The Stone Boy (17 page)

Madame Préau got the disposable camera wrapped in a plastic bag out of her handbag.

“I took some pictures yesterday. I hope they are not too blurry. I haven’t had much practice. What I saw happen in the garden was so violent…”

“Yes, these are not generally the kind of photos neighbors take; they’re usually naked poolside shots. Much more pleasant.”

“I’ll get them developed. Perhaps…” Madame Préau crossed her arms.

“Do. But I don’t think that at this stage a photo of the child is necessary. And I am not in a position to take this kind of thing into account. My job is to relay information. But these photos could be valuable for the CPIO. I’ll make some calls and get back to you shortly. Would you by any chance be related to Dr. Préau?”

The old lady was taken aback by the question.

“Yes, why?” she stammered, putting the camera back in her handbag.

“I was a patient of his a few years ago. He’s a very good doctor. He is still practicing?”

“Yes, he is. His office is in Pavillons-sous-Bois.”

Ms. Tremblay’s cheeks took on a pretty pink color. The old lady knew then which of her son’s talents in particular the woman was alluding to, and immediately relaxed.

This could strengthen her credibility in the file.

This was perhaps why she was offered a coffee.

Madame Préau had given birth to a beautiful boy. Her great tragedy. The fairer sex soon stole him away from her, and the affectionate kisses of a little boy dried as quickly as he had grown. Now past forty, he looked like that American actor who wielded a whip and fought the Nazis—she had seen on the big screen at the Grand Rex in Paris. It had been one of the last times that, as a teenager, Martin had begged his mother to go with him to the cinema. After that, he went with his girlfriends.

“If you see him, can you give him my best? Valérie Tremblay.”

The two women shook hands. Leaving the social worker’s office, Madame Préau passed a policeman in his fifties who had a debonair look about him. He bowed graciously. Madame Préau quickened her pace. Something about the man rubbed her the wrong way, like when you are reminded of a bitter memory. She was eager to get her ID card, which she had left at reception, to get out of the police station, and to find a photo lab and an open locksmith—which wasn’t likely on a Monday when shops tended to be closed.

More than a hundred mousetraps had been set at various places around the house; not a single critter ventured near one. Either it was a question of a breed of superior intelligence (developed in a laboratory by the FBI) or Madame Préau was suffering from tinnitus: it hissed and whistled whenever silence fell around her. These bothersome nocturnal noises that faded at dawn could be caused by damage to the eardrum and might explain the increased frequency of her headaches. The old lady preferred not to make a call about it, even though the latter was the more likely hypothesis. All these years listening to children screaming in the playground had damaged her hearing. The same symptoms had occurred ten years ago, and this damned flu had not helped her ENT health.

“Me, I’ve never had the flu. I’m against it.”

On Tuesday morning, Mr. Apeldoorn was grouchy. The flu was decimating his patients, and Madame Préau was one of the few survivors who could manage to lift weights in his office.

“I’m deathly afraid of athlete’s foot. It’s the greatest threat to physiotherapists. Come on, a little effort from the miraculous rise of H1N1. Lift that for me.”

“It’s heavy, Mr. Apeldoorn.”

“There’s no room for nonsense between us. And next we have to fatten you up a bit, eh? You’ve lost muscle and fat. This isn’t the swimsuit season plan anymore.”

Madame Préau smiled. But a quarter of an hour later, she refused electro-stimulation.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“Mr. Apeldoorn, I’m not sure that this electrical current flowing through my body is beneficial for my body.”

“You’re afraid of turning into a radio receiver?” joked the physio while unhooking pulleys from saddlebags full of lead balls.

“You’re not far from the truth, Mr. Apeldoorn. Here’s a tip: you should remove the fillings from your teeth, as a preventive measure.”

“Bah! Where did you get that idea?”

“It’s because of waves and radiation. I don’t want to turn into a neutron bomb. I prefer to stick to the gymnastics.”

She ended her session with Mr. Apeldoorn looking puzzled, and then went on to the photo lab and the locksmith. The photos would be developed in under twenty-four hours, and the two locks (the front door and the kitchen door into the garden) were scheduled to be changed on Thursday at two o’clock. In the meantime, the old lady would take care to jam the backs of dining-room chairs under the door handles.

They could come and get her: she was ready and waiting with her hammer.

Laurie grabbed a spoon and tucked in to the raspberry tart. The little musician had pleased her teacher for the second time and was eating the homemade dessert greedily. Madame Préau scrutinized the child’s face, looking into her clear blue eyes for a sign of a rift, a call for help, but found nothing but cheekiness and greed. The old lady sighed. She had to take a more aggressive strategy. A word from the little sister could save her brother. But was that what she wanted? Wasn’t she under the influence of the father, too? How many children hushed up violence against other family members for fear of becoming the target?

“At school, it’s gourmet week,” the girl blurted. “The teacher said on Thursday we’d have crêpes.”

“Have you ever flipped crêpes in a frying pan?”

“No.”

“If you like, next week, I’ll make the batter, and after your lesson, you can stick on an apron and we’ll make them for your whole family.”

“Okay. But we’ll have to be fast because Mum doesn’t want me to stay too long at your house.” Laurie took the glass of water and drank down half of it.

Madame Préau then started in on the most delicate part of the conversation.

“Have you heard of parents who spank their children, Laurie?”

The child’s face darkened. She didn’t answer.

“In the past, parents sometimes beat their children. But now, society has changed. We protect girls and boys better. You know that parents no longer have the right to spank children, and teachers, too.”

“Teachers give punishments, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s the same for parents. They have to respect their children’s bodies, because they don’t belong to them. What is the role of parents, Laurie?”

Laurie squirmed in her chair, drawing circles on the oilcloth with the back of the spoon.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“My mum takes care of the house and she picks us up at school. She does the cooking, too. And in the evening, she reads to me.”

Madame Préau crossed her arms, her voice softening.

“You’re lucky, Laurie, to have a nice mum who reads books to you. Some children aren’t so lucky. Some children have mean parents.”

“My parents aren’t mean. It’s just that Dad gets angry sometimes.”

“Your dad, does he get angry with your little brother sometimes?”

Laurie tucked her chin into her chest and shrugged.

“My dad sometimes spanks us,” she said sheepishly.

Her teacher felt like she had made a breakthrough. She pushed ahead.

“If your dad were hurting your brother, would you speak to someone? To your teacher?”

The child pushed away the plate and spoon, refusing to answer. She wanted to go. Madame Préau helped her put on her coat and while she tied the scarf around her neck, she whispered in her ear: “I’ll tell you a secret, Laurie. There’s a phone number that only children can call. A number with only three digits. It’s a magic number. You can dial it from any phone.”

“119?”

“Yes. If some day you saw an adult hurt a child or hurt you, then you should call the magic number and tell the person who answers.”

The little girl was intrigued.

“Who answers, so?”

“A man or a woman, someone who listens to and protects children. But we mustn’t talk about it to anyone. It’s very important. Not even your mother. It’s a secret.”

Laurie went out onto the front porch, dubious.

“How come you know it, so, the magic number?”

Madame Préau smiled mischievously.

“Because I was a teacher at your school. And all the nice teachers know 119.” Laurie nodded, satisfied, before trotting down the steps. Children’s logic was Madame Préau’s special subject.

After she escorted her student home, Madame Préau received a phone call from her son. He was looking for his Nokia. She swore that he had left her house with it on Sunday night, and was worried about whether he had received her letter.

“We’ll talk about it on Thursday. I’ll come round at around noon.”

Martin hung up without wishing her a good day, as he had always done, even when he was furious at her.

Madame Préau worried herself sick from then on.

“Do you understand, Elsa?”

“Yes, perfectly, Claude.”

“It’s a matter of trust between the two of you.”

“Absolutely.”

“So how do you see Martin? As a doctor, or as a son?”

Madame Préau shrugged and sighed.

“What do you want? He is his father’s son.”

“His
father’s
son. Martin has no mother, then?”

The old lady pouted, dubious, and scratched her chin. The discussion made her uncomfortable. Since the beginning of the session, they had only spoken about Martin.

“That’s not what I mean. Martin is my son, of course, but he mostly takes after his father: same job, same desire to succeed, same size, and they’re both ladies’ men… Both of them abandoned me at a point in my life where—”

“You think that Martin abandoned you?”

Madame Préau bit the inside of her cheek. It was difficult to answer that without saying yes.

“Do you think that a man is selfish for deciding to devote himself to his career, to his work, rather than staying with his mother?”

“When in excess, yes, in a way,” she said in a thin voice.

“And when your son spends three nights at your bedside without returning home, he’s only doing his duty as a doctor?”

Madame Préau stiffened in the armchair. She looked at the hands of the man sitting in front of her. The right held a Montblanc ballpoint pen; the other turned down the left corner of the page in front of him. She had never seen him write during their sessions, and yet he thought it necessary to take notes today.

Dr. Mamnoue had spoken with Martin with on the phone.

Otherwise, how could he recall the story of the three nights?

Martin had certainly alerted him to the fragile mental state of his patient.

Unbeknownst to her, Dr. Mamnoue was going through an assessment to measure how potentially dangerous Madame Préau might be. This was not the time to talk to her about tinnitus. He immediately equated her hearing troubles with a hallucinatory delirium and wondered if she had stopped taking her medication.

“Didn’t he show to you a lot of love in the past?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t want to talk about what, Elsa, the past or the love that Martin has for you?”

A gray veil. Madame Préau’s past had little more to it than a graying lace curtain hanging in a window, quivering in the breeze. She saw the dancing shadows of her mother, father, husband, and Bastien, each wearing the mask of silence.

They were all so far away.

There was no one to hold her hand now.

To rest their head against her heart. To kiss her.

Madame Préau, like many older people, suffered from no longer being touched. Falling ill or complaining of a bad back was her only recourse. It was only because of a bad flu that Martin rested his palm on his mother’s forehead; Mr. Apeldoorn only massaged her back with his burning hands on prescription.

Dr. Mamnoue remained silent. Madame Préau smiled.

“Bastien used to kiss me often. I would have his little arms around my neck like a necklace. At the age of three, he was so loving, telling me, ‘Granny Elsa, I love you’ all day long. His skin was so soft and warm, the scent of his hair so delicious… Sometimes he would stay overnight at my house. His little slippers, toothbrush, and pajamas were all there. When he left with his parents, I slept in his sheets to breathe his scent again…”

“You probably did the same thing with Martin when he was a child.”

“Yes. Well, I think so. That was different. He was in the house every day. And I worked a lot at the time, too. I think I missed out on quite a few things with Martin. When his father left, he had a growth spurt. In six months, he went up two pant sizes.”

Madame Préau apologized, took a handkerchief from her bag, and blew her nose loudly. The sound produced was childlike.