It was still extremely early. Sleep weighed her down but did not take over. She put the television on, then turned it off. The night had been calm; at least they had not had the wail of sirens echoing around them beyond the still darkness. The unease of the riots already seemed a thing of the past, and Gaël’s moodiness was the only lingering worry. Simone sat up and rubbed her bare white legs where stubbly hairs had grown back. Not having to be there for other people brought her one of the few pleasures she really craved. She opened the door, made herself a coffee, and went out barefoot over the water-glazed grass. It was going to be fine; there was something curiously unbridled about the garden after the storm. The plums left on the trees were starting to acquire the plump purple flesh of ripe fruit. Simone pulled down a branch to pick one. The sour skin resisted, then yielded, and she found her mouth full of a revolting gritty mass of wormy tunnels.
There was no sound upstairs; it was all shut up and dark. Simone went up to take a warm shower, which brought forth from her a soft moan of stress finding release. When she came out, the radio was murmuring in the bedroom. Claude was awake. He lay curled up, a bulky shape in the gloom, which was broken by a just few streaks of light. The muggy atmosphere and smell of ether were suffocating. But Simone dared not open the blinds. Claude’s silence met her like a wall and lasted several seconds. Then he groped for the knob on the radio alarm and everything in him seemed to brace itself as he turned over with a comatose writhe.
You slept downstairs. It was a bald statement of fact, which Simone felt she had to justify. You were so bad, I didn’t want to be in the way. She took a step forward, but he shrank away from her with the slow contraction of a swatted insect about to die. Don’t come in; I stink. His voice sounded sticky with saliva. He was about to add something, but the sentence broke off in a spasm that threw him out of the sheets. His huddled figure listed slightly to his weakened side. Simone moved aside to let him pass. The bathroom door gave a faint creak as it opened, and she saw him bent and trembling with all his might as he heaved and voided the bile that turned his stomach again and again.
The garbage truck was passing down below in a clatter of plastic containers and the sigh of exhaust. Simone remembered that she had not put out their garbage, that it would be too late to mow the lawn, and that countless chores were piling up without being attended to. Claude had flushed the toilet and was rinsing out his mouth. He went back into the bedroom without appearing to see her, crawling desperately slowly into the sheets and arching his arms over his face and head, as though begging her to leave him alone. Simone waited a while before she withdrew, but he called out to her. You should be careful not to put perfume on. The slightest smell upset him, made him feel sick. Simone knew this and had only put cream on her face. Claude’s autocratic irritation seemed so incongruous and ruthless. She closed her eyes for a long moment before managing to say in an almost neutral voice that she was very sorry.
Vexation had revived the surprise of yesterday’s revelations and brought her a kind of sudden sense of freedom. She decided to spend the day at Yolande’s with Gaël. The prospect of just taking a few hours off from the sickness seemed like her greatest pleasure for months. She tapped at Gaël’s door and was amazed by his instant, alert Yes. He would be with her in a minute, he added loudly, as though shouting to her not to come in.
Yolande took a while to answer. She had just come in from the garden and her breathless hello was bubbling over with joy. Simone never called in the daytime; in fact, she never called Yolande at all. She was surprised to hear Yolande and picture her in her domestic life, guessing that she must have decided on it herself, like a free pleasure that she would answer for. Cédric sometimes came over to see them, but they had never paid a return visit, not since Claude had started treatment. Simone was longing for the wonders of the hundred-year-old garden in summertime, where rosebushes nodded their heavy heads against the brick walls, red fruit grew in profusion, and the mulberry tree cast dense shade over a little path, staining the gravel such a dark blue with its berries, it was almost black. Yolande suggested they have lunch at home and go to the swimming pool afterward. She asked nothing about Claude, fully suspecting that this visit was an escape. Her tact and complicity were so unexpected that Simone unraveled. She confided (at the same time as she discovered) that she couldn’t take it anymore. Yolande did not answer right away, as though to give Simone’s confession its full weight. Aude was playing with a squeaky toy at her feet; she picked her up and said, Come over now to give yourself time. Simone was grateful she didn’t add anything. She hung up and stood motionless for a long time, thinking over the years she had let pass before the immutable sight of the forsythia fanning out against her window.
She was on her way to get a cup of coffee a little later, when she found Gaël in the living room, parked in front of the television, his long T-shirt pulled on back to front and a yogurt drink in his hand. He looked a bit disheveled, slumped in a state of semiundress that contrasted with the avidity with which he was guzzling the images on the screen. Simone was perturbed not to have heard him thumping down the stairs or helping himself from the fridge. He hadn’t heard her, either, and he blushed crimson when he turned around, swiftly putting down the yogurt and grabbing the remote control, but Simone was quicker.
We eat breakfast in the kitchen, she scolded, switching off the TV. Gaël flung himself on his back on the sofa. He pulled his T-shirt up over his head and lay there for a moment with his face hidden. When he peeped out, he wore a different expression: amused and stubborn, as disarming as his rebuff the day before. He stared at her, his fingers fiddling languorously with the deep folds of his belly button. He seemed totally unabashed, either about his body or his insolence, and this new behavior touched an inexplicably sensitive spot in Simone. She grabbed his arm to tell him to go upstairs and get dressed. We’re going to the swimming pool near where Yolande lives, she went on, forcing down a rising wave of panic. You’re going to meet your niece. Did you know you have a niece? The information intrigued him but put him on his guard. He sat up on the edge of the sofa and asked who she was and what her name was. But his voice sounded insincere and somehow uncaring.
A sudden gust of wind flung a shower of rain right onto the patio and scattered little disks of sunlight all around the room. Gaël flopped onto the sofa again and shielded his eyes with his arm. He pretended to yawn, and when he heard that they were expected at Yolande’s for lunch, he began to knee the cushions about. Simone felt she was losing ground. The thought that he was hoping to stay and watch TV was like an assault. You’re surely not stupid enough to waste your life in front of the television was her parting shot as she left the room. The retort he flung at her was said in too much of a mumble for her to make it out. She went back to the office, calmly closed the door behind her, and sat down with her chin on her folded hands, then sought and found where she had put Jovana’s number. There was something like a lover’s bitterness in her eagerness to send him home. Perplexed, she realized how badly she lacked and yearned for affection she could freely embrace.
Gaël eventually went up to his room, dragging his feet like a pledge of ruefulness. Simone felt irresponsible for revealing how fragile she was. A former colleague had left a message the previous day. She listened to it again as she finished her coffee. She ought to have returned the call, but she could not bring herself to describe for the umpteenth time since the start the concatenation of sufferings; talking about them rang false in her own ears. She was aware of never giving anything that might help people offer useful sympathy. Such conversations forced a mutual effort that was frustrating and militated against friendship. It’s not the day to inflict that, she decided as she switched off the computer. Gaël was still not ready, and Simone had heard nothing more from him. She went up a few stairs to call to him in an undertone to hurry up, that it was nearly ten o’clock. Her own anger had completely subsided and she knew that his would not last. The pleasure of escaping for a day was bound
to return.
The throw was still in a heap on the floor and, the cushions were scattered about, and the yogurt bottle had toppled off the coffee table. Simone briefly took stock of the chaos that was setting in behind Claude’s back. The TV was still on, she noticed suddenly, seeing a rectangle of images shifting on the windowpanes. She felt about for the remote control in the sofa, flicked mechanically through the channels, and sensed suddenly that Gaël was nowhere in the house. A wave of heat broke slowly over her. She ran upstairs and was again struck by the smell and the muggy atmosphere. Gaël’s bedroom door was ajar. A tepid bundle of sheets had been pushed to the foot of the bed and bunched-up clothes filled the half-light. He was not in the bathroom or in the kitchen, and she went out to look in the garden, already knowing he would not be there, either.
The basket of plums had vanished. Simone found it under the forsythia, tipped over the pile of rotting fruit. Someone had ripped branches off the hedge, stripped off the leaves, then stuck them like javelins into an exposed corner of fence where there was a gap in the hedge. The bottom of the mesh had been twisted up, leaving a small hole just big enough for a cat to get through but not a child. It was an act of silly but intentional vandalism, which Simone had not seen when she got up, the signs of a fit of rage she could not place in time and which sent shock waves through her.
It was starting to grow heavy; warm steam from the rain was rising off the sunny lawn. Simone went over to the house again then out onto the sidewalk, where she looked up and down the deserted street, which was still drenched in pools of light. The realization that he had run away filled her with a kind of exasperation of tiredness and guilt. She did not know how to break such senseless news to Claude. She was a bit inclined to tell Yolande instead, but in the end she went upstairs.
Claude must have been drifting off again, because he turned to her with an expression of pain and disbelief. Gaël has gone, she told him, and was instantly sorry she had come upstairs. It took him a few moments to react and prop himself on an elbow. The news did not surprise him; rather, it seemed to confirm him in his remorse. Have you gone to look at Nora’s, he asked, sitting up on the edge of his bed. His mouth was set in such nauseous disgust that Simone berated herself for inflicting this on him. But he stood up, balancing himself carefully on both feet. He put his bad hand to his head, tremblingly, then fumbled with the neck of his pajama top and found that it stank of vomit. Simone thought it was pointless dumping such trouble on a person.
All seemed quiet next door when Simone went to ring the bell. It was Malika who opened the door. She was wearing a bathing suit under a great scarf that billowed around her like a cape when she ran to get her mother. Simone had gone there only two or three times in ten years. In the room off the hallway, dust particles hovered in the sun filtering through the net curtains. Simone noticed deep armchairs with cushions all askew and a jigsaw puzzle that someone had started on the carpet. Malika came back and leaned against the door frame in front of her, saying that her mother was coming. The bangs plastered across her broad forehead gave her an adult, slightly disapproving expression. Traces of sparkly polish edged the nails of her long brown feet and a thick gilt bangle clasped her arm above the elbow. She had a graceful figure, with shapely muscles and bones. She’s not a little girl any longer, Simone realized, thinking how she had often driven her to school without any bond developing. You never come around to see us anymore, she said with false enthusiasm, and got no reply.
There was a rattle of windowpanes as a door slammed, and Nora appeared at the end of the hallway, from where she asked what was going on. She leaned one elbow up against the wall, and under her long camisole, the slack outline of her free, naked breasts was obvious. Neither she nor Malika had seen Gaël since the previous day. Simone did not feel at liberty to say that she was really worried. Having Nora standing there, exposed and distant, seemed to her the most unfriendly thing she had had to put up with in a long while. She said, Okay, apologized, and closed the door behind her. Until she was back on the street, she had the crazy feeling she might be shot at from behind.
It was past ten o’clock. The few neighbors who were not away on vacation must have been out. The street stretched white and quiet under the dull veil of steam rising off the puddles. Simone took a few hurried steps, then slowed down, embarrassed by the echo she set off all around her on the street. Behind a metal gate, a man in a bathrobe was raking up leaves that the nighttime rain had shaken from the trees. Simone asked him about Gaël. She felt she was aping someone more concerned than she was. The man shot her a look, as though the question was an insult, then replied that he hadn’t seen anyone. Simone turned back, at a loss. Nora was waving to her from her doorstep: she had put on a linen blouse and loose pants that had a fake, tattered elegance. I don’t think he’ll come to much harm with all those cops around just now, she called out, looking Simone up and down as if she were a waif who needed help. Reticent as it was, her sympathy was nevertheless some comfort. Simone blamed herself for being vulnerable and distrustful. She indicated that she was going back indoors and said they would go and look for the child in the car.
Claude was dressed and had come downstairs to wait in the hallway. Simone saw him sliding across the floor toward her to avoid the jolts that might still arouse his nausea. He had not taken a shower and the skin on his face was floury with dry patches that made him look a mess. Everything repulses him and makes him feel sick, thought Simone, but she was grateful that he was taking things in hand. He suggested she stay home while he searched the local streets in the car, and he took down the keys from the board in the hall and went out, squeezing her hand. This awkward, trusting grasp, such as he had not given her since their early days, caused in her a wave of tenderness, nostalgia, and apprehension. With tears in her eyes, she watched him as he walked away, taking desperately careful steps. She had never seen him look so fragile, so much like the walking dead. She reproached herself for letting him go but felt she was not the right person to go looking for a child of eleven. In reality, she was not even able to assess correctly how worried she was.
Silence returned, plunging her into a kind of lethargy. She went from her study to the living room, then back to the kitchen, where she drifted into a trance, gazing out at the street. Nora was at the garage door when Claude backed out. She gave a little tap on the hood for him to put down his window. It seemed to Simone that the hard streak in her was shaken by the surprise of seeing close-up the tragedy of this pale waxwork. Claude cut the engine and clung to the edge of the window, as though afraid of being jolted. Nora did not seem to notice this unfortunate instinct. As she talked, her folded arms rose in time to an agitation that had no thought either for Claude or for the situation. Simone went out onto the doorstep with the vague intention of intervening. Hearing her open the door, Nora spun around, a handful of keys raised in front of an unfathomable smile. Claude had started the engine again and slowly drove out onto the street. Nora looked after the car, then turned again to ask if she could come in. Simone saw her put her arm over the garden gate to pull up the latch; she had the unpleasant feeling that Nora was used to letting herself in.
Nora kicked her sandals off in the hallway, placidly observing that Claude didn’t look at all good. Simone did not like seeing her walking barefoot through their house when their old grievances had never been cleared up. She offered a few factual explanations about Claude’s treatment but knew she could not possibly confide in her. Nora had never been beyond the hall. It’s funny seeing the house from here, she said, going out onto the patio. She walked under the shadow of the branches, stroking the lawn with her foot, and picked a plum but found it sour and seemed not to know where to spit it out. Simone watched her from the living room. Her nonchalance seemed insistent, affected. She wished she could have told Nora to go away; it hurt her to think of her finding the upturned basket and the torn-off branches, as if Gaël’s violence was an indictment.
Did you look to see if he’d taken any m
oney? Nora asked, coming back into the sitting room. Simone was so obsessed by her indefinable hostility that she did not immediately understand what she was talking about. Nora stared at her, impatient for an answer. Do you want me to go out in the car and look for him, too? The suggestion was serious but not insistent. Simone was convinced she was seeking to do just enough to retain the right to resent them, but for what? You know it’s all over with Claude, she said as calmly as she could, yet desperate to break through her icy indifference. Nora countered this with words of reassurance that were neither heartfelt nor warm, so Simone repeated a bit more firmly that Claude was dying. It was the first time the words had been uttered out loud and it unhinged her. All deaths are terrible, she added, suddenly thinking she guessed why they had been judged.
Nora had heard Malika calling from the fence and turned around. Her long, aquiline profile twitched with displeasure. She did not actually understand Simone’s attitude. The news about Claude’s condition seemed to unsettle her, but it caused her no emotion. She said that she hadn’t known and was sorry; then she added, after a long pause, that this was no excuse for having kicked her stepson out of the club.
The Child Page 8