‘Nyet, nyet,’ he insisted, still squeezing his knuckles.
‘For the kids . . .’
There, okay. He set him free.
Charles turned around one last time, and saw not the desolate plains, or the remains of famished soldiers with their frozen feet wrapped in rags or sheepskin, but a last tattoo. A barbed wire the length of an arm raised very high, to wish him lots of shchastye in his life . . .
*
It was hard going home, however. To live like an eternal student when life was a non-stop hectic joyride was one thing, but to skid to a stop when you had no more home – that was another sort of thrashing . . .
He didn’t have the courage to take a taxi, so he mulled over the debacle in the RER.
A wretched journey. Dreary, and filthy. To the left, tower blocks, Roma camps, and to the right . . . Why call them Roma camps, anyway? Why be so tactful, when slum would be the proper word? Let us pay tribute to globalization for allowing us to enjoy the same sights as in other countries . . . Everywhere you looked on the ballast, nothing but refuse and rubbish – and then he remembered that it was somewhere around here that Anouk had passed away.
Nana in his pissoir, and Anouk back where she had started . . .
In just such a mood, of terrible waste, he reached his own camp on the other side of the Gare du Nord.
He went straight into his partner’s office and opened his kitbag.
‘Terror belli, decus pacis . . .’
‘I beg your pardon?’ sighed Philippe, frowning.
‘Terror during war, shield during peace, I return it to you . . .’
‘What are you on about this time?’
‘My Marshal’s baton. I shall not go back there.’
The next part of their conversation was extremely technical, financial, rather, and when Charles closed the door on all the bitterness he had just caused, he decided to get out of there without returning to square one, those well-worn armrests.
He had over 2,500 kilometres of retreat on his emotional dial, two additional hours on his biological clock, he was tired again, and he had to go by the dry cleaner’s if he wanted to get dressed the next day.
As he was on his way out of the door, Barbara gestured to him without breaking off her phone conversation.
Pointing to a parcel on the counter.
He’d deal with it tomorrow . . . Slammed the door, stopped abruptly, allowed a silly smile to spread over his face, retraced his steps and recognized the postmark.
Which was proof enough, if any were needed.
*
He didn’t open it straight away and, as he had done a few weeks earlier, he crossed Paris with a surprise under his arm.
And no more anxiety.
He went down the Boulevard Sébastopol with a lightness to his step, and his floating rib, and felt as chuffed as any ingénu who has just obtained his first walk-on part. Smiling at the pay-and-display machines and contemplating the address over and over and over again while the little pedestrian signal was red.
(The Boulevard had earned its name, should one need reminding, in memory of a Franco-English victory in the Crimea. Ah . . .)
He contemplated his parcel yet again on the zebra crossing. He’d had a good idea her handwriting would be like that. Fine, looping . . . like the design on her dress . . . And he knew, too, that she wouldn’t manage to make her letters fit in the obligatory little boxes. And that she would pick out pretty stamps . . .
Her name was Cherrington.
Kate Cherrington.
What a doofus he was . . .
And how proud he was.
To be a doofus, at his age.
He made the most of this burst of energy to fill his cupboards. He left a huge trolley by the till at the supermarket, and promised he’d be home two hours later in time for the delivery.
He left the store with a broom and a bucket filled with cleaning products, cleaned the flat for the first time since the inventory inspection, plugged in the fridge, unpacked the water bottles, neatly stored Mathilde’s cereal boxes, her favourite jam, her low-fat milk and her gentle shampoo, unfolded the bathroom towels, screwed in the light bulbs and prepared his very first steak on the Impasse des Boeufs.
He pushed back his plate, wiped away the crumbs, and went to fetch his present.
Removing the lid of a tin box, he discovered: dogs, cats, hens, ducks, horses, chicks, goats, llamas, stars, moons, clouds, sparrows, mice, tractors, boots, fish, frogs, flowers, trees, strawberries, kennels, doves, guitars, fireflies, baskets, bottles and . . .
Right. He lined them up on the table. The way he liked, methodically, and according to category.
All the shapes had been used for different kinds of biscuits, but as for the heart, there was only one.
Was it a sign? It was a sign . . . It was a sign!
The term ‘doofus’ didn’t really live up to his situation, now, did it?
Dear Charles,
I made the batter, Hattie and Nedra did the cookies, Alice added the eyes and the moustaches, Yacine found your address (it is you?) and Sam is taking the parcel to the post office.
Thanks.
I miss you.
We all miss you.
K.
He didn’t take a single bite, but lined them all up again, standing them this time, on the mantelpiece in his bedroom, and fell asleep thinking about her.
About the shape he would become, if she came over him like a cookie cutter.
The next morning, he drew a picture of his fireplace in the middle of the empty space and added, I miss you too.
And, recalling what she had told him about the word ‘cook’ and ‘cooker’, he found the ambiguity of her language very useful.
Because his ‘you’ could mean, just you, Kate, or all of you.
He’d let her choose . . .
He could have, perhaps should have, let his guard down a bit more, but he didn’t know how to do that.
His split with Laurence, however admissible it might be, had left him with a nasty aftertaste of spinelessness.
Once again, he anchored himself to his table, his future prospects and his AutoCAD. It was software for work, where everything was perfect because everything was virtual. He’d set his sights elsewhere, in order to avoid any work on himself and, firmly buttressed against the differences in level, he was sure he would not stumble.
He did his sums. Again and again.
He thought endlessly about Kate, but never really thought.
It was . . . he was quite incapable of explaining it . . . Like a light. As if the certainty of knowing she existed, even far away, even without him, was enough to calm him. Of course he harboured thoughts that were more . . . incarnate, at times, but not even that much . . . He felt ridiculously overconfident when he dreamt of playing cookie cutters with her. But in actual fact he felt . . . how to put it . . . impressed, maybe. Yes, why not, let’s go with impressed. She may have done everything in her power to have nothing to do with it – sweat, burp, tell him to get lost with a wave of her ring, sulk, bitch, swear, blow her nose in her sleeve, drink like a fish, fuck the educational system – and the social services too while she’s at it – fume at her curves, her hands, her pride, run herself down on numerous occasions, and abandon him without the slightest farewell – the word seemed appropriate.
It was stupid, it was a pity, it was inhibiting, but that’s the way things stood. When he thought about her, he was designing a world, rather than a woman with a star-shaped scar.
Moreover, if he really thought about it, she’d done the casting right from the start. He was the stranger, the visitor, the explorer, the Columbus who’d ended up there because he’d lost his way.
Because of a little girl with crooked teeth, and an even more crooked mother.
And, by letting him head off again without saying goodbye, Kate had very cleverly misaligned his compass . . .
So we’re back to operating instructions, I see . . . So what’s all this business about bridges, an
d this monastic lifestyle, this sublime Grand Impoverishment? Are you missing your goose-feather bed, is that it?
No, it’s just that . . .
Just what?
My back aches, fuck. It really really aches.
So go and buy a bed!
No, that’s not all . . .
What then?
Guilt . . .
Aaah! Well, I wish you luck. Because you’ll see, there are no operating instructions where guilt is concerned.
No?
No. If you look hard enough, you will certainly find some, the merchants of the Temple are everywhere, but you’d do better to save your money and buy a decent mattress instead. Besides, she just wrote to you, she said she misses you.
Pfff . . . Miss you in English, that’s just an expression. Like Take care or All my love . . .
She didn’t write Miss you, she wrote I miss you.
Yes, but . . .
But?
She lives in Timbuktu, she has a pile of kids, animals who will take thirty years to die, a house that stinks of damp dog and . . .
Stop, Charles. Stop. You’re the one who stinks.
And because this kind of dialogue between his Cogito self and his Ergo sum self was getting his Charles self absolutely nowhere, and because – mainly – he had a lot of work, he preferred to work.
What a wanker.
Fortunately, there was Claire.
8
SHE HAD SAID, I absolutely have to take you to this new place. Not only is the food delicious but the guy is incredible.
‘What guy?’
‘The waiter . . .’
‘Still fantasizing about waiters? Thumb in waistcoat and hips nice and tight in a long white apron?’
‘No, no, not at all. This guy, you’ll see, he’s . . . I can’t explain . . . I adore him . . . A sort of really classy toff. As if he’d landed here from the moon. A sort of cross between Monsieur Hulot and the Duke of Windsor . . .’
Writing down their lunch date in his diary, Charles rolled his eyes skyward.
His sister and her infatuations . . .
They met up early in August, time enough to close their files and wish their respective assistants a pleasant holiday. Claire would be taking the train at the end of the afternoon to go to a soul music festival in the Périgord Noir.
‘Can you drop me at the station?’
‘We’ll take a cab, you know I don’t have a car any more . . .’
‘Exactly, that’s what I wanted to tell you. After you drop me off, could you keep my car for me? My parking permit has expired . . .’
Charles rolled his eyes heavenward once again. It was a hassle, having to struggle with Parisian parking meters. Right . . . he’d take it over to his parents’ place. He hadn’t seen them in such a long time . . .
‘Okay.’
‘Did you write down the address?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you all right? You sound funny . . . Is Mathilde back?’
Yes, she was, but he hadn’t seen her. Laurence had picked her up and they’d gone straight to Biarritz.
Charles had not had the chance, nor the courage, to relate his conjugal adventures to his sister.
‘I have to go, I’ve got an appointment,’ he replied.
*
The description was apposite: the awkwardness, the poetry, the lankiness of a Monsieur Hulot, with the sense of class and flower in the buttonhole worthy of His Majesty King Edward.
He opened his arms wide, welcomed them into his tiny bistro as if they were on the steps of St James’s Palace, greeted Claire’s new dress in iambic pentameters, and stuttering ever so slightly, led them to a table by the window.
Tati de Windsor brought them two glasses of wine as a matter of course and had turned round to explain the menu on the slate when a loud grumble came through the serving hatch:
‘Telephone!’
He begged them to excuse him, and rushed to grab the mobile phone held out to him.
Charles and Claire watched him blush, go pale, lift his hand to his forehead, drop the telephone, bend down, lose his glasses, put them back on skew-whiff, hurry towards the door, grab his jacket from the coat rack, and slam the door just as said coat rack crashed to the floor, taking with it a tablecloth, a bottle, two place settings, a chair, and the umbrella stand.
Silence in the room. Everyone looking at one another absolutely flabbergasted.
A litany of swear words exploded from the kitchen. The chef appeared, a young guy with a frown, who rubbed his hands on his apron before picking up his mobile phone.
Still muttering into his beard, he placed the phone on the bar, leaned over, pulled out a magnum of champagne and began to jiggle the cork, taking his time.
Time enough for his frown to change into something that might actually pass for a smile . . .
‘Right,’ he said, addressing all the diners, ‘it would seem that my associate has just provided an heir to the throne . . .’
The cork flew out. And he added, ‘This one’s on the uncle!’
He passed the bottle to Charles and asked him to serve the others. He had work to do.
He walked away with a glass of champagne in his hand, shaking his head as if this were something he simply couldn’t believe – how was it possible to feel so much happy turmoil inside?
He turned round again, and with his chin pointed to the order pad that had been left on the counter:
‘Please, if you don’t mind, take your own orders, tear off the top sheet and put it on the serving hatch,’ he said grouchily. ‘And keep a copy. I’ll let you add up the bill, as well.’
The kitchen door swung shut and they heard, ‘And write in capital letters if at all possible! I’m illiterate!’
And then a laugh.
A gigantic, gastronomic laugh.
‘Holy shit, Philou . . . Holy shit!’
Charles turned to his sister.
‘You’re right, this place is really, er, quaint . . .’
He poured their glasses and passed the bottle to the next table.
‘I can’t get over it,’ she murmured, ‘I’d have imagined that bloke to be completely asexual . . .’
‘Hah! That’s a typical woman’s way of thinking. As soon as a fellow is kind, you castrate him.’
‘Bullshit,’ she shrugged. Then, taking a sip, ‘Look. You . . . you’re the kindest boy I know and . . .’
‘And what?’
‘No, nothing. You live with a woman who is, uh, totally fulfilling . . .’
Charles said nothing.
‘Sorry,’ she apologized. ‘Forgive me. That was stupid.’
‘I left, Claire.’
‘Left where?’
‘Left home.’
‘Noooo,’ she said, on the verge of a laugh.
‘Yeeeees,’ he countered glumly.
‘Champagne!’
And when he did not react: ‘Are you unhappy?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And Mathilde?’
‘I don’t know . . . She says she wants to move in with me . . .’
‘Where are you living?’
‘Near the Rue des Carmes . . .’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘That I left?’
‘No. That Mathilde wants to go with you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because teenagers love generous people. Later on, you get a thick hide, but at that age, you still need a certain amount of kindness . . . Hey, how are you going to manage with work?’
‘I don’t know . . . I’ll organize things differently, I suppose.’
‘You’re going to have to change your life . . .’
‘So much the better. I was tired of the other one. I thought it was jet lag but not at all, it was . . . what you just said . . . An issue with kindness . . .’
‘I can’t get over it. When did this happen?’
‘A month ago.’
‘Since you saw Alexis, then.’
Charles sm
iled. One smart customer.
‘That’s it . . .’
Claire waited until she was hidden behind the wine menu to let fly a little, ‘Thank you, Anouk!’
He didn’t answer. Was still smiling.
‘Oh, look at you . . .’ she said, giving him a sidelong glance, ‘you’ve met someone . . .’
‘No . . .’
‘Liar. You’re all pink.’
‘It’s the bubbles.’
‘Oh, yeah? And how well stacked are the bubbles? Are they blonde?’
‘Amber.’
‘Well, well . . . Wait. We’d better order if we don’t want to get ticked off by that Neanderthal, and after that (she looked at her watch) I’ve got about three hours to worm it out of you. What are you having? Artichoke hearts? Heart of romaine?’ ‘Where do you see that?’
‘Sitting across from me.’ She giggled.
‘Claire?’
‘Hm?’
‘How do they manage, the guys who are up against you in the courtroom?’
‘They cry out for their mothers . . . Right, I’ve decided. Well? Who is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh fuck, no. Don’t give me that.’
‘Look, I’ll tell you the whole story and you will tell me, since you’re so clever, if you can see what it’s all about.’
‘A mutant?’
He shook his head.
‘What’s so special about her?’
‘A llama.’
Claire looked at him, startled and stunned.
‘A llama, three thousand square metres of roof, a stream, five children, ten cats, six dogs, three horses, a donkey, hens, ducks, a goat, entire clouds full of swallows, loads of scars, an intaglio ring, martingales, a pocket cemetery, four ovens, a chainsaw, a gyratory crusher, a stable from the 18th century, roof beams to make you fall on your face, two languages, hundreds of roses, and one sublime view.’
‘What on earth?!’ said Claire, opening her eyes wider still.
‘Ah! So you can’t make head nor tail of it, either!’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Kate.’
He took their order and left it by the entrance to the bear’s den.
‘And . . .’ continued Claire, ‘is she pretty?’
‘I just told you.’
*
So Charles sat down to eat, and told all.
The grave by the waste depot, his spray job on the tombstone, Sylvie, the tourniquet, the dove, his accident on the Boulevard de Port-Royal, Alexis’s empty gaze, his little substitution therapy life with neither dreams nor music, the figures dancing round the fire, Anouk’s legacy, the Tin Can Alley, the colour of the sky, the police captain’s voice, the winters at Les Vesperies, Kate’s neck, her face, her hands, her laugh, her lips that she could not keep from badgering, their shadows, New York, the last sentence in the short novel by Thomas Hardy, his hardwood floor bed full of splinters, and the biscuits he counted every evening all over again.