Too Close to the Edge (3 page)

The truth was that beyond feeling sorry for Rose and Paul, Éliette was not especially upset to hear Patrick had died. She had never liked the kid. Even as a little boy he had been a nasty piece of work. Sylvie and Marc had hated him because he was always throwing stones at dogs, cats, chickens, people in general and especially his brother, despite being the younger by four years. Serge, unlike Patrick, was the very model of sweetness and sensitivity. He had left the farm as soon as he could and was now a teacher living somewhere near Grenoble. His family seldom saw him. It was Patrick who was the apple of his parents’ eyes, despite the fact he openly despised them. But he was a good-looking lad with the gift of the gab, and had just passed his exams at the agricultural college in Pradel with flying colours. He would one day inherit the farm, since his brother wanted nothing to do with it.

Old Bob pulled half-heartedly at his chain and bared time-worn canines as Éliette parked outside the house. Paul opened the door to her. He had the face of a zombie, his eyes were red, and the breath from his wet mouth was thick with pastis.

‘Ah, Éliette, Éliette …’

For the first time in the history of their friendship, he put his arms around her. He smelt of the sweat of misfortune. She
felt as if she were falling from the ladder again, only this time he was the one leaning on her, and that changed everything. It took a little effort to extricate herself from the embrace.

‘It’s awful, awful … We don’t understand …’

‘Oh, Paul. You poor thing … Where’s Rose?’

‘In the kitchen. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry for dragging you out in this weather.’

‘Please, don’t mention it. What are friends for, after all?’

Éliette had apologised to everyone when Charles died too. People are always ashamed of the misery that has befallen them, as though it were an act of divine retribution for a long-forgotten sin of theirs. Walking unsteadily, Paul led her into the kitchen where Rose seemed to be dozing, rocking back and forth in her chair near the stove. When Éliette put her arms around her, Rose turned to show a face wrecked by tears, washed of all expression. Her flabby skin fell in folds, as trickles of wax on a candle stump.

‘It’s not even as if he was coming back from a knees-up! … He wasn’t even drunk! … In broad daylight!’

‘You let those tears out, Rosie. It’ll do you good. I know how you feel, you know …’

‘I know you do.’

‘I brought you something to take. Have this and put yourself to bed. Tomorrow, things will be a bit clearer. There’s nothing else you can do.’

‘Yes. We need to look after Paul. He’s in pieces …’

‘Of course. Don’t you worry.’

Paul sat slumped, shoulders hunched, elbows on the Formica table top, a bottle of pastis in front of him, despite
the fact he usually barely touched the stuff. Éliette filled a glass with water from the tap and handed Rose a tablet.

‘I’ll take her up to bed and I’ll be right back down, OK, Paul? Paul?’

‘Huh? Yes, yes.’

Rose let herself be guided up to the bedroom, which was decorated in the most ghastly brown and orange flowery wallpaper. The blue satin quilt gave a kind of sigh when Rose fell onto it. A piece of boxwood fell off the crucifix above her head and went spinning onto the carpet.

‘He did whatever he wanted. He came top in everything … It’s not fair, no, not fair … Have to look after Paul. We’re old … We’ve become old all of a sudden.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m here. You need to sleep.’

‘I’ll never sleep again.’

‘You will. Just let yourself go.’

In the mirrored wardrobe door, Éliette could see herself holding Rose’s hand. Her neighbour’s face was hidden behind her round belly; in the foreground was one bare foot and another with an old slipper hanging off the toes. The scene was dimly lit from above. This was where they made love, where the couple’s children had been conceived … The wedding photo on the bedside table seemed to come from another age, from a time when children died not in car accidents but in wars, or crushed between the jaws of some agricultural machine.

Rose was extremely house-proud. There was not a speck of dust or the merest cobweb to be seen, whereas Éliette
collected them like the works of old masters. How did they have sex? From the front? From behind? It was ridiculous, but it was all she could think about. She tried to rid herself of these visions of copulation – all the more obscene in the circumstances – to bat them away like persistent flies. She felt Rose’s hand go limp. She was asleep, mouth open and nostrils pinched. Éliette wriggled her hand free and tiptoed out of the room.

Paul had not moved an inch. He seemed to have become permanently embedded in the table edge and was staring straight ahead.

‘She’s asleep. It’ll do her good. You should do the same, Paul.’

‘Huh? Yes, yes.’

Éliette smelt something burning. The remains of a stew were turning to charcoal on the hob. She turned the heat off under the pan and came to sit across the table from Paul.

‘How did it happen? Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Happened around midday, the gendarmes say. They found him at two o’clock down the bottom of a ravine off the little road at Le Coiron – you know the one. Nice views but it’s so narrow and wiggly. Someone had left a car parked on the road, right before a bend. Maybe Patrick was going too fast, but what was that driver thinking, leaving his motor in a place like that? The road’s tight enough as it is! Even if he’d run out of petrol, even on a hill … I don’t know … You’d push it or something, you’d get it off the road! He was trying to get round it … He died instantly … When we heard, I tried to call you, but you weren’t in.’

‘No, I was out shopping in Montélimar. Have you told Serge?’

‘Yes, he’ll be here tomorrow. What do we do now?’

‘There’s nothing you can do except go to bed and sleep next to Rose. She mustn’t be left alone. You need to look after one another. All these dark thoughts going round in your head, they’re not getting you anywhere.’

‘You’re right, of course … You know, the strange thing is, the guy never came back for his car. The gendarmes called me earlier. They think it was stolen.’

‘That is odd, yes.’

‘Yes … and what are all these kids doing, driving around like mad things? Five this year, just in our little patch! Last one was young Arlette, Robin the builder’s daughter, remember? In November?’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘They think they’re untouchable! How many times did I tell him, “Patrick, you’re better off getting there late than not getting there at all”? Might as well have been talking to a brick wall! He stopped listening to me a long time ago. Thought other people were a waste of space, his father especially. I gave that kid everything … Would you like a bite to eat, Éliette? I’ve warmed up some leftover stew.’

‘No, thank you. I’ve got someone waiting for me at home.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know. I …’

‘It’s fine. Besides, I think your stew’s burnt. I just took it off the heat. Can’t you smell it?’

‘No. Another time, then?’

‘Of course. Do you want one of the pills I gave Rose?’

‘No, thanks. I’ve got that.’

He indicated the half-empty bottle of pastis with his chin.

‘Take care of yourself, Paul. It’s no use letting yourself go. Remember you’ve got Rose to think of.’

‘It’s kind of you to have come, Éliette. At times like this you need your friends.’

‘I was glad to help. You did the same for me when Charles died. And tomorrow, Serge will be here.’

‘Yes … but it’s not the same with Serge, we don’t speak the same language. Patrick and me, we were salt of the earth. We didn’t need to chat … I love Serge just as much … only, I never feel totally comfortable around him.’

‘He’s just very different from his brother, that’s all. I’m heading off now, Paul, so you should go to bed. If you need anything at all, just call. Either way, I’ll pop in tomorrow morning.’

He nodded, but was no longer listening. His gaze was clouding over, his eyes turning the colour of pastis. Éliette patted his shoulder and left the kitchen.

Outside, the smell of thoroughly burnt food lingered in her nose and throat. The rain had stopped and a single star was twinkling above hills as rounded as Paul’s back. Old Bob barely turned his head as Éliette passed him. The look in his eyes expressed something beyond weariness. Éliette started the car, and once the lemon-yellow light of the Jauberts’ window had disappeared from her rear-view mirror, she broke into sobs. It wasn’t only the Jauberts she was crying for, but Old Bob, the single star, the dark hills
and herself. The tears flowed on and on like the swollen Lavezon river, washing away all her sadness. Paul and Rose were neither friends nor family, more like fellow passengers on an overnight train. They had nothing in common besides existing in the same space and time.

She had once read a definition of poetry as ‘two words meeting for the first time’. There was an element of that in her relationship with her neighbours. It was so easy to love like-minded people, but when chance threw someone totally different in your path … like the man awaiting her at home, whose name she didn’t even know. What if he had gone? He might well have called a taxi. Éliette lifted her foot off the accelerator. The truth was she had spent the whole time at the Jauberts’ thinking of him. That was probably why she had forced Rose to go to sleep and encouraged Paul to do the same. She had to some extent been trying to get shot of their sadness. And why not? Today was not just any day! Her heart was pounding in her chest as she put her foot back on the pedal. What if he had got hold of a mechanic? What if …? She saw the light at the living-room window and let out a cry of joy. For the first time in so long, someone was waiting for her.

He was sitting by the hearth where a fire was blazing. He straightened up when Éliette came in, as though caught doing something he shouldn’t.

‘You didn’t get through to a garage then?’

‘Er … no.’

‘I’m not surprised – we’re out in the sticks here. At least the rain’s stopped. It’s clearing up.’

‘How are your friends?’

‘He was their favourite son. I gave them some sleeping pills. Nothing else we can do. Such a terrible blow. But it happens all the time round here; people drive like lunatics; they’re a law unto themselves. Every weekend, they roll out of the discos and it’s carnage on the roads … Listen, here’s what I think you should do. It’s too late to find a garage or hotel round here. I have plenty of spare rooms. Why don’t you spend the night here and I’ll take you to a garage tomorrow?’

‘That’s very kind of you, but you don’t know me …’

‘Well then, introduce yourself!’

‘Étienne Doilet.’

‘Éliette Vélard. So, what do you say?’

‘Well … yes.’

‘I’ll warn you now: if you’re a murderer, I have very little to lose, and there’s nothing here worth stealing unless you count the walls. Are you hungry?’

‘I think so.’

Éliette warmed up the leftover jardinière, cracked four eggs into a frying pan and opened a bottle of wine. The fluctuations of the weather served once again to fill the awkward silences. But after two glasses of wine, Éliette’s tongue loosened and she began lauding the region to Étienne, who was a first-time visitor here.

‘You know, the Le Coiron road – it’s on my mind because that’s where my neighbours’ son had his accident – well, it’s magnificent! The landscape changes every couple of
kilometres. On the plateau, you’re right up in the mountains. It’s glorious. Oh, by the way, there was a funny thing about Patrick’s accident: someone had left their car in the middle of the road. Patrick was trying to get round it when he plunged into the ravine. And no one ever came back for the car. The gendarmes say it was stolen. Strange, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, anyway. Oh, I’ll tell you another wonderful road: the one from Saint-Thomé to Gras. It follows the river and … is something wrong?’

Étienne was making a strange face, as if he had just bitten into a lemon.

‘No, no. I’m fine!’

‘I’m boring you, playing the tour guide. I don’t get out much!’

‘Not at all, honestly. It’s nice to hear someone talking so passionately about where they live.’

‘Thank you. Hang on, where was it that you broke down?’

‘Me? Um … This is ridiculous, but I have to tell you the truth. I didn’t break down.’

‘Oh!’

‘It’s so stupid … OK, I was in the car with my girlfriend and we had an argument. Things got heated; I told her to let me out and she did. Leaving me in the middle of nowhere … Not clever, I know.’

Éliette burst out laughing. Étienne’s cheeks were red and he hung his head like a little boy owning up to doing something silly.

‘I’m sorry, Étienne. It’s a nervous thing.’

‘Don’t apologise. It was such a childish thing to do, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve never been in a situation like that before.’

‘There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. It’s quite funny, really!’

‘Can I smoke?’

‘Go ahead.’

Smoking was not normally allowed at Éliette’s house. Marc was asked to go and puff on his cigarette outside, and even then only on condition no butts were dropped in the garden. But this evening she was enjoying watching the smoke emerging from Étienne’s nostrils like the genie from Aladdin’s lamp.

‘Where’s the dog?’

‘What dog?’

‘It says “Beware of the dog” on the front door.’

‘It’s a deterrent; we’ve never had dogs. If anyone came to the door late in the evening, I’d shout, “Charles, keep hold of the dog!” … It makes me feel safer. But no one ever does come. That’s why I don’t need a real dog.’

‘Don’t you get bored here?’

‘You must be joking! I’ve no chance to be bored. Only today I’ve had a flat tyre, a death at the neighbours’ and a stranger in my house! And it’s like this every day!’

Étienne stubbed out his cigarette. When she smiled, Éliette looked like a teenager.

‘Oh, I almost forgot: your son, Marc, called. I think he was a bit taken aback when I answered. I told him you were at your neighbours’ … He’ll call again tomorrow.’