Without losing the rhythm, performing a kind of belly dance, Victor approached his female friends and, with a graceful hand gesture, invited them one by one to join him.
Several of them poured onto the dance floor. Victor undulated between the couples, miming someone who wants to appeal to the wife as well as the husband. Everyone graciously entered into the spirit of things.
“He’s setting the club on fire.”
“What an atmosphere!”
“The owner should pay him.”
Victor had decided not to go out with his fellow students because, ever since the arrival of the anonymous message—and especially since its disappearance from the kitchen—he had been scared that one of them, male or female, had amorous designs on him. So he had preferred to join a more mature group, Nathan’s friends, in this nightclub he didn’t generally frequent. He was causing a sensation not only because he was new, but because he gave the thirtysomethings the illusion that they were his age. Married, some of them with kids, all of them doing well in their careers, they went out to convince themselves that they were free. They were neither young nor old, but old young people.
“Who’s this Victor for? Girls or boys?”
“He doesn’t go out with anyone.”
“You’re kidding! He’s so cool, he could get anything that moves. And have you seen how relaxed he looks? If he’s a virgin, then I’m Joan of Arc.”
Tom and Nathan came to join the party at the table, and were immediately buttonholed by the girls.
“You’ll be able to tell us. We were wondering if Victor likes men or women.”
“Why do you care?” Tom asked, laughing.
“Spare us your lectures,” Nathan grunted. “You ask yourself exactly the same question.”
“Only when I like a guy.”
“You like all of them. You’re ecumenical when it comes to sex.”
“Stop bickering, you two, and answer us.”
Tom and Nathan looked at each other, nonplussed, then shrugged and said, “We don’t know.”
“What?” the women exclaimed. “Haven’t either of you hit on him?”
“What do you take me for, darling?” Nathan said, indignantly. “I’ll be married soon. Tom can’t wait.”
“Why, would marriage make you faithful?” Tom asked, surprised.
“Just talking crap.”
“The truth is,” Tom continued, “we may not have hit on him, but we have tried to find out what he likes.”
“And?”
“Total mystery.”
“To be more precise,” Nathan said, “he gives the impression he likes everything.”
“And we have the feeling he doesn’t like anything.”
“You boys are crazy: look at how he dances.”
They pointed to Victor. His eyes were no longer closed, and he was giving the partners he brushed against the most passionate looks possible.
“So he’s a tease,” Nathan said irritably. “What does that prove? A tease isn’t necessarily a fuck.”
“Sometimes it’s the opposite,” Tom said. “Teases often bolt when it’s time to put out. It’s the little saints who turn out to be sluts.”
“Like Mother Teresa!” Nathan said.
The girls burst out laughing, then studied Victor again.
After a minute, Nathan cried, “Remember, girls, you’re attached.”
“We can still dream, can’t we?”
“And you’re ten years older than he is.”
“At our age, ten years doesn’t matter.”
“At his age, it does!”
They glared at him. He had crossed the line between funny and unpleasant.
Tom grabbed him by the hand and led him onto the dance floor.
Behind them, Victor snatched a bottle of vodka, drank straight from it, then offered it to those around him.
“It’s always the same,” Tom muttered. “As soon as everyone’s hooked, he attacks the booze and ends up drunk. That way he avoids the consequences of his provocative behavior.”
“Yippee!” Victor cried, dancing even more wildly than before.
He pressed his buttocks against those of the woman next to him, then those of the man. The temperature was rising. Like a will-o’-the-wisp, Victor was shifting from one body to another, erotic, sensual, seductive.
The following day, Victor didn’t emerge from under his quilt until eleven. The first thing he did was drag himself to the bathroom, rummage through the medicine cabinet, and take a few pills for his hangover.
It took him ten minutes to drink a bowl of bitter chamomile tea. Then he spent twenty minutes in the shower. The water running over his skin revived him.
At two in the afternoon, finally dressed, he remembered he had to call Tom and Nathan, and then see his uncle.
He phoned the boys and thanked them for bringing him home. They told him jokingly that there would be a wave of suicides in Brussels over the next few days unless he slept with all the men and women he had flirted with the night before.
“You really are a devil!” Tom said.
“I wish!” Victor replied, quite genuinely, and hung up.
It was becoming increasingly imperative for him to leave this city. In order to present his uncle with some specific options, he prepared a load of prospectuses from various universities, even memorizing some of the syllabuses. He needed to give a rational explanation for his desire to leave.
As a feeling of discouragement began creeping over him, he noticed through the windows of his attic apartment some parakeets playfully chasing one another. Feeling the warmth of the sun’s rays, he decided to go out for a coffee.
He walked to Place Brugmann, a pleasant spot shaded by thick chestnut trees and known as Look at Me Square because of a bistro with a terrace where the idle rich liked to be seen. He found a table to one side, next to the bookstore, and sat watching people stroll by.
A woman caught his attention. Slender, staggering on endless legs, she looked like a wounded bird. Having lost a sandal on the pedestrian crossing, she nearly knocked over the sliding panel by leaning on it to tie her strap. Then she spilled the contents of her handbag as she bent down to stroke a poodle, and when she took the last remaining seat outdoors, she managed to upset a jug on the next table.
Victor would have found her comical if he hadn’t first found her stunning. Because her perfect body seemed to be in her way, because she constantly looked uncomfortable perched so high up, she gave the impression of being a little girl who had sprouted overnight. Even sitting, she lacked balance, with her head tilted, her legs tangled, and her torso wobbling. All of a sudden, she became radiant, all her flaws creating a jewel box for her noble, refined, intelligent face; her struggle with gravity made her slender neck and the graceful way she held her head seem like a miracle. To Victor, it was as if she were a Greek goddess who had emerged from the stiffness of marble and was attempting the adventure of being human.
He smiled at her. She immediately reciprocated, then, overcome with uncertainty, explored the contents of her handbag, taking out a notebook, scarves, eyedrops, lipsticks, and paper tissues, before she finally found what she was looking for: a pair of glasses she put on her nose. At last she was able to look properly at Victor, who smiled at her again, and realized she didn’t know him. All the same, she made a friendly gesture.
Victor remembered the night he had just spent. Don’t start again!
He thought about his imminent departure.
And not with her! She looks like a nice girl.
So he threw a banknote on the table and left the terrace, making a slight gesture of farewell to the accident-prone girl.
He returned to Place d’Arezzo and rang his uncle’s doorbell.
“Victor, my boy!” Joséphine cried, throwing herself in his arms. He wholeheartedly hugge
d the aunt he adored. He had known her since he was born and had always seen her more as a friend than a relative. Never acting motherly, often behaving more childishly than he did, she demonstrated a deep, unfailing, unsentimental love for him. When he was with her, life seemed almost easy.
“Your uncle’s waiting for you in his study.” No sooner had she said this than she burst out laughing. “I love saying ‘your uncle’ when I talk about Baptiste. It’s as if I’ve changed husbands, as if I’m married to an old man. It’s so exotic.”
“How are you, Joséphine?”
“Good question. Thank you for asking. I’ll be able to answer in a few days’ time.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’ll tell you about it when I can see the wood for the trees.” She patted him on the cheek. “And when you look less gloomy and less anxious.”
And with this, she took him to Baptiste’s study and walked off to the far end of the apartment, singing.
Baptiste hugged Victor.
As his uncle held him, Victor feared he would no longer have the courage to leave. Was Baptiste the only person in the world who spoiled him? Why distance himself from him? Why worry and disappoint him?
They sat down, exchanged a bit of small talk, then Victor took a postcard from his jacket pocket. “Look, my father’s written to me. He’s in South Africa now.”
Baptiste’s face clouded over. “Oh, so it’s not Australia anymore?”
“He says there’s no future in Australia, it’s all happening in South Africa.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
Baptiste didn’t insist, and neither did Victor.
When his mother—Baptiste’s sister—had died, Victor was only seven. He didn’t know his father, who had left his mother before he was born. But his father refused to allow Baptiste and Joséphine to take Victor in, claimed his paternity, and took the child away with him on his travels. He started involving him in his marvelous adventures which turned out not so marvelous. So many times, he had told his son he was about to make a fortune, because—or so he claimed—he could sense the way the wind was blowing. But reality insisted on thwarting his dreams and he ended up living by his wits. He was a man who thought of himself as a free, bold, intrepid globetrotter, whereas in fact he was just a loser who ran away from all the places where he had failed.
Victor had quickly caught on to the fact that he was living with an immature adult. He had also noticed that whenever his father found himself in a jam, a discreet check from Baptiste saved them from ending up on the street.
So, at the age of fifteen, Victor had demanded to go to boarding school. Delighted to get rid of someone who kept judging him, his father agreed, even though he criticized his choice, then set off again in search of his fortune in faraway lands. He went to Thailand, where he tried to set up a hen farm, to Greece, where he thought he could make it as a real estate agent, to Madagascar, where he organized safaris, to La Réunion, where he survived as a beach attendant, to Patagonia, where he searched for gold, and, finally, to Australia, from which he attempted to export kangaroo steak.
Victor picked up the postcard again and shook it. “His life weighs no more than a postcard.”
Baptiste leaned forward. “Why do you want to leave Brussels?”
Victor withdrew into silence.
Baptiste allowed the silence to grow, until Victor broke it. “Baptiste, please don’t ask me to explain.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations, you owe yourself.”
Victor scowled.
“I want to make sure you’re not lying to yourself,” Baptiste continued, calmly.
“Me too,” Victor stammered, suddenly moved.
“What do you mean, you too? You’re running away!”
“No.”
“You’re running away from your problems.”
“No, I’m not,” Victor said, more faintly.
“You’re running away, just like your father.”
Victor sat up, angry now. He must never be compared to that idiot.
He took a few steps around the room in order to shake off his anger, then came back, pale-faced, to his uncle.
“Baptiste, you know exactly what it is that makes my life difficult.”
“Yes, I do. Why don’t you try seeing a psychologist?”
“I’m already seeing one. You have to, in my situation.”
“And?”
“And I tell him everything’s fine.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody can understand me.”
“Can you understand yourself?”
Victor’s eyes filled with tears. “Shit, you’re too smart for me. You always have the last word.”
“I’m not afraid of words.”
Baptiste opened his arms and Victor rushed into them, weeping.
When he had pulled himself together, he sat down and blew his nose.
“And how are you, Baptiste? Tell me about yourself.”
“Oh, no, we’re not changing the subject. That trick won’t work with me.”
Victor laughed painfully.
“You want to leave Brussels,” Baptiste resumed, “just as you left Paris and then Lille. Since I know that there are at least twenty universities where you can study Law, I’m getting ready to visit every campus over the next twenty years. In addition, since you’re good at languages, I fear your wanderings may soon take us to England or the States, which I would enjoy per se, except that it simply shifts the problem. So, Victor, my boy, you’re going to go back home, think about what’s driving you to leave, and work out if what’s making you leave here is also going to make you leave your next port of call. All right?”
“I love you,” Victor whispered.
“At last! Those are the first sensible words I’ve heard all afternoon.”
Baptiste was using humor in order to conceal the emotion that tore at him. Having no children, and feeling vulnerable because Joséphine had just fallen in love with someone else, Victor’s declaration was like a dagger through the heart.
The two men looked at each other. All they needed to do was be there, side by side, and know that their feelings for each other were strong and indestructible. Baptiste wished he could say, “You’re my son,” and Victor, “I wish you were my father,” but these words would be suppressed. Between these two reserved men, love would remain silent.
Victor left, his heart more at peace, and decided to walk again. Taking long strides helped reduce his tension. His legs took him to Place Brugmann. Immediately, his eyes sought out the wounded bird on the café terrace.
The accident-prone girl was still there, sipping a mint cordial and soda. Unable to see a free table, he approached and, without hesitation, leaned toward her. “May I keep you company?”
“Well . . . ”
“There’s no room anywhere else. But that’s not the reason I’m asking you.”
He winked. She responded with a friendly pout and made a gesture with her hand to indicate the free chair, knocking down the sugar bowl in the process.
“My name’s Victor.”
“My name’s Oxana.”
A mother walked past them, holding her baby in her arms. Oxana watched her with a sadness that didn’t go unnoticed by Victor.
“You look upset.”
“Always, when I see a baby . . . ”
“Why?”
She made an evasive gesture.
A minute passed. Perplexed, Oxana studied Victor.“What about you?”
“I also feel like crying when I see a baby.”
“Really?”
“I even do it when I’m on my own.”
Oxana tried to read his face. She sensed that he was telling the truth.
Moved, they looked away.
Victor discreetly took out his
phone and texted his uncle: I’m staying.
12
When he returned to his apartment that Sunday evening, Hippolyte felt so light he seemed to be walking on air, his eyes half-shut, his face beaming with a luminous serenity.
“Daddy!”
Isis rushed into his arms. He whirled her around in their narrow, cramped hallway.
“Daddy, you smell so good!”
She was so on the mark that he smiled: he smelled either of Patricia or of happiness—weren’t they one and the same? He took a couple of steps and stumbled against the table in the cluttered room which served as kitchen, living room, dining room, and bedroom, and where his whole life unfolded. Separately, behind a door, there was only a tiny bathroom as well as a storeroom—an old pantry with a fanlight—which Hippolyte had turned into a bedroom for Isis.
“How was your weekend, you two?” Hippolyte asked Germain and Isis, who had spent it together while Hippolyte was visiting Patricia.
An apron around his waist, a steaming pan in his hand, Germain approached. “Isis has finished her homework, including math—I checked. Around noon, we went to her friend Betty’s to watch a cartoon, Bambi. In the afternoon, she read while I made dinner.”
Hippolyte leaned toward Isis. “Was Bambi good?”
“Yes. Germain cried a lot.”
Annoyed, Germain clattered the whisk in the soup he was just finishing.
Standing on tiptoe, Isis whispered in her father’s ear, “Bambi’s mother dies at the beginning of the film. I don’t think Germain watched anything after that.”
Hippolyte expressed his sympathy, then disappeared into the bathroom to change, eager to spare his only suit.
“By the way,” Germain yelped, “I washed and folded your laundry.” He pointed to a stack of clothes on a chair.
“Thanks, Germain, you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s OK, I don’t mind. I didn’t have anything else to do.”
Isis stared at Germain, puzzled, wondering how it was possible not to have anything to do; she, Isis, was always doing something, thinking, drawing, singing, reading. She really couldn’t fathom adult behavior. In fact, she had to finish her novel before dinner.
“Are you two going to talk?” she asked.
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