We All Ran into the Sunlight

by Natalie Young

  Lollo felt she was up herself and by this he meant aloof. He said his wife had taught herself the pragmatism that comes with a certain inner desolation. She was cool on the inside. Which kept her calm. But Baseema was an intelligent woman who’d found it was easier, as she got older, to find the end of a thought, and leave it there. She had begun to feel that there were sinkholes in her memory. She saw what it was like in the blind man’s paintings – the man who came to eat from time to time in the restaurant at the hotel, who painted people without faces. He did little sculptures too and she kept a few of them beside the till. Even the sculptures didn’t have faces, they had been smudged out – a thumb pressed into the clay – making a splodge of what used to be a nose, the pinprick of an eye. Baseema loved these smudged-out empty faces, for all that they kept private and unexplained. Memory was a fickle thing. Who could tell for certain what had happened and what was real when so much depended on perception and the storing of data in the fly-by-night filing system of the mind?

  In many ways it was remarkable what she had done; how she had managed to draw a line between the life she had led there in the village and the years she had been here, high up in the mountains, working in a place that clung to the edge of a flinty outcrop – only snow in the winter, and trees. It suited her. It went with the detachment. She was good (she had always been good) at rolling up her sleeves, pressing on, not stopping to wonder much, to analyse or peer. Feeling led, more often than not, to nothing but pain, which was a hindrance and to be avoided as much as possible at all times.

  Which was why, when she received emails like these at her desk from Sylvie, she didn’t trouble herself with images of her daughter sitting, shoulders hunched, her freckly face pockmarked and glistening in the light of the screen. Sylvie had gone back to the village because she wanted to. For a long time now she had been there living her life with a face that was quite unspeakable. What else could she do? From his sofa, Lollo had looked at the photograph of his children when Frederic was seven and Sylvie almost six and cried. But what could they really know about how Sylvie was managing these days? Humans had their own ways of coping and Baseema felt it was wrong to pry into someone else’s way of doing things and patronise their attempts to get on. It would be the worst possible indiscretion to impose her own feelings on the beret that Sylvie wore to hide the scars on the right side of her face and the drooping eye – the only structural reminder of the steel girder she had worn to hold the pieces of her face together in that hospital in Toulouse.

  Instead Baseema thought, without sentimentality, of the length and thickness of Sylvie’s hair. She thought of the window boxes of bright geranium, and the house on the square. She was well liked in the village, and the dog – whose name was Coco – brought her companionship and warmth without the stress of a human relationship that Baseema supposed her daughter was too vulnerable to bear.

  3rd March 2006

  From: sylviepépin@aol.fr

  To: Baseemapépin@aol.fr

  Subject: For Sale?

  There’s so much excitement in the village now, Ma, since the news came from Paris that Madame Borja died and the chateau is going up for sale. Suddenly everyone has something to talk about. People make sick jokes. Underneath it, everyone is intrigued. We all want to know what will become of the place and, indeed, what became in the end of her! We know she went to Paris after the fire. We don’t know anything else. Did she ever see Daniel for instance? Did he go to her in Paris to make peace with her before she died? Do you or Papa ever speak about it? Do you ever think about it all?

  I know you are well shot of the place, Ma, but well you will remember how gossip thrives and multiplies here. There is talk of Americans coming to buy the chateau and turn it into a hotel! Also, there is talk of the Glovers, who are staying here for the winter, expressing an interest. The Glovers are staying in no 17. They are an exceptional couple and though it’s all speculation, I would love it if they did decide to buy. They are glamorous, and full of energy. She is very pretty with nice skin and bright white teeth. She tends to walk around a lot with her arms out to her sides. I have become quite friendly with Kate. And we have talked about the prospects that would be available to some of the locals if she and her husband were the ones who decided to buy, She laughs it off, but you should see how much time she spends at the place. There would be renovation work for some of us. A lot of work, in fact. But there would be questions to answer too, I expect.

  Baseema smiled to the young man in the burgundy scarf making his enquiries at the desk. Her hand moved the mouse onto print while she kept her eyes on her guest. Inside the mechanism something clicked, the light flashed blue.

  It was white out; snow had been falling on these mountains for three days. Tiny flakes of snow dancing, as if someone grand had opened a compact of loose silvery powder and shaken it over the hotel. It was a good thing to have it, though, because the season hadn’t been a good one and the slopes were much in need of a little fluffing here and there.

  Baseema’s gaudy bracelets chattered about her wrist as she slid the local magazine across the desk.

  ‘There’s a lovely concert in town, Monsieur. For Easter. This will tell you everything. It’s candlelit. They begin at five. They sing to start with in the dark. Then all the candles come on. It is quite enchanting.’

  ‘But is there somewhere in town I can buy a newspaper?’

  ‘We’ve got an art exhibition too, Monsieur. A local artist, he paints these mountains, both in summer and winter. Lovely abstract paintings. I could draw you a map.’

  ‘That’s ok,’ he said. ‘Maybe later. But I’m a journalist and it would be good to have the papers delivered while I’m here. I’m covering the riots in Paris. I guess there’s an internet connection in the room but still it would be great, you know, to have the actual papers.’

  Baseema folded her hands in front of her stomach. She smiled.

  ‘Many of our guests ask not to be given a newspaper, Monsieur. Not be shown anything that resembles anything close to a newspaper. We provide refuge, you see, from the noise of the world. It’s a peaceful place. Space and comfort. Far from the chatter and madness.’ She smiled. Her voice was soft and clear. ‘People come with their loved ones. To get close, you see? To walk and ski, to eat well. We have a pool. It lights up in the evening.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, and he flicked his hair away from his face. He was a lovely-looking young man, and patient with his success, which was rare in such types, she felt. No, he wasn’t finding this a problem. He held out his hand. It was springtime in the Pyrenees. He was here for a long weekend with his sweet beloved girl. Perhaps they would wander down to the concert together. Hold hands at the back, in the shadows. After that they could go to a wine bar, have some sweet, hot wine.

  ‘I must tell you about the patisserie, Monsieur. They sell the bread for which we are famous here. And “Le Petit Blanc”, the chocolatier.’

  The journalist was smiling as he backed away, shaking his head. He knew he had the upper hand. He was the guest, she the server. He didn’t bother to look her in the eye before he turned and picked up his case. He didn’t need anything from her. He had his views on Paris, and his face in the national newspapers. It was a question of power, of identity. France was struggling with hers. Clearly, this confident, well-mannered boy was sure of his.

  There’s a real estate person coming here from Béziers tomorrow to take a look at the chateau. It’s hard to estimate how much it would cost. Just all the renovation it would need. I guess it would have to be like a millionaire or something. But in the shop all they say is American this and American that. It’s Americans, they say, like everyone knows what had been decided already when the agent hasn’t even been to value the place. But what if someone did come and turn the old place into a hotel? Can you imagine?

  I’ll keep you posted

  Big kisses

  XXX Sylvie

  P.S. In the café, I had such a strange conversation with old Monsie
ur Surte. He said he felt, deep down in his gut, very sure of one thing. Lucie Borja never left this village, he said. Not after the death of Frederic and the fire and never after. He looked at me with his crazy eyes and looked very still for a moment. Then he smiled at me and I saw his black teeth. He said: ‘As God is my witness, that woman is still there rotting away in the dark.’ Rotting, he said, in the dark! Poor Madame Borja. Straightaway I said a quick mental prayer for her, for all the things people have said about her and for the fact she never fit in and should never have come here in the first place. Somehow now she’s dead I feel guilty that everyone hated her so much. It was Daniel that caused the trouble here, Ma, and broke all our hearts. It was Daniel who was setting fires and running away and dancing along the chateau wall with all the alcohol in his veins. Remember that long coat he used to wear? Remember his eyes, Ma, his deep blue eyes?

  Monsieur Surte said he reckoned Daniel had gone off to join the foreign legion or something or that he might have even ended up dead, shooting his brains out in some shitty hostel in Morocco or somewhere. I didn’t even know that Mr Surte knew expressions like that. It was weird though, you know. He said all this and his eyes were blazing red as the sun, like a man on fire. He spoke with anger, such fury. It was blinding to see and I couldn’t help wondering, why on earth? What, really, did the Borjas ever do but not quite fit in? It makes me think how stupid it is to stay in a village your whole life and never go anywhere else. How the brain shrinks and shrivels like a pip before you get laid out in the ground. That’s what I was beginning to think anyway before the Glovers came. I think I will talk to Kate about this. I will invite her for coffee. I like her so much.

  Please give my love to Papa. I hope he likes the scarf. I hope he is ok. People in Canas still talk of you both sometimes.

  x

  4th March 2006

  From: Baseemapépin@aol.fr

  To: sylviepépin@aol.fr

  Subject: For Sale?

  Dear Sylvie

  It’s good to hear from you. And thank you for the scarf, which arrived by post on Tuesday. I’m glad it got here. I was waiting for it out in the drive and the buttons are delightful. Where on earth did you find them? I hope that all is well and that you managed to sort out the skin trouble of Coco’s. Did the vet prescribe the cream I suggested?

  We are fine here. The hotel is full, of course, and I am exceptionally busy. Thank you. Heavy snow is predicted for next week and I expect we will have many guests who will find themselves unable to ski.

  Your dad says Hi… He isn’t up to much but the scarf will make him smile.

  I was wondering (it does all feel so long ago) who did you hear this news from about Madame Borja? Where did she die?

  Thanks and kisses

  Maman

  At the desk, Baseema sat for a moment, waiting on a response, waiting for the email to arrive in her inbox, its presence made known to her by a message box that flashed into view in the bottom right corner of the screen with the first few words of the email. It was a message that popped out of nowhere, stayed for a moment, and was gone. Like a hint of someone’s true nature that appeared on the surface of things, and then disappeared, sunk back into the system. She polished the desk with her fingertips and waited for a few minutes but the email didn’t come. She pulled the collar of her roll-neck sweater up and held it there for comfort beneath her chin. Still the email didn’t come. So she pushed the keyboard back beneath the monitor and roused herself to get on.

  In the lobby at midnight, she buttoned her cape and used the lights left on in the entrance to find her way on a path through the snow to the small log cabin built in to the side of an escarpment behind the guest rooms. The sky was clear now – clear and cold. On the wooden steps outside the cabin, she kicked the snow off her boots.

  Downstairs, in the living room, which sloped off the kitchen down a couple of wooden steps, Lollo watched television through an ancient set, and drank beer from a series of cans she got cheap for him from the wholesaler. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, a cloud of blue cigarette smoke floating above his head.

  From behind the sofa, she could see the wiry curls and that little foot in its old bald sheepskin slipper pumping the stale air. They didn’t look at each other when they spoke. They hardly spoke. It was too hard.

  ‘Baseema?’

  ‘I had some news from Sylvie. Lucie Borja died. The chateau is going up for sale.’

  The leg stopped.

  Baseema’s eyes roamed anxiously around the dark room with the toilet in one corner, a gingham curtain across the single dusty window through which one could see far across the valley. But Lollo didn’t open the curtains during the day, except once last year, when in a fit of activity he had taken them down and washed them on a hot cycle so that the red squares leaked into the white and now the curtains were pinkish, like in a child’s bedroom. The room was small and cramped. The air was stale with the smell of old smoke.

  Lollo flattened his cigarette into the ashtray on his stomach and stood up. His face was grey and small like a rodent’s face and his chin had collapsed leaving only a sad little swallow of fat on his neck. He had one very mottled tooth at the front and when he spoke he tilted his chin up in some small effort of defiance at the world.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m thinking, Lollo… It’s been twenty years. More than that.’

  ‘Daniel will get everything. You do know that. He’s a good-for-nothing. And what about us, huh?’

  ‘You don’t know anything,’ she said, quietly. ‘It’s all rumours at this stage.’

  ‘It’s time he learnt the truth.’

  ‘What good would it do?’

  ‘It would humble him, Baseema. Bring him to account for himself.’

  ‘But what’s to be gained from that?’

  ‘It might give us a slice! Something at last for our pains.’

  ‘Our pains?’

  ‘Only you can confront Daniel, Baseema. Only you can tell him the truth.’

  ‘But who knows where he is? It’s been twenty years. He could be abroad. He could be in the army. Anywhere!’

  ‘Don’t you think you owe your family, our family, at least the effort of trying to find him?’

  ‘Ah, for what, Lollo? To rake it all over again? Sylvie’s doing ok. She has the house, her friends in the village. And me, too. We’ve done well coming to these mountains.’

  ‘And Frederic?’

  Baseema said nothing.

  ‘And me, Baseema?’

  ‘People have offered you work.’

  ‘Shit work, though. Painting. Toilet cleaning.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Isn’t it just work?’

  ‘Ah yes.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘It’s just work. Not to mention I had my own café, my house, my friends in the square!’

  She turned to go. Lollo slid back into his seat. He lit up a cigarette and threw his voice over the back of the sofa towards her.

  ‘We had a life there, Baseema. Now we have nothing. We live in exile.’

  ‘We do not,’ she hissed and still she held herself tall and graceful – still her shoulders were broad and straight and strong. Calmly, she looked at the large square nails on one of her hands.

  ‘It’s his fucking arrogance, Baseema. His lifelong fucking arrogance. And your denial.’

  ‘You can’t speak to me like this.’

  ‘Daniel stands to get everything unless the truth comes out. It’s about time that he and you faced up to the truth. To everything.’

  She turned on the stairs. Her voice was weary.

  ‘We’re not in exile, Lollo. Here we have control. We don’t owe anyone.’

  ‘Pah!’ he said. ‘That’s bullshit and you know it!’

  There was nothing she could say. In all these years she had never got further than this in conversation with her husband about her family. She had failed, repeatedly, to cross this line. Now she was tired. />
  In the cabin kitchen, she hung her coat and hat on a peg. She slid her feet into the warmth of her sheepskin slippers and lit the stove with a match. She cut a slice from a lemon and waited for the water to boil in a pan. Up a flight of stairs, she shut the bedroom door quietly. Then she washed herself at the sink, using a hot scented flannel to remove the day from her face and neck. In the tartan pyjamas which she wore buttoned up to the neck she sat on the bed and drew up her spine and tried to breathe.

  On the wall above the bed was a painting of three children playing on a barrier of sand. Around them, the sea was still and grey in the low light of afternoon. But the children weren’t seeing how the day was ending, so intent were they on the sand and the channels of water they were making, the miraculous disappearance of water so soon after they filled the channels up. All three of the children had tousled locks of bright blond hair. It was hard to tell if they were boys or girls. And one of them was crouching, a blue bucket dangling from a hand. The other two were standing, clutching spades, their legs bent, eyes downcast, preparing to dig the sand.

  2

  She had married Lollo quickly, she was sixteen – quickly and simply – it had to be quick – and though she doesn’t remember much, she does remember how cold it was in the church, and the giant vat of chicken cooking on a fire in the square, and the relief, she was almost doubled over with it, of being outside the chateau gates at last. Daniel was two. Lucie had dressed him in matching knickerbockers and let his curls loose down his back. She used to sit and watch Baseema feeding him. She would stand over at first, pushing the breast into his mouth, pinching it to make sure he got enough. Then she took him away. The cot was in her room. Baseema lived upstairs. She got paid for it, though. That was the thing. She got paid more money than she needed. One day she would have her own restaurant. She would make the nicest food in the world. She told Lucie about it while they were nursing and Lucie sat there sewing things, driving her needles in and out. They sat together in two wicker chairs and they talked. They got on well. Baseema was excellent – the best in the world – at trying to please.