Happy People Read and Drink Coffee (5 page)

“Edward, that's good timing!” Abby said.

“Oh? Why?”

“It's time you met Diane.”

He finally turned to look at me. He lowered his sunglasses—useless given the mist—and looked me up and down. I had the impression of being a slab of meat on a counter. And judging from the look he gave me, I didn't seem to stimulate his appetite.

“Um, no, not really. Who is she?” he asked, coldly.

I took it upon myself to remain polite and walked over to him.

“It seems you're my neighbor.”

His face clouded over even more. He stood up straight and turned to my hosts, as if I wasn't there.

“I told you I didn't want anyone next door. How long is she staying?”

I tapped him on the back as if it were a door. His whole body stiffened. He turned around but I didn't back off; I stood on tiptoe.

“You can talk to me directly, you know.”

He raised one eyebrow, visibly annoyed that I dared speak to him.

“Don't come knocking at my door,” he replied, shooting me a look that sent a shiver running through me.

Without any more ado, he turned around, whistled for his dog and went into the back garden.

“Don't you worry about him,” Jack said.

“He didn't want us to rent out the cottage but it wasn't any of his business,” Abby added, “He's just in a bad mood.”

“No, he just hasn't been taught any manners,” I muttered. “See you soon.”

My car was blocked in by my neighbor's car. I leaned on the horn without stopping. Abby and Jack burst out laughing before going inside.

I saw Edward arrive in my rearview mirror. He walked over nonchalantly while smoking a cigarette. He opened the Rover's back door and let his dog jump in. His deliberate slowness exasperated me; I tapped on steering wheel. Without looking in my direction, he flicked his cigarette butt onto my windshield. His tires screeched as he took off, and a wave of muddy water hit my car. By the time I'd put on the windshield wipers, he was gone. The bastard.

I had to find a way to avoid getting soaked every time I left the house to get some air. I got caught in the rain again today. First decision, forget using an umbrella, totally pointless since I'd broken four in four days. Second decision, no longer count on the sunshine: it disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Third and final decision, be prepared to go out when it rained, for by the time I'd put on my boots, three sweaters, my coat and a scarf, the rain might have passed, and I would reduce the chance of getting wet. I'd try it out the next time I felt like going out.

My method worked. That's what I told myself the first time I sat down on the sand to gaze at the sea. Chance had led me to a good spot, it was if I were alone in the world. I closed my eyes, cradled by the sound of the waves that swept over the beach a few yards away. The wind whipped my skin, bringing tears to my eyes, and my lungs filled with the salty sea air.

Suddenly, I was knocked backwards. I opened my eyes to find myself staring at Postman Pat; he was licking my face. I had the greatest difficulty in getting up. I was trying to brush off the sand that covered my clothes when the dog took off to the sound of a whistle.

I looked up. Edward was walking a little farther away. He'd obviously had to pass quite close to me, but he hadn't stopped to say hello. It wasn't possible that he hadn't recognized me. But even if that were the case, anyone whose dog had just jumped on someone would have the manners to come and apologize. I headed for home, having decided to truly tell him off. At the end of the path that led to the cottages, I saw his Land Rover driving towards the village. He wasn't going to get off so lightly.

I climbed into my car. I had to find that oaf and make him understand exactly who he was dealing with. I very quickly found his muddy heap parked in front of the pub. I slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car, and went into the bar like a Fury. I glanced around the room to find my target. Everyone was looking at me. Except for one.

Yet Edward was there all right, sitting at the counter, alone, leaning over a newspaper, holding a pint of Guinness. I headed straight for him.

“Just who do you think you are?”

No response.

“Look at me when I'm talking to you.”

He turned the page of his newspaper.

“Didn't your parents teach you any manners? No one has ever treated me this way and you'd better apologize right now.”

I could feel myself turning redder and redder with anger. He still didn't deign to look up from his stupid paper.

“That's enough!” I shouted, grabbing the newspaper from his hands.

He took a drink of beer, put the pint down and sighed deeply. He clenched his fist so tightly that one of his veins stood out. He stood up and stared straight at me. I wondered if I hadn't perhaps gone too far. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the counter and headed for the smoking area, a terrace out back. He shook a few people's hands as he walked by without ever saying a word or even smiling.

The door to the terrace slammed shut. I'd been holding my breath since he'd stood up. The whole pub was silent; the entire male population always met there and had all witnessed the scene. I slumped onto the nearest barstool. Someone had to teach him a lesson sometime or other. The bartender shrugged his shoulders and glanced over at me.

“Can I have an espresso, please?” I asked.

“We ain't got that here.”

“You don't have any coffee?”

“Sure we do.”

I'd have to work on my accent.

“Well then, I'd like to have one, please.”

He smiled and went into a corner of the bar. He put a mug down in front of me: it had filtered, watery coffee in it. So much for my idea of good coffee. I didn't understand why the bartender was still standing in front of me.

“Are you going to watch me drink it?”

“I just want to get paid.”

“Don't worry. I intend to pay before I leave.”

“Here we pay before we start drinking. The English idea of service.”

“OK, OK.”

I handed him the money and he gave me my change in a friendly way. Prepared to burn my mouth, I quickly drank my coffee and left. What a strange country: everyone was so nice and welcoming, with the exception of that brute Edward, but you had to pay for your drinks right away. In Paris, that charming bartender would have been put in his place before he knew it. Except that in France, the same bartender wouldn't have been friendly, he wouldn't have chatted to you, and as for cracking a smile, dream on.

I'd gone back to my old ways. I didn't get dressed anymore, ate whatever was around, whenever I felt like it. I slept for a good part of the day. If I couldn't fall asleep, I stayed in bed watching the sky and the clouds, nice and warm under my duvet. I sat comatose in front of inane TV shows, which turned into silent movies when they were in Gaelic. I talked to Colin and Clara, staring at their photos. I was living as I had in our apartment, in Paris, but without Felix. And yet, the sense of comfort I desperately longed for remained out of reach. The heaviness in my heart did not diminish; I felt in no way liberated. I didn't want to do anything, I couldn't even cry any more. Time passed, and the days seemed to grow longer and longer.

One morning, instead of staying in bed, I decided to bury myself in the large armchair that looked out onto the beach. After days of staring at the sky, I was going to amuse myself by watching the sea. I gathered together my stock of coffee and cigarettes, wrapped myself in a robe and shoved a cushion behind my head.

The sound of barking broke through my haze. Edward and his dog were going out. It was the first time I'd seen my neighbor since the incident in the pub. He had a large bag over his shoulder. To see what he was doing better, I moved my armchair closer to the window. He was headed to the beach. His brown hair was even messier than before.

He disappeared from sight when he went behind a rock. He reappeared half an hour later, put his bag down and started looking for something inside. I would have needed binoculars to know what he was
fiddling with. He crouched down; all I could see was his back. He stayed in the same position for a long time.

My stomach was growling, which reminded me that I hadn't eaten anything since the day before. I went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. When I got back into the living room, Edward had gone. My only entertainment for the day was over. I curled up in the armchair and ate my snack, but I had no appetite.

Hours passed; I didn't move. I stirred when I saw the lights go out at Edward's house. He ran outside to go to exactly the same place he'd been that morning. I pulled my robe tighter around my shoulders and went out onto the porch to see him better. I could tell he was holding something in his hands. He held it up to his face and I thought I could make out a camera.

Edward stayed there for a good hour, and I watched him the whole time. Night had fallen when he came back from the beach. I just had enough time to crouch down so he wouldn't see me. I waited a few minutes before going back inside.

My neighbor was a photographer. For the past week I'd synchronized my days with his. He came out at different times, always with his camera. He paced up and down the entire bay of Mulranny. He could remain still for hours at a time and never reacted to the rain or wind that sometimes battered him.

Thanks to my stakeout, I'd learned a lot. He was even more of an addict than I was: he smoked constantly. His appearance, on the day we first met, was in no way exceptional; he was always unkempt. He never spoke to anyone, never had anyone over to his house. I'd never seen him glance in my direction. Conclusion: this guy was completely self-centered. He gave no thought to anything or anyone, apart from his photos—always the same wave, always the same sand. He was very predictable; I didn't need to wonder where he was for long. Depending on what time it was, he would be at one rock or the other.

One morning, I hadn't looked out the window to check he was there. But the more time that passed, the stranger I found it that I couldn't even hear his dog barking, because he followed him everywhere. To my great surprise, I saw that his Land Rover was gone. Suddenly, I thought of Felix; I hadn't called him since I'd left, a month and a half ago; it was time. I grabbed my cell phone and found his number in the contacts.

“Felix, it's Diane,” I said, when he picked up.

“Don't know her.”

He hung up on me. I called back.

“Felix, don't hang up.”

“So you finally remembered me?”

“I'm an idiot, I know. Sorry.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I'm not. I'm staying in Ireland.”

“You're having a ball in your new life?”

I told him that my landlords were charming, that I'd had supper with them several times, that all the locals welcomed me with open arms, that I regularly went for a drink at the pub. The sound of an engine stopped my enthusiasm.

“Diane, are you there?”

“Yes, give me a minute please.”

“Has someone come to see you?”

“No, my neighbor's come home.”

“You have a neighbor?”

“Yes, and I could happily do without him.”

I started telling him about Edward, the details tumbling out in a rush.

“Diane, could you please pause for breath?”

“Sorry, but this guy really gets on my nerves. What's new with you?”

“It's pretty quiet at the moment; I don't open the bookshop until early evening, and it's not going too badly, there's some money coming in. I've organized an evening on the most famous debauched characters in literature.”

“You're kidding.”

“I can guarantee that if anyone writes a book about me, I'll win the prize. Ever since you left, I have more time and I'm having a ball, my evenings are incredible and my nights steaming hot. Your chaste little ears wouldn't be able to stand hearing about it.”

As I hung up, three things were clear to me: Felix would never change, I missed him, and my neighbor didn't deserve a second thought. I quickly pulled the curtains closed.

It was October. I made an effort to try to start reading again. But that afternoon, it gave me no solace. I didn't know if it was because of the dreary detective novel by Arnaldur Indridason I'd gotten stuck into, or the draft I felt on my back. My hands were frozen. The cottage was even more silent than usual. I stood up, rubbed my arms to warm them up, and stopped for a moment in front of the bay window; the weather was bad. Heavy clouds blocked out the sky; night would fall earlier tonight. I regretted not knowing how to light a fire. When I touched one of the radiators, I was surprised; it wasn't hot. I would die of the cold if the heating was broken. I wanted to turn on a light. The first lamp remained hopelessly dark. I flicked on a different switch with the same result. I tried all the switches. No electricity. Total darkness. And me inside. All alone.

Even though it cost me dearly, I ran and banged on Edward's door. I knocked so hard on the wooden door that I ended up hurting my hand. I moved back a little to try to look through a window. If I had to be alone for even one more minute, I'd go mad. I heard some funny noises behind me and was afraid.

“Can you tell me what you're doing?” someone asked behind me.

I turned around quickly. Edward was looming over me at full height. I stepped aside to get away from him. My fear became totally irrational.

“I made a mistake . . . I . . . I . . .”

“You did what?”

“I shouldn't have come. I won't bother you again.”

Still watching him, I started backing away onto the road. My heel hit a stone and I found myself flat on my back, my butt in the mud. Edward walked over to me. His look was sour but he reached his hand out to me.

“Don't touch me.”

He raised one eyebrow and stood still.