Consolation

  Charles was useless where nature was concerned. Groves, hedges, forests, moors, prairies, pastureland, hillsides, copses, woods, arbours – all words he was familiar with, but he wouldn’t have known where to put them, on a topographical chart. He had never built anything far from a town, and he could not recall any books to which he might have referred, as the likes of Lenclos confined themselves to housing, for example.

  In any case, for him the countryside meant one thing: a place to read. By a fireplace in the winter, against a tree trunk in the spring, and in the shade in the summer. It was not for lack of opportunity, however. When he was little, at his grandparents’, during the grand epoch of Monsieur Canut, with Alexis; then, later on, when Laurence had dragged him off to stay with one friend or another, at their country home.

  Memories of weekends where he felt a bit lost, where people were constantly begging him for an opinion, an estimate, advice on whether to knock down a wall. He would clench his teeth as he surveyed hideous bay windows, criminal apertures, incongruous swimming pools, padlocked cellars, and country folk in their Sunday best, their wellingtons skilfully muddied, their cashmere in matching tones.

  He’d given vague answers – it was hard to say, he’d have to see, he didn’t know the region – and then, once he had scrupulously disappointed all these fine folk, he’d go off with a book in his hand, looking for a nice little hidey-hole where he could take a nap.

  Talk about holes, he was in one now – no more signposts, no indication, ghostly hamlets, pavement colonized by wild grasses and, for sole escort, a squad of rabbits out for a good time.

  What was Miles Davis’s heir doing in this hole?

  And where was he, anyway?

  His diary was useless as a GPS. Where was the D73? And why hadn’t he gone through the dump of a village whose name he couldn’t even read any more?

  Anouk . . .

  Where are you taking me this time?

  Can you see me now? The petrol gauge and my stomach on empty, completely lost at a fork in the road telling me nothing other than that I’ll find firewood eight kilometres from here, or how to get to some long-extinguished summer solstice bonfires?

  Where would you go, in my place?

  Straight ahead, right?

  Right.

  In the next village, he rolled down his window.

  He was lost. Marcy? Manery? Maybe it was Margery? Did that ring a bell?

  No.

  And the D73?

  Oh, yes, in that case. It was the road over there, to the left on your way out of town, cross the river and immediately after the sawmill, take the first right.

  One woman said, ‘Maybe it’s Les Marzeray the gentleman from the Oise is looking for?’

  And there, he had to admit it, Charles felt a moment of overwhelming solitude. What on . . .

  To his poor brain he granted the respite of a stupid smile, to give it time to untangle the whole mess.

  First of all, as for the Oise, it must have been his number plate, he hadn’t noticed when he’d picked up the car but that must be why; and then how did you write, and pronounce, Les Marzeray? Did it end in a ‘y’? An ‘M’ and a ‘y’ that he’d scribbled any old how on the page of 9 August, that was all he had to go on. He tried to read it again but there was nothing for it: apart from the name of that day’s saint, nothing was clear. As for the saint in question, hah hah, St Hilarious indeed.

  The villagers put their heads together, argued for a fairly long time, and came to an agreement. Must be a ‘y’.

  They sure asked some funny questions, that lot from the Oise . . .

  ‘But . . . is it still a long way?’

  ‘Well . . . twenty-odd kilometres . . .’

  Twenty kilometres, far enough for his steering wheel to get very slippery and his ribcage increasingly rough. Twenty very slow kilometres which confirmed one thing to him: he really did look like a fool.

  When the steeple of Les Marzeray appeared in the distance, he pulled over onto the verge.

  He was limping, he took a piss in the brambles, then a deep breath, felt the pain, let out his breath, loosened his shirt, lifted it by the tips of the collar and shook it to make it dry. Then he wiped his brow on his arm. His scratches were hurting him. He breathed in again, God what a pong, buttoned himself, put his jacket back on, and breathed out one last time.

  His stomach began to rumble. He was grateful for the reminder but told it off, on principle. Shit, things were pretty serious here! A what? A steak? But there’s no more room, you idiot. You’re all skin and bone, now, can’t you see?

  Yes, that’s it . . . A nice big steak with Alexis . . . To make him happy . . . Eat, boys, eat, the rest will follow . . .

  His only problem (what, more? Starting to have his fill of all this!), was his stomach.

  Which was beginning to heave.

  So he lit up a fag.

  To quieten it.

  He sat on the warm bonnet, took his time, increased his risk of impotence, and covered a swarm of little bugs in a cloud of smoke. He could remember the rough time he’d had of it, however. He’d been a real cynic back then: he said that giving up smoking was the only great adventure left to overfed little Westerners like themselves. The only one.

  No longer a cynic.

  He felt old, haunted by death, dependent.

  He switched his mobile back on just to check. Nothing. No more coverage.

  2

  OUTSIDE THE TOWN hall he turned to the page for 10 August: Alexis lived on the Clos des Ormes. He searched for a long time and eventually had to switch once again to Radio Gossipy Neighbours:

  ‘Oh, that’s way further along . . . In the new houses, past the cooperative.’

  ‘New houses’: at the time it hadn’t registered, but what was meant was the housing estate, in its fancy parade. Off to a good start, then . . . Everything he loved . . . Crap construction, crap roughcast, sliding shutters, letter boxes all in a row and ornate pseudo streetlamps.

  And the worst of it is that eyesores like that don’t come cheap.

  Right, enough. So where is number 8?

  Thuyas, a pretentious fence and a gate with DIY medieval ironwork. All that was missing were the little lions at the top of each pillar. Charles smoothed his jacket pockets and, open sesame, pressed the buzzer.

  A little blond genie appeared in the window in the door.

  A pair of arms moved it to one side.

  Okay . . .

  He pressed the bloody buzzer again.

  A woman’s voice answered, ‘Yes?’

  No? Could it be? There was an entry phone? He hadn’t noticed. An entry phone? Here? In one of the most deserted regions in France? Classified a national park and all that? Fourth house in a botch-up of a development that hardly had more than a dozen, and there was an entry phone? But . . . what could it possibly mean?

  ‘Who are you?’ repeated the . . . device.

  Charles answered fuck off but articulated it somewhat differently: ‘Charles. A fr— – an old friend of Alexis’s.’

  Silence.

  It was not hard to imagine their astonishment: action stations at Dunroamin’, calls of ‘Are you sure?’ and ‘Did you hear properly?’ He squared his shoulders, made himself a sort of sublime garment worthy of a gladiator, and waited for the (automatic) gate to open and splatter Moses.

  Missed.

  ‘He’s not here.’

  Right . . . slowly, slowly catchee monkey, etc. Seems he had a surly client at the other end of the wire, time to get on with it, get out the heavy artillery.

  ‘You must be Corinne,’ he simpered. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you . . . My name is Balanda, Charles Balanda . . .’

  The front door (exotic wood, a Cheverny model, or was it Chambord, comes ready to install, lattice work with lead-look strips set into the double glazing and peripheral waterproofing seals on the frame) opened onto a face that was . . . not quite as stylishly put together.

  She reached out her arm, her hand,
her battering ram, and because he was trying to smile in order to mollify her, he finally understood what it was that was making her so tense: it was his face. His own bloody face.

  But still, all the same . . . He’d forgotten about it. His trousers had a hole in them, his jacket was torn, and his shirt was covered in blood and antiseptic.

  ‘Hello . . . Sorry . . . It’s . . . Just . . . I fell down this morning. I’m not disturbing you?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No, no . . . He should be back any minute.’ Then, turning to the little boy, ‘You get back in the house!’

  ‘Fine . . . I’ll wait for him, then.’

  She was supposed to say, ‘Well, do come in, please’, or ‘Would you like something to drink while you’re waiting?’ or . . . but all she said was, ‘Fine,’ very curtly, and went back into her little builder’s house.

  The genuine article.

  Quality stuff, too.

  So Charles indulged in a bit of anthropology.

  Wandering down Clos des Ormes.

  Compared the hollow, embossed granite-style rough-hewn pillars, the balusters costing less than ten euros the linear metre, the factory-aged cobblestones, the concrete flagstones dyed to look like stone, the grandiose barbecue equipment, the epoxy resin garden furniture, the fluorescent children’s slides, the polyester arbours, the garage doors as wide as the so-called ‘living’ area, the . . .

  God what taste.

  True enough, no longer a cynic. He was a snob.

  Turned around and walked back. Another car was parked behind his. He slowed, felt his leg grow even stiffer, and the same little blond boy bounced out of the garden, followed by a man who must have been his daddy.

  And at that point – it’s bloody pathetic when you think of it, but you’re not thinking, you’re merely stating a fact – the first thought to enter Charles’s mind after so much shock was: ‘Bastard. He’s still got all his hair.’

  Shattering.

  And then. What could possibly happen next?

  Violins? Slow motion? Soft focus?

  ‘And what’s this? You walk like a little old man, now?’

  What did you expect . . .

  Charles didn’t know what to say. He must be getting soft.

  Alexis hurt him when he slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘What brings you here?’

  Stupid jerk.

  ‘This your son?’

  ‘Lucas, get over here! Come and say hello to your uncle Charles!’

  Charles leaned over to give the boy a kiss. And took his time. He’d forgotten the fresh perfume of a child’s skin . . .

  He asked him whether he wasn’t fed up with Spider-Man clinging to his T-shirt, he touched his hair, his neck; what? Even on your socks? Well, well . . . and your pants, too? He learned how to place his fingers to make the ‘sticky’ web, tried it himself, got it wrong, promised he’d practise then stood up straight and saw that Alexis Le Men was weeping.

  He forgot all his good resolutions and ruined the chemist’s good work.

  All the cuts and scrapes and bumps and stitches and barriers and plasters in life – they all gave way.

  Their hands closed over each other and it was Anouk that they were embracing.

  Charles stepped back first. Pain, bruises. Alexis lifted up his kid, made him laugh by nibbling his tummy, but actually it was so that he could hide, and blow his nose; then he lifted him onto his shoulders.

  ‘What happened to you? Did you fall off some scaffolding?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see Corinne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were just passing through?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Charles stood still. Three steps along, Alexis finally turned around. Put on his arrogant air of landed gentry and pulled on his son’s legs to balance his load. That load, at any rate.

  ‘Did you come here to lecture me, is that it?’

  ‘No.’

  They looked at each other for a long time.

  ‘Are you still going on about cemeteries?’

  ‘No,’ said Charles, ‘no. I’ve finished with that.’

  ‘So where are you then?’

  ‘Are you going to invite me for dinner?’

  Relieved, Alexis granted him a fine smile, from the old days, but it was too late. Charles had just taken back all his marbles.

  One Mistinguett in exchange for dinner at the Clos des Ormes, for the price of bad taste, petrol, and time wasted: it seemed like a fair bargain.

  The sky was clear, my darling. Did you see her, did you get your olive branch, then?

  Of course it was short-lived, more of a withdrawal than a surge, I’ll grant you that, and of course it’s not enough for you. But nothing ever was enough for you, so . . .

  And to feel his pockets full again, to have that certainty that the game was over, that he wouldn’t play any more, and so he wouldn’t lose any more, because this course, however hellish, was now too short for him to measure up against such a mediocre opponent, and this was an immense relief.

  He had a jolly lilt to his limp now, tickled the knees of the super hero, opened his hand, curled back his index and ring finger, took aim and pow! snared a little bird that was dancing on the telegraph wires:

  ‘You didn’t really!’ countered little Lucas. ‘Where is it, then?’

  ‘I put it in my car.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You ought to.’

  ‘Pfff . . . know what, I’d’ve seen you if you truly did.’

  ‘I’ll have you know that that would really surprise me, because you were looking at the neighbours’ dog.’

  And while Alexis was unloading the weekly shop, going to and fro between the boot of his car and his perfect garage, Charles silenced a very suspicious little boy.

  ‘Yes, but why is he already stuck onto a piece of wood, then?’

  ‘Uh . . . May I remind you that spiderwebs are sticky . . .’

  ‘Shall we show Daddy?’

  ‘No. It’s still a bit shaken up, now . . . We should leave it alone for a while . . .’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No, he isn’t! Of course not! He’s a bit shaken up, I said. We’ll let him go a bit later on.’

  Lucas nodded gravely then looked up, Light bulb!, and asked,

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Charles.’ He smiled.

  ‘And why d’you have all those plasters on your head?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘’Cause you’re not as strong as Spider-Man?’

  ‘Yup. Sometimes I miss . . .’

  ‘Want me to show you my room?’

  His mother disturbed their arachnoid complicity. First they had to go through the garage and remove their shoes. (Charles raised an eyebrow, he’d never yet had to remove his shoes on entering a house.) (Except in Japan, naturally . . .) (Quite. What a snob he was . . .) Then she raised her index finger. No making a mess, all right? Finally she turned to this individual who seemed to be imposing on them.

  ‘Will you . . . will you stay for dinner?’

  Alexis had just appeared behind his handful of Champion shopping bags. (This would please his brother-in-law no end . . . What a delightful vignette . . . If he dared, if he could get reception what a fine MMS he could send to Claire . . .)

  ‘Of course he’s staying! What . . .? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she retorted in a voice that meant quite the opposite, ‘it’s just that I’ve got nothing ready. Tomorrow is the school fair and in case you’d forgotten I still haven’t finished Marion’s costume. I’m not a seamstress, you know!’

  Alexis, feverish and naïve, all wrapped up in the emotion of reconciliation, put down his stuff and brushed aside her arguments: ‘No problem. Don’t worry. I’ll do the cooking.’

  He turned around: ‘And where is Marion, anyway? Isn’t she here? Where is she?’

/>   Another sigh emerged from the woman in her cloth pad floor-polishing slippers: ‘Where is she, where is she . . . You know perfectly well where she is.’

  ‘At Alice’s place?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘I’ll call them.’

  ‘Good luck. They never pick up over there. I don’t know why they even have a phone.’

  Alexis closed his eyes, reminded himself that he felt cheerful, and headed for the kitchen.

  Charles and Lucas did not dare move.

  ‘She’s asking if she can sleep over!’ shouted Alexis.

  ‘No. We have a guest.’

  Charles gestured, no, no, no, he refused to act as a poor alibi.

  ‘She says they’re rehearsing their choreography for tomorrow –’

  ‘No. She has to come home.’

  ‘She’s begging you,’ insisted her father, ‘she says, “on her knees”, even.’

  Running out of arguments, Corinne the life and soul of the party used the meanest one of all: ‘Out of the question. She hasn’t got her dental brace with her.’

  ‘Well hang on, if that’s the only reason, I can take it over to her.’

  ‘Oh, really? I thought you were the one doing the dinner.’

  What an atmosphere . . . Charles suddenly felt that he needed a bit of air, so he stuck his nose into something that wasn’t his business: ‘I can be the messenger boy if that’s of any help . . .’

  The look she shot him confirmed his suspicion: this was ab-so-lute-ly none of his business.

  ‘You don’t even know where it is.’

  ‘But I know!’ exclaimed Lucas. ‘I can show him the way!’

  A sudden silence; an angel passing, hugging the walls.

  The master of the house felt that it was time to show his mate, his comrade, his former army pal, just who laid down the law here. There are limits, after all.

  ‘Okay, you can stay, but you come back straight after breakfast, all right?’

  Charles put him in the back seat, turned the car round and hightailed it out of Noddy Close.

  He raised his eyes to the rear view mirror: ‘Right, where do we go from here?’

  An enooooormous smile informed him that the tooth fairy had been by twice already.

  ‘We’re going to the wickedest house in the whole wide world!’