The Islanders (4 page)

‘No. You neither?’

‘No. I wanted to wipe it all out, forget, pretend nothing ever … but I never really managed it. After I came back from Réunion, I went to live in the south. I did some journalism, then some drinking … I gave up two years ago. I just can’t believe this. It’s been twenty years, but it feels like yesterday.’

‘In that case it must have been a bad night’s sleep. You look so tired.’

‘I guess so. As for you … How have you stayed so … smooth? It’s crazy, I recognised you straight away.’

‘I don’t know, I must have refused to get old.’

‘Have you … have you never thought about it since?’

‘About what?’

‘You know.’

‘Sometimes, at the beginning.’

‘And when the guy died. You know he died in prison, five years later?’

‘Yes, I saw it in the paper.’

‘And you thought nothing of it?’

‘Is that all you remember?’

‘No, of course not, but …’

It really was as if they had only spent a day apart. She nearly started doing the goat and sheep impressions she was so good at, or pulling faces to make him laugh. Laughing. When they were alone together, it was all they did. Never in front of other people. Everyone thought they were terribly serious for their age; they all remarked on it. It was how they protected themselves. There were other people, and there was them: two worlds which never converged. ‘Aren’t they good! … A real little couple!
… They’re like two peas in a pod!’ And here they were again twenty-five years later, unscathed, with the death of a child and an unfortunate tramp behind them.

With her legs tucked underneath her and her cheek resting on her palm, Jeanne sat smiling at him.

‘It’s good to see you.’

That was exactly the right thing to say, and Olivier kicked himself for not getting in there first.

‘I could murder a drink.’

The man was a total nutter but he had paid for everything since that morning. The role of guide dog was just another job. ‘Mind the step, go left, right …’ Some kind of miracle had brought them together. Of course, churches were designed for that sort of thing.

The blind man had come and sat next to Roland. Like all fat people, he was breathing heavily and sweating in spite of the cold. Mid-puff he whispered, ‘Do you believe in this stuff?’

‘What stuff?’

‘Oh, you know, the good Lord, the baby Jesus, the whole lot of them!’

‘I don’t know. I’m just waiting for the priest.’

The blind man let out a burst of laughter which ended in a coughing fit. He was clearly not in the habit of laughing; the mechanism sounded rusty and false.

‘And what do you think the priest’s going to do for you?’

‘Give me some clothes, maybe a bit of money.’

‘Clothes? No problem, they’ve got bins overflowing with them, but money’s another story. Priests don’t hand out money, they take handouts. What do you think of priests? Do you like them?’

‘Huh … They’re no different to anybody else.’

‘Don’t believe that for a second! Everyone else says no straight off. Priests say maybe, and that’s the last you see of them.’

‘Some of them are all right.’

‘They’re the worst!’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because they’re the ones who give you hope, and there’s nothing more dispiriting. Just around the corner, it’s always just around the corner, heaven and all that jazz! It’s one big hoax. Why not right now, huh? Why? Come on. They’ll palm you off with some old rags even the abbé Pierre wouldn’t be seen dead in. He gets given tons of them every day and he’s never wearing them when you see him going on about Emmaus on TV. At your age, you should be wearing fashionable stuff. Come on, let’s get something to eat. Stuff your face; everyone else is!’

Roland was in two minds. Although mildly disgusted by the chubby little hand resting on his knee, he had a feeling he would get more out of this one than the priest. When the latter returned with his three threadbare jumpers and a fifty-franc note, there was no one to be seen. The poor were not what they used to be.

Rodolphe dragged Roland to a bar in the marketplace where they consumed copious amounts of cheap charcuterie and white wine amid the butchers’ stalls. By ten o’clock they were drunk. The blind man kept on and on talking while Roland gobbled up everything on his plate, nodding along at random points in the monologue. It was best to stay on the right side of mad people.

‘Destiny, Roland, destiny! The wheel of fortune never stops turning and it’s me giving it a push every morning when I open my dead eyes and see nothing. Place your bets, the chips are down!’

‘Can I finish off the rillettes?’

After barging their way through the crowds, none of whom dared to say anything to the disabled man, they ended up in Monoprix where Roland was treated to a pair of jeans, a jumper and a bright-red down jacket. Next door at André he completed the outfit with a pair of walking shoes he had been eyeing up for months. He could feel the snow crunching under his grooved soles. He could have walked for days on end without getting
tired. The sun was dusting the wide avenues with gold; the city looked fit for a king. In spite of the extreme cold, he felt on fire.

‘You ever taken cocaine, Rodolphe?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s just like this. You feel totally clean, brand new, invincible. Shit, when I think I almost pegged it last night …’

‘Destiny, Roland, it’s destiny!’

They found themselves at the gates of the park leading to the Bassin de Neptune. Roland grabbed the bars with both hands. The kings lived on the other side of the fence.

‘Can we go in? You don’t have to pay to get in?’

‘No.’

The frozen pond reflected the sky back at itself. Around its sides, statues draped in khaki-coloured tarpaulins revealed the occasional outstretched arm, a hint of knee, shoulder or buttock. In the middle of the mirror, Neptune and his chariot appeared set to take off for the heavens. Such beauty was painful to behold.

‘You know what, Rodolphe? I could really do with some sunglasses, and also some gloves.’

‘No problem. Is there a bench? I’d like to sit down.’

Good dog that he was, Roland led Rodolphe to a stone bench where he sat down, gasping for breath. Roland took the opportunity to run around, stomping the virgin snow under his heavy shoes, buzzing like a climber at the summit. He sent snowballs sliding over the icy surface of the pond, grenades of happiness exploding in the dazzling light.

Light … Rodolphe could feel it but he couldn’t see it. What was it like? A sound echoing on for ever? How could he know what anything was like? He had no points of reference. He could only touch the stone of the bench, the hard ground at the end of his stick, and touching was not enough. Others at the Institute for the Blind accepted the way they were, found compromises
and positives in their situation … He never could. At the very beginning, he had been able to remember shapes, vague colours, light and dark, and then it had all gone. Just enough to make his mouth water before the plate was snatched from under his nose.

‘Roland, I’m cold!’

In spite of Roland having assured him he wasn’t hungry, Rodolphe insisted on going for lunch at the little restaurant next to the Théâtre Montansier.

‘I swear, Rodolphe, after the amount we stuffed ourselves with this morning, I really don’t need any more to eat.’

‘Who cares? ’Tis the season to be wasteful.’

It was more of a liquid lunch; Rodolphe sent all the dishes back to the kitchen practically untouched, claiming they were either too hot or too cold. Roland didn’t know where to put himself.

‘You’re going too far now. Why are you acting like such an arsehole?’

‘Listen. The other day, I was waiting for the bus. It were chucking it down. I was standing on the edge of the gutter. I heard a lorry coming. Everybody behind me stepped back. Not one of them thought to take my arm. I was soaked to the skin. And you’re asking me to like these people?’

They spent the afternoon at the Cyrano, which was showing
One Hundred and One Dalmatians
. The usher had to shake them, they were snoring so loudly.

Right from the first mouthful, the brandy had got the pump going again. The lava was flowing deliciously through his veins, spreading from his heart to the tips of his fingers and toes and into every follicle, even the tiniest nasal hair. Olivier felt as if he were coming home after a long, long time away. As the liquid in his glass went down, the molten metal pouring into him formed an internal suit of armour, making him a chrome-plated,
invincible man of steel. His first drink and here, in front of him, his first love. Jesus, what had he been thinking, dying so early? He was just beginning to come back to life.

‘Jeanne, do you remember the island?’

‘Of course I do.’

The island was everywhere: under the dining-room table or the tree in the yard, in the patch behind Madame Stasi’s corner shop, at the line B bus stop. They carried it with them wherever they went; they were the island, a mound of sand with a palm tree and Jeanne and Olivier standing under it like the model bride and groom on a wedding cake. There was no way to take them off it.

‘I went there, you know. To Réunion, Mauritius … I missed you so much …’

‘I went too, in books.’

‘Do you still believe in it?’

‘I’ve never stopped believing.’

Olivier poured himself a third glass. If he kept topping up the old furnace he would never be cold again. Three loud knocks shook the door.

‘What’s that?’

‘I don’t know.’

The knocking intensified. On the other side of the oak panel someone was bellowing.

‘Jeanne! For fuck’s sake, open up! I’ve forgotten my keys.’

Jeanne got up, letting out a sigh. It was as if a stone had smashed through the window.

‘It’s Rodolphe. Excuse me.’

Olivier sank deeper into the sofa. His iron armour had turned to lead. His feet felt huge, as if attached to a concrete plinth. From the hallway he could hear raised voices.

‘Here she comes, about fucking time!’

‘Stop shouting, I’ve got company.’

‘So have I! Come on in, Roland. This is my sister, Jeanne.’

Olivier would have liked to sit up normally, perhaps with his legs casually crossed, but he could not do it. His muscles refused to obey him. Rodolphe entered the living room, snapping his white stick shut like a switchblade. He was scarlet, like a fat Chinese lantern. He staggered over to Olivier, holding out his hand.

‘Hi, Rodolphe.’

Jeanne and a tall guy in a red jacket followed close behind him. Olivier managed to scramble to his feet.

‘Evening, Olivier.’

‘Olivier, as in olive tree? Well, why don’t we call you apple tree or Christmas tree instead. ’Tis the season, after all!’

He fell back onto the sofa Olivier had just vacated, laughing heartily. His stick rolled under the sideboard.

‘Rodolphe, please!’

The tall guy was shuffling his feet awkwardly in the doorway.

‘Monsieur Christmas Tree! It’s got a ring to it, hasn’t it? How do you do, Monsieur Christmas Tree?’

The blind man’s belly was shaking. The bulb hanging from the ceiling was reflected in his black glasses. He appeared to have lemur eyes. Suddenly he calmed down and his face turned serious.

‘Sorry, I’ve had a bit to drink. You know how it is at this time of year, you let yourself go.’

‘No harm done.’

‘See, Jeanne! No harm done!’

Jeanne shrugged.

‘Right then, let’s not stand around. Make yourselves comfortable, everyone. Can I get you a drink, Monsieur …?’

‘Toutin, Roland Toutin. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I was just bringing your brother home …’

‘It’s no trouble at all. Olivier?’

‘Please.’

Rodolphe looked lost in thought. He had never known his sister to have people round. Only once, when one of her colleagues drove her home after her car broke down.

‘Are you a colleague of Jeanne’s?’

‘Um, no. I’m the son of your neighbour who has just passed away.’

‘And you’re already on first-name terms?’

Jeanne stepped in, while handing out the glasses.

‘We met a long time ago. Olivier is the brother of a friend of mine from boarding school.’

‘Ah! A school friend … Small world, isn’t it?’

‘We met again by chance. I came to borrow a phone book and—’

‘By chance, that’s right …’

The ensuing silence made the room’s already stuffy atmosphere even heavier. Olivier had the urge to rush at the window and fling it open.

‘Your mother’s name was Verdier?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So you’re Olivier Verdier?’

‘You guessed it!’

Jeanne lit a cigarette. Rodolphe could not have been aware of what happened. He had been too little when it was covered up and no one had talked about it since. But she knew her brother and his talent for finding weak spots.

‘Why don’t you leave Olivier alone now, Rodolphe? He’s come back to bury his mother. Can’t you be a bit more sensitive?’

‘You’re right. Forgive me, Olivier, I can’t help myself, I’m pathologically nosy. It must come from my disability; I always feel as though I’m missing out.’

‘It’s fine.’

Roland’s hangover was already setting in. He felt as if he
had landed in the middle of a play without knowing his lines or even what role he was acting. He was torn between the urge to get back into the open air and the fear of losing the chance of a warm place to sleep. Rodolphe had promised to put him up for the night.

‘Honestly, where are my manners? I haven’t introduced you to Roland. We met this morning in God’s house, at Notre-Dame.’

‘What the hell were you doing there?’

‘Confessing, Jeanne, confessing, seeking forgiveness for having hurt you last night. Either that or I had to pee. Whatever, one way or the other I had a pressing need to go inside. Roland is … “without fixed abode”, that’s the expression, isn’t it? He was waiting for the idiot priest to dole out some old clothes and a few francs. Not likely! You know what a big softie I am and everything … Anyway, we had a brilliant day together. He’s going to sleep at my place tonight.’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘Thanks, Jeanne. Ooh, now here’s an idea! Four lonely hearts: why don’t we all have supper together?’