The Front Seat Passenger (4 page)

Fabien was astonished at how fast he was getting over his loss. When he forced himself to think about Sylvie, like an invalid testing the progress of their convalescence, he felt as if he were
looking back at someone else’s memories. Perhaps that was what was meant by ‘turning the page’. The blank whiteness of the new page gave him vertigo. So he began to darken the page by writing: ‘Martine Arnoult, 45 Rue Charlot, Paris 3rd.’

Through the window of the Celtic café, Fabien watched the two women load bags and tennis racquets into the boot of the big grey BMW. The older woman took the wheel, with Martine Arnoult in the passenger seat. The car started up and disappeared round the corner. That made three Fridays in a row that Fabien had witnessed the same scene. They wouldn’t be back until Monday afternoon.

The Celtic café was almost exactly opposite number 45 Rue Charlot and therefore an ideal observation point. Fabien spent hours there nursing a beer or a coffee, pretending to write or to read the paper under the perplexed eye of the owner, who couldn’t decide whether to treat him like a regular or a dodgy customer, or both at the same time. Fabien knew he should make an effort to reassure him, to exchange a few words, perhaps to spin a yarn to explain his constant presence, like, ‘I’m writing
a dissertation on 45 Rue Charlot,’ but he had never been able to bring himself to. He didn’t know how to make small talk or crack a little joke that would hit the right note. Each time he had tried, it had fallen flat. In his mouth the simplest words became complicated and provoked the exact opposite effect of what he was aiming for. So he stuck to ‘Good morning/good evening/please/thank you,’ accompanied by a smile too ingratiating to seem sincere.

‘Excuse me, Monsieur, how much do I owe you?’

‘Two beers? That’ll be twenty-eight francs.’

As he was waiting for his change, Loulou, stuck like a limpet to the bar, gave him a conspiratorial wink, to which Fabien replied with his all-purpose little smile. What was the meaning of that wink? He had no idea. Perhaps it was because Loulou also spent hours at the Celtic, although with a much more obvious motivation than Fabien. The other morning he had watched as Loulou ordered his first white wine of the day. The
patron
had filled the glass to the brim. Loulou, his hands flat on the bar, had waited until no one was watching to quickly grab hold of the glass. But his hand had been shaking so much that half of the contents had spilt onto the bar and most of the rest down his jacket. He had nodded to the
patron
for a replacement. And so on until he could empty his glass without spilling a drop. Then, satisfied and as proud of himself as if he had accomplished some sporting feat, he had looked at his hands which were finally free of the diabolical shakes, and he had smiled. The day could begin. Everyone needed a reason to live. The alcoholic’s was very simple: it was the next drink. Life reduced to the minimum, the almost perfect sketch.

For Fabien it was Martine Arnoult. His intentions towards her were somewhat vague. They could be described simplistically as ‘That man stole my wife; I’m going to steal his.’ His brain, in the absence of his still-convalescent heart, could not conceive of starting a new existence without the presence of a woman. Circumstances had offered him Martine on a plate; it was the obvious course of action. Even though he hadn’t expected love at first sight, he was still disappointed when he got a look at her. Despite being much younger than Sylvie, the other man’s wife looked singularly uninteresting. She was a pale little blonde of about thirty, with staring blue eyes, practically no lips, and dressed in navy and beige. She looked like an over-exposed photo, with so little presence that one wondered if she was capable of casting a shadow. Although her shadow was in fact Madeleine, the other woman who had accompanied her to the morgue in Dijon and drove the grey BMW. He had discovered her name one day as he waited behind them in a queue at the newsagent’s (‘Madeleine, I’ve forgotten my wallet …’). Madeleine appeared to be made of sterner stuff. She was a muscular fifty-year-old with the sharp eye of a bodyguard under a fringe of brown hair sprinkled with grey. They were never apart, except for once when Fabien had been able to follow Martine to the Monoprix. She had bought mushrooms in brine and toilet paper, which he found surprising purchases as he couldn’t imagine Martine cooking an omelette, still less defecating. But aside from that deviation, Madeleine did not let Martine out of her sight. They went to the cinema together, to the theatre together, to restaurants, to the Luxembourg gardens, always together. They were like the Ripolin brothers. Fabien was very careful; he was wary of Madeleine who seemed to be
endowed with an animal instinct. Once he had caught her eye. He seemed to hear her say, frowning, ‘I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

As long as he stayed within the perimeter of Rue Charlot, he could pass for a resident of the neighbourhood, but when he followed them further afield, he took care to keep his distance. To make things easier he bought himself a reversible jacket and a wig, which allowed him to change his look quickly. He hadn’t been able to find out much about Martine, except that she smoked Winston Ultra Lights, was always willing to go where Madeleine wanted her to, had no taste in either clothes or food; in short, that she floated in life like a foetus in formaldehyde. But it was precisely that troubling vacuity that drove Fabien to fixate on her even more. No one could be that insipid; she must have a secret, a hidden source of interest. And why was Madeleine fussing round her like a mother hen with a chick?

Fabien was aware that he needed to get on with his investigations, first because he was growing weary of these fruitless tailing expeditions and secondly because he was worried that the owner of the Celtic would one day report him to the authorities.

There was a fire engine parked outside Gilles’s apartment and a little group of people were talking and pointing at his window. Loud recriminations, which Fabien recognised as being from Gilles and Fanchon, could be heard.

‘Yes, OK, stop going on about it; no one was hurt!’

‘Are you being deliberately stupid? His big wooden lorry! It could have hit someone on the head!’

Fanchon was beside herself. Steaming with rage, she was
pacing the sitting room waving her arms as if she were drowning. Gilles shook his head, looking at the ceiling as he lay stretched out on the sofa. His dressing gown had flapped open, revealing his flaccid penis. Léo was sitting quietly in a corner, sucking the pages of a book.

‘Looks like I’ve arrived at a bad moment. What’s happened? There are firemen outside.’

‘Léo threw all his toys out of the window while this idiot was snoring, completely out of it.’

‘I wasn’t completely out of it! I was asleep because I was exhausted, because I spent the night looking for work.’

‘Until six in the morning? You’re taking the piss!’

‘No, in show business you work all night!’

‘Show business, my arse!’

‘Ask Fabien!’

‘Hey, you two, calm down. It’s true Gilles had a meeting—’

‘You stay out of this! You make me sick, both of you!’

‘Well, if you looked after your son a bit more, this wouldn’t have happened. You’re always going off here, there and everywhere.’

‘Because I’m working, damn you!’

‘Not this weekend you’re not. Madame is going to Deauville with … what’s this one called?’

‘Bastard.’

‘I’m sure that suits him very well!’

‘That’s it, I’m out of here! I’ll come back and get Léo on Sunday evening, about eight.’

Fanchon grabbed her bag, a big soft bag filled with heaven knows what that she always had with her. She hugged her son
close, showered him with kisses then left the apartment without a word or a glance. Gilles, Léo and Fabien counted: fourth, third, second … then dashed to the window. At that moment Fanchon emerged from the building. Léo shouted, waving his hand, ‘Maman! Look, Maman!’ Fanchon was unsure whether to blow him a kiss – Gilles and Fabien might think it was for them too. She hastily kissed the tips of her fingers with a strained smile. Then she disappeared into the little red car driven by a large man of the same colour. Gilles pretended to wipe his forehead.

‘You saw me, I was fine when I got back this morning … Then, it’s true, I had a bit of a slump this afternoon. A sleepless night – I’m not twenty years old any more … And this little tyke took advantage of that to … Never throw things out of the window, Léo, understand? Shouting, spitting, maybe, but never throwing things!’

‘Papa! Papa! Big Nits, Big Nits!’

As one man they leant out of the window to see ‘Big Tits’, the chemist, close up her shop. She smiled when she spotted them and waddled off along the boulevard like a big hen. The three stared at her rump until she was out of sight.

‘We’ll eat early tonight – it’s the
Seven Mercenaries
on telly.’

‘I won’t be in this evening.’

‘Why not – a date?’

‘Uh … yes. I won’t be home late.’

‘Do as you like, mate. You’re free as a bird.’

I’m in a sort of cafeteria, a self-service – Formica and fluorescent lighting, people with trays. I’ve been waiting a long time, I’m annoyed. The man comes and sits at my table. I don’t know him, but I know that it’s him. I know that I hate him. He says something like ‘You know what you have to do?’ or maybe ‘You have to do it.’ It’s hard to hear what he’s saying over the clatter of cutlery. He suddenly gets up and runs across the room, knocking into people and overturning chairs as he goes. I hurry to chase him. Someone exclaims, ‘What’s got into those two?’ Outside I see him take the street on the left. He must be a hundred metres in front of me. He runs fast. I can barely keep up with him. The town is unfamiliar; it might be a port because everything is covered in a thick layer of salt which the sun has started to melt in places. The streets are busy. Perhaps there’s a fête. The pavement is terribly slippery because of the melting salt and it’s difficult to get through the sometimes dense crowds. It might take me the rest of my
life, but I’ll catch him. He must feel my determination; he’s giving it everything he’s got. I see him knock into a bin, fall, roll and pick himself up again with incredible agility. Even so, I’ve gained a few metres on him. Merciless, I elbow or kick aside whatever’s in my way - invalid, pram, cat or dog. The blood is pounding in my temples, BOOM! BOOM! … I’m going to eviscerate him with my nails, sink my teeth into his neck … We reach a major road. The traffic is heavy, but the cars are moving fast, setting off in bursts as the light turns green. He hesitates, propels himself forward, just manages to avoid a bus, then a motorbike, but is hit by a big red lorry. Brakes and horns screech. Shit! He gets up, continues, limping now. My turn to plunge into the traffic. I’m sure I’ve got him now. A radiator grille of gleaming chrome shark’s teeth looms over me, enormous—

Fabien opened his eyes. His jaw was clenched, his muscles tensed and he was out of breath. The bedroom air filled his mouth like chalk dust, blue chalk dust. The rabbits on the wall stared at him menacingly. Léo’s soft toys bore down on his legs like dead animals. Above his head, the mobile, which he must have knocked with his arm, turned its circle of evil little ducks. The darkness was suddenly pierced by a shaft of yellow light. Gilles’s frame was silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Is something wrong? You’ve had a nightma— What on earth is that on your head?’

Fabien touched his head and his fingers came into contact with hair that was not his, dry, stringy.

‘You wear a wig in bed?’

‘No … It’s … I bought it to play a joke on Léo.’

‘Ah.’

‘I stupidly fell asleep with it on. I had a bad dream. Go back to bed, everything’s fine.’

‘Great, well, OK, see you in the morning.’

A few hours earlier, while Gilles was initiating his son into the delights of the
Seven Mercenaries
, Fabien had been climbing the stairs of 45 Rue Charlot, carrying a blue hyacinth wrapped in cellophane. He had considered the pot plant the height of camouflage. To his knowledge, no one had ever arrested a burglar carrying an old-lady plant. But he hadn’t bumped into anyone. It hadn’t been hard to pick the lock. That was a technique he owed to his father, devotee of DIY and repairs. He closed the door gently behind him. It must have been about eight o’clock – he could hear the theme tune for the news from neighbouring flats.

The hallway smelt of wax polish, honey-scented. The floor was covered with uneven red floor tiles, the ceiling crossed with brown beams, and the walls were white pebbledash, urban-rustic style. Country furniture, rush mats, ecru wool for sofa covers and curtains, old wood, old copper, old leather. Everything was scrubbed and shining, comfortable but ineffably dull. He put the hyacinth down on the kitchen table and opened the fridge. Frozen prepared dishes were piled like bricks in the freezer compartment. Nothing joyful here either. The only sign of life was the leftover ratatouille in an earthenware dish covered with cling film. He tasted it and found it delicious, each vegetable cooked separately as in the traditional recipe. This culinary subtlety clearly did not come from Martine; it must have been
Madeleine. The two plates and two sets of cutlery drying in the rack proved that Madeleine had been here yesterday evening. He took a large swig from an opened bottle of Sancerre and went back to the sitting room where he tried out various chairs. He didn’t feel comfortable in any of them. He moved the sofa, the table and chairs, then the rug, and tilted the lampshades until he felt a little as if he were at home. Of course to feel totally at ease, he would have had to get rid of some of the knickknacks, like that set of ridiculous pewter jugs or those hammered copper saucepans which reminded him of his father’s Comtoise clock or, worse, those unspeakable pictures of autumnal pastoral scenes and stags at bay that shrieked from the walls. Truth be told, he would have had to redo everything. In the bedroom, he lifted the curtain and saw the Celtic, closed at this hour. With a little effort of concentration, he could almost see himself, sitting with a coffee, his eyes raised towards the window. That made him smile. When he opened the wardrobe a gust of repulsive scent greeted him. He saw beige, more beige, and some blue. Clothes that would make anyone look invisible. Arms outstretched he let himself fall onto the bed, which was puffed up like a brioche by a good-quality duvet.