Consolation

  The letter . . . She hesitated a split second, then tossed the leftovers from the plates, the bits of fat and the coffee grounds on top of all she had left of Alexis. The ink ran. She pulled the liner closed with all her strength, the plastic tie snapped. Oh shit, she moaned, shoving the bin into the pantry. Oh, shit.

  ‘But . . . you do remember her, don’t you?’ insisted her mother.

  ‘Of course . . . Could you just move, there, so I can wipe here with the sponge?’

  ‘And you never thought she was mad?’ she went, putting her hand on Claire’s to force her to pause for a moment.

  Claire straightened her back, blew sideways on a lock of hair that was tickling her eyes, and looked at her mother. Her mother, this woman who had lectured her so often with her principles, her morals, and all her good manners: ‘No.’

  Then, concentrating again on the grain of the wood, ‘No. I never thought she was mad. At all.’

  ‘Oh?’ went her mother, somewhat disappointed.

  ‘I always thought . . .’

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘That she was beautiful.’

  Wrinkles of disapproval: ‘Of course she was pretty, but that’s not what I’m referring to, am I, I was talking about her, her behaviour . . .’

  I figured that much, reflected Claire.

  Rinsed out the sponge, wiped her hands, and suddenly felt old. Or was it that she felt like a child all over again, the littlest one.

  Which amounted to the same thing.

  She kissed her mother’s worried brow and went off in search of her coat.

  From the front door she called out a farewell to her father. He had remained within earshot, that she knew, and she closed the door behind her.

  Once she was in the car she switched on her mobile – no messages of course – put her sidelights on, glanced in the rear view mirror before pulling out and saw that her lower lip had doubled in size. And that it was bleeding.

  Stupid idiot, she scolded herself, while continuing to nibble at exactly the spot where the pain felt so good. Poor little black robes, when you wear them you’re capable of holding back millions of cubic metres of water while you lean against a monstrous dam, but you’re utterly incapable of stopping three little tears: soon you’ll be carried away on the current, drowned by a ridiculous sorrow.

  Go to bed.

  5

  SHE HAD FOLLOWED him into the bathroom.

  ‘Air France left a message. They found your suitcase.’

  He mumbled three words, rinsing his mouth. She added, ‘Did you know?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That you left your case at the airport?’

  He nodded and their reflection deterred him. She turned away and started to unbutton her shirt.

  She continued, ‘Any reason why?’

  ‘It was too heavy.’

  Silence.

  ‘So you left it.’

  ‘That’s a new bra, isn’t it?’

  ‘Any chance I can find out what is going on?’

  The scene was taking place in the mirror. Two half-length portraits. A second-rate Punch and Judy. They went on staring at each other for a long time, very close but never really looking.

  ‘Any chance I can find out what’s going on?’ she repeated.

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘And it’s because you’re tired that you humiliated me in front of everyone?’

  No answer.

  ‘Why did you say that, Charles?’

  No answer.

  ‘About Mathilde, that is.’

  ‘What is this? Is it silk?’

  She was on the verge of – then thought better of it. Left the room, switching off the light.

  *

  She sat up when he leaned against the armchair to take his shoes off, and it was a relief. If she had actually fallen asleep without removing her eye make-up, that would have been a sign that the situation was really quite serious. But no, she hadn’t reached that point yet.

  She would never reach that point. It might flood, but only after she’d done her eyeliner. The earth might tremble, but you go on moisturizing.

  You go on moisturizing.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and felt fat.

  Or heavy. Yes, heavy.

  Anouk . . . he stretched out with a sigh. Anouk.

  What would she have thought of him nowadays? What would she have recognized? And the postmark . . . Where was that place, exactly? What was Alexis doing living so far away? And why hadn’t he sent a proper announcement? An envelope with a black border. A more precise date. A place. Names of people. Why? What was this? Punishment? Cruelty? A simple piece of information, my mother has died, or an ultimate spit in the face, and you’d never have known a thing if I hadn’t had the immense kindness to spend a few cents to announce it to you.

  Who was he nowadays? And how long ago did she die? Charles hadn’t had the presence of mind to look at the date on the postmark. How long had the letter been waiting for him at his parents’? How far had the maggots got? What was left of her? Had Alexis donated her organs the way she had so often made him promise he would?

  Swear you will, she said. Swear on my heart that you will.

  And he swore.

  Anouk . . . Forgive me. I . . . Who was it that got you, in the end? And why didn’t you wait for me? Why did I never go back there? Yes. I know why. Anouk, you . . . Laurence’s sighs put an abrupt end to his ravings. Farewell.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing, sorry. I . . .’

  He reached over, found her hip, placed his hand there. She’d stopped breathing.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re so hard on me,’ she murmured.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You and Mathilde . . . You are . . . It feels like I’m living with two teenagers . . . You make me tired. You wear me out, Charles . . . Who am I now, for the two of you? The woman who opens her wallet? Her life? Her sheets? What? I just can’t take it any more, I – do you understand?’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘No. Please forgive me . . . I’d had too much to drink and –’

  ‘And what?’

  What could he say? How much would she understand? Why had he never talked to her about all that? What was there to tell, anyway? How much was left of all those years? Nothing. A letter.

  An anonymous letter ripped to shreds, at the bottom of a rubbish bin at his parents’ house . . .

  ‘I just found out that someone died.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The mother of one of my childhood friends.’

  ‘Pierre?’

  ‘No. Someone else. Someone you don’t know. We . . . we’re not friends any more.’

  She sighed. Class photos, buttered toast, The Magic Roundabout on telly, not really her thing. Nostalgia was a bore.

  ‘And you suddenly turn unbelievably obnoxious because the mother of some guy you haven’t seen in forty years just died? That’s what you’re saying?’

  That was exactly what he was saying. What a fabulous gift she had, she could always sum it all up, fold, label, put away, and forget. And how he had loved that side of her, her common sense, her vitality, her ability to toss it all out, the better to see which way things were headed. How he had clung to that, all these years. It was so . . . comfortable. And it was probably what had saved him.

  So he clung to it, once again. To her spirit, to whatever credit he still had left with her, so that he could move his hand and slide it down her thigh.

  Turn this way, he begged in silence. Turn this way. Help me.

  She didn’t move.

  He pulled his pillow closer to hers and curled up against the back of her neck. His hand continued winding up her nightgown.

  Give me some slack, Laurence. Show me something, I beg you.

  ‘And what was so special about this woman?’ she
asked jokingly, ‘was she good at baking cakes?’

  He let go of the silk folds.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she have big breasts? Did she take you on her lap?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She –’

  ‘Sshhh,’ he interrupted, parting her hair. ‘Sshhh, stop now. Nothing. It was nothing. She’s dead, that’s all.’

  Laurence turned round. He was tender, he was attentive, she liked it and it was dreadful.

  ‘Mmm . . . funerals suit you,’ she eventually sighed, pulling the duvet up.

  Her words threw him and for a split second he was sure that – no, it was nothing. He clenched his teeth and banished the thought from his mind before it could even take shape. Stop right there.

  She fell asleep. He got up again.

  *

  As he took his BlackBerry from his briefcase, he saw that Claire had tried to ring him several times. He winced.

  He made a coffee and settled in the kitchen.

  It took a few clicks and then he found it. Dizzying.

  Ten numbers.

  Ten numbers were all that separated them, and he had invested so much bitterness, so many days and nights, in widening the gap.

  How mischievous life could be . . . ten numbers for a dial tone. And pick up.

  Or disconnect.

  And like his sister, he was hard on himself. His screen was now displaying all the details of the path that could lead him there. The number of kilometres, the motorway exits, the cost of the tolls, and the name of a village.

  Taking this trembling as an excuse, he went to fetch his jacket and, on the pretext that he had it on his shoulders, pulled out his diary. He looked for some useless pages – August, for example – and jotted down the itinerary for an improbable voyage.

  Yes . . . In August, perhaps? Perhaps . . . He would see.

  Jotted down the contact information in the same way: like a sleepwalker. Perhaps he would send him a word, one evening . . . Or two, or three?

  Just as he had done.

  To see if the guillotine was still working . . .

  But would he have the courage? Would he even feel like it? Or be weak enough? He hoped not.

  He closed his diary.

  His mobile rang again. He ignored the call, got up, rinsed out his cup, came back, saw that she had left him a message, hesitated, sighed, gave in, listened, groaned, swore, lost his temper, cursed her, switched off the light, took his jacket and went to lie down on the sofa.

  ‘He would have been nineteen years old, three months from now.’

  And the worst of it was that she had said these words quite calmly. Yes, calmly. Just like that, in the middle of the night and after the beep.

  How could she say such a thing to a machine?

  Or even think it?

  And take pleasure in it?

  He felt another burst of fury. What was she thinking with this bloody soap opera?

  Disconnect, old girl, disconnect.

  He called her back to give her a piece of his mind.

  She picked up the phone. You’re being ridiculous. I know, she replied.

  ‘I know.’

  And the softness of her voice pulled the rug out from under his feet.

  ‘Everything you’re about to say to me, Charles, I already know. No need to shake me or laugh in my face, I can do it on my own. But who else can I talk to about all this besides you? If I had a decent girlfriend, I’d wake her up, but . . . you’re my best girlfriend.’

  ‘You didn’t wake me up.’

  Silence.

  ‘Talk to me,’ she murmured.

  ‘It’s because it’s night-time,’ he continued, hoarsely. ‘Night fears . . . She used to talk about it really well, do you remember? How people would freak out, just lose it completely and drown themselves in their glass of water while she held their hand . . . Things will be better tomorrow. Time to sleep now.’

  Long silence.

  ‘D’you –’

  ‘I –’

  ‘D’you remember what you said to me that day? In that shitty café across from the clinic?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘You said, “You’ll have other kids.”’

  ‘Claire . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m going to hang up now.’

  He sat up. ‘No! That’s the easy way! I’m not going to let you off so easily. Think about it. Think about yourself for once. No, that’s not something you know how to do . . . Okay, think about yourself as if you were a really complicated lawsuit. Look me in the eyes and tell me straight: do you regret your decision? Do you really regret it? Be honest, my learned friend . . .’

  ‘I’m going to be for—’

  ‘Shut up. I don’t care. I just want you to answer yes or no.’

  ‘—ty-one years old,’ she continued, ‘I loved a man I could have died for, and then I worked hard to forget him and I worked so hard that I lost myself along the way.’

  She sniggered.

  ‘It’s bloody stupid, huh?’

  ‘He wasn’t a good bloke . . .’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘The only time he was ever straight with you was when he told you he wanted nothing to do with the pregnancy . . .’

  She remained silent.

  ‘And I said pregnancy on purpose, Claire, so as not to say . . . Because it was nothing. Nothing. Just –’

  ‘Shut up,’ she spat, ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Nor do you.’

  She hung up.

  He would not give up.

  Got her voicemail. Tried her landline. At the ninth ring, she gave in.

  She’d switched her rifle to the other shoulder. Her voice was cheerful. Something she’d learned in court, no doubt. Dissembling in order to save her defence.

  ‘Yes, this is SOS Pathos, good eeevening. This is Irma here, may I help you?’

  Smiling in the dark.

  He loved this woman.

  ‘Having trouble coping, is that it?’ she continued.

  ‘That’s right . . .’

  ‘In the old days, we’d have gone to the Bistro Chez Louis with your little classmates and we would have drunk so much that we would never have come out with such utter crap . . . And then, you know what? We would have had a good night’s sleep . . . A good, good night’s sleep . . . Until noon at least . . .’

  ‘Or two . . .’

  ‘You’re right. Two o’clock, quarter past . . . And then we’d be hungry . . .’

  ‘And there’d be nothing to eat . . .’

  ‘Yeah . . . and the worst of it is that there weren’t even any Champion supermarkets back then . . .’ she sighed.

  I could picture her in her room with her smile, all crooked, her piles of files at the foot of her bed, her cigarette butts drowning in a last swallow of herbal tea and the dreadful flannelette nightgown she called her old maid’s negligee. What’s more, I could hear her blowing her nose in it . . .

  ‘It’s really bloody stupid, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody stupid indeed,’ I said.

  ‘Why am I such an idiot?’ she implored.

  ‘Blame the genes, I reckon. Your sisters got all the intelligence.’

  I could hear her dimples.

  ‘Right, I’ll hang up now,’ she concluded, ‘but you too, Charles, you’ve got to look after yourself . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’ll –’ I waved myself away, wearily.

  ‘Yes, you. You never say a thing. You never confide in anyone and you go off hunting bulldozers as if you were Prince Andrei . . .’

  ‘Nicely put.’

  ‘Bah. It’s my job, may I remind you. Right, good night.’

  ‘Wait, one last thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not really sure I like being your best girlfriend, but hey, let’s just suppose I am. So I’m going to speak to you like the best of best girlfriends, okay?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Leave him, Clai
re. Leave that man.’

  Silence.

  ‘You’re too old for this. It’s not Alexis. This isn’t the past. It’s that man. He’s the one who’s hurting you. One day, I remember, we were talking about your work and you said, “It’s impossible to be just, because justice doesn’t exist. But injustice, on the other hand, does exist. Injustice is easy to fight because it stares you in the face and everything becomes crystal clear.” And, well, we’ve reached that point. I don’t give a fuck about that bloke, about who he is or what he’s worth, but what I do know is that per se, this is an unjust thing in your life. Throw him on the dump.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘You’re right. I’m going to go on a diet and then stop smoking, and after that I’ll get rid of him.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  ‘Easy-peasy.’

  ‘Right, go to bed and dream about a nice boy . . .’

  ‘Who’ll have a gorgeous SUV,’ she sighed.

  ‘Humungous!’

  ‘And a flat screen.’

  ‘Well, obviously. Right. Hugs and kisses.’

  ‘Same . . . (sniff ) here.’

  ‘Christ, you’re a pain. I can hear you, you’re still crying.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m okay now,’ she sniffled, ‘really I am. It’s a good big fat cry and it’s all because of you, you worm.’

  And she hung up again.

  He grabbed a cushion and wrapped himself in his jacket.

  End of this week’s Play for Today.

  *

  If Charles Balanda – one metre eighty, seventy-eight kilos, barefoot, baggy trousers and belt undone, his arms crossed over his chest and his nose stuffed into that old blue cushion – had finally fallen asleep, the story would have ended there.

  He was our hero. He would have turned forty-seven, a few months from then, and he’d had a life, but not much of one. Not much at all . . . He wasn’t very good at it. He must have been telling himself that the best was behind him, and he didn’t dwell on the matter. The best, you said? Best of what? And for whom . . . No, never mind, he was too tired. The words were missing, for him and for me. His case was too heavy, and I didn’t really feel like carrying it for him. I understood him.

  I understood him.

  But.

  There was something she had said . . . Something which kept creeping up on him, to squeeze a sponge soaked in water onto his face, when in fact he was half dead over in his corner.