Too Close to the Edge (4 page)

Marc’s phone call brought Éliette back to a reality she would have preferred not to have to face that evening.

‘Yes. I have a son and a daughter and three grandchildren. I’m a grandmother.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know … You have a family … You’re not on your own.’

‘No, I’m not … Goodness! It’s almost midnight! I ought to have been in bed at least two hours ago. I’ll show you your room.’

Out of the bedrooms Éliette offered him, Étienne chose Sylvie’s. Whitewashed walls, film posters, amateur photos of twisted tree trunks and overexposed sunsets, an old teddy bear at the foot of the bed, a bunch of dried flowers in a stoneware pot, a few children’s books, teen magazines, the odd splash of pink.

‘If you get cold, there are extra blankets in the wardrobe.’

‘Thanks. I think I’ll sleep well.’

‘Good. Right, then … Good night.’

‘Good night, Éliette.’

There’s a man in my house, just the other side of that wall, in Sylvie’s room. I can hear him coughing, getting undressed, slipping between the sheets. I don’t feel like going to sleep; I won’t take a Mogadon. I want to play it all back in my head, see him appearing at the bend in the little bridge, changing my tyre, driving home with me in the rain … Then later, when I got home from the Jauberts’ and found him waiting for me beside
the hearth. Someone was waiting for me tonight, Charles … I told him about us; maybe I should have said more about you … He’s not asleep; I can hear him turning in bed, see the light under his door … I’m alive, Charles, I’m alive.

Éliette’s nostrils quivered at the wafts of toast and fresh coffee. She opened first one eye and then the other, and sat bolt upright.
He’s up already?
Yawning, she let her head fall back onto the pillow and stretched out as if trying to touch the walls either side of the bed. The alarm clock showed eight thirty. Slippers, dressing gown, despairing glance in the mirror.

Étienne was at the sink finishing last night’s washing up. The draining rack was sagging under a typically masculine pyramid of precariously balanced plates, glasses, cups and saucers.

‘Morning.’

‘Morning, Éliette. Sleep well?’

‘Very well. You should have left all that; I’d have sorted it out later.’

‘It’s no trouble. I like washing up in the morning. It helps me clear my head. People shouldn’t complain so much about household chores. I’ve made coffee, but maybe you’d prefer something else?’

‘I’m more of a tea drinker, but it’s fine. It’s good to ring the changes.’

‘I can make tea! I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘OK then.’

Éliette sat on a chair, hands dangling between her thighs.
The sun filtering through the part-closed shutters cast a ladder of light on the wall. It was strange to have had the role of hostess taken from her. He had robbed her of her little morning habits. She missed the radio and felt vaguely awkward, as if she were in a hotel.

‘I’m not used to being waited on.’

‘It’s not as bad as all that, you’ll see. What do you use to strain your tea?’

‘There’s an infuser in the left-hand drawer.’

Steam rose from the tea and twirled around the piercing ray of sunlight reflected off the glazed surface of the bowls.

‘Not easy finding your way around a new kitchen. I hope I haven’t made too much of a mess of things.’

‘No. Just the bowls. These ones are for soup.’

‘I do apologise!’

‘I suppose I can live with it, just this once.’

‘Madame is too kind!’

They laughed. Étienne unfolded the napkin he had wrapped around the toast to keep it warm. For once, life seemed not to need an instruction manual.

‘It’ll be warm today. Look how the light’s flooding in.’

‘It’s like being on holiday. We could have had breakfast outside …’

‘Let’s do it!’

They sat and finished their bowls of tea on the enormous stone slab that served as the front step. The sun flowed into them like honey trickling deep into their bones. Eyes half closed, Éliette pointed out the features of her garden. It was surrounded by a dry-stone wall, surpassed in height only by
a fig tree and a cypress. To the right, an old barn housed a long table and benches.

‘That’s my summer dining room. We’ve had some good times in there: barbecues in the evening with candles in glass holders, the children … I have a telescope. On summer nights you can see the stars up close …’

‘It makes me think of houses in Morocco, the internal courtyards. They smelt of jasmine, incense burning on the embers, fresh mint tea … The drumbeats … as if marking their rhythms on the taut skin of the moon. The stars twinkled, and the sound was like the copper jingles of a tambourine.’

‘Are you a poet?’

‘No, I’m just remembering.’

‘Do you know Morocco well?’

‘I was there for a while.’

‘For work?’

‘In a sense. Would you like another cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’ll go and have a shower. Are you … in a rush? I mean, for me to take you to Montélimar?’

‘No, no. Take your time. I’m fine right here …’

‘In that case I’ll leave you to your memories.’

Where would the world be without soap? Éliette sang as the water gushed out of the shower head onto her newly confident body. Étienne was clearly in no hurry to be leaving. It was lovely, what he had said about Morocco. What was he doing over there? And here? … Perhaps they could get the barbecue out? … He looked tired: why not suggest he stick around for a couple of days? The children were not coming
until the weekend … It could be a digression, a short aside in the long monologue her life had become.

Plans were building to a lather in her head and the toothpaste was foaming in her mouth when she heard shouts coming from the garden. She ran to the window. A taxi had parked outside the front door. A girl in her early twenties with a messy heap of dyed red hair, in black sunglasses, a T-shirt and ripped jeans, was marching towards Étienne, swinging her bag above her head. Before Étienne could scramble to his feet, the bag hit him full in the face, knocking him backwards.

‘Fucking idiot! What have you done, you bastard?’

The bag struck Étienne a second time on his back as he tried to get up, holding his arms in front of him for protection. Blood was pouring from his eyebrow.

‘Agnès! Stop it, for fuck’s sake! Something in there weighs a ton!’

Éliette raced outside, wet-haired, toothbrush in hand.

‘Whash going on out here? Have you losht your mind?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘The owner of thish house.’ (Éliette spat out her toothpaste.) ‘I must ask you to calm down. As long as you’re on my property, you’ll sort out your quarrels with your boyfriend in a civilised manner!’

‘My boyfriend? Please! He’s my father, my fucking father!’

Open-mouthed, Éliette looked first at Étienne, who was holding both hands to his brow, and then at the girl, who was kicking at every piece of gravel and raising clouds of
dust. Meanwhile, the taxi driver had heard all the shouting and got out of his car. Éliette knew him. He had taken her to Montélimar several times before she got her microcar.

‘Is there a problem here, Madame Vélard?’

‘No, it’s fine. Just a family squabble.’

‘All right then. Either way, this little madam needs to pay my fare. I’ve got other jobs to get to.’

The girl took a note out of her bag and handed it to the driver without a word or a glance in his direction.

‘Your bags?’

‘Leave them by the door.’

The driver shrugged, waved goodbye to Éliette and drove off. The courtyard was filled with the chirping of crickets, accompanied by cymbal crashes of sunlight.

Éliette leant over Étienne. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘It’s OK. I’m sorry …’

‘I’ll get a cold compress.’

The girl had sat down on the stone outside the door and lit a cigarette. Éliette almost had to climb over her to get inside the house. She heard Étienne mutter, ‘Jesus, what the hell have you got in that bag?’

‘My camera. Sorry. I hope it’s not fucked …’

While she searched the medicine cabinet for a dressing and antiseptic, Éliette heard them arguing in low voices on the doorstep. A name kept coming up, spoken by the girl with a note of panic: Théo. Who was this kid who had just parachuted into the middle of Éliette’s dream? How had she got here? And why? So many unanswered questions colliding
inside her head. The telephone rang out like a clarion call. As she passed the front door, she dropped off Étienne’s dressing and ran back into the living room.

‘Hello, Maman?’

‘Yes, hello, Marc.’

‘What’s the matter? You’re out of breath.’

‘I was in the shower.’

‘Oh, sorry. Do you want me to call back?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘Who was the guy who answered the phone to me last night?’

‘A friend. I was at the Jauberts’. Oh, Marc, I have to tell you something. Patrick was killed in a car crash yesterday. That’s why I was at their house.’

‘Patrick? … Jesus!’

‘It’s hit them hard. I can’t talk for long, I told them I’d pop round this morning. Serge is on his way.’

‘Yes, I understand …’

‘Are you still coming on Friday?’

‘That’s the plan, yes.’

‘OK, well, I’d better go, son. See you soon! Love you.’

Her hand was still on the receiver when the phone started ringing again.

‘Madame Vélard, it’s Serge … Jaubert.’

‘Hello, Serge, dear. How are your parents?’

‘Not great. Maman would like to see you.’

‘Of course. I was about to come round. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

‘Thanks. See you soon.’

Éliette bounded up the stairs, threw on the clothes she had been wearing the day before, and hurtled back down again. Something akin to the blades of a food processor was mincing up her slightest thought. She was incapable of forming complete sentences, telling herself only: keys, glasses, bag … Stepping from the gloom inside the house to the full sun of the garden was like walking into a shower of flames. For a few moments she saw nothing. Étienne and his daughter seemed to have disappeared. Then, shielding her eyes with her hand, she caught sight of them curled up like two cats in the darkness of her ‘summer dining room’. They were leaning on the long wooden table and smoking silently, one’s gaze concealed by dark glasses, the other’s obscured by a thick bandage over his left eye.

‘Better now? You’ve calmed down? Show me … That’s an impressive black eye you’re going to have there!’

‘What about this one? Impressive enough for you?’ The girl lowered her glasses. Her right eye was a magnificent green, but the left was ringed bright purple.

‘Étienne, did you …?’

‘No, he didn’t, but it’s
because of
him.’

‘Agnès, please!’

‘Look, I don’t want to know. Let’s just say it gives you a family resemblance. All I ask is that you avoid making a scene while you’re under my roof. I have to go round to my neighbours’. You know the situation, Étienne. Things are bad enough as they are. Can I trust you?’

‘Absolutely, Éliette. I really am sorry. It was a misunderstanding.’

‘All right. See you later then.’

The one saving grace of the morning’s dramas from Éliette’s point of view was to have discovered that Agnès was Étienne’s daughter and not his girlfriend, as she had first thought. The rest was as confusing as it was unsettling. In what kind of family did a daughter whack her father round the head with a camera while hurling abuse at him? She had been equally shocked by Étienne’s completely passive response. Why had he phoned Agnès? After all, that was the only possible explanation: he had called her last night while Éliette was with the Jauberts … And that bruise on Agnès’s face:
It’s because of him
… Something was telling her to send the two of them packing, but the memory of the pleasure of Étienne’s company the previous day put her off. She would wait and see. For now, she was coming up the Jauberts’ drive as Serge came out to greet her, another young man of similar age hovering behind him. Both had very short hair and moustaches. Serge looked utterly crushed.

‘Hello, Madame Vélard.’

‘Come on, call me Éliette.’

‘Yes, sorry. This is all so … This is my friend Zep. He’s German but he speaks very good French.’

‘Pleased to meet you. So, how’s your mother?’

‘Still a bit woozy after those drugs you gave her, but …’

‘And your father?’

‘He hasn’t said a word. He’s like a plank of wood.’

The three of them entered the house. It was cool inside and the smell of coffee vainly tried to cover that of aniseed. Paul hadn’t budged from the position he had occupied the day before, sitting with both elbows on the table. Only the empty pastis bottle testified to the passage of time. Rose lifted her puffy face, broke into sobs and rushed over to throw herself on Éliette.

‘My boy! My little boy!’

‘There, there, Rose. I’m here …’

Serge turned his watery eyes to the window and squeezed his friend’s hand. Éliette noticed the gesture but made little of it, turning her attention back to Rose, who no longer even had the strength to cry.

‘Come with me, Rose. Let’s go outside and get some fresh air while we talk. It’ll do you good. You too, Paul. You can’t stay sitting at that table for ever. You’ve got to keep going.’

Serge leant towards his father to help him up. Without moving, Paul said under his breath, ‘Don’t you touch me.’

Serge held out his hand.

‘Papa …’

‘I said don’t put your dirty queer hands on me!’

The slap aimed at his son met empty space. Carried by the momentum, Paul toppled over and fell onto the tiled floor. Rose was open-mouthed, frozen but for her chest which rose in quick shallow breaths, as if hiccuping. Serge and Zep knelt down beside the father.

‘He’s fine, he’s snoring. He’s pissed out of his head. Let’s put him to bed.’

Éliette and Rose watched the two boys lift Paul’s body and haul it up the stairs.

‘Come on, Rose. Let’s have a walk; it’ll calm us down.’

‘Yes … Why did Paul say that?’

‘Say what?’

‘“Your dirty queer hands”.’

‘He’s had too much to drink; he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Come on – show me how your geraniums are getting on.’