The Front Seat Passenger (10 page)

He stared at the grassy meadow until everything was green, green inside, green outside, a big curtain of green in front of his eye, exactly what the cows must see as they grazed. That was when he saw Gilles. It was weird; he was walking in the soaking-wet field, lifting his knees high as he went. ‘Fabien! Hey, Fabien!’ He was calling him, making a megaphone of his hands … Fabien blinked. Gilles was still there.

Two large tears rolled down Fabien’s cheeks. The first time he’d seen a human being in the meadow, and it was his old buddy. He took a few minutes to believe what he was seeing, and to drag himself over to the window. The fresh air was like a bucket of cold water in his face. For a second it took his breath away. Gilles jumped up and down, waving his arms.

‘Fabien! For God’s sake! Fabien! Come down and let me in; it’s locked.’

‘I can’t … You’ll have to climb over the wall.’

‘What?’

‘I haven’t got the keys.’

‘What the hell is going on? OK, I’ll climb on the roof of the car. Hang on a minute.’

Fabien got back into bed. His head was spinning. He couldn’t have said whether Gilles’s appearance in his little world pleased him or not. He heard a sharp snap followed by breaking glass then footsteps on the stairs.

‘Well, my old friend, what’s with all this crap? Christ! What’s happened to you?’

The presence of Gilles in the bedroom seemed indecent. His voice was too loud, his gesticulations too emphatic. He was too real.

‘Are you unwell? What’s wrong with your leg? Say something, damn it!’

‘I’m getting better. I was shot.’

‘Shot! What kind of messed-up situation have you got yourself into?’

‘It’s complicated … I wouldn’t know where to start. But anyway what are you doing here?’

‘You’ve been gone for more than two weeks! Don’t you remember? You gave me the name of the village. I borrowed Laure’s car and I asked for directions in the village, a house with two women. They told me about this dump but they said there was no one here. I came anyway just to check … You look like shit. Are you all alone?’

‘No. Martine has gone into town for some shopping.’

‘And she locks you in when she goes out? Why are the shutters closed? And the other biddy, where is she?’

‘I can’t tell you, Gilles. My head’s spinning. I’m tired.’

‘It doesn’t matter, you can tell me about it later. But I’m not leaving you another minute in this house, it’s downright sinister. You’ll have to see the doc. Have you got clothes and things, a bag?’

‘I can’t leave just like that. Martine …’

‘What Martine? She’s completely nutty, the witch, leaving you rotting away in bed. No, my friend, we’re getting out of here and that’s all there is to it. I’ve seen all I need to.’

‘Gilles, it’ll take too long to explain, but I can’t …’

‘That’s bullshit! What do you think? That we’re going to chat about the rain and the beautiful weather and then I’ll say, “Cheerio, see you soon!” I’ve no idea what’s going on here, but it stinks. Anyway I’m not asking your opinion; you’re in no fit state to decide. I’m your friend, for heaven’s sake! Your friend!’

Fabien didn’t know what to think any more. He would have liked to go to sleep, right there and then.

‘Can you walk? No. I’m going to carry you on my back. Put your arms round my neck … There, OK like that?’

Fabien let himself be carried like a parcel as far as the top of the stairs.

‘Wait, I’m going to see if I can open the door. That’ll be easier than getting you out of the window. Sit down on the top step.’

All that was needed for a quiet life was to say yes to everything. Gilles went downstairs and across the hall.

‘Oh great, it’s open! Do you hear that, Fab—’

He didn’t see Martine bursting out of the sitting room. His head exploded under the impact of the bullet fired at point-blank range. For a few seconds the noise of the detonation hung in the hall before being replaced by the habitual silence. Martine
lowered her arm and turned to look at Fabien. He had watched the scene with as much emotion as the stuffed stag’s head under which Gilles’s body now lay. Everything appeared to be stamped there for eternity. There was nothing to say, nothing to do; perfect order reigned.

Martine put the revolver down near the telephone on the little table and went up to join Fabien on the landing. She looked tired, that was all.

‘Come on, I’ll help you back to bed.’

They were like two mirrors face to face, each reflecting the abyss in the other. Fabien felt that every movement was incredibly slow and every sound echoed as though he were underwater. He let go, collapsing onto the bed, as if sinking in quicksand. ‘A few minutes ago, Gilles was in this room. He carried me on his back. He went down to open the door. Martine shot him. He’s dead. There’s a lot of blood on the wall under the stag’s head.’ He replayed the film forwards and backwards, without being able to take it in.

‘Is Gilles down there? Is he dead?’

‘Yes. Was he a friend of yours?’

‘Yes. He came on his own. He wanted to take me with him.’

‘I saw his car when I got back. I have to go and tidy up downstairs. Do you want anything to help you sleep?’

‘Yes, I do. Can you wait with me until I’m asleep?’

She came and curled up beside him.

‘Are you going to put him in the freezer as well?’

‘I don’t know. If there’s room … I’ll have to take his car back as well.’

‘It’s Laure’s. Two years ago we went to Amsterdam in it. At
Hallowe’en. Laure, Sylvie and me. The weather was like this – rain, rain, rain …’

Martine listened to him, her eyes closed, her cheek resting on her clasped hands.

‘Fabien! Fabien, wake up, we’re leaving.’

‘What? Where are we going?’

‘I don’t know. But we’re leaving.’

She helped him put on his clothes as if she were dressing a sleeping child. It was still dark. Fabien recalled going off on holiday with his father at four or five in the morning to avoid the traffic jams. The sleeping pill had dried his mouth out.

‘I’m thirsty; give me a glass of water. Why do you want to leave now?’

‘I parked your friend’s car in the garage. We could go to Amsterdam.’

‘To Amsterdam?’

‘Yes, you were talking about it earlier. I don’t know it.’

‘It’s far away … I’ll never make it. My head hurts. You said we must never leave this house, never!’

‘I’ve changed my mind. I didn’t think anyone would come here. It’s not the same any more.’

‘Oh yes, Gilles … Shit! Léo …’

‘Who’s that?’

‘A little boy of five, his son … Oh my God! Everything’s ruined now. I think I’m going to throw up …’

But it was his head, his heart that was overflowing, not his stomach. He spat a little thread of bile into the basin Martine was
holding out for him. Between two hiccups he repeated, ‘There’s nothing left now; shit, there’s nothing …’ He pictured the three of them, Gilles, Léo and himself, waiting for Big Tits to lower her metal shutter, the shadow of the plane trees on the boulevard, the noises of the city …

‘It’s all right, I’m here.’

Fabien looked up at her, his face streaming with tears and snot and drool that he would have liked to rip off like a mask.

‘I didn’t know it was possible to hurt so much.’

‘Don’t think about it. It’s over. We’re going to leave, you and me. We can’t let each other go ever again; we’ll always be together. Always.’

In the hall there wasn’t a single trace of blood; the stag with glass eyes remembered nothing. It was best to act like the stag: look straight ahead without seeing. Installed in the front passenger seat, Fabien watched the gates open like two great white hands. Never had the night appeared so vast to him.

‘Is your leg all right?’

‘What leg?’

Fields and forests flowed past on either side of the road like watercolour paintings. Rabbits petrified in the glare of the headlights froze between two furrows. At the edge of the woods the eyes of larger animals that couldn’t be seen danced like fireflies. It felt good to be admitted to the intimacy of this nocturnal scene. Like sharing a secret. The sleeping villages they passed through were peopled only by dreams. Behind the closed shutters, you could almost hear the creaking of bedsprings, the
more or less laboured breathing interspersed with groans. There was not the slightest difference any more between the worst bastard and the most saintly saint. The world was finally at peace.

They saw the day dawning as they arrived in Vézelay. The sky above Église de la Madeleine was the colour of a milky oyster. Martine stopped at the entrance to the still-deserted little town.

‘I’d like some coffee.’

‘So would I.’

They were the first words they had exchanged since their departure and were entirely suitable for the situation, banal, concrete, the same words they would have spoken upon waking up in bed. Now they were at home wherever they went.

‘That hotel is open. Do you think you can manage?’

‘I think so, yes.’

The waitress in the white apron still had pillow marks on her cheek. They ordered coffee and croissants. A German or an English couple of about sixty were speaking in low voices as they buttered their toast. The man had shaving foam behind his ear.

‘I feel grubby. I’d really like to change out of these clothes. I want to buy new ones.’

‘We can stop in a big town.’

‘The next one we come to.’

He was also hungry and in a hurry for his leg to heal. He wished he were German or English, about sixty, fresh from a hot bath.

‘We don’t have to go to Amsterdam.’

‘No.’

‘We just have to go somewhere.’

‘That’s right.’

They breakfasted looking out of the bay window at the shadow the hills cast over the valley. The tourist couple smiled at them as they rose from their table.

Martine had adopted a leisurely pace and was sticking to B-roads. Sometimes Fabien made her stop so that he could talk to a cow. He would lower the window and whistle between his teeth until one of the herd lumbered over from the pasture.

‘You see! I told you, they understand me; I have a rapport with these beasts.’

In a department store in Troyes they bought a sweater, jeans, a jacket and shoes. Fabien came out exhausted but delighted. About ten kilometres on from Troyes they found a little hotel buried in the country and decided to stop there for the night. It was a modest establishment, but clean, a far cry from the inns with fake timbering that featured on the tourist circuit. Situated curiously far from any other habitation it seemed to exist just for them. The Hôtel du Lys. At reception a lady of a certain age, with hair almost as blue as her eyes, offered them room 7 which overlooked the garden. Noticing that Fabien had difficulty walking, she helped Martine get the luggage from the car then led them to their room and discreetly made herself scarce, having agreed with them that they could dine at seven thirty. Fabien stretched out on the bed. Martine went to rest her head against the window.

‘What do you see?’

‘An old-lady garden, a bench, flowerbeds with no flowers, fruit
trees, a vegetable patch with lettuces, cauliflowers … perhaps a rabbit hutch at the end.’

‘I feel as if I’m wearing paper. New clothes are so stiff.’

‘You’re looking better.’

‘You’ve seen my leg; it’s incredible how it’s gone down. The bandage is perhaps a little too tight.’

‘I’ll redo it before we go to bed.’

‘It seems as if we’re the only guests.’

Of the five tables in the dining room only two were laid, one over by the window, and the other near the kitchen from where the sound of saucepans and the smell of stew emanated. The lady with blue hair brought them a basket of bread.

‘We didn’t think we would have any guests today. I can offer you a plate of charcuterie as a starter followed by hare stew. It’s my husband who does the cooking; you can rely on him. We’ll be eating the same thing.’

‘That’s perfect.’

‘Apologies again. At this time of year we don’t get many people, a few hunters on Saturdays and Sundays.’

The
patron
came out of the kitchen with two plates. He greeted them, smiling from afar. Apart from the blue hair he looked exactly, feature for feature, like his wife, who brought them the charcuterie and a bottle of wine.

‘
Bon appétit.
’

Then she sat down opposite her husband and all four began to eat.

‘Martine, it’s weird …’

‘What is?’

‘Those two over there, they’re like us in twenty years’ time.’

‘Perhaps they’re thinking the same but the other way round about us.’

‘Do you think we’ll have the same face, like they do? It’s unbelievable how alike they look.’

‘He has a limp.’

‘The
patron
?’

‘Yes, he limps with the same leg as you.’

‘That’s freaky!’

Fabien didn’t dare look at them any more. He thought he might find that they were making the same gestures as them at the same moment. It was like a mime performance in front of a mirror. Their hosts must have felt a similar embarrassment because after the starters were finished, the
patron
conferred briefly with his wife, then rose and came limping over to Martine and Fabien’s table.

‘Excuse me but … you’re dining at one end of the room and we’re at the other … Since there’s no one else here, would you like to join us? Of course, it’ll be our treat!’

‘Well … yes, with pleasure, that’s very kind.’

She was called Elsa and he was Ulysse (thus Hôtel du Lys). She was a local, he was from Marseille. They had met when they were twenty on holiday in Cassis. The war had come between them; Elsa had married a mine engineer from Sens, now dead, and Ulysse had enlisted as a cook in the merchant navy. They had found each other twenty-five years later by one of those
incredible coincidences life sometimes throws up, the derailment of a train near Lyon, and hadn’t been apart since. They’d had the Hôtel du Lys for eight years now. Truth be told, hardly anyone came, but that had been one of the attractions. They had both wanted to retire; the hotel was just a hobby.