Consolation (43 page)

‘Samuel looks at you and you . . . you look away. With Harriet firmly wedged on your hip you help her sister to carry all her stuff, and while you’re settling the little one in her playpen, a little voice behind your back murmurs, What bodies?

‘So you go into the bedroom with him and you answer his question. He listens to you gravely and you are blown away by his . . . self-control, and then he too goes back to playing with his little cars.

‘You can’t get over it, you’re relieved, but you find it somehow rather . . . fishy. Okay, there’s a time for everything. Let him play for now, let him play. But when you leave his room, he asks you again, between two vrooms vrooms: Okay, they’re never coming back but how long are they never coming back?

‘So you go and seek refuge on the balcony and you wonder where in this house they keep the strong spirits. You take the telephone from its socket and, still on the balcony, you start off by calling your boyfriend. You get the impression you’ve woken him up, you explain the situation coolly, and after a silence as long as the Atlantic Ocean is wide, his voice leaves you with the same desperation as the children’s: “Oh honey . . . I feel so terribly sorry for you, but . . . when are you coming back?” You hang up, and there, finally, you begin to cry.

‘You have never felt so alone in your entire life and, of course, it’s only just beginning.

‘Precisely the sort of situation where you would have wanted to ring Ellen . . .

‘Charles?’

‘Yes?’

‘Am I boring you?’

‘No.’

‘Strong spirits, I was saying . . . Do you like whisky? Hang on a sec.’

She showed him the bottle:

‘Did you know that one of the finest whiskies in the world is called Port Ellen?’

‘No. You may have noticed, I don’t know a great deal . . .’

‘It’s very hard to find. The distillery closed, over twenty years ago, I think.’

‘Then keep it!’ he protested.

‘No. I’m very happy to drink it with you here tonight. You’ll see, it’s extraordinary. A gift from Louis, in fact. One of the rare things that managed to make it here with us. He’d have been better than I am at telling you about the notes of citrus, peat, chocolate, wood, coffee, hazelnut and I don’t know what all, but for me it’s just . . . Port Ellen. What’s amazing is that there actually is some left! There was a time when I had to drink myself to sleep, and I wasn’t very careful about checking the labels. But this bottle – I’d never have dared use it to knock myself out. I was waiting for you.

‘Just joking,’ she amended, handing him a glass, ‘don’t listen to me. What will you think? I’m being ridiculous.’

Once again, the words escaped him. She was not ridiculous at all, she was . . . He didn’t know . . . A woman with notes of wood, salt, perhaps some chocolate . . .

‘Right, let me finish my story. I think I’m past the worst of it . . . After that we had to live, and whatever people may say, it’s always easier when you’ve
got to
live. I called my parents. My father retreated into silence, as usual, and my mother became hysterical. I left the children with the concierge’s daughter and I borrowed my sister’s car to join her in hell. It was all very complicated. I never knew that dying could be so complicated. I stayed there two days . . . In a depressing hotel. I’m sure that’s where I started my apprenticeship with the bottle . . . Near the station in Dijon, after midnight, it’s easier to find a bottle of J&B than sleeping tablets . . . I went to the funeral director’s and arranged everything so that the bodies could be cremated in Paris. Why cremated? Because I didn’t know where the children would end up living, I suppose . . . It’s stupid, but I didn’t want to bury them far away from their chi—’

‘It’s not stupid at all,’ interrupted Charles.

She was surprised by the tone of his voice.

‘Louis was buried with his wife in the Bordeaux region. Where else?’ she smiled, ‘but Pierre and Ellen’s urns are here.’

Charles was startled.

‘In one of the barns. In the middle of all the junk. I think the children have already seen the urns a million times without ever imagining for an instant that . . . Well, anyway, we’ll talk about it when they’re grown up . . . That’s another thing I’ve discovered . . . What do you do with your dead? In the absolute, it’s so simple . . . You think that their memory is far more important than the way they are buried, and obviously you’d be right, but in practice, especially when the dead in question are not really your dead, what are you supposed to do? For me, it was particularly complicated because I . . . The mourning period was much longer for me than for them . . . It’s not there any more but for a long time there was this enormous photograph in the kitchen. I wanted Pierre and Ellen to be present at all our meals. And not only in the kitchen, either. I’d put their photos all over the place. I was obsessed by the idea that the children might forget their parents. How I must have tormented them with all that, now that I think about it . . . In the living room there was a shelf where we would place, religiously, all the presents they made at school for Mother’s Day. One year Alice brought home a . . . I can’t remember what it was now . . . a jewellery box, something like that . . . and of course, like everything Alice makes, it was absolutely splendid. I congratulated her and went to put it on the altar with the others. She didn’t say anything, but when I’d gone out she took it and threw it with all her strength against the wall. “I made it for you!” she shouted, “for
you
! Not for a dead woman!” I picked up the pieces and went to remove the photo in the kitchen. Yet again, the children had taught me a lesson and I think that was the day that I stopped wearing black . . . It’s good stuff, isn’t it?’

‘Divine,’ answered Charles, between swallows.

‘And for the same reason I’ve always refused to let them call me Mummy, and with hindsight, I think it cost them a great deal. Not so much for Sam, but for the girls, yes. Above all at school. In the yard, during break . . . But I’m not your mother, I said, over and over, your mother was much better than I am. I talked about her a lot, to them, and about Pierre, too. I didn’t really know him all that well, in the end . . . And then one day
I
realized they weren’t listening any more. I had thought I was helping them but it was just . . . morbid. It was me I was trying to help. As a result there was always this sort of shadow over this “mummy”, as if it were a bad word. Which is really too much, when you think . . . And yet I can’t blame myself, can I . . . I adored my sister.

‘Even today, not a day goes by without me talking to her. I think I was doing all that in order to . . . I don’t know . . . pay tribute to her. Listen,’ she said, looking up, ‘what an atmosphere . . .’

From the valley came the sounds of splashing and laughter.

‘Sounds like midnight swims . . . To get back to my story, it was Yacine, the wise Yacine, who got us out of that situation. He’d just arrived, the night before, wasn’t saying a thing, listened to all our conversations and then, at dinner, he struck his forehead: “Aaah, now I see, I get it . . . In fact, Kate means Mum in English.” And we all looked at each other with a smile: he’d figured it out.’

‘But that bloke who hired me for the Tin Can Alley, for example . . . he said “your son” when he referred to Samuel . . .’

‘Well, yes. How could he know that “your son” means “your nephew” in the French we speak at Les Vesperies? Shall we go and see what they’re up to?’

As usual, they were accompanied by a herd of mongrels who’d escaped the knacker’s yard.

Kate, who was barefoot, made her way carefully. Charles offered her his arm.

He forgot about all his sores, and stood tall and proud.

And felt like he was escorting a queen through the night.

‘Won’t we disturb them?’ he said anxiously.

‘Hardly . . . they’ll be delighted.’

The older children were clowning around by the stream, and the little ones were amusing themselves melting sweets over the fire.

Charles accepted a little half-melted crocodile that looked rather like the badge he had on his heart.

It was revolting.

‘Mmmm . . . delicious.’

‘You want another one?’

‘No, really, thanks.’

‘You coming for a swim?’

‘Um . . .’

The girls were chatting in one corner, and Nedra was leaning against Alice’s shoulder.

This child spoke only to the flames . . .

Kate requested a serenade. The resident musician was most pleased to comply.

They were all sitting cross-legged on the ground, and Charles felt as if he were fifteen years old again.

With lots of hair . . .

He thought about Mathilde. If she had been there, she could have taught the guy a few songs that would have been more interesting than this laborious pling pling. He thought about Anouk, all alone in her shit cemetery hundreds of kilometres from her grandchildren. And Alexis, who had consigned his soul to the left-luggage office and had to ‘meet his objectives’ flogging cold storage to municipal cafeterias. And Sylvie’s face. The gentleness and generosity with which she had related an entire life so deprived of either . . . And Anouk again, whom he had followed to this place, and who would have been so happy to play the fool with Ellen’s children . . . She would have eaten kilos of revolting sweets and performed a gipsy dance around the fire, clapping her hands.

She would, surely, even have been in the water by now . . .

‘I need to lean against a tree,’ he confessed, wincing, his hand against his chest.

‘Of course. Let’s go over there.’ She grabbed a torch on the way. ‘Is it painful, is that it?’

‘I’ve never felt so good in my life, Kate.’

‘But . . . what happened to you, exactly?’

‘I got run over yesterday morning. Nothing serious.’

She pointed to a pair of plush tree-bark armchairs, and set their chandelier down among the stars.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you get run over?’

‘Because . . . It’s a long story. I’d like to hear the end of yours, first. I’ll tell you mine next time.’

‘There won’t be a next time, you know that perfectly well.’

Charles turned to her and . . .

‘Well then, where were we?’ is what he preferred to say, rather than some sort of melted gummy-bear declaration.

He heard her sigh.

‘I’ll tell you what happened because I . . . I’m just like you. I . . .’

Shit. The next bit was already sticking to his fingers.

He could hardly tell her that he’d practically given up hope of ever finding her. She’d said that as a kind of joke – the henhouse, the conquistadors and all that, whereas he . . . it wasn’t . . .

It wasn’t just some sort of cheap trinket.

‘You, what?’

‘Never mind. I’ll wait my turn.’

Silence.

‘Kate?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m very happy to have met you. Very,
very
happy.’

She said nothing.

‘Now tell me what happened, between your mother’s cries and today’s fair . . .’

‘Oh, my. Yacine! Come over here a sec, love! Can you go and fetch us the bottle and the two glasses that are on the table, please?’ Then, turning to Charles, ‘Please, whatever you do, don’t go imagining things. I did listen to her.’

‘Listen to who?’

‘Granouk. I never drink alone any more. It’s just that I need my Port Ellen to get us that far . . . Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Nothing. You must be the only person on earth who actually trusted her.’

Yacine, out of breath, handed them their glasses and went back to his grub.

‘So. Back to hell. My parents arrived the next day. If the children hadn’t yet realized that their life was in ruins, the wretched expression on their Granny’s face left them in no doubt. Through one of Ellen’s friends I found an au pair girl to help out, and I went back to my campus in Ithaca.’

‘You were still a student?’

‘No, I had . . . well, I was an agricultural engineer. What’s bred in the bone . . .’ she joked, ‘my mother had learned to be a gardener,
but
I wanted to save mankind! It wasn’t some medal at the Chelsea Flower Show that I wanted; I wanted, once and for all, to solve the problem of hunger on the planet! Ha, ha,’ she added, not laughing, ‘nothing more, nothing less. I’d done research into a lot of diseases and . . . I’ll tell you all that later on . . . But at that point I had just got a grant to study black spots in papayas.’

‘Really?’ asked Charles, amused.

‘Really. Ring spot virus. But anyway . . . They solved that problem without me. Although I didn’t show it to you earlier, I do have a little laboratory over there.’

‘Really!’

‘I do, yes. Now I’m not saving the planet, I fiddle with plants to help rich people live better and longer . . . Let’s just say I dabble in comfort pharmacopoeia. I’m really into yew trees at the moment. Have you ever heard of yew taxol in cancer treatment? No? Well, that’s another topic for debate. But back then, there I was, in my little service flat, with my fiancé asking me if I’d make a pasta salad for the Millers’ barbecue.

‘The situation was totally insane. What the fuck was I supposed to be doing at the Millers’ barbecue, when I had two urns in the bottom of a wardrobe, three orphans on my hands, and two parents to console? The night that followed was very long. I understood, I could hear what he was saying, but it was already too late. I was the one who had urged Ellen to go off and have a good time, and it seemed to me that I had . . . how can I put it . . . my share of
responsibility
in what had happened.’

Gulp of peat to get the word down.

‘The worst was that we were in love, Matthew and I . . . We had even planned to get married, I seem to recall . . . In short, there are nights like that when an entire life disappears in the space of a few hours. I ought to know. The next morning I did the rounds of all the administrative offices and I very conscientiously
deleted
myself. In the eyes of most of my colleagues I was cancelled, crossed off, removed, and on all the papers they handed me to sign as well, and they glowered at me as if I were being a selfish little girl who broke her toys and didn’t keep her promises.