by Tony Duvert
If Serge came back. But the year was getting on, and there was no news; and there were already signs of spring, despite the cold.
Simon wrote to Jonathan fairly often. He talked about himself, about Barbara, about marriage, delayed but certain. He had discovered, in the limestone cliffs above the Seine at Rouen, some strange blocks of stone, with flint embedded in them, which he enjoyed sculpting on the spot on Sundays. Oh, just to exercise the arms a bit and get some air: sculpture is an athletic art.
He envied Jonathan his single state, escaping from all the problems couples have, and making a living without leaving home — at a distance, in fact. Paradise! He said very little about the child.
But he had quite a lot to do with him: Serge made a fine son, it really was nice. From here until the boy was fifteen or sixteen, they would be real mates, they would get on together. Rather strangely, Barbara had left the little one entirely to him. And she’d become a vegetarian: she fed herself on brown rice, verjuice, wheatgerm and pollen. She went to primal scream seminars and took courses in movement and expression. For Simon it was steak and salad and the motorbike.
As for Serge, he was given money, he looked after himself, he wasn’t stupid. He bought himself food to eat, clothes, shoes, exercise books. He’d smoked, once. He got on with things, he was funny, he wasn’t ten yet, it wasn’t bad at all. But stubborn as a mule. Simon certainly would have liked to have as much freedom when he was a kid. Today, things were better, you couldn’t deny it. Even sex education: Simon was all for it. At fourteen, he’d thought that girls had three holes, one after the other, like buttons on a jacket. There was progress of a kind. They had a bundle of Danish porn magazines at the house: Serge had seen them, they didn’t hide anything. It hadn’t done anything for him, of course, he was after all still on the young side. And as for me, if my father… But one is never born at the right time, he concluded philosophically.
When Jonathan noticed Easter approaching, he decided, just on the off-chance, to get the house ready. He tried to do it better than he did the last time. He felt, or was worried, that he would have to entertain an adult; things had to be more comfortable, arrangements less rough and ready.
Once again he visited the town. He nearly got through all his money. Among his purchases there was even a washing-machine. He thought for a moment of getting a new stove: his was old and inconvenient, but you cooked wonderfully well on it, and the mice knew it as well as themselves. He decided to keep it.
He would have installed a shower, a proper bathroom, but he was worried about all the work, and the cost; his contract for the year was hardly more than charity. Nor did he have any work planned. He did however have a geyser put in above the sink.
Finally, he put another bed, a single bed, downstairs, in the room that wasn’t used next to the kitchen. He was sure that Serge would want to sleep by himself.
There was nothing to do now but wait: the boy wouldn’t arrive until July.
There was the sound of a motorbike in front of the house. Jonathan heard it from his bedroom. The rider gave a blast on the horn, and the sound of the engine died. Someone called out for Jonathan.
When the young painter appeared in the garden, the rider had taken off his gloves and his helmet, opened his jacket, and he was coming through the gate. It was Simon. Serge wasn’t with him.
Yes, Serge was there. In the lane, a boy, his face turned towards the bike, was unstrapping a fairly small but expensive suitcase which had been fastened at the back. A big blue sports bag, with a very worn strap, was already leaning against a wheel.
A boy long in the legs, long-necked, slim and supple as a girl, a boy from the town and the built-up streets.
Jonathan looked at this stranger, without daring to show himself. This wasn’t Serge. His neck, his shining forearms, had a different tone, white and delicate. His hair fell down to the collar, in loose curls. His back was long, his shoulders a bit narrow. He seemed very well turned-out.
Jonathan hardly touched Simon’s hand, went back into the kitchen with him, didn’t manage a smile. Jonathan was filled with terror by the idea that in a few seconds from now Serge would be there, would come through the door, with his new hair, his new size and his new way of moving, in which the shoulders, hips and hands had a new place.
He hadn’t seen Simon for two years at least; strangely, the letters they’d exchanged had established between them a sympathy and familiarity which hadn’t existed before. And Simon, now he was a married man, seemed less colourless and dumb. He sipped at the white wine. He was excited at having come up the little lane on the bike. And two and a half hours from Paris.
‘And you’re allowed to ride, with…’ said Jonathan, imagining Serge sitting behind his father on the bike.
‘Oh, I don’t know. You know… In any case, he came by train, I picked him up at the station, we’ve only come the last five miles together. Five miles from town! You know, you don’t live very far away… No, he really loves the bike, we do a bit on Sunday, he’d have liked to have done the whole trip like that. Couldn’t really do it with all the luggage. Now whether you’re allowed to, I can tell you… I don’t know.’
And Serge came in. He didn’t lower his eyes, but he seemed to avoid looking at Jonathan. He shook his hand, absently. Then he put down on the table a bright green motorcycle helmet, with red and white stripes, with a sun visor and a copper’s chinstrap.
He sat down nonchalantly, near his father. He was relaxed, with the merest ghost of a smile, a smile of pride, the merest ghost, nothing at all. Jonathan was stunned by his beauty, or by what he considered to be such. But why Serge? This beauty was too much… — and this air of youth, this airy face, too clear, which little children don’t have.
Bigger, taller, but less solid. Disembodied. Diaphanous. Jonathan felt defeated, bloated, marked by illness and solitude. He turned away his eyes, he was sure there was no look in them, just two dirty things, tired and worn out, which expressed nothing, just looked out shamefully.
He produced whisky, Coca-Cola. Simon took the spirit and thanked him noisily. His forearms had grown a lot. He was putting on weight around the waist.
‘You go and put your stuff away,’ he said to Serge. The boy obeyed him instantly and disappeared with the old sports bag and the expensive suitcase.
Jonathan was surprised to see Serge obey; or rather to see Simon issue orders with such ease, so naturally, like a good-natured boss, to a being who should have made him nervous, frightened him, rendered him dumb with fear, humility and admiration.
He hasn’t grown that much, thought Jonathan. It’s a first impression, because he’s changed shape, changed proportion.
But the footsteps on the stairs went quickly. Serge took the steps two at a time, despite his burden. Upstairs, the silence was complete: they should have heard the creaking of the cupboard door.
‘He hasn’t seen the bed downstairs,’ Jonathan said to himself, ‘or else he’s seen it but doesn’t know it’s for him. He’s hesitating, he’s not unpacking his things. That young executive suitcase. When his father’s gone he’ll bring it all down again.’
‘I’d never dare live with this kid,’ he thought. ‘I couldn’t. I can’ t.’
Simon seemed very pleased with life.
Jonathan gave him another whisky, remarking, as he did so, that drinking and driving…
‘I’m not worried. If a cop tries to stop me, I’ll give him a run for his money,’ said Simon carelessly.
The boy didn’t come down. They talked about him. Simon mentioned that since Serge had discovered all about men and women, he’d become very modest: he locked the bathroom door, even to wash his hands. He’d changed.
‘He really has,’ Simon went on, ‘because before, he let you see everything. All kids are like that, though. At a certain age… And Barbara used to wander about naked, no point being embarrassed.’
‘Ah. Well, that’s okay,’ said Jonathan.
‘It is. There wer
e just a few problems,’ said Simon, laughing. ‘I’m telling you, when he was six, about that, when I was round at Barbara’s all the time. Well, almost. Now just think, I was in the shower once and the little bugger comes along, mmm, daddy, can I come in? I said yes, I thought he wanted a piss, that’s fine by me: and wham! he gives me a funny look and then, without a word, he grabs hold of my cock and pulls! And can he pull! You wouldn’t do that to a bell.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘Well, d’ you know what, I walloped him. Didn’t even mean to. Didn’t think. But, my God, he really hurt me, the little bastard. He couldn’t imagine. I tell you he never did that again. And it was a shock, wasn’t it, they can be really strong if they set their minds to it. It was a real shock.’
‘What, being hit?’
‘Oh, that… Then he got a cuddle for quarter of an hour. It does help.’
‘What, in the shower?’
‘No, Barbara took him of course. Anyway, at that age, a man…’
‘Of course.’
‘But no! It’s a question of habits, I mean, at six it’s all right, but afterwards? Freedom’s all very well, but if you just think what might happen if it goes too far, then you see you’ve got to be a bit careful. It’s no joke. Now I’m not talking about that, but generally. Because a kid won’t understand if you don’t explain. We live in a shitty society and you can’t in the end do just what you want.’
‘Indeed, but your way of explaining, in the bathroom…’
‘But hang on! That’s what was really extraordinary! Barbara was furious! Absolutely furious! She petted him for half an hour. That’s no good either. A kid crying, if you pay no attention, he shuts up. You pay attention and you’re buggered, you’ve had it for the evening. But it was me she was really getting at.’
‘It does happen sometimes.’
‘I know. So she says to me: You’re a bloody idiot you are, what d’you have to go and hit him like that for, if you really want to make him neurotic, etcetera! I mean, really! But that’s how she used to think, then. Once she got going she could say just as easily, a slap can make you queer or give you cancer… I’m like you, I just laugh at it. And anyway, you’ve only got to look at Serge, he’s hardly neurotic! What it was, he was such a little actor, you took him seriously; in fact, you’d be getting it completely wrong.’
‘Sure. And with Barbara cuddling him to get at you, and you thumping him for a laugh, it must have done wonders for his sense of humour.’
‘Oh, just for a laugh… You’re a bit like Barbara, exaggerating like that. I didn’t use to hit Serge. What would I do that for? For me, the problem at the time was I was crazy about Barbara and she just wasn’t that interested. Right. Okay. But that’s something else, it’s nothing to do with the kid. It’s not as if…’
‘I know what you mean,’ Jonathan cut in. ‘Another whisky?’
‘You’ve got this unbelievable Scotch right in the middle of the countryside, single malt too, you must be doing all right! D’you have to go far to get it?’
‘I don’t get it. I used to drink, too much, but that’s over. Now I have white wine, with plenty of water.’
‘With water? My God you’re French!… Anyway, it’s all settled down now. Now that Serge isn’t such a little kid, things are a lot better with Barbara, let’s say; it’s going a lot better, after we’ve had a holiday it’ll be just right, I think: in the end, there was no point in all that fuss. We’re going to settle down properly — don’t laugh! That’s what we’re doing, really, I know! Anyway, that’s just the externals, it’s not what’s important.’
‘No, I agree with you, Simon. So… you’re going for two months then?’
‘Oh no, no! One month, I’m not an artist, am I! No, we’re going for a month, in a month’s time.’
‘So what about Serge?’
‘Well… You’d said two months was okay with you, didn’t you? Well, it’s okay with him too, it’s what he wanted to do for his holidays, if it was alright with everyone else, it would be silly for him to stay at home. But, look, don’t you worry: you just tell us what it costs, and I’ll pay you back, anyway! Talking about that, what if I gave you a cheque now. It’s not that we’re really rich, but there’s no reason why you should pay for it. No, really, I was already a bit anxious: I tell you, if you hadn’t sworn…’
‘But it’s true!’ said Jonathan, ‘I really like Serge, and it’s good for me. I’m just worried that he might get bored.’
‘Fine. Ever since he’s started going on and on about it, he’s asked for it! No, I’m all in favour, but… look, I’ll write you a cheque then.’
‘No, there’s no need, Simon. I’ve got everything we need. We’ll see later. The main thing is that your holiday with Barbara goes well. Uh… she can sometimes be a bit difficult.’
‘That’s true,’ Simon admitted, ‘I know where Serge gets it from! You know, in fact, she wasn’t that keen on him coming here: there was a real row. There certainly was… D’you know what she wanted to do with him? Send him to her funny farm there, yoga, grated carrots and all.’
‘What?’
‘I’m telling you. They do summer schools or something in some château or other. You can see Serge! No, and then, I don’t know, she seemed to have something against you, I don’t know what was going on. You know, though, you’ve ignored her a bit, these last two years — me too, in fact!’
‘You’re right. But you know, I work so much. And going to Paris, it’s a real expedition. Anyway, she doesn’t write to me.’
‘In the end, we sorted it out. But I tell you, she really wasn’t that keen. I don’t feel the same way. As far as I’m concerned, it’s for the kid to make his own mind up. If this is what he wants, then fine. Unless it’s a problem for you, of course. Look, if it gets to be too much for you, you just say so: he can always come back and he can go to my mother’s, or to Barbara’s.’
‘I shouldn’t think it will,’ said Jonathan.
‘…And what’s he getting up to, up there?’
‘D’you think I really look tired?’ Jonathan asked suddenly.
‘Tired? You’re crazy!’ said Simon. ‘You look wonderful. Really wonderful! Damn sight better than in Paris. It must be the countryside. Jesus, if I was in your place… In fact, how is the work getting on?’
‘It’s all right. But I’ve done too many drawings, I’ll have to start painting a bit again. It’s not as hard, and they’re easier to sell. It’s abstract, it’s subversive, they pay, you get rich.’
‘I don’t care about that, I prefer your paintings, I do. Your drawings, if you don’t mind my saying so, they’re a bit conformist, to my mind. Perhaps you’re too clever, that can make it seem academic!’
‘You could be right,’ said Jonathan, ‘all that work and in the end it’s just deja vu. But I promise you I’ll stop drawing. Shall we go into the garden?… And your sculpture, how’s that getting on?’
‘Hmm…’ sighed Simon. ‘I have fun, I have fun, that’s all. In fact, there’s no chance of doing anything serious while I have to do another job. And that could well go on until I retire… Sixty, sixty-five… It’s no laughing matter.’
‘That’s a fine age,’ said Jonathan, ‘you gain at least ten years, starting that old.’
Simon burst out laughing.
‘No, I’m not joking,’ said Jonathan softly. ‘Really I’m not. But your son is hiding away somewhere.’
Simon went back into the kitchen, called the boy and poured himself another whisky. Time was getting on, it would soon be time to go.
On the threshold, just in front of the little garden, sitting astride his motorbike and revving the engine with little touches to the throttle, Simon made his loquacious and interminable goodbyes. Eventually he put on his helmet and started off headlong down the hill.
Serge hadn’t waited for this exhibition before going back into the house. Jonathan, embarrassed, unhappy, full of anxiety, must have decided to wait for th
e noise to disappear completely before rejoining him there.
‘…Are you going to come and look upstairs?’ Serge asked shyly, as soon as he had come in.
Jonathan followed him, a little surprised.
‘I’m not telling you anything,’ murmured Serge again as he climbed the stair with great strides which brought his knees above the waist.
They were in the bedroom. Serge’s luggage had not been unpacked, just as Jonathan had imagined. But he’d taken out from his old bag an enormous roll of drawings in watercolour, glued end to end like a papyrus, and he’d hung it up across the room. A paintbox and a damp brush on Jonathan’s table showed that Serge had added a few final touches while his father had been talking downstairs. This was the surprise which he had mysteriously been preparing for Jonathan.
The marvellous banner started at the top of the cupboard; then the fat people, the enormous flowers, the crazy houses, the oceans, rivers, forests and brilliant skies ran over the bed, draped themselves over the chest of drawers, lay across the drawing-table, spanned the gap between two chairs and ended in large folds at their feet. There were twenty-five or thirty feet, perhaps more.
Serge looked at the drawings, then at Jonathan, his face all smiling, his arms dangling at his sides.
‘I don’t know how to draw, I don’t,’ he explained. ‘But these are for you! If you want them. The beginning isn’t very good, don’t look at it. It was a real bother. I haven’t shown it to anyone.’
Jonathan didn’t say a word.
‘We’ll pin it up with drawing pins, all round the walls,’ he said eventually, in a colourless voice.
‘No, I’ll put it away. It’s a real mess,’ replied Serge, who had misunderstood Jonathan’s trouble.
Jonathan, who felt crushed by this misunderstanding, let him roll up the papyrus. Then he pulled himself together again. He ought to choke back his feelings, reject the old doubts, abandon himself to the child. To trust him, to forget so much truth, so much darkness, to believe.