Consolation (35 page)

Opposite the church, well, perhaps, but it was the most secular school you’ve ever seen.

A typical country school, probably built in the 1930s, the boys symmetrical to the girls, or so it was decreed and carved in stone under the intertwined letters R and F of the République Française with a real covered playground whose walls had been repainted wagon green to the height any scuff marks might reach, the height of the white chalk marks round the chestnut trees. Permanent hopscotch grids (surely not nearly as much fun) and bulges in the asphalt, which must have been the delight of kids shooting marbles . . .

A very fine building, with brick trim: tall, stern, and
républicain
, despite all the balloons and other lanterns with which it had been decked out that day.

Charles elbowed his way through the crowd, arms raised to avoid the swarms of children running every which way. After the chocolate cake and the smell of a wood fire, he was rediscovering the atmosphere of Mathilde’s school fairs. With a rather more rural touch . . . Little old grandpas in caps and grannies in thick stockings had replaced the elegant ladies of Paris’s 5th arrondissement, and gone was the organic sandwich stand, replaced by a real suckling pig roasting on a spit.

The weather was fine, he had slept over ten hours, the music was lively and his mobile battery was dead. He put it back into his pocket, leaned against a wall and, snuggled between the aroma of candy floss and roasting piglet, he let himself be dazzled by the show.

It was Tati’s
Jour de fête
. . .

All that was missing was the postman.

A woman was handing him a cup. He thanked her with a simple nod of his head, as if he were a stranger, too disoriented to recall the very basics of the language; he took a swallow of the potion . . . hard to say what it was, a dry, rough drink; he turned his sores towards the sun, closed his eyes, and silently thanked Alexis’s neighbour for having vanished the way she did.

The heat, the alcohol, the sugar, the local accent, the children’s cries, his head beginning to nod gent—

‘Are you asleep
again?
’

No need to open his eyes to recognize the voice of his superpower team mate.

‘No. I’m getting a suntan.’

‘Well, if y’ask me you’d better stop, because you’re all red already!’

He looked down: ‘What’s this? You’re disguised as a pirate?’

A nod from beneath the black headband.

‘And you haven’t got a parrot on your shoulder?’

Lucas lowered his hook: ‘Uh, no . . .’

‘Would you like us to go and get my bird?’

‘But what if it wakes up?’

Although he owed part of his upbringing to Nana – or perhaps for that very reason – Charles had always thought it was simpler to tell children the truth. He didn’t have many principles where child-raising was concerned, but where the truth was concerned, he did. Telling the truth had never restrained the imagination. Quite the opposite.

‘You know something. He can’t wake up, because he’s stuffed.’

Lucas’s moustache stretched from one earring to the other. ‘I knew it! But I didn’t want to tell you. I was afraid you might be sad . . .’

Whose great idea was it to invent children? Whose? He melted, wedging his cup behind a tile.

‘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.