How's the Pain? (11 page)

By now Rose was treating Bernard almost as a son, asking after Fiona and the baby. She had said, ‘Simon had a funny turn earlier on,’ talking as though they were all part of the same family, of which he, Simon, was the head. There was something both comical and touching about it. What on earth did they have in common? When Bernard had walked in like a great sheepish oaf, Simon could not help but see in him not a physical resemblance, but a kind of unexpected extension of himself. That was why he had looked at him without speaking. It was strange. It was as if they had all been shipwrecked and fate had thrown them together on a desert island. The situation they found themselves in was so out of the ordinary it was as if their pasts no longer existed, but had gone down with the rest of humanity. They were all flailing, naked, towards one another, each seeking some comfort, some reason for their survival.

Thinking him asleep, Rose had tiptoed out, probably to go and see Fiona and the baby. Simon was still feeling weak but he could not stay in the bungalow any longer, suffocated by Rose’s cloying perfume. He needed fresh air. It was hard going, walking through the wet sand. It clung to his soles like clay. As a child, he would go out and gather potatoes from the muddy fields and come home with his feet caked in muck. Sometimes you would be in it up to your knees. Every step you took, the slippery earth sucked you in further with a disgusting slurp. In Indonesia, he had seen men sink into the swamps. Once their head had disappeared, a big bubble formed on the surface of the bog, then it burst and it was all over. It would probably be his turn to go under soon. The idea itself was not so hard to stomach; what bothered him was not knowing when or where. Until now, he had always been the one to decide such things. Except with Antoine … He remembered it like a baptism, but the other way round. That was how he wanted to go, the way Antoine had: at the hands of a friend. Simon had been around Bernard’s age at the time …

‘Did you never have kids because you couldn’t, Rose?’

‘No. I just never found the right man.’

‘But you must have been pretty once. You’re not
bad-looking
now!’

‘Thanks. I had plenty of offers, but I didn’t want to be tied down. I was anxious to keep my freedom.’

‘That doesn’t have to stop you! Freedom means a lot to me too. But I wanted a kid of my own. So I went with the first half-decent-looking guy who came along.’

‘It was a bit different in my day. And what about Bernard?’

‘It’s different this time. I already have Violette, for one thing. We’ve only just met. We’ll see. If things go well with us, maybe we’ll have another one together.’

Rose was tickling Violette gently. The little girl appeared to enjoy this, smiling and gurgling. Chubby girls understand each other. Fiona draped a babygro over the radiator to dry.

‘You know, Rose, don’t be offended, but I was scared of you at first. You have to admit you do a funny sort of job!’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘And I was scared of Monsieur Marechall too. You don’t often come across people in his line of work either!’

‘Thank goodness for people like him, though! Rats and rodents do all kinds of damage …’

‘Rats! Right, yes, of course … Anyway, he’s quite harmless now.’

‘I’m worried about him. If you’d seen him earlier … I really thought he …’

‘Now now, Rose, don’t cry. The docs can work miracles these days.’

‘Let’s hope so, oh, let’s … I’m sorry, it’s just this is the first time for me!’

‘For what?’

‘Well, love at first sight, just like in books! At my age, it’s hardly likely to happen again!’

‘Now come on, he’s not dead, he’s just old … Look! Here he comes now, with Bernard.’

Rose rushed to the window, half smothering Violette between her breasts.

‘He really shouldn’t be walking about like that after what he put me through today. It’s not right …’

Bernard was shuttling the milk carton from one hand to the other, trying to appear composed, while slowing his steps to keep pace with Simon. He was sure he was going to come out with something stupid, but faced with Monsieur Marechall’s inscrutable silence, he bit the bullet and blurted out, ‘Monsieur Marechall, I wanted to say—’

‘Don’t say anything.’

‘OK, I won’t. But you can still count on me. I’ll finish the job, just like I said.’

‘We’re leaving tomorrow. You and me, that’s it.’

‘OK, Monsieur Marechall, OK. It’s just I thought that Fiona and—’

‘Just you and me!’

Monsieur Marechall had stopped walking and was clutching Bernard’s arm with more strength than he looked capable of: an eagle’s grip. Despite his frail state, with the wind ruffling his tufts of white goose-down hair, there was still a glint of steely determination in his eyes.

‘Tomorrow, you’ll take me back to the hotel in Vals, and you’ll do exactly as I say, from start to finish. After that … do what you want, I don’t care.’

Simon let go of his arm and started walking again, slowly placing one foot in front of the other, head bowed, shoulders hunched.

Anaïs had spent the day eating and drinking, drinking and eating, until she made herself sick. Then, after vomiting, she started all over again, mixing cassoulet, chocolate and sardines on the same plate. Strictly speaking, all the supplies she had bought that morning were supposed to keep her going through the afterlife, but since Anaïs felt that journey might be a bit on the long side, she told herself that by devouring the lot in record time, eternity would somehow be speeded up. The logic of this was debatable, but there must have been something to it, because several hours had passed without her noticing. It was dark outside.

‘Shit, eleven o’clock already! What shall I have for supper? Soup!’

The little creatures thought this a splendid idea, clapping with both hands (and sometimes even more hands than that, as some of the little monsters had four or even six of them). A nice soup for dinner, an eleven o’clock broth.

Soup is a universal dish, eaten everywhere in the world. All you need is water and anything else you can find to chuck in.

The first bottle of Negrita was empty, of course. The liquid in the second bottle came up to the chin of the woman on the label or, turned upside down, to the level of her madras cotton turban. Anaïs tipped it back and forth several times, pondering the passing of time the way others do with an hourglass. There was no question: time definitely went by more quickly in liquid form. Anaïs poured herself a glass to celebrate her astute observation. She could have been a researcher, a great scientist like Marie Curie, with a bit of help. But no one ever had helped her. What a waste! Only the people who discovered things got rewarded for it, but, hell, you had to look for things before discovering them! The fact that liquid time passed more quickly than mineral time, that was quite a revelation, wasn’t it? … Well, it was their loss. She would keep that one to herself and it would be centuries before they understood this irrefutable natural law for themselves.

The kitchen had gradually started to look like an upturned dustbin again. The spiders were spinning webs in the corners once more; the grease-coated lino was slippery underfoot just like in the good old days, and the fluff balls had gathered again like sheep quietly grazing along the skirting boards.

‘So what? You don’t care about me; well, I don’t care about you either.’

Standing with her legs wide apart, wobbling on her rocker soles, Anaïs filled a big stockpot with water and
threw in a handful of pasta, another of rice, a tin of peas, a packet of lardons, a sprinkling of grated Gruyère, a few tears …

‘He could at least have sent me a postcard. A stupid sunset or something …’

The little creatures moaned along with her. Anaïs chased them off with a whack of the tea towel.

‘Get the hell out of here! Can’t you see you’re getting on my nerves? You’re always under my feet! … Now where on earth have I put the matches?’

She could not see clearly, or else she saw too clearly, as though looking through a magnifying glass. Every object appeared ridiculously large. Failing to judge distances, she kept knocking things over like skittles, until in the end she no longer dared touch anything and stood, panting and puffing like a whale, both hands flat on the table. A whistling sound came out of nowhere, boring into her eardrums, while a sickening smell turned her stomach and dulled her mind. She sank to her knees, bringing with her the oilcloth and everything on top of it.

‘What a godawful mess …’

She slumped forward, flat on her face. The life drained out of her body like oil from a drum.

‘Do you think you will actually visit Rose in Belgium?’

He did not respond.

‘She’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Better to be waiting for someone than for nothing at all.’

‘The reason I’m asking is I really like Rose. I’m glad she gets on well with Fiona and Violette. It means they’re not on their own any more. It’s like we’re a little family.’

‘Will you stop going on about your “little family”?’

‘Ah, come on, you say that but what about you and Rose?’

‘Would you mind your own business? You’ll see your girls again in two days. In the meantime, just let it drop, OK?’

‘All right, Monsieur Marechall, I won’t mention them again. It’s just that when you’re happy you want to shout about it, don’t you?’

Simon refrained from making a snide comment. There
was no point. Bernard wore his new-found happiness like a shining suit of armour. The stupid fool couldn’t help smiling at everything: the other cars cutting him up; the leaden sky just waiting for a sign before erupting; the dingy, humdrum buildings that lined the road; the police cars lying in wait behind the plane trees. Simon could almost hear the needles clicking away inside his head, knitting together a bright little future with a little job, a little house, a little wife, a little daughter …

‘Will you stop thinking!’

‘I’m not thinking, Monsieur Marechall, I’m watching the road. Drat, there are road works; there’ll be traffic jams. Here comes the rain!’

Flashing signs forced the cars to slow down and get into one lane. The windscreen wipers swept the raindrops away, leaving fleeting fan shapes on the glass. Only one thing threatened to mar Bernard’s constant bliss, which was the task Simon planned to entrust him with. The slowing of the traffic seemed like an invitation to test the water.

‘What will you do after you go back to Fiona and the baby?’

‘We’re heading back up to Bron. My hand’s almost better so I can go back to my job. We’ll just have to find a bigger flat because my bedsit … well, when you put the key in the door you pretty much break the window, if you see what I mean. Rents are steep in town, but we’ll manage somehow. Fiona’s smart, she’ll find herself a little job.’

‘A little job, a little flat! Never been tempted to think big?’

‘Very funny … We get by as best we can! I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. You’ve seen my mother … I need to look after her as well. It won’t be easy, but love gives you strength. And the other half of my pay from you will be a good start.’

‘You won’t get very far with that.’

‘As far as Bron. Don’t you worry, I only lost two fingers, I’ve still got both arms!’

And he smiled, just as he had when Simon first met him on the bench and he had said: ‘It’s only my little finger and fourth finger. I never used them.’ The kid had a talent for survival, like newborn babies found alive in dustbins.

‘Listen, Bernard. Apart from yesterday’s escapade, which we’ll pass over, I’ve been very pleased with you. You’ve always delivered, even in, shall we say … “delicate” situations. So if you wanted—’

‘No, Monsieur Marechall, I’ll have to say no straight out. I like you very much, but your job, well, it’s just not for me. I’m sure it pays well, and maybe I’m just a pathetic person with pathetic dreams, but at least I can look at myself in the mirror every morning and not feel ashamed. I’m not criticising you, I know deep down you’re not such a bad person, but I don’t want to end up sad and lonely like you. Each to his own, Monsieur Marechall, each to his own.’

‘Hang on a minute, I’m not offering you a job! I was about to ask a favour.’

‘Oh. What kind of favour?’

‘The kind of favour you can only ask of a friend.’

The little Playmobile people were waving flags to direct
the traffic. The cars gradually got back up to cruising speed.

They arrived in Vals-les-Bains late in the afternoon. It was still raining, not heavily, but persistently. Bernard found a parking space right outside the Grand Hôtel de Lyon. He was not smiling now. He kept his hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead.

‘OK, Bernard, so eight o’clock tomorrow morning? Right, Bernard?’

‘Yes! Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You really are messed-up though, Monsieur Marechall.’

‘Let’s shake hands.’

Before getting out of the car, they both noticed the child seat still strapped to the back seat. Simon shook his head, smiling.

‘Handy, those things.’

They parted on the pavement, one stepping into the hotel lobby, the other heading towards the old town. Neither looked back.