Consolation

‘C’mon. Let’s go and find it.’

  ‘Okay, but . . .’ said the little boy hesitantly, ‘he’s not really a parrot.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ proclaimed the grown-up boldly, ‘you’re not really a pirate, either.’

  On the way back they stopped off at the Rendez-vous des Chasseurs, which was also a grocery, a gunsmith’s, a branch of the Crédit Agricole and, on Thursday afternoons, a hairdresser’s, and there they bought a ball of string. Charles, gingerly bending outside the church, moored Mistinguett tightly to her new perch before sending her back out on stage.

  ‘And where are your parents?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Lucas was enchanted, and went back to join his classmates, as though walking on eggs.

  He was talking to her already: ‘Polly? Can you say, Polly want a cracker?’

  Charles went back to his wall. He’d wait until after Lucas had finished his sketch before heading back to Paris . . .

  A little girl brought him a plateful of something piping hot.

  ‘Oh, thank you . . . That’s sweet of you . . .’

  Farther along, behind a huge table, the same woman as before, the one with the imposing bosom, was sending a volley of polite banter his way.

  Oops. He’d made a hit . . . As quickly as he could he went back to his plastic knife and fork and with a laugh turned all his concentration upon his piece of grilled ham.

  He had just remembered Madame Canut’s washing line.

  ‘I swear it’s her bra,’ Alexis had said, for the umpteenth time.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Well . . . you can see it.’

  It was . . . fascinating.

  On stage there was some commotion. Grandmothers were being led one tiny step at a time to the best seats, while the sound system blared, One, two, can you hear me? There’s feedback, Jean-Pierre, please, we need a technician, put your glass down now, one two, is everyone here? Hello everybody, take your seats, let me remind you that the draw for the tombola . . . feedback, Jean-Pierre! For Chri— click.

  Right.

  Mums on their knees checked the children’s hair and make-up, while dads fiddled with their videocams. Charles came upon Corinne deep in conversation with two other ladies, a problem about a jacket that had apparently been stolen, and he handed her the key ring.

  ‘Did you remember to close the gate as well?’

  Yes. He had remembered. He praised her marvellous hospitality, and moved on. As far away as possible.

  He found a place in the sun, pulled a chair over on the courtyard side so that he could slip away discreetly between two sketches, stretched out his legs and, his break almost over, turned his thoughts once again to his work. He pulled out his diary, checked his appointments for the week, decided which files he’d take with him to Roissy and began to draw up a . . .

  A sudden commotion to the left made him lose his concentration for a second. If that. A graceful to and fro between retina and cortex. Just time enough to realize that there were also some very sexy mums at the Les Marzeray primary school . . . list of phone calls to make, need to check with Philippe about this business with the –

  He looked up again.

  She was smiling at him.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said, in English.

  Charles dropped his diary, stepped on it as he extended his hand and, in the time it took for him to pick it up, she’d moved over to sit next to him. Well, not quite, she’d left one empty chair between the two of them.

  As a sort of chaperone?

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t recognize you.’

  ‘It’s because I’m not wearing my wellies . . .’ she joked.

  ‘Yes. That must be it.’

  She was wearing a wraparound dress that criss-crossed her heart, cinched her waist, and gave her thighs a lovely shape, as well as revealing her knees whenever she crossed or uncrossed her legs and pulled on the grey-blue fabric flecked with hosts of little turquoise arabesques.

  Charles liked fashion. The cut, the material, design, finishings – he had always found that architects and clothing designers performed the same work, more or less, and now he observed the way in which the arabesques went about following the curve of the sleeve without losing the thread of their scrolling pattern.

  She could sense he was looking at her. She winced:

  ‘I know . . . I oughtn’t to have worn it . . . I’ve put on a lot of weight since . . .’

  ‘No, not at all!’ he protested, ‘not at all. I was thinking about your –’

  ‘My what?’ She still had him on the grill; now she turned him over.

  ‘Your . . . your motif.’

  ‘My motif. My God . . . well, so long as you can’t see my motives.’

  Charles looked down with a smile. A woman who knew how to dismantle a chainsaw, could let you get a glimpse of a pale pink bra when she leaned forward, and knew how to play with two languages – no point him even trying to compete.

  He felt, oh woe, that it was now her turn to scrutinize him.

  ‘Did you sleep under a rainbow?’

  ‘Yes . . . with Judy Garland.’

  What a smile she had . . .

  ‘You see, that’s what I miss the most, living here . . .’ she sighed.

  ‘Musical comedies?’

  ‘No . . . This sort of idiotic repartee . . . Because,’ she added, more solemnly, ‘that’s what solitude is all about . . . It’s not the getting dark at five o’clock, or the animals to feed and the children squabbling all day long, it’s . . . Judy Garland.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, and continued in English, ‘to tell you the truth, I feel more like the Tin Man right now . . .’

  ‘I knew you must speak English,’ she said.

  ‘Not well enough to “see your . . . motives”, unfortunately . . .’

  Her turn to say sharply, ‘So much the better.’

  ‘But you?’ he added, ‘which is your mother tongue?’

  ‘Mother tongue? French, because my mother was born in Nantes.

  Native language? English. On my father’s side.’

  ‘And where did you grow up?’

  He could not hear her reply because Super DJ was once again in charge: ‘Hello to everyone then, and thank you all for such a good turn-out. The show is about to begin. Yes, indeed . . . The children are all wound up and ready to go . . . Let me remind you, you still have time to buy your tickets for our big tombola. Lots of fa-bu-lous prizes to win this year!

  ‘First prize, a romantic weekend for two in a three-star self-catering cottage on Lake Charmièges with . . . Wait for it . . . pedalos, a playground for boules, and a giant karaoke!

  ‘Second prize, a Toshiba DVD player graciously offered by Duddle and Company, and we’d like to take this opportunity to thank them – with Duddle, no muddle! And let’s not forget –’

  Charles had put his finger on the uppermost sticking plaster. He could tell it would come off if he went on laughing like an idiot.

  ‘– the numerous gift baskets offered by Graton and Sons, located at 3, Rue du Lavoir in Saint-Gobertin, a butcher’s shop specializing in pig’s trotters and blood pudding, weddings, funerals, and communions, over a dozen consolation prizes because not everyone has the good fortune to be a cuckold, isn’t that right, Jean-Pierre? Ha, ha! All right, all right . . . Time for our performers now, so please let’s have a big hand – louder than that, come on! Jacqueline, you’re wanted at the welcome booth . . . Have a nice day, every—’ And again, click.

  Jean-Pierre had no sense of humour.

  Alexis, accompanied by one of the best pupils in the class, with her ribbons and her clarinet, took his seat to the rear of the stage, while the teachers placed the tiny tots disguised as fish in the midst of the cardboard waves. The music set them to swaying, and the kids all fell out of step. They were far too busy waving to their mummies to keep the rhythm of the waves.

  Charles glanced at Kate’s thi— – no, sorry, the programme on her lap: The Revenge of
the Pirate of the Caribbean.

  Well, well.

  He saw, too, that she was no longer trying to be clever, that her eyes were shining more than was reasonable, so he looked up at the stage to see which of those little sardines could be getting her into such a state.

  ‘Is one of yours up there?’

  ‘Not even,’ she said, choking on her laughter, ‘but I always find it so moving, these little sketches they put together on a shoestring . . . It’s silly, isn’t it?’

  She had placed her hands together on either side of her nose to hide from him and, when she realized he was still staring at her, she grew even more confused.

  ‘Oh . . . don’t look at my hands. They’re all –’

  ‘I’m not. I was admiring your signet ring.’

  ‘Oh?’ She took a deep breath and turned her palm over, as if astonished to see it was still there.

  ‘It’s magnificent.’

  ‘Isn’t it? And very old. A gift from my . . . Right,’ she whispered, pointing to the waves, ‘I’ll tell you the rest later on.’

  ‘I’m counting on it,’ murmured Charles, even more quietly.

  He watched the rest of the show reflected on Alexis’s face.

  Lucas and his band of pirates had just come aboard, singing their disillusioned air:

  ‘We’re as fierce and as cruel as they come

  So why are we here on this leaky drum?

  We swab the decks and wash the dishes

  Enough now captain, we’re off with the fishes!

  Scrubbing copper and dumping rubbish

  Captain, do ye hear us there below?

  Find us a frigate or a good cargo,

  Captain, that’s why we signed up

  Give us our rum and a good punch-up!’

  Alexis, concentrating on his guitar, didn’t notice a thing at first.

  Then he sat up, smiled at the audience, located his son, and went back to his chords.

  No.

  And looked again.

  Squinted, missed two or three chords, looked again, opened his eyes wider, and played whatever he could manage. But it didn’t matter. Who would hear, anyway, beneath the raging of the freebooters? Rum and a good punch-up-up-up! they shouted in every imaginable key, before disappearing behind the mains’l.

  A cannon thundered, and they reappeared armed to the teeth. Another song, other notes, Mistinguett was having a grand old time and Alexis was all over the place.

  Finally he relaxed his visual grip on his son’s shoulder and swivelled his eyes to look for the explanation elsewhere, in the audience.

  After much diligent searching he eventually lighted upon his old comrade’s mocking smile. The one who’d finally understood that it was not as hard as it looked, to read a person’s lips if you’re hard of hearing . . .

  He pointed to Lucas with his chin: Is that her?

  Charles nodded.

  But . . . how did you . . .

  With a smile, he pointed heavenward with his index finger.

  Alexis shook his head, looked down, and didn’t look up again until the booty was being divvied up.

  Charles took advantage of the applause to slip away. He had no desire to hear the plangent sobbing of violins.

  Mission accomplished.

  Time to go back to real life.

  He was heading out of the school gates when a very English ‘Hey!’ caught up with him. He put his cigarette back in his pocket and turned round.

  ‘Hey, you bloody liar!’ She was shaking her left first at him, ‘Why did you say, I’m counting on it, if you don’t give a shit?’

  She didn’t wait for his face to give him away before adding in a more affable voice, ‘No . . . sorry. That is really not at all what I meant . . . Actually, I wanted to invite you to . . . no . . . forget it . . .’ She looked in his eyes and said, even more quietly, ‘Are you – are you leaving already?’

  Charles did not try to return her gaze.

  ‘Yes, I . . .’ he stammered, ‘I should have said goodbye, but I didn’t want to . . . I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I hadn’t planned on coming. I’ve been, how can I put it, of a truant disposition, and now I really do need to head back.’

  ‘I see . . .’

  With a final smile, one he had not seen before, she loaded, without any real conviction, her most pathetic shot: ‘And what about the tombola draw, then?’

  ‘I didn’t buy a ticket.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well then. Goodbye . . .’

  She reached out her hand. Her ring had slipped round; the stone was cold.

  Invite me to what? recalled Charles, but it was too late. She was already beyond reach.

  He sighed and watched: fading into the distance, the swing of her arabesques.

  *

  Looking for his own car, he recognized hers, parked sideways beneath the plane trees opposite the post office.

  The boot was still open and the same dogs that had been there the night before greeted him with the same good-natured wagging and panting.

  He opened his diary, found the page for 9 August and went over the list of names of towns he’d be driving through.

  He drove for half an hour, literally miles away. He looked for a petrol station, found one behind a supermarket, and took absolutely ages to find the bloody fucking piece of shit of a button to release the cover of the fuel tank. He opened the glove compartment, hunted for the instruction manual, got even more noisily angry, found it, filled the tank, used the wrong card, then the wrong pin, gave up, paid cash and went three times round the roundabout before he could read the spidery scrawl in his diary.

  He switched on the radio, then switched it off. He lit a cigarette, then crushed it. Shook his head, and regretted it: it merely brought on one of his headaches. He finally found the signpost he’d been waiting for. He stopped at the white line, looked to the left, looked to the right, looked straight ahead and . . .

  . . . indulged in some verb conjugation:

  ‘I am one bleeding idiot. You are one bleeding idiot. He is one bleeding idiot!’

  5

  SHE WAS BUSY fumbling for something in her apron pocket.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello, uh . . . I’d like a slice of that chocolate cake that was cooking in your oven last night at around quarter to nine . . .’

  She raised her head.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he continued, shaking a handful of tombola counter-foils, ‘after all . . . The playground for boules and the giant karaoke . . . I had second thoughts . . .’

  It took her several seconds to react: she frowned and bit her lip to keep from smiling.

  ‘There were three.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Cakes . . . in the oven.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes,’ she retorted, still just as tight-lipped, ‘as it happens, we don’t do things by halves in my house.’

  ‘I was under the impression . . .’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, uh . . . Perhaps you could give me a little bit of each?’

  Without further ado she sliced three tiny portions and handed him a plate: ‘Two euros. You can pay the young girl next door.’

  ‘What did you want to invite me to, Kate?’

  ‘Dinner, I think. But I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She was already helping someone else.

  ‘And what if I invite you?’

  She stood up straight and gently sent him packing: ‘I promised to help them with the tidying up, I have half a dozen kids to keep an eye on, and there’s not a restaurant within fifty kilometres, so, apart from that, is it good?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The cake?’

  Uh . . . Charles no longer really felt like it. He was hunting for a heartfelt reply when a fellow came up out of breath and visibly very out of sorts and stole the scene. ‘Hey? Wasn’t your son supposed to be looking after the Tin Can Alley this afternoon?’


  ‘Yes, but then you asked him to look after the drinks stand.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Never mind, I’ll ask –’

  ‘Wait a second,’ she interrupted, turning to Charles, ‘didn’t Alexis tell me you’re an architect, is that right?’

  ‘Uh . . . yes . . .’

  ‘Right then, that’s the perfect stand for you. Making piles of tin cans, that should be right up your alley, no?’ Then, calling to the other fellow, ‘Gerard! No need to look further!’

  In the time it took Charles to devour a mouthful of cake he found himself being led to the far side of the schoolyard.

  ‘Hey!’

  Now what . . .

  He turned around, wondering what bloody thing she could reproach him with this time.

  But, it was nothing.

  Just a little wink above a huge knife.

  *

  ‘For each game, the kids have to give you a blue ticket, they know where to buy them . . . and the winners get to choose a prize from this box over here . . . One of the parents will drop by in the afternoon to fill in for you for a few minutes if you have to take a break,’ explained the man, herding to one side the children who were already clustered round. ‘Will that be okay? Do you have any questions?’

  ‘No questions.’

  ‘Good luck, then. I always have trouble finding a kind soul to take over this stand – well, you’ll see,’ and he mimed covering his ears, ‘it’s a bit noisy . . .’

  For the first ten minutes, Charles was quite content to pocket the tickets, hand out the rolled-up socks filled with sand, and put the cans back in place, and then he began to feel more confident, so he did what he had always done: improved the site under construction.

  He placed his jacket on a stool and announced the new land use plan:

  ‘Right. Be quiet a minute here, I can’t hear a thing. Okay, you – go and fetch me a piece of chalk . . . First of all, no more of this mess here, you’re going to make a proper queue and stand one behind the other. The first one who tries to cheat, I’ll put him in the middle of the tin cans, is that clear? Thank you.’

  He took the piece of chalk, drew two distinct lines on the ground, then a mark on the wooden pole: ‘This is the height gauge. Anyone shorter than this mark has the right to step up to the first line, and the others have to stand behind the second one, got it?’