Soft in the Head (5 page)

T
HAT DAY
, as I headed home, I wondered why I was so obsessed with adding my name on that stupid slab of marble. Because deep down, if I really thought about it—something I didn’t much like doing back then—I knew perfectly well I’d never committed war. And I knew that you had to be dead to be on the list. Even if I played the idiot for Devallée, the deputy mayor.

I, Germain Chazes, knew that only people who’d snuffed it had a right to be there, engraved in capital letters, being shat on by the pigeons from the park.

Why then was I so obsessed with being one of them? Maybe so I’d feel that I belonged, that I existed even just a little bit, even if I wasn’t really indelible on all surfaces. Or maybe so someone would say, Hey, who is this guy who’s always writing his name on the war memorial? I wonder why he does it?

I would have liked to talk about all this stuff to someone, but who? Landremont or Marco would be a waste of time, they’d have thought I was stupid, just for a change. Julien, I wasn’t sure about. Or Jojo, or Youssef. Maybe Annette?

Yeah, maybe it was the sort of thing you could talk about with a woman.

Women are funny: they don’t have a clue about anything, you just have to look at the way they let us take advantage of them, but for some things, they’ve got, like, a sixth sense.
In two seconds flat, they can tell you exactly what makes you tick. And it’s not always wrong, the stuff they come out with. They talk a lot of sense sometimes.

All of a sudden, I noticed something incredible: here I was thinking about the way I think, the way I react, that kind of stuff. Bloody hell! I thought.

This was new to me, it made me dizzy. Because, before that day, I was either thinking or not thinking. One or the other. And when I was thinking, I didn’t think about it, it was like it happened outside me. When I thought, I did it without thinking.

OK, I realize that when you put it that way it doesn’t make much sense. But I wasn’t in the habit of trying to work out the how and the why of things.

By accident, Margueritte had triggered a burning desire for thinking, it was like my brain had a hard on.

So, that night, while I was barbecuing my steak outside the caravan, I remembered a whole bunch of things that happened since I was a kid. That stuff I told you about Monsieur Bayle for example. The screaming matches with my mother. That bastard Gardini—I’ll tell you about him later. The first time I snatched a handbag, but I was just a kid, all boys do stuff like that. The army. Boozy games of belote and bar fights. Getting legless and getting a leg over. All the arseholes who make fun of me and think I don’t notice.

And the years that went by so fast that now, as Landremont says, what with statistics and life expectancy, I’m closer to the end than to the start.

Later, I remembered all the things I wanted to be when I was a kid. Even the vocation—
Inclination, penchant (for a particular profession or occupation)
—I had when I was about twelve. Whenever it was open, I found an excuse to pop into the church. Not to pray—I didn’t give a damn whether the Good Lord in His mercy forgave me. I went in to look at the big rose window above the altar. I thought the colours were mind-blowing and the images were amazing. So I decided to be a rose window-maker.

When I said this during careers guidance, I was told that “rose window-maker” was not a profession. Not a profession? What the hell was wrong with these people? It’s the most wonderful profession in the world. Instead, they suggested I could apprentice with a glassmaker. I told them to go screw themselves, I said I wasn’t interested in making glasses. Why not somewhere that made Pyrex bowls while they were at it?

It was one word, just one word, to work out. But that day, no one bothered to explain that you had to be a glassmaker to make rose windows.

So, anyway, as I was chopping tomatoes and onions for a salad, I thought some more about me, but as though it wasn’t me. As though it was some guy I’d bumped into on the street, the neighbours’ kid, a nephew. A lad who hadn’t had much luck in life. A poor bastard who had no father and no mother to speak of, because if I had to choose between my mother or no mother…

I saw myself from above and it felt peculiar. I thought, Jesus H. Christ, Germain, why do you do the things you do?

By “things” I meant: counting pigeons, running until I was out of breath, playing belote, whittling bits of wood with my Opinel. I asked myself the question seriously, it was like I was someone else talking. The voice of God, maybe—with all due respect and reverence to Him.
Germain, why do you do the things you do?
It echoed inside my head.
Why, Germain, why?

I think I had a sort of brainstorm that night. I’d had a couple of episodes like it before. When I was a kid, in fact. But, back then, someone would quickly cure me. Go out and play, don’t be such a pain in the arse, stop bugging us with all your questions!

When people are always cutting you down, you don’t get a chance to grow.

T
HE THIRD TIME
I saw Margueritte, I arrived before her. I sat on the bench and scowled every time I saw a mother and her kids or some old guy with a walking stick heading in my direction. Pulling faces to scare passers-by so they would bugger off and find somewhere else.

This bench belonged to me and Margueritte. It was mine and hers, end of. The funniest thing was that I was waiting for her, my pigeon lady. And when I saw her at the far end of the path, tottering towards me on her skinny legs, wearing that flowery dress, the grey jacket, handbag dangling from the crook of her arm, it warmed my heart. Just like a kid of fifteen with his first girlfriend.

Well, not
just like.
But you know what I mean.

She gave me a little wave, wiggling her fingers, and I felt like laughing. And that’s just it—if I had to explain what we have, her and me, that’s how I’d describe it: a flicker of humour that makes you feel good. Happy.

She put down her bag and sat, carefully smoothing the creases in her dress. She said:

“Monsieur Chazes, what a pleasant surprise!”

“You can call me Germain, you know.”

She smiled.

“Really? It would be a pleasure, Germain. But I shall do so only on the condition that you agree to call me Margueritte.”

“Well… if you insist, I’d be happy to.”

“I insist.”

“OK, then, in that case…”

“Have you already counted our birds today?”

She had said “our birds”, and I didn’t find that strange. I said:

“I was waiting for you.”

The worst thing is, it was true.

She frowned as though she was thinking about something important, then she said:

“Very well. So, tell me, Germain, how should we proceed? Would you like me to begin, so that you can do the recount? Shall we count aloud together? Would you rather we counted in silence and compared our results?”

“We each do it in our head,” I said.

“Yes, you’re quite right… I think in that way we are less likely to hinder or unduly influence each other. You have a scientific turn of mind, Germain. I like that.”

And since she wasn’t pulling my leg, I felt proud, and that’s pretty rare.

We counted sixteen. I was able to introduce her to Fistfight, Little Grey, Klingon and two or three others she hadn’t met before.

She had me repeat the last name, she didn’t seem to know it.

“Klingon.”

“Pardon?”

“You know, like the Klingons in
Star Trek
.”

“No… no, I can’t say I’m familiar with that particular cultural reference.”

“Well, see, Klingons are aliens in
Star Trek,
but it can also mean an ankle biter, a little nipper, a crab. You know, cause they ‘cling on’.”

“A crab? Are you… ahem… are you referring to pubic lice?”

“No… well, yes, crab can mean that too, but a Klingon is a kid, a child… didn’t you know?”

“Dear Lord no! Clearly I have much to learn from you.”

“Yeah, because they cling on, they don’t let go and they bug the hell out of you! And once you’ve got them, there’s no getting rid, d’you see what I mean?”

“Ah, yes… I see… of course. Hence the parallel with
pthirus pubis
…”

“Exactly,” I said. “Exactly like what you just said.”

I wasn’t too sure, but hey…

She giggled.

“Well, thanks to you, this will not have been a wasted day! I’ve learned something new.”

“You’re welcome. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

She sat for a moment in silence and then suddenly, as if she’d remembered she’d left a saucepan on the stove, she said:

“Oh, I almost forgot…”

And she took a book out of her handbag and said:

“You know, Germain, I thought about you last night as I was rereading this novel.”

“About
me
?”

I was completely shell-shocked.

“Oh yes, you. You and the pigeons. It came to me suddenly as I was reading a particular passage… Here, let me find it for you, wait a moment. Let’s see… Ah, here it is:
How can one evoke, for example, a town without pigeons, without trees and without gardens, where one hears no beating of wings, no rustling of leaves, a non-place, in effect
?”

She stopped. She glanced at me, pleased as Punch, with the look of someone who has just given you a beautiful present. Me, I felt intimidated. I’m not used to people giving me sentences. Or thinking about me when they’re reading books. I said:

“Could you say it again? Not so fast this time, if you don’t mind…”

“Of course…
How can one evoke, for example, a town without pigeons, without trees and without gardens
…”

“That’s there in the book?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a clever phrase. And it’s true. A city without trees, without birds. What’s the name of it, this book?”

“
The Plague.
The author’s name is Albert Camus.”

“My grandfather’s name was Albert too. It’s a weird title,
The Plague.
What’s it about?”

“I can lend it to you, if you like…”

“Oh, you know, me and reading…”

She closed the book. She seemed to hesitate and then she said:

“Would you like me to read you a few passages? I enjoy reading aloud and I so rarely have the opportunity. As I’m sure you understand, if I started to read aloud sitting here alone on my bench, I think people might worry about my sanity…”

I said:

“You’re absolutely right, they’d take you for a doddery old bat—no offence…”

She burst out laughing.

“Ha! Ha! A doddery old bat, that’s precisely it! Which is a colourful way of saying a senile old fool… In any case, I simply wanted to suggest, if you are agreeable, I might read you a few select passages. You would be my pretext, you understand?… But I would not wish to bore you… It goes without saying that I shall read only if you would like me to. So, please, be honest: is it something you might enjoy?”

I said yes.

“Enjoy” was probably not exactly the word, but the prospect—
see also: eventuality, contingency
—was not exactly unpleasant.

I sometimes listen to stories on the radio, plays and stuff, while I’m whittling sculptures with my Opinel. And it’s true that it keeps your ears busy.

M
ARGUERITTE
started to read, in her quiet, muffled voice. And then, maybe because she got caught up in the story, she started talking louder, and using different voices to let you know when there were different characters.

When you hear how brilliantly she does it, it doesn’t matter how unwilling or uninterested you are, it’s too late. You’re trapped. Or at least I was, that first time—I was completely knocked for six.

She skipped the first two or three pages of the book, explaining:

“I think we should dive straight into the action, if that’s all right with you.”

And she added:

“I’ve always found preambles a little tedious… So… I need to set the scene a little: the story is set in Algeria, in a town called Oran…”

If she’d just said “in Oran”, I would have had to pretend I knew where it was. But I knew about Algeria: Youss’ had shown it to me on a map, because his parents were born there.

Anyway, she didn’t even check to see whether I knew about geography or whatever. She calmly started reading, I didn’t have to do anything.

“
On the morning of 16th April, Doctor Bernard Rieux came out of his consulting room and stumbled on a dead rat in the middle of the 
landing
. At the time, he pushed the animal aside without a thought and went down the stairs. But once out on the street, the thought occurred to him that this rat
…”

As soon as she started reading, I knew I was going to like it. I didn’t really know what sort of book it was, a horror story or a thriller, but it had grabbed me by the ears, the way you do with rabbits.

I could picture it, the dead rat. I could see it!

And the other one, the one scurrying down the corridor, half dead and spluttering blood. And later on, the doctor’s wife when she’s sick and in bed.

“…
but by this time the townspeople had started to become concerned. Because from the 18th, hundreds of dying rats began to spill from the factories and the warehouses. In some cases, it was necessary to finish the creatures off, to put them out of their misery
…”

Oh my God, it was brilliant! I could picture the dead critters everywhere, the whole town being overrun. It was like a movie, but just for me, inside my head. We were sitting in the middle of the park, the two of us, chilling out in the shade of the linden tree. And all around us, if I closed my eyes—and even if I didn’t—there were huge piles of dead rats, swollen and stinking, their paws stiff. And everywhere there were others dying, whimpering, their pink tails wriggling.

“
From nooks and basements, cellars and sewers, they scrabbled up in long shuddering lines and staggered into the light, there to reel and die
…”

Ugh, it was disgusting, all these vermin! Just thinking about them gave me the shivers. If there’s an animal that
really turns my stomach, it’s rats. Rats and cockroaches. Cockroaches make me want to puke.

Margueritte read a few pages, skipped a passage and carried on. I didn’t say a word. I sat there wondering if the town’s rat extermination service was going to deal with this shit or not. Because when you’ve seen the way they piss around in council offices… Well, in our town, in any case. Maybe things are different in Oran. I hope so, for their sake. Because if it happened round here, no offence, but we’d smother to death under piles of rats. And then, in the book, the concierge gets sick, and his glands are all swollen in his neck. I know all about swollen glands, because once I caught something and the glands in my groin swelled up so I know exactly how he felt. Especially because the bastard doctor pressed down on them hard.

When Margueritte stopped reading, I would have liked her to carry on. But since we weren’t close friends, I didn’t feel like I could ask. I just said:

“It’s really interesting, your book.”

She gave a little nod to let me know she agreed.

“Yes. Camus is certainly a great author.”

“His first name is Albert, is that right? Albert Camus?”

“Indeed it is. Have you never read anything by him?
The Outsider
?
The Fall
?”

“I don’t think so. Not that I remember, anyway.”

“If you enjoyed my little reading, perhaps we could continue with the book another day if you’re so inclined?”

I was so inclined I’d happily have carried on right now
this minute. At the same time, I wasn’t about to spend my days sitting on park benches having someone read me stories like you do with little kids. Except that with kids, you don’t read them stories about dead rats.

I said:

“Perhaps. Why not? I wouldn’t mind.”

Which is one way of saying yes without sounding too desperate.

We said goodbye without setting a date.

I walked with her a little way along the path. She headed for the gate onto the boulevard de la Libération. I prefer to leave by the avenue des Lices, it’s shorter. Well, to get to where I’m going, it’s shorter.

Everything is relative.