The Notebook + The Proof + The Third Lie (25 page)

Lucas throws the stone and the sock full of sand into the garbage. He closes the razor, puts it in his pocket. "I still carry it on me, but I don't use it anymore."

When the child has gone to bed, Lucas goes into his room and sits down on the edge of his bed. "I won't meddle in your affairs any more, Mathias. I won't ask any more questions. When you want to leave school, just tell me."

The child says, "I'll never leave school."

Lucas asks, "Tell me, Mathias, do you cry sometimes when you're alone?"

The child says, "I'm used to being alone. I never cry, you know that."

"Yes, I know. But you never laugh either. When you were small you laughed all the time."

"That must have been before Yasmine died."

"What are you saying, Mathias? Yasmine isn't dead."

"She is dead. I've known for a long time. Otherwise she would have come back."

After a silence, Lucas says, "Even after Yasmine left, you still laughed, Mathias."

The child looks at the ceiling. "Yes, maybe. Before we left Grandmother's house. We should never have left Grandmother's house."

Lucas takes the child's face in his hands. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps we shouldn't have left Grandmother's house."

The child closes his eyes. Lucas kisses him on the forehead. "Sleep well, Mathias. When you feel too much pain, too much sorrow, and you don't want to talk to anyone, write it down. It will help you."

The child answers, "I've already written it down. I've written down everything. Everything that has happened since we've been here. My nightmares, the school, everything. I've got a big notebook like you. You've got lots, I've only got one, only a slim one so far. I'll never let you read it. You forbade me to read yours, I forbid you to read mine."

6

At ten o'clock in the morning an old bearded man comes into the bookshop. Lucas has seen him before. He is one of his best customers. Lucas gets up and asks with a smile, "What can I do for you, sir?"

"I have everything I need, thank you. I came to talk to you about Mathias. I'm his teacher. I have written to you on numerous occasions to ask you to come and see me."

Lucas says, "I never received your letters."

"Yet you've signed them."

The teacher takes three envelopes from his pocket and hands them to Lucas. "Isn't that your signature?"

Lucas examines the letters. "Yes and no. It's a good forgery of my signature."

The teacher smiles as he takes back the letters. "That's the conclusion I came to also. Mathias doesn't want me to speak with you. I decided to come and see you during school hours. I left an older pupil in charge of the class during my absence. This visit can remain our secret, if you wish."

Lucas says, "Yes, I think that would be best. Mathias has forbidden me to talk to you."

"He's very proud, arrogant even. He is also by far the most intelligent pupil in the class. Nevertheless, the only advice I can offer you is to withdraw him from school. I can sign the necessary papers."

Lucas says, "Mathias doesn't want to leave school."

"If only you knew what he goes through! The cruelty of the other children is beyond belief. The girls make fun of him. They call him 'spider,' 'hunchback,' 'bastard.' He sits on his own in the front row, no one wants to sit next to him. The boys hit him, kick him, punch him. The boy behind him slammed the desk shut on his fingers. I have intervened many times, but that just aggravates the situation. The other children can't stand the fact that Mathias knows everything, that he's best at everything. They are jealous of him and they are making his life unbearable."

Lucas says, "I know it, even though he never talks to me."

"No, he never complains. He doesn't even cry. He has considerable strength of character. But he can't go on suffering so much humiliation forever. Withdraw him from school and I will come every evening to give him lessons here. It would be a real pleasure for me to work with such a gifted child."

Lucas says, "Thank you, but it's not up to me. Mathias insists on going to school normally, like the other children. For him, leaving school would mean recognizing his difference, his infirmity."

The teacher says, "I understand. However, he
is
different, and one day he will have to accept it."

Lucas is silent. The teacher browses through the books on the shelves.

"These premises are very spacious. What would you say to setting out a few tables and chairs to make a reading room for the children? I could bring you some secondhand books, I've got plenty that I don't know what to do with. Then the children whose parents don't own books, and there are lots of them, believe me, could come and read in peace here for an hour or two."

Lucas stares at the teacher. "You think that might improve the relations between Mathias and the other children, don't you? Yes, it's worth a try. It's probably a good idea."

It is ten o'clock at night. Peter rings at Lucas's house. Lucas throws him the front-door key from the window. Peter comes up and enters the room. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Not at all. On the contrary. I was looking for you, but you had disappeared. Even Mathias was worried about you."

Peter says, "That's nice. Is he asleep?"

"He's in his room, but how do I know if he's asleep or doing something else? He wakes up at all hours of the night and starts reading, writing, thinking, studying."

"Can he hear us?"

"He can if he wants to, yes."

"In that case I'd rather you came to my place."

"Fine."

At his house, Peter opens the windows in all the rooms. He collapses into an armchair. "This heat is unbearable. Fix yourself a drink and sit down. I've just come from the station. I've been traveling all day. I had to change trains four times and wait ages for the connections."

Lucas pours a drink. "Where have you been?"

"To my hometown. I was summoned there by the local magistrate concerning Victor. He strangled his sister in a fit of
delirium tremens.
"

Lucas says, "Poor Victor. Did you see him?"

"Yes, I saw him. He's in an insane asylum."

"How is he?"

"Very well, very calm. His face is a bit puffed up because of the medication he's on. He was happy to see me. He asked about you, and the shop, and the child. He sends his greetings."

"And what did he say about his sister?"

"He said quietly, 'It's done now, we can't change it.' "

Lucas asks, "What will become of him?"

"I don't know. They haven't had the trial yet. I think he'll spend the rest of his days in the asylum. Victor doesn't belong in a prison. I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He said to send him a regular supply of writing materials. 'Paper and pencils are all I need. Here I can finally write my book,' he said."

"Yes, Victor wanted to write a book. He told me when I bought the bookshop. In fact, that's the reason he sold it."

"Yes, and he's already started writing." Peter takes a pile of typewritten sheets from his briefcase. "I read them on the train. Take them home, read them, and bring them back to me. He typed them next to his sister's body. He strangled his sister and then sat at his desk to write. They were found like that, in Victor's room, the sister strangled, stretched out on the bed, Victor typing, drinking brandy, smoking cigars. It was some of his sister's clients who called the police the next day. On the day of the crime, Victor left the house, drew some money from the bank, went to buy some brandy, cigarettes, and cigars. He told the clients who had an appointment for a fitting and were waiting outside the door that his sister was feeling poorly because of the heat and didn't want to be disturbed. The clients, obstinate and no doubt impatient to have their new dresses, came back the next day, knocked at the door, spoke to the neighbors, decided that the whole thing was a bit strange, and finally went to contact the police. The police forced the door open and found Victor blind drunk, quietly typing away at his manuscript. He let himself be led away without resistance, taking the finished sheets along with him. Read them. There are a lot of errors, but they're readable, and very interesting."

Lucas goes home with Victor's manuscript and starts to copy it out into his notebook during the night:

It is August 15; the heat wave has lasted three weeks now. The heat is unbearable indoors as well as outside. You can't get away from it. I don't like the heat, I don't like summer. A wet, cool summer, fine, but these dog days have always made me feel positively ill.

I have just strangled my sister. She is lying on my bed. I have covered her with a sheet. In this heat her body will soon start smelling. No matter. I'll report it later. I've locked the front door, and if anyone knocks I won't answer. I've also closed the windows and pulled the shutters.

I've lived with my sister for almost two years. I sold the bookshop and house I owned in a little town far away near the border. I came to live with my sister in order to write a book. I thought I would be unable to do it in the little town far away because of the solitude that threatened to make me ill and turn me into an alcoholic. I thought that here, with my sister taking care of the housework, the meals, and the clothes, I would lead a healthy, regular life, which would at last allow me to write the book that I've always wanted to write.

Unfortunately, the calm and quiet life I'd anticipated quickly turned into hell on earth.

My sister watched over me, spied on me constantly. Right from my arrival she forbade me to drink or smoke, and whenever I returned from an errand or a walk she would kiss me affectionately, solely, I realized, in order to detect the smell of drink or tobacco on my breath.

I abstained from drink for several months, but I was quite incapable of giving up smoking as well. I smoked in secret like a schoolboy. I would buy a cigar or a pack of cigarettes and go off for a walk in the forest. On the way back I would chew pine needles or suck mints to get rid of the smell. I also smoked at night with the window open, even in winter.

Many times I sat down at my desk with some sheets of paper, but my mind was a complete blank.

What could I write about? Nothing happened in my life, nothing ever had happened in my life or in the world around me. Nothing worth writing about. And my sister disturbed me all the time; she came into my room on the slightest pretext. She brought me tea, dusted the furniture, put away my clean clothes in the wardrobe. She would also lean over my shoulder to see how my writing was coming along. Because of this I had to fill in sheet after sheet, and since I didn't know what to write on them, I copied out excerpts from books, any books. Sometimes my sister would read a phrase over my shoulder that pleased her, and would encourage me with a contented smile.

There was no chance of her seeing through my deceit, for she never read herself; she possibly never read a book in her life. She never had the time—since childhood she has worked from morning till night.

In the evening she made me come into the sitting room. "You've worked enough for one day. Let's chat for a while."

As she talked, she did her sewing, either by hand or on her old pedal-driven sewing machine. She talked about her neighbors, her clients, about dresses and fabrics, about how tired she felt, and all the sacrifices she had made to ensure the success of the work of her brother, me, Victor.

I had to sit there, without being able to smoke or drink, listening to this drivel. When finally she went to her room, I went to my own, lit a cigar or a cigarette, picked up a sheet of paper, and filled it with insults directed at my sister, her narrow-minded clients, and her stupid dresses. I hid the sheet among the others containing random excerpts from some book or other.

For Christmas my sister gave me a typewriter.

"Your manuscript is already quite thick. You'll soon be reaching the end of your book, I imagine. Then you'll need to type it up. You took typing lessons at business school, and even if you've forgotten some of it through lack of practice you'll soon pick it up again."

I was in the depths of despair, but in order to please my sister I sat down straight away at my desk and, somewhat clumsily, began copying out various pages, themselves copied from some book or other. My sister watched me, nodding her head with satisfaction.

"You're not too bad at it, Victor. I'm surprised, you're actually quite good. You'll soon be typing as quickly as you used to."

When I was alone, I reread what I had typed. It was nothing but a series of typing errors and misprints.

A few days later, on my way back from my "constitutional," I went into a local bar. I only wanted a cup of tea to warm myself up a bit, for my hands and feet were cold and completely numb because of my poor circulation. I sat at a table next to the stove, and when the waiter asked me what I wanted I said, "Tea." Then I added, "With some rum in it."

I don't know why I said that; I didn't intend to say it, but I did nevertheless. I drank my tea with rum and ordered another rum, without the tea this time, and then a third rum after that.

I looked around anxiously. It isn't a big town, and almost everyone knows my sister. If she found out from one of her clients or neighbors that I'd been in a bar! But I saw only the faces of tired, indifferent, distracted men, and my anxiety subsided. I had another rum and left the bar. I was a bit unsure on my feet. I hadn't drunk for several months, and the alcohol had gone straight to my head.

I didn't dare go home. I was afraid of my sister. I wandered around the streets for a while, then I went into a shop to buy some mints. I put two in my mouth immediately. When I went to pay, without knowing why, without wanting to say it, I casually told the assistant, "I'll also have a bottle of plum brandy, two packs of cigarettes, and three cigars."

I put the bottle in the inside pocket of my overcoat. Outside it was snowing. I felt perfectly happy. I was no longer afraid of going home, no longer afraid of my sister. When I arrived back at the house she called out from the room which serves as her workshop. "I've got a rush job, Victor. Your supper is in the oven. I'll eat later."