Pedigree (6 page)

Désiré, who had recovered his rifle, went down the narrow, perpetually damp passage leading into the Mamelin house and crossed the yard. The kitchen was at the far side, with a whole wall of glass which had been made opaque with fake stained glass. He knew that a tiny patch of this colouring had been scratched away, that his mother was looking through this hole, and that she was announcing:

‘It's Désiré.'

It was his hour. He recognized the smell of the stewed beef and that of the oilcloth covering the long table at which thirteen children had sat in their time.

‘Good morning, Mother.'

‘Good morning, son.'

‘Good morning, Lucien. Good morning, Marcel.'

Steam. His mother always standing, always dressed in slate-grey, with a grey complexion and steel-grey hair.

He sat down. He let the warmth seep into him, and the smells too, without feeling the need to say anything.

‘Is Élise all right?'

‘She's all right.'

‘And the child?'

‘Yes.'

‘Tell your wife that I'll be coming to see her soon.'

All the Mamelins came like this to sit for a moment in the kitchen in the Rue Puits-en-Sock. In an armchair at the far end of the room, Old Papa, their mother's father, sat motionless. In the half-light one could just make out a monstrous carcass, a real bear's carcass, whose arms seemed to reach right down to the floor, and a beardless face with a stone-grey complexion, empty eyes and disproportionately large ears.

He recognized each visitor by his footsteps. Each one implanted a light kiss on a cheek as rough as sandpaper. He never spoke. At Mass time he told his beads in silence. His skin, the skin of a sometime miner, was spangled with blue dots, like encrusted fragments of coal.

Four-pound loaves, baked the day before, stood waiting for the whole family, for all the married offspring. Each one, every Sunday, came to collect his share.

‘Is Juliette keeping well?'

‘She was here just now.'

‘And Françoise?'

Here the rain, falling on a zinc platform which covered the kitchen, made a noise which was so to speak a Mamelin noise. The smells were different from those in other places. The steam went on forming dirty drops which trickled down the oil-painted walls.

When it was ten to twelve, Désiré stood up, picked up his loaves and his rifle, and went off.

He did not feel embarrassed at carrying loaves of bread when he was in uniform, with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Any more than at putting a check apron over his suit to do the housework. He walked as in an apotheosis along the narrow pavements of the Rue Puits-en-Sock with the trams passing dangerously close. Each shop exhaled its special breath at him: the chip-shop, the tobacconist's, the cake-shop, the dairy-shop … Heavens, he had nearly forgotten! It was Sunday! He went into Bonmersonne's to buy two tarts, an apple tart—Élise liked nothing but fruit tarts—and a rice tart for himself, since he loved sweet things.

He crossed the Pont des Arches. The Rue Léopold was dead. It came to life only during the week, like all the streets in the centre, but you could never recognize anybody, because the people you saw came from far away, from anywhere and everywhere, and only passed through, whereas the Rue Puits-en-Sock, for instance, was the vital centre of a district.

He walked carefully past the door on the first floor. The Delobels were always complaining about the noise and went to see the Cessions at the slightest excuse.

‘Is dinner ready?'

He sniffed, smiled, clambered on to the rickety chair to put his rifle back in place.

‘Well, Valérie?'

He turned to Élise.

‘Have you been crying?'

She shook her head.

‘Has she been crying, Valérie?'

‘No, Désiré, you mustn't worry about it. You know she can't help it.'

He knew, but he did not understand. That was why Élise had said earlier to Valérie:

‘You know, Désiré is the best of men, but he doesn't feel things as we do.'

What did he feel? He lived. He ate. He slept. He had a good job. Starting as the youngest at Monsieur Monnoyeur's, he had become his right-hand man and it was he who held the key to the safe.

What did it matter if he earned only 150 francs a month? Had they ever gone hungry? Well then!

‘Eat up, Désiré.'

He suddenly remembered that that morning, passing Kreutz's toyshop next to his home—his home, as he still called it, was his parents' house—he had seen a whole display of masks, false noses and rattles.

‘It's the first Sunday of the Carnival,' he announced.

Élise did not understand why he should talk about that. The first Sunday was the children's carnival. Désiré was just remembering the carnivals of his childhood.

‘Are the carrots sweet enough?'

‘They're good. Did you cook them, Valérie?'

‘Poor Valérie, if you only knew the trouble she goes to! I keep wondering what we should have done without her!'

‘But seeing that we've got her!'

Precisely! Seeing that Valérie was there, what was the point of worrying? Oh, he didn't feel things!

‘Félicie came this morning.'

‘Was she squiffy?'

A word they used to signify … not exactly drunk … not entirely sober either …

‘Désiré!'

She jerked her head towards Valérie.

‘Well? Doesn't Valérie know that your sister … Another piece of meat, Valérie? Yes do, you must keep your strength up …'

Until three o'clock, the streets remained empty, or nearly empty. Then a few families appeared, dressed in dark clothes and dragging masked children along behind them without much enthusiasm. A little toreador went by, shivering in a ratteen overcoat and waving a rattle in one hand while he was pulled along by the other.

‘What about your mother, Désiré?'

‘She'll come. You know that it's an adventure for her, crossing the bridges.'

‘Valérie, you don't think the baby's choking, do you?'

He was breathing badly, there was no doubt about that. You ought not to be able to hear a baby's breathing like that. What would Madame Mamelin say, she who was so fond of repeating that Élise was a sickly creature?

‘Have you looked in the cupboard on the landing, Valérie? There's nothing lying around?'

For her mother-in-law was perfectly capable of opening the cupboard on the landing to prove that Élise was a poor housekeeper! Élise had taken her big Désiré away from her and that was something she would never forgive.

‘You're sure we oughtn't to offer her something? A glass of liqueur? Some cakes?'

‘I tell you a mother who's just had a baby never offers anything to her callers. On the contrary, it's up to them to bring something.'

He considered it natural for people to bring something! Whereas Élise would have liked to give something in return, to give more than she received, never to be obliged. She was a Peters.

‘I can hear a noise.'

He opened the door and called out gaily:

‘Is that you, Mother?'

The people on the first floor had gone out, and there was no longer any need to keep quiet.

‘Wait a minute and I'll put on the light. These stairs are so dark.'

He was happy, so happy.

‘Come in … Come in, Cécile…'

It was his youngest sister, Cécile, who was going to get married, who had come with his mother. The latter had crossed the bridges, with her grey dress and her locket, her grey gloves and her hooded cape, to see the child of the foreign woman, of that tousle-haired hoyden who had no money and no health, who was not from Outremeuse or even from Liége, and who, when she was with her sister, spoke a language she did not understand. Désiré was the only person who failed to notice that her entry into the flat produced the effect of an icy draught.

‘Good day, daughter.'

She did not bend down to kiss her daughter-in-law.

‘Where's your
bebby
?'

She was obviously speaking dialect on purpose. To stress the fact that
she
was a woman of Outremeuse.

Élise trembled between the sheets and Valérie stood beside her as if to protect her.

‘Well, daughter, he's green, your
bebby
is!'

It wasn't true! She was just being spiteful! He wasn't green. After being too red all morning, he looked as if he had had trouble digesting his last feed. He was pale, that was undeniable. Élise herself was surprised to see how pale he was, and her hands clutched at the sheets under the blanket while her mother-in-law, shaking her head, stated once for all:

‘What an ugly
bebby
?'

That was all, She sat down. She deigned to sit down while her icy gaze swept round the flat. She was sure to have seen everything. The two damp patches on the ceiling—they were there all right; the Cessions had refused to have them whitewashed—and a duster which Valérie had left lying on a chair.

She had not brought anything either. She was there because she had to be there, but not for anything in the world would she have taken off her hat.

Élise made an effort and murmured:

‘A cup of coffee, Mother?'

‘No thank you, daughter.'

As if her daughter-in-law's coffee was not good enough for her.

Élise was ashamed of her furniture. It was the wife who provided the furniture when a couple married. At her home, at the time of her father's death, there had been some beautiful antique furniture. One of her brothers, Louis, Louis of Tongres as he was called because he lived at Tongres where he had made his fortune, had come and taken it all, one piece after another, under the pretext that it belonged to the Peters and had to go back to the Peters, and he had replaced it with deal furniture …

‘Well, children …'

The regulation time for a call had passed.

‘I still wonder whether your wife will be able to feed him.'

It was to Désiré that she spoke commiseratingly. ‘You would have your way! I warned you!' These words were in the tone of her voice, in the gaze of her eyes.

‘Anyway, I hope
for your sake
that all goes well!'

She went off. Cécile followed her. Désiré accompanied them downstairs and when he returned he found Élise in tears in Valérie's arms.

‘She was spiteful … On purpose … She was deliberately spiteful…'

‘But no! … I tell you you're wrong…'

He would have liked everybody to be in agreement, to like one another, to live as he did in the serenity and the joy of every passing moment. He looked at the alarm-clock.

‘It's time for his feed.'

Alas, the baby vomited a murky liquid which was not milk, and which was a greenish colour.

‘Valérie! He's ill … Dear God …'

Suddenly they heard the shrill noise of squeakers and rattles, and looking down from the window they saw some families who were taking advantage of a break in the rain to take their masked children on a tour of the town centre.

‘Perhaps if we gave him some sugared water? …'

‘Look, he's all red again. Anybody would think he had done it on purpose, just when your mother …'

Poor Valérie. She did not lose her head for one moment. She came and went like a diligent ant, like a furtive little mouse.

‘Don't start getting upset, Élise. I tell you it's nothing to worry about.'

‘Why is he sick? It's my milk, I'm sure it is.
His
mother has always said I wouldn't be able to feed him …'

Désiré was drumming on the window-pane with his fingers, through the lace curtain which deadened the noise, and he was delighted to be able to announce:

‘Here's Dr. Van der Donck.'

The doctor took an age to climb the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. He knocked on the door. He came in.

‘Well, Madame Mamelin?'

She was already less frightened. Ashamed of her fears, she made an effort to smile. He had come on a Sunday and he deserved her gratitude.

‘I don't know, Doctor … It seems to me … He has just thrown up his milk, and ever since this morning I've had the impression that he's so hot … Valérie! …'

Valérie, who had understood, brought the bowl of warm water and the towel, and the doctor slowly, carefully washed his white hands loaded with a gold signet-ring.

‘Désiré!'

He did not understand as quickly as Valérie. The light was failing.

‘The lamp…'

He lit it and the doctor sat down by the cradle, in the leisurely manner of somebody with plenty of time at his disposal.

‘Let's have a look at the little fellow…'

He took a watch out of his pocket. Dr. Van der Donck was fair-haired, slightly bald, with a tapering moustache and clothes in broadcloth.

‘When did you feed him last?'

Respectfully she replied:

‘At two o'clock, Doctor.'

‘Come, now … Come, now … don't worry …'

He knew that she was just a nervous child frightened by all the ghosts created by an anxious mind. And yet … He frowned … He examined the child …

‘Will you undress him for me?'

Désiré himself, whose head seemed to touch the ceiling, stood rooted to the spot behind him. More mummers went by outside. A military band passed somewhere.

‘Loosen it… Good … Ssh!…'

He listened … He counted … He frowned. He smiled so as not to frighten the mother …

‘Come, now, Madame, it's nothing serious … Don't worry … A touch of bronchitis, such as lots of new-born babies get at this time of year…'

‘That's serious, isn't it, Doctor?'

She could still summon up the courage to smile so as not to annoy him with her fears, when he had come on a Sunday, a carnival Sunday.

‘No, not at all … With a few precautions …'

He put on his gold pince-nez to write.