Consolation (16 page)

‘I don’t know . . . Last time, you told me that damned pen belonged to Bing Crosby . . .’

‘Oh please, sweetheart . . .’

A great, alpaca weariness.

‘It’s the dream that matters, you know that . . . And anyway, I thought that Maurice Chavelier, for a communion, well it would be . . . it would be better.’

‘You’re right. Bing Crosby, that’s a Christmas fantasy.’

She burst out laughing; he frowned.

‘Oh, c’mon dear Nana . . . Where would I be without you?’

He blushed beneath his foundation.

Charles put the photos back onto the tray. He would have liked to go farther, but that old strolling player had to be in the limelight, as usual. And you couldn’t hold it against him. The stage, the show, was his raison d’être: ‘
Ze show must go on
,’ he would say, in his thick Frenchy accent . . .

Right, he mused, off we go. After the little dogs wearing fake fur collars and before the lights come back on, Ladies and Gentlemen, exceptionally, this evening, straight from his triumphal New World Tour, in front of your very own bedazzled eyes, I give you the One, the Only, the Unforgettable: Nana!

*

One night in January, 1966 (when she told him the story, much later, Anouk, who never remembered a thing, would use this reference: the night before, a Boeing had crashed into Mont Blanc), an old lady died in cardiology. That is, three floors up. That is, light
years
away from the immediate concerns of Nurse Le Men, who, in those days, worked in
shock
recovery. Charles is using the word
shock
on purpose: it’s his word, but just to be clear: in the emergency unit. Anouk – and it suited her so well – was an
accident and emergency
nurse.

Yes, an old lady had died, and why should Anouk have known anything about it, since there is nothing more hermetic than a hospital ward. Each department has its own parties, its own victories, its own misfortunes . . .

But that’s without taking rumours into account. Or the humming of the coffee machine, to be exact . . . On that particular day, one of her colleagues was complaining about a weirdo who was beginning to get on their nerves upstairs, because he kept coming to visit his late mother with fresh flowers every day, and was surprised that they dare try and send him away. Then he would laugh about it and ask the assembled company if someone was willing to sign him into the psych ward.

At the time she paid no particular attention. Her heart and her paper cup were equally crumpled before she tossed them into the bin. She had enough on her plate.

It was only when security got involved and they wouldn’t allow him to go upstairs that the weirdo in question entered her life. At all hours of the day or night, whether she was going on duty or off again, she would find him there, in the reception lobby, seated between two potted plants and the accounting office. He was devastated, he was tolerated, buffeted by draughts and the flow of crowds, shunted about to the rhythm of the empty seats, his face constantly turned towards the doors of the lifts.

But even then she wouldn’t look at him. She had her own fate, her own sorrow – the bodies pulled from the wreckage, the scalded infants, the winos’ puke, the firefighters who were too slow, her babysitting crises, her money problems, her solitude, her . . . She looked away.

And then one evening, who knows why, because it was a Sunday and Sundays are the most unfair days on earth, and her shift was over, and because Alexis was safe and sound with their kindly neighbours, and because she was too exhausted to notice her fatigue just yet, because it was cold, because her car had broken down and the very idea of walking all the way to the bus stop stuck in her
throat
, and because he was bound to die at this rate, sitting there motionless: instead of slipping out the service entry, she walked out into the light and, instead of looking away, she came and sat next to him.

For a long time she remained silent, racking her brains to think of a way to make him give up his bouquet without breaking him into a thousand pieces, but she couldn’t find one, and, head down, she’d eventually had to concede that she herself was far too badly off to help anyone at all.

‘And so?’ asked Charles.

‘Um . . . I asked him if he had a light.’

He doubled over with laughter. ‘Hey! Incredibly original way to start a conversation!’

Anouk was smiling. She’d never told anyone this story, and she was surprised that she remembered it this well, for someone who’d forget her own head if it weren’t screwed on.

‘And then? Did you ask him if he came here often?’

‘No. Afterwards I went out to take a few puffs to work up my courage and when I came back in I told him the truth. I had never confided in anyone the way I spoke to him that night. Never. Poor thing, when I think back . . .’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said that I knew why he was there. That I’d asked around, and I’d been told that his mother had passed away, very quietly. I’d like to think that I deserved at least that much some day. She’d been fortunate to have him there with her. One of my colleagues had told me that he came every day and held his mother’s hand right up to the end. I envied the two of them. I hadn’t seen my mother in years. I had a little boy who was six years old and she had never taken him in her arms. I’d sent her a card when he was born and she’d sent back a dress for a little girl as a present. It probably wasn’t meant unkindly, but in fact it was worse. I spent nearly every waking hour of my life bringing relief to other people, but no one had ever taken care of me. I was tired, had trouble sleeping, lived alone, and on occasion I drank, in the evening, so that I could fall asleep, because just the thought that there was a child asleep in the next room whose life depended on mine was enough to make me horribly anxious . . . I had never heard from his father, although he was a man I could still dream about. I had to apologize for
telling
him all this. He had his sorrows, too, but there was no need for him to keep coming back to the hospital, because he must have buried her in the meantime, no? He shouldn’t go on hanging about a place like this when he was in good health, because it was an insult to those who were in pain, but the fact he was still coming, it meant he must have a certain amount of spare time on his hands, and if that was the case, um . . . wouldn’t he like to spend it at my place instead?

‘And I told him that before moving here I had worked nights at another hospital, and in those days I lodged with friends who could look after my kid, but for the last two years I’d been living alone and spending a fortune on nannies. Because the boy had been learning to read since starting school in the autumn, I’d taken on the most exhausting schedule in order to be there when he got home from school. He was only this high, but he still woke up alone every morning and I was always worried about whether he’d had his breakfast and . . . I’d never told a soul because I was too ashamed . . . He was so small . . . Yes. I was ashamed. I was going to have to work during the day as of the very next month. My supervisor gave me no choice and I hadn’t dared tell the boy yet . . . Nannies never have time to go over the children’s lessons or make them do their page of reading, at least not those nannies I could afford and . . . I would pay him, naturally! He was a very sweet child, who was used to playing all alone and . . . it wasn’t very nice at my place, but it was at least a little bit more welcoming than here, and . . .’

‘And?’

‘Well, after I’d said all that, nothing . . . And since he didn’t react, I wondered if he wasn’t deaf or . . . I don’t know . . . A bit simpleminded, you see . . .’

‘And?’

‘And it seemed to take him for ever, Good Lord! As if we were both in some psych ward somewhere! And I put us both in the same basket, you see? Two nutcases in amongst the yuccas . . . Oh, when I think about that night . . . I must really have been desperate. I had gone up to him thinking I could help him somehow and there I was begging him to rescue me . . . it was pathetic, Charles, pathetic . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘Well then, at one point I had to get up, after all. And he stood up with me. I went to catch my bus, and he followed me. I sat down, and he sat down across from me and uh . . . I was beginning to freak out.’

She was laughing.

‘Shit, I thought, this just simply isn’t on! I asked him to come to my place, but not right away. Nor for ever. Help. I put on a good face, but I swear, my heart was in my month. I already pictured myself dragging him off to the police station. Good evening, Officer, well here’s the situation . . . I’ve got this orphaned chick who thinks I’m his mother and he follows me wherever I go . . . What . . . what am I doing? So as a result I didn’t dare look at him any more and I tried to disappear into my scarf. But he didn’t stop looking at me. Great atmosphere . . . And at one point he just said, “Your hand.” “Sorry?” “Give me your hand . . . No, not that one, the left hand . . .”’

‘What did he want?’

‘I don’t know . . . To see my CV I suppose . . . To make sure I’d told him the truth. So he read my palm and added, “The little boy . . . What’s his name?” “Alexis.” “Oh?” Pause. “Like Sverdjak . . .” And when I didn’t react, “Alexis Sverdjak. The greatest knife thrower of all time.” And with that – believe me I said to myself I must have fucked up yet again . . . He looked such a complete nutter with his old-granny head scarf . . . And then I really felt guilty. You really go looking for trouble, don’t you, went the lecture in my head as I sat there looking at my nails. Shit, this is your kid you’re talking about! Who in hell is this circus freak Mary Poppins you’ve dug up?’

‘Was he wearing make-up and everything?’

‘No, it was something even harder to pinpoint . . . Like some very old dolly . . . With his blotchy face and his eyes like jelly, and his anything-but-kid gloves and his really scary collars . . . It was dreadful, I tell you . . .’

‘And did he follow you to your place?’

‘Yes. He wanted to see where I lived. But he refused to come up for a drink. And God knows I did insist, but it was impossible to persuade him.’

‘And then?’

‘And then I said goodbye. I told him I was sorry to have bothered
him
with all my woes and he could come back whenever he felt like it. He would always be welcome, and my little boy would surely be happy to learn all about Thingammy-jig, but, above all, he must not go back to the hospital . . . Promise?

‘I walked away, looking for my keys, and I heard him say, “You know, sweetheart, that I was an artiste, too?” Well, who are you kidding, of course I assumed he was! I turned around to say goodbye one last time.

‘“I was in vaudeville . . .”

‘“Oh?”

‘And at that point, Charles . . . Try to picture the scene . . . It’s night-time, there’s his shadow, his really odd voice, it’s cold, there are dustbins and . . . Frankly, I felt pretty stupid . . . I could already see myself in the morning paper . . .

‘“Don’t you believe me?” he added. “Look . . .”

‘He thrust his hand into the neckline of his little coat and do you know what he pulled out?’

‘A photo?’

‘No. A dove.’

‘Magnifique.’

‘Exactly. We had our share of shows with him, didn’t we? But that one will always remain the most beautiful one for me . . . It was both so completely crazy, so sort of old-fashioned and incredibly poetic . . . It was . . . That was Nana all over. If you could have seen his face . . . How proud he was. And at that point I felt this smile spread across my face and I couldn’t get rid of it. I drank my coffee, I brushed my teeth and I went to bed with that smile . . . And you know what?’

‘What?’

‘That night, for the first time in years – years and years – I slept
well
. I knew he was going to come back. I knew he was going to take care of us and that . . . I don’t know . . . I just had faith. He’d seen it, seen that my luck line was even shorter than my heart line . . . He’d called me sweetheart and had caressed his birdy’s head and given me this smile full of his rotten teeth, and . . . He was going to love us, of that I was certain. And you see, for once I was not mistaken . . . The Nana years were the best years of my life. The least difficult, at any rate. And that bloody fireworks display they set off two years later, for me, it was all meaningless: what
mattered
was Nana. He was the pyrotechnician. That little Zebedee – he was my revolution and . . . oh . . . he was so good for us.’

‘Er . . . , forgive me for being so mundane, but . . . all that time he was there, at the hospital – did he have the bird in his pocket?’

‘It’s funny you should ask, because that is precisely what I asked him not long afterwards, and he never wanted to give me an answer . . . I felt he was uneasy about it so I didn’t press him. It was only years later, one day when I must have been feeling particularly pathetic, and I must have broken down yet again, that he sent me a letter. The only letter he ever wrote to me, actually. I hope I haven’t lost it. He said all these very kind things, compliments of the sort no one had ever paid me, yes, it was a love letter now that I think back on it, and at the end, he wrote:

‘Do you remember that night at the hospital? I knew I would never be going back to my house and that is why I had Mistinguett in my pocket. To let her go before I . . . And then you came along, so I went home after all.’

Her eyes were shining.

‘And when did he come back?’

‘Two days later . . . At tea time. All spruced up, with a new hair colour, a bouquet of roses and some jelly babies for Alexis. We showed him the house, the school, the shops, your house . . . And . . . There we are. You know the rest.’

‘Yes.’

My eyes were shining.

‘The only snag, in those days, was Mado . . .’

‘I remember. I wasn’t allowed to visit you any more.’

‘Yes. And then look what happened . . . he even managed to win her over, in the end.’

*

At the time, I hadn’t dared to contradict her, but it hadn’t been as easy as all that . . .