The Front Seat Passenger (7 page)

Martine welcomed him with a wan smile. She showed him round the apartment and he pretended he was seeing it for the first time. The furniture was back in its original configuration. All that remained of his incursion was the now faded hyacinth, on the floor by the bin. She offered him a coffee that they drank in the kitchen, not knowing quite what to say to each other. They let desire flower inside them like a sort of inevitability, and just before he was about to explode, she dragged him into the bedroom. They wrestled in the murky watery light that filtered through the drawn curtains, their clothes binding them like seaweed. The same desperate frenzy he’d felt the first time returned with full force, maybe with even more intensity. The faces of Sylvie, then Martial, then Madeleine, then others from even longer ago, lit up in his brain like Chinese lanterns, so that he felt as if he were taking part in a morbid kind of gangbang, wading through blood, sperm and tears. He must always go further, thrust deeper into the entrails of the bodies which were opening in front of him like Soutine’s carcasses or perhaps Bacon’s. It was making him breathless; there was no end to it; he would never get out of the labyrinth of intestines, never …

All the water from the shower was not enough to make him clean. His hands were impregnated with an indelible odour of rotting fish. Martine was smoking, curled up on the sitting-room sofa.

‘Did I hurt you?’

‘A little.’

He sat down beside her. Her cigarette tasted stale.

‘You should push the sofa back, put the two armchairs either side – that would be better.’

‘Funny you should say that. One day someone got in here while I was out. They arranged the furniture as you suggest, and left a hyacinth in a pot on the kitchen table.’

‘Was anything taken?’

‘No, just some leftover ratatouille and half a bottle of wine. They even did the dishes.’

‘Strange.’

‘Are you off?’

‘Yes, I have a meeting at eight o’clock.’

‘Ah. When will you be back?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll ring.’

Once out on the street he felt revived. He wanted to kiss the cars, the trees, the passers-by like someone who has just escaped from terrible danger. He promised himself never to darken the door of number 45 ever again.

During the days that followed, Fabien was completely wrapped up in Léo. Fanchon had left him with them while she went on a business trip. He found the presence of the child reassuring. Léo warmed his heart like sunshine in winter. He took him
everywhere with him, made up stories for him, gave him his bath, prepared home-made soup for him. The child had become his talisman, his lucky charm. Gilles found it a bit over the top. And it started to get on his nerves.

‘No, Fabien, no! You’re spoiling him. And I’m his father, not you.’

He couldn’t help himself. For if his days were illuminated by the innocence of childhood, every night he was brought face to face with his inner depths where attractions and repulsions writhed like a nest of vipers. He emerged from these nocturnal combats bathed in sweat, a nasty taste in his mouth. He washed his hands every quarter of an hour but he couldn’t get rid of that smell of rotting fish.

‘Gilles, smell my hands … Don’t you think they stink?’

‘No … they smell like hands.’

And then Fanchon came to fetch Léo. Fabien took it very badly. He shut himself in his room so he wouldn’t have to say hello or goodbye to her.

‘I don’t get it. Fanchon’s OK at the moment. What’s she done to you?’

‘Nothing! But there she is – “I’m taking the kid, I’m leaving the kid” – and like a bloody idiot, you let her do it.’

‘Of course, she’s his mother! And I’m his father! You’re beginning to piss me off. If something’s wrong, mate, you need to tell me. What is it? Speak to me!’

‘Bugger off! You don’t understand anything! And I don’t give a shit about your pathetic squabbles and your shitty relationship. I’m off.’

He marched straight ahead, seeing nothing, his throat blocked by a sob that wouldn’t come out. The crowd seemed to know better than he did where he was going and it was almost as if it made itself thicker to prevent him from going any further. But he was determined to sort himself out; he even took a fierce pride in it. He was not one of those who went home after work and put on their slippers. He would never be part of a family ever again. There was a light on in Martine’s flat.

She didn’t appear surprised to see him. It was impossible to tell if she was happy or not. In the sitting room, Fabien had noted that she had pulled the sofa back and positioned the armchairs as he had told her to.

‘It’s better, isn’t it?’

‘It’s different.’

The low table in front of the TV was littered with the remains of her meal.

‘What were you watching?’

‘I don’t know, some documentary about a war. Would you like something to drink?’

‘A large Scotch if you have it.’

She brought a bottle, a glass and a bowl of herbal tea for herself. As they drank, Yugoslavia with its wounds and stumps, its ruined men and towns, was displayed on the screen. Martine had put her hand on his fly without taking her eyes off the telly. He felt her nails rustling on the rough material of his jeans. He felt a rush of blood to the head. A Serb captain smiled as he stroked a child’s hair. The alcohol scorched his mouth. The herbal teabag was giving off a hospital smell. His genitals were uncomfortably
constrained by his belt. They were herding terrified women into lorries in front of men on their knees. He was about to explode when the telephone rang, once, twice and a third time. Martine went to answer it.

‘Yes … yes … this weekend? In fact, he’s here at the moment … I’ll ask him … Fabien, it’s Madeleine, she’s inviting us to her country house for the weekend.’

‘Madeleine is inviting me?’

‘Yes. Shall I say you’re coming or not?’

‘If it’s not to gouge my eyes out, then yes, I’d like that.’

‘Good, OK then. Will you come and collect us here? … Friday at five … No, everything’s fine … Lots of love …’

Fabien poured himself another whisky. He needed to calm his nerves.

‘She knows that we’re seeing each other again?’

‘Yes. I told her.’

‘And … she doesn’t mind?’

‘Apparently not. I’m not married to her. I can do as I please.’

‘Sure. But from not minding to inviting me for the weekend …!’

‘Perhaps she reconsidered. We had an argument the other day about it. I told her if she didn’t like it, she didn’t have to see me any more.’

‘And what if I hadn’t come back?’

‘Why wouldn’t you have come back?’

‘I don’t know. Where is her country house?’

‘Near Montbard, in the Côte-d’Or. It’s a beautiful house.’

He gave in to it, without moving, or touching her, and ejaculated during an ad for Toilet Duck.

Part of him, which he barely remembered, stayed behind at the Celtic watching himself get into Madeleine’s big grey car with a little shiver of misgiving. Martine had insisted that he sit in the front. Madeleine had added, with a hint of challenge in her voice, ‘You’re not frightened of being my front seat passenger, are you?’ He had replied: ‘Yes, I am,’ but he’d sat there anyway. They took an enormously long time to escape the traffic jams. It seemed as if the cars were trying to climb on top of each other, gleaming in the rain, like cockroaches under a sink. The radio announced sunny intervals for the next day, but didn’t seem very convincing. Madeleine weaved between vehicles with an expert hand, and, once she made it onto the autoroute, rapidly speeded up, flashing her headlights to clear the left-hand lane.

Fabien had sunk down in the seat, legs tense, nails digging into the leather, jaw clenched as if he were at the dentist.

Near Fontainebleau the speedometer reached a hundred and seventy kilometres an hour.

‘I find it rather odd that you don’t drive.’

‘I like the train. You can read.’

Martine leant forward between them.

‘Do you have to be so formal with each other?’

‘I think so. What do you think, Fabien?’

‘I don’t know. Whatever you like. It’s good to be respectful.’

Madeleine gave a little laugh, which had the same effect on him as biting into a lemon. Since she had collected them from Martine’s, Fabien had been on edge. In spite of her apparent amiability, her words sounded false. But perhaps it was the effect of the conversation he had had that morning with Gilles. Fabien hadn’t told him who the women were, but he had explained his relationship with them, hoping to excuse his uneven temper.

‘Hmm … Well, I don’t think you’re in love. I think you’re obsessed …’

Fabien had replied that everyone was addicted to something, so why shouldn’t he be? But that was only to put an end to the conversation, because confusedly, he felt that Gilles might be right.

‘Do as you like, you’re all grown up. Where is it, this pile?’

‘At Planay, a little dump near Montbard.’

‘Montbard … That’s in the north of Burgundy, isn’t it? Not far from Dijon.’

‘I don’t know.’

The geographical detail had made him very uneasy.

As they left the autoroute after Tonnerre, Madeleine sighed and stretched, holding her arm straight towards the steering wheel.

‘We’re nearly there. Just another half-hour or so. I’m hungry. How about you?’

Night was falling on a patchwork of ploughed fields, undulating violet-brown to the edge of the forest. The horizon was dotted with the odd church clock-tower, and as they passed the little houses with lighted windows, Fabien wanted to shout, ‘Stop! Let me out!’ but already the car was entering the woods.

‘Do you know this area?’

‘Not at all.’

‘It’s very beautiful, you’ll see, especially in autumn. Very wild, not a factory for miles around, a lot of game, deer, stags, wild boar …’

Fabien ground his teeth. At each turn he expected to see a beast bounding towards them, as the triangular signs indicated, and crushing itself in a fountain of blood against the windscreen. Visions of gutted animals hanging from butchers’ hooks began to dance in his head. The odour of women’s perfume, leather and cigarettes was making him feel sick. As if on purpose, Madeleine was describing in great detail a blow-out meal she had had in a well-known restaurant in the area.

‘After the
cockerel à la crème aux morilles
, they served us—’

In a little-boy voice, his mouth dry, Fabien interrupted, ‘Is it much further? I don’t feel very well … I drank too much coffee.’

‘Ten kilometres, if that. But we can stop if you like.’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’

‘Well, just say, OK? Where was I? Oh, yes, the cheese platter! Especially the Époisses, mmm …’

Fabien was as white as a sheet by the time the car stopped in front of an immense wooden door.

‘All right?’

He didn’t reply. He scrabbled feverishly to free himself from the seat belt, opened the door and took three steps before falling to his knees in the wet grass. His eyes closed, he took deep slow breaths, as though to inhale the entire night into his lungs. Martine patted his cheeks.

‘Lean on me. There … that’s better.’

He let himself be guided like a blind person in the pitch black. The only sign of the car was a faint whiff of petrol that hung in the air. They made him totter up a few stone steps then a light sprang on from behind a half-glass door. The house smelt a bit mouldy and of wood fires. In the hallway, a stag’s head stared at him with its glass eyes. He wondered if the rest of its body appeared in the same position on the other side of the wall.

‘My God, you’re pale. Come in quickly! I’ll light you a fire to warm you up.’

They made him sit down, shivering, in a large freezing-cold armchair. Eyes shut, he heard the two women moving about, exchanging words he couldn’t understand and even laughing, which shocked him. A few minutes later, flames were dancing and sparkling in the grate. Slowly the blood began to circulate in his veins again.

‘There we are. You’re coming back from the dead? Here, drink this. Then you can eat.’

‘I’m not very hungry.’

‘Yes, you are. You feel ill because your stomach is empty. Trust me.’

That was too much to ask, since Madeleine’s unrelenting energy and good humour was getting on his nerves. But he swallowed the glass of marc she was holding out to him anyway.

‘Dinner is ready!’

Martine had laid the table behind him as if for a banquet, with a white tablecloth, china, silverware, crystal glasses, fine wine, and boeuf bourguignon. He wondered which hat she had pulled that from.

‘Not from a hat, from the freezer. Madeleine always prepares for an evening arrival. You’ve got your colour back!’

Fabien shook his head like someone getting out of water. The brandy had revived him.

‘I feel as if I’m reliving my rescue from the sea. This is all magical; your house is beautiful, Madeleine, really very beautiful.’

Everything was beautiful when you had been ill. He knew that, but objectively it was a beautiful house with everything in the right place, furniture, panelling; it was luxurious, peaceful and sensuous.

They sat down at the table. After a few glasses, they all began to look at the world with rose-tinted spectacles. They reminisced about the holiday in Majorca, taking care not to mention anything that might cause embarrassment or mar the wonderful camaraderie of the moment. The atmosphere was a bit like a hunting dinner, everyone sharing anecdotes. Fabien felt relaxed; snippets from his childhood came back to him and he talked about
his father, about Charlotte, and, the burgundy having loosened his tongue, he moved on to Sylvie. He ignored the little warning lights blinking in his brain – he couldn’t help himself; he felt the need to talk about her, to unburden himself, to unfurl a carpet of truth in front of him. Like arriving at the beach on the first day of the holidays, you just want to get rid of your ragged old lies and run naked into the waves. The more entertaining he was, the more the two women laughed and the more he threw caution to the wind. He was about to tell them who he was. Now that they were friends, he was sure they would understand and everyone would feel better for knowing. Madeleine rose from the table and went to get the bottle of marc.