grass, you'll be a much happier person.”

She took her towelettes.

“Everything is just fine, thank you.”

 

I turned to my brother. He was staring at the cornfield as if he were trying to count every single ear. He didn't look too great.

“You okay?”

“I'm okay,” he replied, without turning around.

“Doesn't look it.”

He was rubbing his face.

“I'm tired.”

“What of?”

“Of everything.”

“You? I don't believe you.”

“And yet it's true.”

“Is it your work?”

“My work. My life. Everything.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Why wouldn't I tell you?”

 

He had his back to me again.

“Yo, Simon! Hey, what's going on? Don't talk like this. You're the hero of the family, in case you need reminding.”

“Well, yeah, that's kind of the problem . . . the hero is tired.”

 

I was speechless. This was the first time I'd ever seen him in such a state.

If Simon was beginning to have his doubts, where were we headed?

 

Just then—and to me this was a miracle, although on the other hand it doesn't surprise me, and I kiss the patron saint of brothers and sisters who has been watching over us now for nearly thirty-five years, and who has never been out of work, poor guy—his cell rang.

It was Lola, who had finally made up her mind, and was asking him if he could stop and pick her up at the station in Châteauroux.

 

Our spirits immediately revived. Simon put his cell back in his pocket and asked me for a cigarette. Carine came back, scrubbing her arms right up to her elbows. She immediately reminded her husband of the precise number of cancer victims who had died because of . . . He gave a limp wave of his hand as if he were chasing a fly and she walked away, coughing.