The Front Seat Passenger (12 page)

‘Hello! Hello, Papa, it’s me, I’m at the station. Come and get me … As quick as you can, come immediately.’

The Comtoise clock was chiming half past midnight. Fernand Delorme watched his son crying as he had been for more than an hour without interruption, like a dam that had burst. He had not been able to get a word out of him, not the slightest explanation, just an unstoppable flood of tears. None of his survival books had prepared him for a situation like this. He paced about, his arms dangling, in pyjamas with his sheepskin jacket over his shoulders. The coffee he’d made was growing cold in the bowls. Sometimes his hand hovered over his son’s shoulder, but he always let it drop again, as if he might get burnt. There must be something he should say, the same words that would have prevented Charlotte from leaving, that would have meant his life had amounted to more than mere survival, but he had never discovered what they were. Up to this moment, he had filled his deficiency with a dignified silence, but this evening, he felt the lack of those words cruelly; he felt illiterate to the core. But shit! He was too old to start dissecting the shrivelled old prune that beat feebly in his chest.

‘I’ll go and make up your bed.’

It was hard to tell what creaked most, the sofa-bed or the old man. It was a nightmare to sleep on. The foam mattress was very thin and the metal bars of the base hurt your back. Fabien wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and threw his head back, widening his eyes and opening his mouth to tighten his skin. The light above the table bombarded him with its seventy-five watts.

‘Why don’t you go to bed? We can talk about this tomorrow.’

Fabien had lain down.

As his father was leaving the room he turned round to say, ‘Shall I leave the light on or turn it off?’

‘You can switch it off.’

These were the kinds of things he should say to his son. Tomorrow he would ask no questions.

‘This year it’s the tomatoes that have grown the best. I don’t know what to do with them all. I’ve given away plenty. I won’t plant as many next year.’

The old man pushed away a slug with the tip of his walking stick, crumpled some dry leaves in his hand and stamped down a clod of earth.

‘Would you like to go in now? Are you cold?’

‘Yes, yes. Raymond’s daughter, Jacqueline, the one who married the diver. Don’t you know who I mean?’

Fabien lit another cigarette, pulled the curtain back and blew the smoke against the window.

‘Doesn’t matter, it’s of no importance.’ His father adjusted his spectacles and went on with his reading.

‘Can you believe it? They’ve been talking for an hour and they haven’t said a thing! I’d rather watch a film, even if it’s rubbish, wouldn’t you?’

The adventures of Dr Queen followed on from the debate about social security without there appearing to be much difference.

‘I never told you the story? Oh yes, it was me who saved that girl from drowning. You can’t remember, you were too little. In fact maybe Charlotte wasn’t even pregnant yet … No, use the other one, the compost bin!’

The earth smelt of cabbage and wood fires.

It had been like that for two days, the father throwing the son conversational balls that he did not catch or that bounced back as if off a wall. And then the telephone rang. Fabien was preparing a salad; it was his father who answered.

‘Hello? Good evening, Laure. Yes, just a moment.’ He put his hand over the receiver. ‘It’s Laure … She wants to speak to you.’

‘I’m not here.’

‘This is the third time she’s phoned … I didn’t tell you. She knows you’re here.’

Fabien wiped his hands and took the phone.

‘Hello, Laure …’

‘Fabien! Not before time! Are you all right?’

‘Yes, not bad.’

‘Listen, have you seen Gilles?’

His stomach knotted. It was yes or no, heads or tails.

‘No.’

‘How come? He borrowed my car to go and get you, somewhere in Burgundy … Didn’t you see him?’

‘No. I didn’t go to Burgundy.’

‘Bugger! I really don’t understand now … He left over a week ago, and I haven’t heard from him. I thought you’d gone off on a trip. I was absolutely furious, but now I’m worried … Where were you?’

‘In the Alps. I broke my leg.’

‘You were skiing? It’s not the season!’

‘No, I slipped, it’s nothing.’

‘I see. What do you think I should do?’

‘About what?’

‘About finding my car, about finding Gilles! What’s wrong with you? He disappeared a week ago, it’s not normal. Fanchon is beside herself; they were getting back together. I’m going to go to the police! Where exactly was this house in Burgundy?’

‘I never set foot in Burgundy. I don’t even know what you’re talking about!’

‘So why did he mention it to me? This is really weird. I’m reporting it to the police.’

‘Wait a bit, perhaps he’ll send you some news.’

‘If there was news to send, I would already have it. I know Gilles is a scatterbrain, but not about this kind of thing, and not for so long. I’m going to hang up now. I’ll let you know how I get on. When are you coming back to Paris?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Bye, Fabien, see you soon.’

‘See you soon’ sounded like a threat.

‘You were in the Alps? Why is your leg not in plaster?’

‘It’s not really broken … And anyway, don’t ask questions! You’re not going to poke your nose in as well, are you?’

‘All right, all right. I’m not asking anything. I’m sorry, but I
don’t like to see you like this. Why won’t you tell me anything?’

‘Because you’ve never told me anything! Because Charlotte never told me anything! Because Sylvie never told me anything! Because we never tell each other anything!’

The old man stopped mixing the vinaigrette.

‘I did what I could, Fabien. It hasn’t been easy. I just want to help you.’

‘You can’t; no one can.’

‘Is it as serious as all that?’

‘Yes.’

‘My poor son, my poor son.’

The next day he received a call from Laure who informed him that she had reported everything to the police and he would probably receive a visit from them. She was keen for him to return; Fanchon was in a state; it was at times like this that friends should stick together. He felt like throwing up when he got off the phone.

Twenty-four hours passed in which all he could think about was getting warm. He did not move from a spot near the cooker, a blanket over his shoulders. His father asked no more questions. He stayed near his son like a faithful dog, cocking his ear at the least sound. They remained like that until the police van parked in front of the house.

He didn’t last longer than twenty minutes with his story of the Alps and a broken leg. He didn’t remember which town or which hotel he’d been to, nor which doctor had treated him. The two gendarmes who’d only come for a witness statement
couldn’t believe it. It was as if this man was doing everything he could to make himself a suspect. His father who sat in on the interrogation felt terrible for his son. Then Fabien laid it all out for everyone to see on the waxed tablecloth: Martine, Madeleine, Gilles, Elsa and Ulysse. It all came out in a jumble, as it occurred to him, everything including Sylvie and Martial. The gendarmes couldn’t follow it at all. At each new revelation his father shrank further into his armchair, clutching the armrests breathlessly. There, Fabien had said everything; they could do what they liked with him, it didn’t matter to him any more. The gendarmes invited him to follow them. One of the two asked his father if there was anything they could do for him. He shook his head and extricated himself from his chair to kiss his son.

‘You’ve done nothing wrong, my son. I’m here, you know.’

Fabien asked him to lend him his sheepskin jacket; he didn’t have anything warm. The gendarme who was driving muttered ‘For Christ’s sake’ as he started up.

In Madeleine’s house they found the two bodies in the freezer, and Martine, very weak, lying on the bed in the upstairs bedroom. She hadn’t eaten for several days. Some time later she and Fabien came face to face in a courtroom that smelt of tobacco and mothballs. Martine confirmed without blinking everything Fabien had said, limiting herself to replying ‘yes’, ‘no’, or ‘I don’t know’ to the judge who looked a bit like Fernandel. Behind him, two pigeons were silhouetted against the yellowing curtain. They could be heard cooing in moments of silence. Fabien only managed to catch Martine’s eye once, and all he could read in her expression was a total detachment, which he desperately envied as his lawyer described him as a victim, feeble, with no will of his own, subjugated and terrorised by a monster devoid of any emotion who had killed four times in cold blood after having been complicit in her husband’s murder and that of his client’s
wife … Fabien had wanted to rise and confess to a murder, any murder, not to help Martine, but because he couldn’t stand the pitiful role attributed to him.

Of course he did nothing of the sort since the role described was in fact his.

Pascal Garnier

Pascal Garnier was born in Paris in 1949. The prize-winning author of more than sixty books, he remains a leading figure in contemporary French literature, in the tradition of Georges Simenon. He died in 2010.

Jane Aitken

Jane Aitken studied history at St Anne’s College, Oxford. She is a publisher and translator from the French.

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