The Islanders (9 page)

Over the next two days, Jeanne and Olivier left the bed only to carry out a limited number of rapid commando missions to the closest corner shop. Their timetable consisted of having sex, drinking and grazing on foods that required no preparation. Next door there lived a bear, Rodolphe, whom they could hear coming and going, growling, slamming doors, turning the TV and hi-fi up as far as they would go, who constantly howled his presence and yet didn’t dare knock on their door. They were unfazed; the sound of the waves they imagined lapping around them easily drowned out Rodolphe’s ranting and raving.

‘Lying in the shade of the filao trees fringing the white sand beaches of Mauritius is like sleeping under a fan of light feathers. There’s nowhere else like it. The sand foams at your feet and the silence rings in your ears.’

‘And the fish, tell me more about the fish!’

This continued until the 27th, the day of the funeral. It had turned milder and the snow was melting, leaving patches here and there like bubbles on dishwater. A note slipped under the door marked for Olivier’s attention had coldly informed him of the time and place. Madeleine’s handwriting was just like the woman herself: jagged, pointy, sharp-edged. Olivier did not think it appropriate to bring Jeanne, still less Rodolphe, who had nonetheless done his best to twist Olivier’s arm.

‘Go on! It’ll get me out of the house, and besides I love cemeteries.’

In the end he had gone alone to the church, where he found Madeleine waiting. Since they were the only ones accompanying
the deceased to her final resting place, Madeleine could not give free rein to her hatred of Olivier. Circumstances dictated that they share a kind of common spirit. The religious ceremony was over in no time and they soon found themselves sitting in the back of the hearse on either side of the coffin, from which the wreath tied with purple ribbon slipped at every bend in the road. The smell was nauseating. Olivier retrieved a hip flask from his pocket and took a long swig of whisky while the old woman watched, appalled.

‘On a day like this! Have you no shame?’

Olivier shrugged. What was so special about today? For the people wading through sludge on the street, today was like yesterday in every respect, and tomorrow would doubtless be no different. It was just another day. What did they care about the long black car skidding past on the slippery tarmac? It meant no more to them than the sight of the binmen picking up rubbish. Olivier shared their point of view. There were no stars in life, only walk-on actors. They arrived at the cemetery in Gonnards, a suburban neighbourhood in miniature where pitiful or pretentious houses called ‘Mon Rêve’ or ‘Ça Me Suffit’ were set out in neat rows. The tomb where Antoine Verdier already lay was yawning. Two gravediggers stood beside it smoking a cigarette and leaning on their shovels. Once the coffin had been lowered into the bottom of the hole, Madeleine did something strange. She grabbed hold of Olivier’s arm and leaned so far over the edge of the grave that Olivier had to pull her back to stop her falling in. A few stones rained onto the oak lid of the coffin.

‘Can’t wait your turn, Madeleine?’

‘I … I just wanted to see.’

‘See what?’

‘I don’t know.’

She was not crying, but her eyes had misted over. They soon
regained their evil glint and she let go of Olivier’s arm as if she had just touched a hot iron. The man from the undertaker’s offered to take them back into town. Madeleine agreed. Olivier opted to make his own way back. They parted without saying goodbye. He drained his flask while watching the cemetery workers shovelling. Not a single flower on the surrounding tombs had survived the frost.

There was not much difference between the place he had just left and the city streets he was now treading. The only exception was that here, the dead were living. Olivier had the impression of flicking through a family album, a series of black and white photos that brought back no memories. Rue des Chantiers seemed to go on forever, as if he was walking against a treadmill. He stopped three times for refreshments in bars along the way. Between pit stops, he repeated to himself: ‘Scoot, take off, get the hell out.’

It was Jeanne who opened the door to him. Evidently all was not well. From inside the flat, he could hear Rodolphe yelling.

‘Who is it? … Who is it?’

‘Olivier.’

‘Ah, about time too! Just the person I want to see!’

Olivier took off his coat in the hallway.

‘What’s up with him?’

‘The police came.’

‘What?’

‘They found Roland’s body, a guy out walking his dog in the woods. They put out a photo and a shopkeeper recognised him. He told them Roland had bought a pair of shoes and that he was with a blind man. He remembered the two of them very clearly because they were both legless. He gave a perfect description of Rodolphe.’

‘Shit …’

Rodolphe appeared in the doorway. He was like a lump of jelly in the hands of a Parkinson’s sufferer.

‘You can say that again! Shit, shit, shit! The game’s up for me now, isn’t it?’

‘Stop shouting! Let’s not stand here.’

Jeanne moved them into the living room. Olivier opened the bottle he had just bought and offered a glass to Rodolphe, who shrugged it away. Olivier knocked back his drink. He felt strangely calm and collected.

‘Were you here, Jeanne?’

‘No, I was out doing the shopping.’

‘What did you say to them, Rodolphe?’

‘What do you think I said? We were seen together in ten different places that day, I could hardly deny it!’

‘Did you tell them he came here?’

‘Of course I did! Someone might have seen us; how the hell should I know? I said he came home with me, I gave him some money and he left straight away. That’s it. But they’ve called me in for questioning tomorrow and you can bet they’ll put the heat on me. They’re not stupid, they know what they’re about. But if it goes too far, there’s no way I’m carrying the can for this!’

‘There’s no need to get worked up, Rodolphe, I understand completely. If, like you say, it goes too far, I’ll do the right thing.’

‘Oh you will, will you? And why should I believe you? I’m not just going to sit there and let you frame me! You’re not landing this on me – I won’t stand for it!’

‘You’ve got me all wrong, Rodolphe. I’ve got nothing against you.’

‘Well, I’ve got plenty against you! And you, Jeanne, what have you got to say for yourself? Huh?’

‘I’m thinking, all right?’

‘Oh, she’s thinking! Here, give me something to drink, that’ll help me “think” too.’

‘You’d be better off keeping a clear head. You’ve got yourself in enough of a state as it is. This is all ridiculous anyway. If you stick to what you’ve already said, nothing’s going to happen.’

‘Yeah, right! I’m the last person who saw him alive. You think they’re going to let me go, just like that?’

‘And how exactly would you, a poor blind man, have dragged him into the forest several kilometres from here, in the middle of the night, strangled him and then walked home again? No one’s going to believe that.’

Rodolphe said nothing. He rubbed the end of his nose and frowned. Catching Jeanne’s eye, Olivier gathered it would be best to leave the two of them alone. She was used to dealing with her brother, and having Olivier there would only wind Rodolphe up. It was for the best anyway, he was tired and wanted only one thing: to lie down on Jeanne’s bed.

With his head on the pillow and his hands folded over his stomach, he could hear their voices through the dividing wall without making out the individual words. From time to time Rodolphe’s rose up a notch, but Jeanne’s steady, constant, almost hypnotic murmur calmed him down again. She was like a
horse-breaker
patiently taming a skittish beast. The fact was Olivier felt completely detached from what was happening. He was surprised at himself, but it was true. What Rodolphe might or might not do made no difference to him. He had been in the same frame of mind since first thing that morning. It was the same at the church, the same at the cemetery and the same in town. Exhaustion. He was all too familiar with the particular brand of weariness that follows the euphoria of drunkenness, a weariness that leaves you stranded on the line, anaesthetised to the point you can no longer tell friend from enemy, hot from cold, being from nothingness. What on earth did he have to be afraid of? We’re all innocent when we’re asleep.

He had a long white beard that tickled his navel. Madeleine was furiously digging a large hole in the sand which the waves kept filling in again. She was naked, she had eyes like a fly and she kept bailing out the water between each flood of foam, cursing to herself. He kept telling her, ‘It’s deep enough, Madeleine!’ but she wouldn’t listen, she kept digging, digging …

‘Olivier?’

Jeanne’s face appeared as a white patch in the middle of his dream, which whorled away like the curls of smoke from the cigarette she held to her lips.

‘What time is it?’

‘I’m not sure, three or four o’clock. Rodolphe’s calmed down. Are you OK?’

‘I’m not sure. Probably, yes.’

‘I’ve managed to convince him to stand by his story. He’s agreed on one condition: you have to leave.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘Let’s go together.’

‘We can’t. I know what he’s like. He’ll blab everything to the police.’

‘What then?’

Jeanne took a long puff on her cigarette. As the end glowed red, it lit her fingertips, her mouth and the end of her nose. The ashes fell onto her skirt. She swept them off with the back of her hand. Set in a surround of silence, every little detail seemed deeply significant.

‘I don’t think it was you who killed Roland.’

‘Well, who was it, then? … Rodolphe?’

‘He’s sick enough to have stitched you up. He hates you.’

The thought had not even crossed Olivier’s mind. He had been so convinced of his own guilt when he lost his memory that
there had been no room for doubt. For the last five days, he had put himself in a murderer’s skin, and now he had to reconsider everything. It was absurd, but the idea he might be innocent irked him.

‘How can we be sure?’

‘You had no reason to strangle Roland, but he did.’

‘When you’re having an alcoholic episode, you’re capable of anything, you know.’

‘So is Rodolphe, and that’s when he’s stone-cold sober.’

‘But why not just shop me to the police that morning? Why help us dispose of the body? It doesn’t add up.’

‘For fun, for his own twisted pleasure, and also because he’s scared of me now. He knows I’m capable of anything too. He’s spun a web and got himself trapped in it. He’s trying to find an amicable solution. You leave and he keeps his mouth shut.’

‘Fine, so why don’t I go and you follow on afterwards?’

‘He’ll never leave us alone. He and I have always been at loggerheads. Sooner or later it was bound to come to this. For years he’s had a hold over me, smothering me. I don’t think I can put up with him another twenty-four hours. I didn’t care before – I just let him drag me down a little further every day. And then you came back. I want to live, Olivier, I want to live with you. Chances like this don’t come around twice.’

‘So?’

‘Rodolphe is the only suspect.’

‘And?’

‘He has a long history of depression. Right up until last year he was seeing a psychiatrist who could confirm he has a tendency towards paranoia … and suicidal thoughts.’

‘Ah, I see …’

Olivier was coming back to earth, this earth where people live a
little and die a lot. Exit Rodolphe! Jeanne’s gaze was clear; no one could have guessed what she was plotting beneath that pale brow. It was almost something to admire. He stood up, went straight to the chest of drawers and pulled out a bottle of he no longer knew what. He had gone back to his little habits, stashing bottles all over the place so he could always be sure of having one to hand.

‘Right. And how are you planning to go about … committing your brother’s suicide?’

‘I don’t know, something simple, obvious. The window, maybe.’

‘The window?’

‘Yes. We’ll leave it wide open, he’ll try to shut it, and one of us will come up behind him and push him.’

‘Who’ll push him?’

‘It would be better if you did it.’

‘Uh … I’m not sure what to say to that. Why me?’

‘Because I won’t be there.’

‘It gets better and better! Listen, Jeanne, I love you, I adore you, but you have to admit—’

‘I’m not trying to wriggle out of it, Olivier. Listen to me. He has to be home alone for his suicide to be believable. Right now, you pack up your things and tell Rodolphe you’re going – he’s won. You go back to your mother’s. Half an hour later, I’ll go out to pick something up from the shops. On my way past, I’ll drop you the keys. You come back over here. He’ll be in the living room with
Countdown
on; you know how he turns the volume right up. You open the window of the dining room and wait for him to come over. You push him out, turn off the TV, go home, locking the door behind you, and you sit tight. Simple as that.’

‘Simple as that … it’s pure madness!’

‘Olivier! He’s got you in the palm of his hand. It’s you who could end up going to prison instead of him. We have no choice!’

‘But why does it have to be right now, tonight?’

‘Because he’s scared, because he’s due to be questioned tomorrow, because he’s guilty!’

‘I’ll never be able to do it.’

‘Of course you will! You have to believe that you can because otherwise it’s all over for you and me, because of him! Think how unfair that would be. We deserve another chance. This is the final test.’

‘Jeanne, Jeanne … Why is there death everywhere we go?’

‘So that we can live, Olivier. That’s just the way it is.’

Olivier could still feel Rodolphe’s clammy, limp handshake on his skin.

‘It’s probably better this way. Goodbye.’

The blind man said nothing. His nostrils twitched. He waited for Olivier to slam the door behind him before his breathing returned to normal.