Loving Amélie (13 page)

Paul and Chris returned to the
apartment to pour another glass of Bordeaux; and to plug in the baby intercom.
Paul sat with his palms together, as though in prayer, while they listened to
the first halting lines of
Le Petit Prince
, read in earnest rotation by the two angelic
babysitters to their tiny charge.

“This is, you know, a lesson
for adults disguised as a children’s story?”

“I didn’t know,” said Chris.
“The cover misled me.”

“Tonight, it makes no
difference. It is a great book. I re-read it often.”

“I want her to learn French as
well as English,” Chris continued. “Although quite how I will manage that…”

“Are you idiot Englishman?”
asked Bénard, although rhetorically, tapping the side of his head. “You must
learn: London must be full of schools for the beginner. Did your brother not
learn the masterful language whilst studying in France?”

“Bits and pieces,” said Chris.
“Enough, I suppose.”

“Then
do
it! It will be a fine start for the
piglet; and for your understanding of cuisine.”

“Yes: I would like her to have
opportunities; maybe that I didn’t have.”

Bénard sat up with a small
hiccup and surveyed his new friend with eyes that remained sharp in a
wine-ruddied face: like pebbles resisting being washed away by the current of a
stream.

“You do her the best service if
you remember you are fashioned from opportunities you
have
had,” he said. “You are bestowed
with the greatest gift and honour in being her papa.”

“And what about you?” said
Chris, afraid the wine might transport him from wistful to maudlin as he felt
regret in the pit of his stomach that Amélie’s mother wasn’t travelling with
them: to Paris, of all places, where she was born. “Have you always lived
here?”

“Yes,” said Bénard. “Quite
literally,
here
.”
He signified his surroundings with a flourish of his hands. “This used to be my
family home – mine and Edith’s. Our father was a psychiatrist of some
note.”

“Should I have heard of him?”

“Are you familiar with Parisian
psychiatrists?” said Bénard, with a grunt. “Perhaps the
note
was not that loud outside of the
profession. He did, however, have clients from the world of show business and
politics.”

“You must be proud of him?”

“He is dead,” said Bénard, in
part an answer. “But it interests me that you say that like a question. This
house was his practice: our home. Downstairs, where you will have your
breakfast, was his office: a splendid room that Edith and I were only allowed
to enter with special dispensation.”

“You make it sound like a papal
visit.”

“He had a glorious view from
his window onto the garden. There is a pond out there: a small lake; with
lilies and birds,” said Bénard. “And yet he had his desk facing the window so
he could see the garden but his patients could not. Don’t you think you would
want your patients to see the beautiful garden?”

Certain that this was a
conundrum the Frenchman would have recounted many times before, to himself as
well as others over a bottle or two of wine, Chris replied:

“I wouldn’t want to prejudge an
eminent psychiatrist. Perhaps he thought the garden might be a distraction?”

Cécile made a slight protestation
that it was her turn to read; admonished by her sister for raising her voice:
although Amélie appeared to be at peace in the thick of the gentle tussle.

“Me, I think that distraction
would be a good place to start; with someone who has a troubled mind.”

“You make a good point,” said
Chris. “Were you not tempted to follow in his footsteps?”

“I did, briefly,” Bénard
replied. “But I did it, I think, to make sense of why my father, who mended so
many lives, left my mother with a completely broken one. It was a short and not
very brilliant career. I prefer the hospitality business: it is much less
complicated.”

“I will drink to that,” said
Chris. “What happened to your mother?”

“She finally received, thirty
years on, the diagnosis she deserved. She had suffered chronic post- natal
depression,” said Bénard. “My father had either missed it, or chose to ignore
it, because he was distracted by the wife of the French Minister of the
Interior. An altogether more straightforward diagnosis.”

“Oh. God.”

Paul Bénard drew a hefty sigh:

“That is a gloomy end to our
evening; and we have hardly begun to discuss your visit!” he declared. “Let me
see: your Amélie is too young to appreciate the Eiffel Tower or the
Louvre.
Save
that for when she is running around like Sophie and Cécile, asking questions.”
He leaned forward and lightly struck his friend’s knees. “We need this visit to
be about
you.
Tomorrow, I will send you to the
Cimetière du Père-Lachaise.
”

“Isn’t that a graveyard?”

“It is a place of the dead,”
said Bénard with a resolute nod. “But it has grace and elegance: and the sense
of mortality will flush out your needy English soul and refresh your spirit.
Your Oscar Wilde is buried there; and Jim Morrison.”

The two men listened as the
children closed the book, whispered their goodnights to baby Amélie and began
to pitter patter back down the corridor:

“Damn!” their uncle cursed,
quietly. “I missed my favourite line:
Why do you drink? Pour oublier; to forget. To
forget what? To forget that I drink!
”

He chortled, as much to himself
as to Chris. He hugged his nieces, ruffled their hair and they were despatched
to an unrented room for the night: it seemed a familiar routine.

“Goodnight, Paul,” said Chris,
embracing his friend; who planted a kiss on both his cheeks.

“Goodnight. I will look forward
to annoying you at breakfast. Sleep.”

Before he got into bed, Chris
sent the photo of Amélie with her French companions to her mother:

“We are happy in Paris. We love
you.”

Chapter Thirteen

Between the ages of ten and thirteen,
Chris had a miserable time with asthma attacks. It was the worst time for a boy
to be “let off” cross country; or relegated to substitute for the away football
games “just in case” he couldn’t cope with a full match.

He watched in mute dismay as the
herd of running boys his own age spilled back into the changing rooms, like
inoculated cattle: heaving smelly breaths; stamping mud spattered legs; wiping
sweaty foreheads on their sleeves. Some looked like they were about to throw
up: others, infamously,
had
thrown up somewhere around the course. All were exhausted,
repulsed by the physical strain inflicted upon them by their ordeal: but they
were united in this ordeal in a way that made Chris feel like a weak and
jealous outsider – destined to watch while others took part: usually with
the girls (who ran their cross country on another day) and the one or two boys
who occasionally dropped out owing to casual ill-health.

His PE teacher Mr Kendrick
sometimes intimated that he should “have a go”; but Chris’s fear of a
debilitating attack and, primarily, of his mother’s near hysterical reaction to
one of these, was too much for him to take the risk. So he was destined, for
these few years, to stand on the sidelines and nurse the lump in his throat
that might either dissolve into silent angry tears in a cubicle in the boys’
loos or explode into a tirade of bitter abuse should anyone ask why he wasn’t
running.

He grew out of this sense of
dismay as years rolled by and churned up achievements for him in different
ways: he was the best in his class at art and woodwork, for example. He was
also a contender at judo: making up for the restrictions imposed on him by weak
lungs with sheer determination and practice. But the lump in his throat was in
the habit of returning whenever he felt out of his depth and powerless to do
anything about it.

It plagued him whenever he sat
looking at his mobile phone, willing it to bring Amélie back to him: convinced
there was nothing he could say or do to make this happen. The small, shiny
gadget became the portal through which he could access or be denied his
ultimate happiness: such that there were times when he would leave it under a
cushion on the sofa for a whole day knowing that its dark, uncommunicative face
would only serve to remind him of his loss.

In Paris, in his hotel room
speckled with dawn light, Chris had the lump in his throat.

He was exhausted; had drunk too
much red wine the night before; had spent most of the sleeping hours that
people take for granted nursing his crying baby. She was fed and dry: there was
nothing more he could do for her; except rock her throughout her grumbling
dribbling diatribe, feeling like his whole body from his eyeballs to the soles
of his feet was stinging for want of proper rest.

It was in this state that Paul
Bénard happened upon him.

It was four thirty: and the
Frenchman tapped on his door and appeared with a tray of
Perrier
bottles and coffee.

“God, Paul, have we kept you
awake?” said Chris, as agitated as his state of torpor would allow. “I expect
we have kept the whole hotel awake.”

“Not at all,” replied his host,
himself a little dishevelled from sleeping in his clothes. “The girls left the
baby listener plugged in, and, as sweet as the piglet’s
nocturne
has been, I felt it was time I
joined you in your task of getting her to sleep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Chris.
“You must have been cursing your English visitors.”

“I sometimes have the trouble,
myself, in getting to sleep,” said Paul. “Despite rocking myself in the cradle
of the finest French wine.” He perched his bulky frame on the edge of the bed
next to Chris and raked at his hair and beard with his fingers. He smelt
faintly of stale booze and a cigar. “I think I am in need of a visit from my
good friend Lucille for some assistance.”

“Does she give you a break from
your duties?” said Chris, yawning so greedily his jaws creaked. “Some help in
the hotel?”

“Idiot Englishman, she gives me
help under the duvet,” said Bénard, pouring cups of strong coffee. “I insist
you have cream: it is the comforting stroke of the white glove before you are
slapped hard by the hand of caffeine,
mon ami
.”

Having emptied a small bottle
of
Perrier
down his throat without flinching, Chris took a deep, welcome draught of
coffee. This and the company of his new friend made him feel better.

“Are you talking about the
services of a prostitute?” he asked, point blank. He adjusted Amélie in his
arms, realising the pit of his elbow was stiff with sweat and dribble.

“I am not,” said Bénard,
swiftly but without offense. “Lucille and I have an understanding. We are
neither of us shackled with a spouse or blessed with the piglets,” he spread
his hand to indicate and exonerate tiny Amélie in one “and so we are free to go
about our businesses, until we feel the need for some stress relief. It is an
elegant system. You should try it.”

He fixed Chris with an amiable
stare from behind his thick lenses: and the latter was instantly convinced by
the credible boudoir charm of the Frenchman. He imagined Lucille would return
to her “businesses” a happy woman.

“Ha! Not for me, Paul,” he
replied, handing over his daughter and collapsing back onto his pillows. “I
haven’t the time or the inclination for a mistress: a night’s sleep right now
would be relief enough.”

“Don’t underestimate the
seasoning of a woman in the healthy diet of a man,” said Bénard, casually. “You
Englishmen can be so
bland
when it comes to sex, as well as food.”

Chris was drifting away from
the company of his friend, in spite of his efforts to stay awake. Bénard’s
softly spoken words seemed to be lulling him out of the grip of his potent
coffee.

“I think your little bubbling
piglet should come and rest awhile with me,” the Frenchman continued. “I can
make her a nest in my bed which is, by necessity, as large and comfortable as a
ship sailing on a calm sea.” He gently bumped noses with his small charge who
emulated her father’s yawn and brought her fists up in a gesture that seemed to
indicate, infuriatingly, that she might be ready to sleep, at last, herself. “I
can rest in my chair: my nieces will rise at around six thirty and will be on
hand to help. You,
mon ami,
should close your eyes and prepare yourself for your first
day in Paris.”

Chris said nothing as a blanket
of sleep began to wrap itself around him: somewhere in his consciousness he
wondered about relinquishing his baby daughter to a virtual stranger with a
hangover in a foreign city, but didn’t have the strength to fight the instinct
that told him she would be just fine with Paul Bénard and his girls. The
painful lump rose briefly in his throat one more time as he turned and embraced
his pillow and fell into a deep sleep.

At breakfast – which was
later for Chris than the other guests as he had slept till ten thirty –
Sophie and Cécile were once again clucking busily around their baby visitor.
Amélie had been bathed and sat up in a highchair secured with reins, surveying
her mini empire with the determined but wobbly head of the drunk attempting to
appear sober: her soft washed hair curling out like random feathers poking
darkly from a cushion.