Travelling Light (15 page)

“Papa!” Matti cried. “They’re coming in!”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s only some old owls and foxes making a noise; now go to sleep. All that stuff about the jungle was something we made up. It isn’t true.”

I said it very loud so they would hear outside.

“Of course it’s true,” Matti shrieked. “You’re wrong! They’re real!” He worked himself up into a real state.

The next summer Matti wanted us to go into the jungle again. But to be honest, that would just have been leading him on.

O
NE SPRING, WHEN THE TREES
in the Cambrai district were about to turn green, something tragic happened that had a lengthy and profound effect on the Southern Latin Boys’ School: the PE teacher hanged himself in the gym. The caretaker found him on Saturday evening. Gym was replaced till further notice by drawing lessons for the lower classes, and almost without exception the boys chose extremely morbid themes for their sketches.

The school was closed on the day of the funeral. In the headmaster’s view, the sad event might have had something to do with the teacher failing to pass an exam required for the job of Director of Physical Education, but there were other theories too. One set of speculations concerned a copse of trees a kilometre west of the school that was due to be cleared. This little patch of woodland was barely three acres in size. The PE teacher had been in the habit of taking his pupils there on Sundays. It was believed that he was the one who had cut the
barbed-wire
fence that the Highrise Development Company had placed around the site to stop people climbing into the wood and getting into mischief before it was cut down. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was generally considered that his death had at the very least been an overreaction and entirely unnecessary.

On the day of the funeral Henri Pivot and his wife Florence, known as Flo, drove out of the town; they had been invited to dinner with a business colleague of Henri’s in the building trade. The traffic was moving very slowly and occasionally stood still for long periods. They had a two-hour drive ahead of them.

When Flo was in a bad mood, her face grew narrower and her eyes seemed to enlarge and turn steeply down at the temples. Henri used to tease her about her dramatic mosaic eyes. Her tightly permed hair would also have suited a mosaic, but not her glasses. As for Henri, nature had given him what you might call a pleasant manly appearance, one that inspired confidence, although truthfully his features were neither well defined nor particularly memorable.

“Stuck again,” said Flo. “How I hate sitting in traffic jams; it’s so humiliating. You feel so confined. I’d never dream of asking people from another city to drive over for dinner. We could have gone to the funeral instead.”

Henri said, “But you thought we didn’t need to go.”

“Need and need. I say a lot of things. And why didn’t she invite the boys as well – it’s not as if they don’t eat! Did she forget we have children?”

“But they wanted to play football. They wouldn’t have wanted to go to Nicole’s dinner party.”

“Henri, you know how it works. X invites Y so Y can say sorry, can’t come, and everybody’s happy.”

The queue of cars began moving again. After a while he said, “You don’t like her.”

“We’ve only met once. At the Chatains. I’ve no particular feelings about her.”

The landscape around them was flat and featureless apart from recurring groups of high-rise blocks set at an angle to the road, and petrol stations, all the ordinary roadside places, all the same, without character,
monotonous
as polite conversation.

“Henri.”

“Yes, darling?”

“I was just thinking about it…”

“I know. Did the boys say anything – did they ask?”

“No.”

“But they do know, don’t they?”

“Poor sweet Henri, the whole school knows. This is a horrible place. Where are their houses?”

“They haven’t started construction yet; this is a
clearance
.”

“A clearance?”

“They’ve cut down the trees; it’s a clearance.” He knew at once this wasn’t a good answer and waited, resigned, for what she would say about trees and for his own
explanation
that if homes had to be built and so forth, and how people are more important than trees and how there may be too many of them but they still need places to live.

But Flo said nothing. She polished her glasses on a corner of her dress and it wasn’t until they’d gone several more miles that she repeated that nevertheless they should have gone to the funeral.

“We don’t know his people,” Henri retorted. “No one would have cared if we were there or not.”

“Henri. I don’t feel well.”

“But we can’t just stop right here. Is it really bad? You don’t usually get carsick.”

“Did you bring the cognac?”

“It’s in the glove compartment.”

The desolate landscape continued.

“You know what?” said Flo. “This dinner party is ab-so-lutely unnecessary.”

Henri forced himself to be patient. “You’re wrong. It’s not unnecessary. When I’m working with Michel and they ask us to dinner, then we have to go. You know that.”

“Yes, of course, sorry, sorry. You’re just building your buildings.”

“Flo, please. Make the effort to be nice this evening. It’s important to me.”

“Of course. I know. I’ll try.”

“Feeling better now?”

“Maybe a bit.”

“Flo darling, don’t think about that business with the, I mean… It’s too bad, but that sort of thing happens all the time. People are weak, they can’t cope, they give up. And the world goes on. You know life goes on, just the same. And in a week or two there’ll be a new PE teacher.”

She swung round suddenly to face her husband’s calm profile, to face everything he seemed to her to symbolise right then, and she burst out, “Nothing will ever be the same! And he wasn’t weak. On the contrary, he was so strong he couldn’t take it any more! And we did nothing to help him!”

They had finally reached an area of expensive
bungalows
on the outskirts of the city, and climbed out of the car. Henri took the flowers and Flo’s coat and said, “Now, we’ll do our best, allright? Then we can go home again and you can sleep as late as you like tomorrow morning.”

The house where Nicole and Michel lived was an architectural masterpiece, an exquisite jewel, all its details in perfect harmony. It reminded Flo of the sort of gallery opening you can’t leave for fear that the artist will see you sneaking off. Nicole herself was like her house: big and beautiful and in some sense removed.

“Florence, darling,” she said, “I’m so glad Henri brought you. Unfortunately Michel won’t be here till a bit later. He promised to phone. These endless, awful conferences!”

“Don’t I know it,” said Henri. “Business first! What a beautiful table you’ve set, Nicole. Perfect.”

At the end of the meal Henri raised his glass, and with his natural ease of manner he thanked their hostess and called her a jewel in a perfect setting, alluding with humour and elegance to fishing trips he’d been on with Michel in the good old days, adding an entirely new anecdote about the construction business and finishing with a poetic allusion to the coming spring.

“Thank you so much, dear friends,” said Nicole. “Thank you, thank you. I can only say how lovely it is to have you here. And now let’s have a cup of coffee and a little cognac in the living room. I can’t wait to hear what Florence will have to say about the decor. Wait a minute, just one second. Let me switch on the spotlight.”

“Henri,” whispered Flo. “Is it okay so far? Not being too quiet, am I?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine. Just don’t forget, darling – this is very important to me.”

She drew away from his arm and said, “I know, I know, really important. You’re putting up big buildings.”

Nicole came back and explained that the garden outside should be illuminated better but the lighting hadn’t been properly arranged yet. They mustn’t let it bother them if it came into the room.

Flo asked, “What’s coming into the room? When is it coming?”

“So lovely, so absolutely lovely,” said Henri. “You’ve done so much since the last time I was here!”

A square of lawn could be seen through a glass panel, lit by bright Bengal light and enclosed by a wall.

“Henri,” whispered Flo. “They’re in your pocket…”

He handed her her dark glasses.

Nicole was talking about Monsieur Deschamps and his design artistry, at once original and restrained,
expensive
but perfect. “Nothing extraneous, everything clean, bare, and balanced. See how the violet and leaf-brown of the lilacs is repeated in the background? Clever, don’t you think? Especially the wilted flowers.”

Flo suddenly found she was having difficulty focusing, and her hostess spoke so very fast, she found it hard to follow what she was saying. She asked carefully, “But why dead flowers? What is it that repeats?”

Nicole laughed her high, light laugh. “Dead flowers? But darling, so you’ll believe it’s a real plant! Cognac?”

“Not for me, thanks. I have the car.”

“Florence? Just a tiny one?”

“Thanks very much. It doesn’t need to be tiny.” Flo added slowly, “I don’t quite understand…”

Henri cut in. “What a pity Michel couldn’t be here.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But he promised to try. God, how sick I am of all these conferences! Conferences, conferences, conferences…”

“Absolutely, Nicole. I know what it’s like. But Michel’s very responsible.”

Flo said again, “If only I could understand why. Why he did it…”

“Flo,” Henri warned, but she went on excitedly. “Why? No one hangs himself for no reason!” She emptied her glass and stared straight at Nicole.

Nicole lifted her shoulders. After a quick glance at Henri, she looked away.

“I’m sorry, but I need to talk about it. We have to try and understand what happened to him, don’t we? What he meant by all the things he said that time we wouldn’t listen. Henri. We didn’t listen, and it was important!”

Nicole drew a deep breath and said, “He was the boys’ PE teacher, I believe? I heard about it. Such a sad story. But you didn’t know him all that well, did you?”

Flo wasn’t listening. She was looking down, trying to remember. “It was something important about how everything passes us by because we don’t… No, wait a minute. He believed that as long as we’re alive we ought to… That suddenly it’s too late? Henri? What was it that was so important?”

Henri turned to Nicole and hurriedly explained: “He was going round with one of those protest petitions, you know the sort of thing. And he wanted the parents to sign it.”

“Oh, one of those.”

Flo sat up straight and exclaimed, “And we didn’t sign it!”

“Florence, darling, you have to watch out for that kind of thing. You never know. They never say exactly what they mean, and then you’re trapped. That’s something Michel and I understand better than most. It can be about politics.”

“No. It was about trees. Some woods.”

“Flo, love, it had nothing to do with that.”

The telephone rang and Nicole ran to answer it. While she was away Flo asked, “You mean about him hanging himself?”

“Flo, for heaven’s sake, let it go. This isn’t the time.”

Their hostess came back. “Wrong number. I thought it might be Michel. But you haven’t finished your coffee. It must be cold; let me top it up.”

“Coffee!” Henri exclaimed. “Why don’t people have Thermoses these days? I remember how much fun it was in the old days when Michel and I used to go fishing…”

Flo repeated, “What do you mean that had nothing to do with it?”

“It didn’t. Believe me, it didn’t. It had nothing to do with the woods.”

Nicole opened the glass doors to the garden. A light rain had begun to fall. She paused a moment on the threshold to breathe the mild, damp night air. If only Michel would come home and help her; if only his business connections didn’t always have wives. Big beautiful Nicole wished passionately that the world of calm and charm she’d created might be left in peace, that her life might as far as possible be left undisturbed by all the ugliness and chaos that crowded the world outside. Why couldn’t they talk about something nice? It would be so easy!

“Woods,” she said, surreptitiously pushing the carafe of cognac a little farther away. “I’ve always been fascinated by woodlands. Michel and I once had a whole week to ourselves in Denmark. Those incredible beech forests! It was springtime then, too. Absolutely incredible. Henri, a cigar?”

“No thanks, but look at that – the same brand Michel and I used to smoke!”

They smiled at each other.

“You know what?” said Flo. “I love the smell of cigars. It makes everything feel so leisurely.”

“So true,” Nicole blurted out in relief. “Not at all like cigarettes! A little mineral water?”

“No, thanks.” Flo looked at her beautiful hostess, who suddenly seemed so friendly and straightforward. She touched her hand almost shyly and confided, “Nicole, maybe you’ll understand; I think about it all the time. It’s as if we’d hurt him by not signing that petition.”

The phone rang and it was another wrong number. Nicole was visibly annoyed when she came back. “Florence, dear, what difference could it possibly have made?” she said. “Except it might have eased your conscience. Anyway, did you ever think how pretentious it is to feel guilty? I read somewhere that when people die we always have a guilty conscience whether we’ve been nice to them or not. It’s just the way it is and absolutely nothing to worry about. Did your sons have a guilty conscience? Of course not. They probably went out and played football or something.”

Complete silence.

“Hang on,” said Henri. “Both of you, listen to me. His students went and cut the barbed wire in lots of places. Our boys did it too.”

“Oh, did they really!” Flo exclaimed. “How wonderful! But how did they manage it?”

“With wire-cutters, I suppose. I thought that might make you feel better.”

Flo laughed. “There, Nicole dear – you see they did take the matter seriously! Now that was a real mark of respect, don’t you think? They didn’t just shrug their shoulders and dismiss the whole thing as some sad story!”