Too Close to the Edge (11 page)

A milky cloud was beginning to lighten the sky when Étienne pulled over. His eyes were prickly and his stiff jaws could no longer hold back the yawns. Éliette was still asleep. Soundlessly, he slipped out of the car. The dawn was thick with birdsong, as if this was the very first day on earth. He lay down with his arms spread wide, facing the horizon that rolled on as far as the eye could see. The sky was blushing like a girl’s cheeks after a profession of love. The XM’s bonnet was boiling hot. Through the windscreen, Éliette was dozing calmly, her head resting on her shoulder. For all Étienne repeated to himself that this lovely, gentle, peaceable lady had just killed his daughter, his mistress, by smashing her over the head with a rock, he could not bring himself to consider her guilty of anything. She was innocent, just like him, like the worst criminal, like the dog who kills the cat, the cat who kills the mouse, the mouse who … must kill something too. All around, in the bushes and the grass, prey and predators mingled in the same macabre dance. You could be one or the other, depending on the circumstances, all of which were extenuating. It was what they called life, the strongest of all excuses.

By way of breakfast, he took a sniff of coke off the point of the knife. Éliette opened her eyes at the same time as a streak of white powder shot across his brow.

‘Where are we?’

‘About sixty kilometres from Ventimiglia. How are you feeling?’

‘Too early to say. What are you doing?’

‘I took a sniff to wake myself up. Want some?’

‘Why not?’

Étienne took a bit from the bag.

‘You have to cover one nostril and breathe in very hard with the other.’

‘You don’t think—’

‘Forget what you’ve read in the papers. If it wasn’t good, no one would take it.’

Right nostril, left nostril, Éliette closed her eyes and slumped back in her seat. She expected to sink into a universe out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, teeming with horned monsters and grimacing gargoyles, but instead of seeing infernal hallucinations, she found herself breathing fresh mountain air. It was like opening the window on the first day of springtime.

‘Well?’

‘It didn’t do anything for me … or maybe it did. I have the impression of being incredibly normal.’

‘There you go, that’s it.’

‘I need to pee.’

The grass bounced beneath her feet like the fluffiest of carpets. Squatting behind a bush, she watched the sun rising above the patchwork of fields as if seeing the spectacle for the very first time. It was as if she had been myopic her entire
life; never before had she seen so clearly and precisely. They ought to make bread with this strange flour, to give humanity its sight back. It made you wonder why the stuff was illegal. She was not unsteady on her feet, wasn’t tripping over her words like a drunk, on the contrary! She had never been more alert in her life.

‘Étienne, I’m hungry.’

‘Me too.’

The little village they stopped in resembled a giant pot of geraniums. The flowers were bursting from every window sill, carpeting roundabouts, growing in between the bricks of the houses.

The light mist from the fountains made little rainbows form against the blue sky. Everything seemed clean and fresh, like a soft-boiled egg with its top cut off. The yellow yolk of the morning sun ran down the roads. The beribboned XM could not have parked against a better backdrop. The waiter in the nearest café greeted them with a flourish.

‘My first customers of the day! And a pair of newlyweds to boot! I’ll look after you. Sit back and make yourselves comfy!’

The nightmare was giving way to a dream. Everything that was happening seemed so totally natural and crystal clear that neither Éliette nor Étienne batted an eyelid. Life was regaining the upper hand because it was at home here. They ate a hearty breakfast of eggs and ham for Étienne and warm croissants with jam for Éliette. From the café terrace, they watched the growing crowd of people out walking
with baskets on their arms and poodles on leads, everyone polished, gleaming, almost metallic, as if they had all just left the same hair salon. The air smelt like something you could bottle.

‘You know, Éliette, we should give ourselves a makeover. Newlyweds should have a bit of sparkle about them.’

The waiter gave them the coffees on the house – starting the day’s business with newlyweds (even wrinkly ones) must bring luck!

Éliette bought herself a striped T-shirt dress that looked like a sailor’s outfit, while Étienne picked up a pair of white jeans. They rounded off their purchases with a pair of sunglasses each and even a basket which they filled with a bottle of champagne and a jar of caviar, to really complete the newlywed look. The Italian customs officers welcomed them with open arms as if they had been waiting for them all their lives. It was such a relief that they took the risk of doing another little line in the car park next to the customs post. The sun showered them with laughter that no night could ever extinguish. Every Italian had a mandolin in his throat. They stopped in the first hotel they came to, with an ochre front and palm trees in the garden. There, as the daylight beat its drum against the shutters, they made love as if defying gravity.

It was very mild and the roads were filled with people casually strolling and taking the air, breathing in the blue pigment of the night sky. Étienne and Éliette were sitting on the terrace of a little restaurant overlooking the sea. By the
glow of paper lanterns, they were tucking into a
fritto misto
accompanied by a bottle of Lacryma Christi. It was as lovely and as idiotic as a scene in a
fotonovela
. Yet Étienne seemed to have something on his mind. He looked like a sergeant major putting the finishing touches to a plan of attack.

‘I think it would be safest to ditch the car tomorrow. We can take the train to Rome. Agnès left some addresses in her bag. I shouldn’t have too much trouble shifting the case.’

‘We’ll keep a bit, though, won’t we?’

‘Éliette! … Yes, a bit. And then—’

The remainder of his sentence was carried away by the insect-like buzzing of a Vespa. Not that it mattered much; Éliette agreed to everything. She smiled as she sipped her drink, giving herself up entirely to this new-found happiness she had never dared imagine possible. She felt immortal, miraculously cured, even if she knew perfectly well that her state of mind was largely due to drugs. They had taken more in the bedroom before heading out for dinner. And so what, where was the harm in it? Forty years of yoga to achieve nirvana or a split second’s inhalation, the result was the same. The hunger, this bulimic urge to live, justified the means.

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘If one of my children had told me last week that they were on drugs, I’d have been worried out of my mind.’

‘Just be a bit careful. It’s not a magic bullet. It comes at a price.’

‘I think I’ve paid in advance. I’ve been retired; I deserve my final showdown. What do you think of this ashtray?’

‘The ashtray? It’s just like any other ashtray. Why do you ask?’

‘I want to take it as a souvenir.’

‘I’m going to ask for the bill. I’m tired.’

Étienne settled up, but as they left the restaurant they were stopped by the waiter.

‘Excuse me, but please could the lady give back the ashtray she put in her bag?’

Étienne went green. He babbled muddled excuses until Éliette handed back the stolen goods.

Back on the road, he began almost running. The looks of passers-by seemed hostile; the Vespas were conspiring to run him over. The devil had set foot in paradise.

‘Étienne, what’s come over you? … Wait!’

‘You’re out of your mind! Do you think now is the time to get ourselves noticed?’

‘Oh please, there’s no need to fuss! It must happen all the time. All right, sorry.’

Étienne didn’t feel at ease until he had locked the door of their hotel room behind them. Lying on the bed with his eyes glued to the ceiling, he only unclenched his jaw to take a drag of his cigarette.

‘Étienne, this is ridiculous! Everyone does silly things every once in a while.’

‘You’re not everyone! … Draw the curtain please.’

Éliette reluctantly did as she was asked. The night sky was so beautiful, like the one Van Gogh painted while wearing candles on his hat. She was sincerely sorry; how fragile their dream seemed to be.

‘Will you forgive me, please? I’m going to order a bottle of champagne – do you want some?’

They were brought not champagne but Asti Spumante. Not that it really mattered; it was the lightness of the bubbles they needed. After two glasses and another line each, Étienne had reconciled himself to life, but a knot remained in his chest like a wrecking ball. They talked, both making extravagant plans and recalling fragments of fictitious or muddled memories. This blend of equally hypothetical pasts and futures was a kind of lifebelt that kept them afloat amid the treacherous waters of the present. Around four in the morning, exhausted, having run out of words, they let the night pull black wool over their eyes. Étienne woke with a start two hours later, his mouth apparently lined with blotting paper. In his dream, Agnès had been shaking something in her hand, something like a salad spinner. She was shouting, ‘It’s ready, Papa, it’s ready!’ It was a severed head, with blood spurting from the sawn neck onto virgin snow. In the fog, he could not see whose head it was.

He got up and went to drink as much water from the tap as he could manage. It was warm, and tasted of toothpaste. He splashed his face. Outside, daylight had come, a pearly white sky like an oyster, the sun struggling to break through the clouds. A breeze lifted the curtain like a veil, but otherwise everything hung flat: the clothes on the backs of the chairs, the fake crystal chandelier, the seaweed-floppy terry towels, his cheeks, his arms, his balls. It was going to be muggy today.

Éliette groaned and rolled over as he lay back down next to her.

‘Is it morning? What time is it?’

‘Six thirty.’

‘Can’t you sleep, my love?’

‘Yes, yes, I was just thirsty.’

‘Is it nice out?’

‘Grey.’

‘Come here … closer …’

She felt for Étienne’s body under the sheet. She found his thigh, the pelvic bone jutting out, his hand, his shoulder, but it was like stroking a statue. Not a shiver, not the slightest quivering muscle.

‘Is something wrong, darling?’

‘No, no, go back to sleep.’

She snuggled against his shoulder, murmuring something like, ‘Everything’s fine, everything’s fine.’ Étienne ran his hand through his hair as his gaze followed the grey light creeping in through the folds of the curtain like a toxic gas, and went back to sleep thinking to himself that the end of the world was not a big black hole, nor a multicoloured firework display, but, all the more stupidly, it was a day like any other, only a little overcast.

They left the hotel around ten o’clock, Étienne having barely touched his breakfast. He could not have said exactly what was wrong. He felt like the sky: a bit low. Despite her best efforts, Éliette could not instil her good mood in him, and this upset her.

‘Won’t you tell me what the matter is?’

‘I don’t know. I had strange dreams. It’s left a weird taste
in my mouth. It’s this car; I’ll feel better once we’ve got rid of it.’

They headed out of town on a coastal road. Étienne drove slowly as if seeking a picnic spot, looking out for tracks either side of the road where he could abandon the car, but found none suitable. Éliette was baffled. As far as she was concerned, any old parking space would have done the job, but Étienne pressed on, determined to find ‘the right place’.

‘Étienne, it doesn’t matter. We’re wasting time.’

‘No, I know what I’m doing. We need to put it in a place where no one will find it for several days.’

‘All right, fine.’

As they drove out of a village a kilometre or so further on, Étienne leapt out of his seat, pointing a finger skywards.

‘There! That’s the place – do you see it?’

A flight of gulls was circling in the air above a sort of truncated volcano with white gases rising up from its summit.

‘Is it a landfill site?’

‘Yes! That’s the spot. It’s as if I knew where I was going!’

‘There might be people there.’

‘No, we’ll push the car in from up there. It’ll soon be covered by tons of rubbish. It’s perfect!’

Éliette remained unconvinced but, at the end of the day, whether it was here or somewhere else … She just wanted him to stop obsessing about this and move on. They turned down a small bumpy track that ran through a pine forest. The further they went, the stronger the acrid stench of burnt rubbish became. They eventually came into a clearing that
looked down over the landfill site. It was deserted but for the gulls scouring the rubbish, pecking here and there and letting out piercing squawks. Étienne seemed as happy as a little boy who has won a treasure hunt.

‘It’s brilliant, isn’t it?’

‘It smells horrible.’

‘Let’s take it up to the edge. You get out with the bags and all I’ll have to do is give it a little shove. It’s nice here, isn’t it?’

‘Uh … There’s a certain charm to it, but I don’t know that I’d spend my holidays here.’

Étienne rolled slowly forward. With every turn of the wheels, worrying cracking noises could be heard – crates, cans, piles of boxes. A fridge wobbled in front of them, its door hanging wide open. Withered plastic bags flew up like sluggish hot-air balloons. The birds stirred up the air, which was thick with the stench of rotten cabbage. Étienne appeared fascinated, peering over the steering wheel. Soon there was nothing ahead but the void waiting to swallow them.

‘Étienne! Don’t go any further, we’re right on the edge!’

‘Huh? … Oh, yes.’

The car came to a stop. Shielding her eyes to avoid looking down, Éliette got out, her legs trembling. Her feet sank into a pile of warm filth. Étienne was still clutching the wheel, dazzled by the emptiness before him.

‘Étienne! … Étienne!’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m getting the bags out. Let’s push the car off and get out of here. It’s making me dizzy.’