French Leave (2 page)

That way I won't bug you anymore on Saturday morning to go to the country. I'll tell my little honeybunch from the post office: “Hey honeybunch! Will you drive me to my cousin's wedding with your beautiful GPS that even includes Corsica and Martinique and Tahiti?” and wham, all taken care of.

And why are you laughing like an idiot, now? Do you think I'm not clever enough to manage the way other people do? To find myself a nice guy with a yellow cardigan and a Euro Disney badge? A fiancé I can go and buy Celio boxer shorts for during my lunch break? Oh, yes . . . just thinking about it makes me go all wobbly . . . a decent sort. Serious. Simple. Batteries included, not to mention the savings-account booklet.

And he'd never worry about things. And he'd be only too glad to compare prices in the store with the ones in the catalogue and he'd say, “No two ways about it, darling, the difference between Ikea and Habitat, you're really just paying for service . . . ”

And we'll enter the house through the basement so as not to get the entrance dirty. And we'll leave our shoes at the bottom of the steps not to get the stairway dirty. And we'll be friends with the neighbors who will be incredibly nice. And we'll have a built-in barbecue and that will be really awesome for the kids, because the housing estate will be super safe like my sister-in-law says and . . .

Oh, bliss.

It was too awful. I fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

I
stumbled out onto the parking lot of a gas station somewhere on the outskirts of Orléans. Feeling groggy as hell. Woozy and drooly. I had trouble keeping my eyes open and my hair felt incredibly heavy. I even put my hand up to it, just to make sure it really was hair.

 

Simon was waiting by the cash register. Carine was powdering her nose.

I stationed myself by the coffee machine.

It took me at least thirty seconds to realize that my cup was ready. I drank it without sugar and without much conviction. I must have pressed the wrong button. There was a weird, faintly tomato-ish taste to my cappuccino.

Oh, man . . . It's going to be a long day.

 

We got back in the car without saying a word. Carine took a moist alcohol towelette from her make up bag to disinfect her hands.

Carine always disinfects her hands when she's been in public places.

For hygiene's sake.

Because Carine actually sees the germs.

She can see their furry little legs and their horrible mouths.

That's why she never takes the métro. She doesn't like trains, either. She can't help but think about the people who put their feet on the seats and stick their boogers under the armrest.

Her kids are not allowed to sit on a bench or to touch the railings. She has major issues about going to the playground. And issues about letting them use the slide. She has issues with the trays at McDonald's and she has
a ton
of issues about swapping Pokémon cards. She totally freaks out with butchers who don't wear gloves or little salesgirls who don't use tongs to serve her her croissant. She gets downright paralytic if the school organizes group picnics or outings to the swimming pool where all the kids have to hold hands as a prelude to passing on their fungal infections.

Life, for Carine, is exhausting.

 

Her business with the disinfectant towelettes really gets up my nose.

The way she always thinks other people must be sackfuls of germs. The way she always peers at their fingernails when she shakes hands. The way she never trusts anyone. Always hiding behind her scarf. Always telling her kids to be careful.

Don't touch. It's dirty.

Get your hands out of there.

Don't share.

Don't go out in the street.

Don't sit on the ground or I'll smack you!

 

Always washing their hands. Always washing their mouths. Always making sure they pee exactly ten centimeters above the bowl, dead center, and that they never ever let their lips touch someone's cheek when they go to kiss them. Always judging the other moms by the color of their kids' ears.

Always.

Always judging.

 

I don't like the sound of any of it. What's worse, when you go to dinner at her family's they have no compunction about mouthing off about Arabs.

Carine's dad calls them ragheads.

He says, “I pay taxes so those ragheads can have ten kids.”

He says, “What I'd do with 'em, I'd stick 'em all in a boat and torpedo the whole lot of them, every last parasite, I would.”

And he likes to say, “France is a country full of bums and people on welfare. A country full of losers.”

And often, to finish, he goes like this: “I work the first six months of the year for my family and the next six for the state, so don't go talking to me about poor people and the unemployed, okay? I work one day out of two so Mamadou can go knock up his ten wives, so don't go lecturing me, okay?”

 

There was one lunch in particular. I don't like remembering it. It was for little Alice's baptism. We were all at Carine's parents' place near Le Mans.

Her father runs a Casino (the supermarket, not the Las Vegas variety), and that day, when I saw him down at the end of his little paved driveway between his artsy-fartsy wrought iron lamp and his gleaming Audi, I really understood the meaning of the word
complacent.
That mixture of stupidity and arrogance. His unshakeable self-satisfaction. That blue cashmere sweater stretched over his huge gut and that weird way—real friendly-like—he has of reaching out his hand to you even though he already hates you.

 

I'm ashamed when I think back on that lunch. I'm ashamed, and I'm not the only one. Lola and Vincent aren't too proud, either, I don't think . . .

Simon wasn't there when the conversation began to degenerate. He was out in the garden building a cabin for his son.

He must be used to it. He must know that it's better just to get out of there when fat Jacquot starts mouthing off . . .

 

Simon is like us: he doesn't like shouting matches at the end of a nice dinner, he hates conflict and runs like hell from power struggles. He says it's a waste of good energy and that you have to keep your strength for more worthwhile struggles in life. That with people like his father-in-law, you're fighting a losing battle.

And when you talk to him about the rise of the extreme right, he shakes his head: “Bah . . . they're just the dregs on the bottom of the lake. What can you do, it's only human. Best leave well enough alone, otherwise they'll rise to the surface.”

 

How can he stand those family dinners? How can he even help his father-in-law trim the hedge?

He concentrates on Léo's cabins.

He concentrates on the moment he'll take his little boy by the hand and they'll go off together into the deep and silent woods.

 

I'm ashamed because on that particular day, we didn't dare say a thing.

Once again
we didn't dare say a thing. We didn't react to the words of that rabid shopkeeper who'll never see any farther than his distant navel.

We didn't contradict him, or leave the table. We went on slowly chewing every mouthful, thinking it was enough just to register what a jerk the guy was while pulling hard on all our loose threads, trying to wrap ourselves in what might remain of our dignity.

What wretches we were. Cowards, incredible cowards . . .

 

Why are we like that, all four of us? Why are we so intimidated by people who shout louder than others? Why do aggressive people make us go completely to pieces?

What is wrong with us? Where does a good upbringing end and spinelessness begin?

 

We've talked about it a lot. We beat our breasts over pizza crust and makeshift ashtrays. We don't need anyone to force us to. We're big enough to go about it ourselves, and no matter how many empty bottles we have at the end, we always come to the same conclusion. That if we are like this—silent and determined but absolutely useless when it comes to jerks like him—it is precisely because we haven't got a shred of self-confidence. We are sorely lacking in self-esteem.

We don't love our own selves.

We don't think we're all that important.

Not even important enough to splutter our indignation onto old man Molinoux's vest. Or to believe for one second that our squawking could ever influence his line of thought. Or to hope that a gesture of disgust like tossing our napkins onto the table or knocking over our chairs might have the slightest impact on the ways of the world.

What would that good taxpayer have thought if we had given him a piece of our mind and left his demesne with our heads held high? He would simply have battered his wife all evening with remarks like: “What complete pricks. Total pricks. I mean, have you ever seen such a hopeless bunch of pricks?”

And why should the poor woman be subjected to that?

Who are we to spoil the party for twenty people?

 

So you might say that it isn't cowardice. You might allow that it's actually wisdom. Acknowledge that we know when to stand back. That we don't like to stir shit up. That we're more honest than those people who protest all the time but never manage to change a thing.

Or at least that's what we figure, to make ourselves feel better. We remind each other that we're young and already far too lucid. And that we're head and shoulders above the ant farm, so stupidity can't really reach us up here. We don't really give a damn. We have other things, each other for a start. We are rich in other ways.

All we have to do is look inside.

 

We have a lot going on in our heads. Stuff that's light years from that man's racist ranting. There's music, and literature. There are places to stroll, hands to hold, refuges. Bits of shooting stars copied out onto credit card receipts, pages torn out of books, happy memories and horrible ones. Songs with refrains on the tips of our tongues. Mes­sages we've kept, blockbusters we loved, gummy bears, and scratched vinyl records. Our childhood, our solitude, our first emotions, and our projects for the future. All the hours we stayed up late, all the doors held open. Buster Keaton's antics. Armand Robin's brave letter to the Gestapo and Michel Leiris's battering ram of clouds. The scene where Clint Eastwood turns around and says, “One thing though . . . don't kid yourself, Francesca . . . ” and the one in
The Best of Youth
where Nicola Carati stands up for his patients at the trial of their torturer. The dances on Bastille Day in Villiers. The scent of quinces in the cellar. Our grandparents, Monsieur Racine's saber, his gleaming breastplate, our country kid illusions and the nights before our finals. Our favorite comics: Mam'zelle Jeanne's raincoat when she climbs on behind Gaston on his motorbike, or François Bourgeon's
Les Passagers du vent.
The opening lines of the book by André Gorz dedicated to his wife, which Lola read to me last night on the telephone when we'd just spent ages bad-mouthing love, yet again: “You're about to turn eighty-two. You've gotten six centimeters shorter, you weigh only forty-five kilos, and you are still beautiful, gracious, and desirable.” Marcello Mastroianni in
Dark Eyes
; gowns by Cristóbal Balenciaga. The way the horses would smell of dust and dry bread when you got off the school bus in the evening. The Lalannes, each working in their own studio with a garden in between. The night we repainted the rue des Vertus, and the time we slipped a stinking herring skin under the terrace of the restaurant where that stupid ass Poêle Tefal worked. And the time we rode at the back of a truck, face down on sheets of cardboard, and Vincent read us all of Orwell's
Road to Wigan Pier
out loud. Simon's face when he heard Björk for the first time, or Monteverdi, in the parking lot of the Macumba.

 

So much silliness and regret, and the soap bubbles at Lola's godfather's funeral . . .

Our lost loves, our torn letters, and our friends on the other end of the line. All those unforgettable nights, and how we were forever moving house, and all the strangers we bashed into all those times we had to run to catch a bus that might not wait . . .

 

All of that, and more.

Enough to keep our souls alive.

Enough to know not to try to talk back to stupid idiots.

Let them croak.

They'll anyway.

They'll die all alone while we're at the movies.

 

That's what we tell ourselves so we'll feel better about not getting up and leaving the table that day.

 

Then there's the obvious fact that all of it—our apparent indifference, our discretion, and our weakness, too—it's all our parents' fault.

It's their fault—or should I say it's thanks to them.

Because they're the ones who taught us about books and music. Who talked to us about other things and forced us to see things in a different light. To aim higher and farther. But they also forgot to give us confidence, because they thought that it would just come naturally. That we had a special gift for life, and compliments might spoil our egos.

They got it wrong.

The confidence never came.

So here we are. Sublime losers. We just sit there in silence while the loudmouths get their way, and any brilliant response we might have come up with is nipped in the bud, and all we're left with is a vague desire to puke.

Maybe it was all the whipped cream we ate . . .

 

I remember how one day we were all together, the whole family, on a beach near Hossegor—because we rarely went anywhere together as a family—family with a capital F, that wasn't really our style—our Pop (our dad never wanted us to call him Dad and so when people were surprised we would say it was because of May 1968. That was a pretty good excuse, we thought, “May '68,” like a secret code, it was as if we were saying “It's because he's from planet Zorg”)—so our Pop, as I was saying, must have looked up and said, “Kids, you see this beach?”

(Any idea how huge the Côte d'Argent is?)

“Well, do you know what you are, you kids, on the scale of the universe?”

(Yeah! Kids who aren't allowed any doughnuts!)

“You are this grain of sand. Just this one, right here. And that's it.”

 

We believed him.

Our loss.

 

“What's that smell?” said Carine.

I was spreading Madame Rashid's paste all over my legs.

“What . . . what on earth is that stuff?”

“I'm not sure exactly. I think it's honey or caramel mixed with wax and spices.”

“Oh my God, that's horrible! That is disgusting! And you're going to do
that, here
?”

“Where else can I do it? I can't go to the wedding like this. I look like a yeti.”

My sister-in-law turned away with a sigh.

“Be very careful of the seat. Simon, turn off the A/C so I can open the window.”

 

Please
, I muttered, my teeth clenched.

 

Madame Rashid had wrapped this huge lump of Turkish delight in a damp cloth. “Next time come see me, I take care of you next time. I do your little love garden. After you see, how he like it, your man, when I make it all gone, he go crazy with you and he give you anything you want . . . ” she assured me with a wink.