Raymond’s earliest recollection of his father was this smell. He associated it primarily with the coarse fabric of his suits and wiry whiskers of his beard, but it permeated everything. It seemed strange that this aroma persisted, as if his father was still present in the room. Raymond recalled sitting at his father’s feet while he sat reading in this very chair. He was perhaps three or four years old. He brushed his fingertips along the cuffs of his father’s trousers, enjoying the ticklish texture of the tweed. But it was the smell he remembered most, the nutty, complex smell of a world to which he did not belong. Even then, Raymond knew that his father was not to be disturbed, but he craved some sign of affection from him, for him to lower his hand from the arm of the chair and tousle his hair. Instead, however, Maître Barthelme had flicked out his foot as if a fly had alighted on his ankle. Raymond scuttled from the room.
Raymond got up and walked over to the desk. He sat down in the chair from which his father had delivered his annual lecture on Raymond’s educational failings. There were no papers on the surface of the desk. The only items were the green-shaded reading light with its old-fashioned fabric cable, a telephone, a pipe rack, a jar of ink and a fountain pen. Raymond picked one of the pipes from the rack and put it in his mouth. The stem tasted bitter and he put it back, rubbing his lips with the back of his hand to get rid of the flavour. He opened each of the six drawers in turn. To his surprise, five of them were entirely empty. Only the drawer on the top left contained a few miscellaneous items: a box of pipe cleaners, some matches, paperclips and such like. It was in this drawer that Raymond had found the scrap of paper he was now inspecting. It was approximately four centimetres by two and had been torn from the page of a notebook or diary. The paper was of good quality and yellowed with age. There was a faint tide-mark on the bottom corner and the ink of the final few letters had bled into the fibre of the paper. Perhaps it had once been passed across a café table where there was some moisture from a drink. Written on it was an address: 13 Rue Saint-Fiacre, Mulhouse. The handwriting was rounded and feminine. The capital ‘S’ and ‘F’ of Saint-Fiacre were written with a flourish, suggesting a flamboyant, outgoing nature. The ‘e’ of Mulhouse ended in a little curlicue. The address was not accompanied by a name and the fact that there was no area code suggested that it had been written down so that the recipient might pay a visit rather than post something there.
The train stopped at Bartenheim and a woman with a small child got on. Although the carriage was almost empty, they took the seats opposite Raymond. He slipped the address back between the pages of his book and returned it to his satchel. He stared fixedly out of the window. He did not want to fall into conversation and be questioned about his destination or the nature of his business there. The woman occupied herself talking in a childish voice to her toddler, an ugly child with red hair and a lazy eye.
When the train pulled into the stop before Mulhouse, Raymond got up and walked to the opposite end of the carriage. He stepped off the train and then got into the adjacent carriage. He was quite proud of his little charade until he realised that the woman was most likely also travelling to Mulhouse and would spot him on the platform there. When the train pulled into the town a few minutes later, Raymond disembarked as soon as the train came to a halt and headed for the stairs that led to the underpass. He allowed himself a glance over his shoulder. The woman was coaxing her offspring onto the platform.
Despite its proximity, Raymond had rarely set foot in Mulhouse. If he and his mother required something that could not be obtained in Saint-Louis, they generally went to Strasbourg. In Raymond’s mind, Mulhouse was little more than a larger version of his home town, equally dreary and no less provincial. What he did not realise is that in a town of one hundred thousand people, rather than twenty thousand, there is room enough for a few individuals who do not conform to the conventional way of life. Bars and restaurants can offer something more exotic than the staples of the regional cuisine. While a town the size of Mulhouse is unlikely to be a hotbed of anarchism, it is large enough for those with unorthodox views to meet like-minded souls and find a conducive place to exchange them. It is similarly possible in a town like Mulhouse to lead, if one wishes, a life of relative anonymity. The population is more fluid and the inhabitants are less concerned with the petty affairs of their neighbours. The smaller the town, the more inward-looking its residents. Fewer people arrive and settle in our smallest towns. Change, if it occurs at all, takes place over generations. The citizenry become set in their ways, and anyone deviating from these norms is made to understand—one way or another—that they are not welcome. Our larger towns and cities thus exert a pull on those individuals who, for whatever reason, do not fit in elsewhere.
None of which is to say that Mulhouse is a metropolis like Paris, Lyons or Marseilles. It is not. It is a provincial town where the vast majority of citizens would baulk at the idea of living in a larger place. Mulhouse is just right. It is served by a well-regarded theatre and several cinemas. There is an art gallery and a reputable university. The centre boasts a picturesque town square, surrounded by winding streets lined with cafés and artisanal shops. The larger chains are also represented. What need, the denizens of Mulhouse ask, could one have for anything more? The larger cities are awash with crime. They are filthy and dilapidated. Vagrants and blacks grasp your wrist as you pass, begging for a few centimes. Drug dealers and whores peddle their trade in unlit alleyways, eager to lure your children into a life of ruination.
Nor do the citizens of Mulhouse crave the rural life. Who would want to live in a village where there is nothing to do in the evening, and where the locals have nothing better to do than stand at shop counters gossiping in coarse dialects? No, Mulhouse is just right. No one in Mulhouse would ever want to live anywhere else.
Outside the station, Raymond was confronted by a sizeable bus concourse. Busses stopped outside the station in Saint-Louis too, but there was never any need to take one. Raymond spotted a plan of the town behind the scratched perspex of an information board, but it was torn and faded and bore only the names of the main thoroughfares. There was no sign of a Rue Saint-Fiacre. The woman from the train emerged from the entrance of the station and looked at Raymond with a puzzled expression. He turned away and followed a sign to the town centre. He found himself in a maze of winding streets and quickly lost his bearings. He was surprised by the variety of shops and restaurants Mulhouse had to offer. He passed an alley in which a group of shifty men dressed in tracksuits were loitering. One of them caught Raymond’s eye. ‘Hashish?’ he whispered. Raymond hurried on. After half an hour or so, it became clear that he was unlikely to find Rue Saint-Fiacre by wandering around in an arbitrary fashion. He felt discouraged, but he told himself he had embarked on an adventure. It was liberating to be in a place where he was not recognised at every corner.
At the junction of two thoroughfares, he looked around for a suitable person to ask directions. It was around three o’clock and the streets were quiet. A few women shopped for the evening meal. Waiters dallied in the doorways of cafés, waiting for trade. Raymond fished out the slip of paper and scrutinised the address, as if it would miraculously reveal its location. A man in a suit passed, walking rapidly. Two youths, a little older than Raymond, stood on the opposite pavement, smoking. They eyed Raymond impassively, as if they sensed an interloper on their territory. Raymond walked quickly away. An attractive woman in her mid-twenties approached. She was wearing a short blue coat and a skirt reaching midway down her thighs. Her heels clacked on the pavement. She did not seem to be in a hurry. She caught Raymond’s eye and looked at him questioningly, as though she was expecting him to proposition her. Raymond blushed and strode past her. He turned into a side street and collided with a young woman bending over a pushchair. He apologised and then, because the ice had been broken between them, said: ‘Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for Rue Saint-Fiacre.’
He held out the paper, as if to corroborate his story. The woman
took it from him. She repeated the name of the street and then slowly shook her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t know it.’ She had dark rings under her eyes.
A man in his thirties stepped off the pavement to pass them. The woman held out her hand to attract his attention. ‘Monsieur, this young man is lost,’ she said, as if Raymond was a foreigner, unable to speak the language.
She handed the address to the man. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. Raymond did not like the fact that his note was now being passed around willy-nilly. Half of Mulhouse would soon know the nature of his business.
‘Rue Saint-Fiacre?’ said the man. He pushed his hat towards the back of his head, and took the cigarette from his lips. ‘Yes, I know it.’ He was about thirty-five and had pockmarked skin.
He turned and gestured down the street with an outstretched arm, his cigarette pinched between two fingers. He began to provide the woman with elaborate directions, as if it was her that wanted to go there. Raymond nodded along, but he was barely listening. The man’s instructions petered out. He rubbed his mouth as though he too had lost his bearings.
‘Well, it’s somewhere down that way.’
The woman’s child started to cry. Raymond thanked the man and started to move off in the direction he had indicated.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘It’s on my way. I can show you.’
‘That’s not necessary,’ said Raymond.
But the man had already fallen into step with him. Raymond had no choice but to comply. The woman was murmuring softly to her child. Raymond thanked her for her help, but she did not look up from the pushchair. As they moved away, the man cast a lingering glance at the woman’s behind.
‘Single mother,’ he said meaningfully.
Raymond nodded in vague agreement. The pavement was too narrow for them to walk comfortably abreast and Raymond stepped into the gutter. The man still had the address in his hand. Raymond asked if he could have it back. He had a sudden fear that it would later be used in evidence against him; that it had been a mistake to show it to anyone, or even to ask directions. He had drawn attention to his presence in Mulhouse. The man handed him the paper and he pushed it into his back pocket. When he got home, he would return it to his father’s desk before its absence was noticed.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then the man asked what was happening in Rue Saint-Fiacre. Raymond had been dreading the question. He could certainly not tell the man the truth. He had assumed that 13 Rue Saint-Fiacre was a residential address and had even formed a mental image of the street. But for all he knew, it might be a bar, a shop, or the premises of some other business. Perhaps it was the office of a legal colleague of his father’s. But he could hardly admit to this stranger that he did not know what was there or why he was going there.
When he didn’t reply immediately, the man turned and looked questioningly at him. Raymond said: ‘I’m meeting a friend.’
It was as good an answer as any. Even if the man accompanied him all the way there, he could simply wait outside the address for his imaginary friend. Of course, it did not really make sense that he would arrange to meet someone at a location he did not know, but the man merely gave a cursory nod and Raymond realised he had only asked to break the silence between them. They emerged into a busier thoroughfare, turned right and continued for some minutes. The man paused and shook hands with an acquaintance outside a bar. They exchanged a few words while Raymond stood awkwardly at the kerb.
At the end of the street, the man indicated that he was going in the opposite direction. Raymond looked over the man’s shoulder and noted the name of the street: Rue de la Sinne. He instructed Raymond to carry straight on, then to take the third or fourth street on the left. He shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it,’ he said.
The man shook his hand and wished him good luck. It struck Raymond as a strange thing to say, as if he suspected there was more to Raymond’s mission than he had let on. In any case, his directions proved accurate.
Rue Saint-Fiacre was exactly as Raymond had pictured it, so much so that he wondered if he had been there before. It was a narrow street with four-storey apartment buildings on either side. Cars were parked along the right-hand side only. Halfway along was a shabby philatelist’s shop. In chipped gold lettering on the window were painted the words:
Timbres poste
Achat – vente
At the far corner of the street was a small café with two folding metal tables set on the pavement outside. No.13 was opposite the philatelist’s. It was an ordinary turn-of-the-century apartment building with a heavy wooden door, painted brown. Raymond glanced around, then stepped inside. His heart was beating quickly. Of course, he was not, in essence, doing anything wrong. Yet he felt that he was engaged in something illicit. If challenged, would he tell the truth about why he was there? Ah, yes, he imagined saying, I found this address written on a scrap of paper in my father’s desk and I thought he might have been here the night he died. It sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous. And yet he was here.
The only light in the hallway came from a window on the first-floor landing of the stairwell. The switch of a light glowed orange, but Raymond did not dare turn it on. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. He tried to breathe evenly. Along the wall on the right of the passage was a series of metal mailboxes. The dark green paint was bubbled and chipped. Raymond bent to read the nameplates on each box. None of them meant anything to him. The final box, which was overflowing with advertising brochures, had no name on it. From this, Raymond concluded that one of the apartments in the building was empty. There was nothing to indicate which mailbox belonged to which apartment. Above him, Raymond heard the sound of a door opening. He did not wait to find out if someone was coming. He exited the building and hurried off, without looking back to see if anyone emerged from the building. He recited the names he could remember from the mailboxes under his breath: Abbas, Lenoir, Comte, Ziegler or something similar. Had he thought things through, he would have brought a notebook and pen. He continued to the far end of the street and leant against a lamp post in a studiously casual fashion. Some children were playing in a small square, but they paid no attention to him. No one emerged from the building. The whole excursion now seemed quite ill-conceived. He had thought no further ahead than locating the address on the piece of paper. What had he expected to find? Short of knocking on the door of each apartment and explaining who he was—a course of action that was out of the question—it was hard to see how he could learn anything meaningful.
Nevertheless, he was here now and he did not have to be home for two or three hours. Next to the philatelist’s was an archway leading to a cobbled courtyard. It provided an ideal vantage point. Having first gone into the café to purchase a packet of cigarettes, Raymond took up position. He did not particularly enjoy smoking. Sometimes he and Stéphane shared a cigarette or two in the Café des Vosges, but it was more for effect than for any pleasure in the taste of tobacco. At first, Yvette had chided them for ruining their health—the boys liked it when she told them off—but after a while she had joined in, holding the cigarette ostentatiously between the tips of her thumb and index finger, but rarely inhaling.
The apartments on the upper two floors of the building each had a small balcony with a wrought iron balustrade, large enough only for a pair of small chairs, and accessed by a louvred door. On the right-hand balcony of the second floor was a rusting child’s bicycle and a turret of unused plant pots. On the adjacent balcony, a pair of unloved geraniums clung to life. The paint on the ironwork was peeling. Weeds grew from the guttering and the plasterwork of the walls was crumbling and stained with watermarks. The general impression was one of decay. Raymond pictured his father emerging from this rundown building, glancing furtively around before getting into his Mercedes.
He felt conspicuous in the archway. Any passers-by or residents looking out of their windows could hardly fail to spot him and would surely wonder what he was doin
g there. After twenty minutes or so, an old woman with a pug emerged from the building. She was dressed in a thick mauve overcoat with a matching felt hat. The pair crossed the road and approached the archway. The dog commenced a wheezing inspection of the weeds sprouting from the base of a drainpipe. The woman looked at Raymond, but she did not greet him and her expression showed no curiosity. Her dog cocked its leg against the wall before they moved off in the direction of the town centre. A trickle of urine made its way across the narrow pavement.
Half an hour passed. No one else entered or left the building. Few people passed along the street, and those who did paid no heed to Raymond. He smoked another cigarette. He began to forget the original purpose of his mission. He was not bored. On the contrary, each tiny event on the street held some interest. He found himself speculating about the lives of the people he saw: the middle-aged woman who entered the philatelist’s shop with a cardboard box of goods and left empty-handed a few minutes later; the old man with a terrier who, despite the drizzle that had started to fall, sat outside the café for ten minutes without ordering anything, before getting up and returning in the direction from which he had come. From one of the apartments above, Raymond heard the sound of a badly played piano. A few minutes after the music ceased, a girl of thirteen or fourteen emerged from the building and walked slowly along the street, the fingers of her right hand playing an arpeggio by her side.
The Accident on the A35 Page 8