by Liz Jensen
Trying to recover from my faux pas, I find myself gabbling, and unable to stop: my mouth is running ahead of me. And so I explain that a retirement community such as Layrac is also abundant with chiropodists, medical centres, hunting-and-fishing outlets, and toyshops for indulgent grandparents. A little lacking in nightlife perhaps, but a friendly town, with an excellent swimming pool ... I blabber on in the same vein a little more, before petering out almost in mid-sentence.
—I’m sure I’ll settle in, she says, but the catch in her voice betrays her. I’m blind sometimes. I just don’t see things. What I’ve missed until now is that all the time I have been gabbling she has been fighting back tears, and now she can hold back no longer. She has sunk into a chair next to Louis and flung her arms across him, kissing his face, pawing at his hands, sobbing openly in front of him. It’s a pitiful sight. Despite my edict that there should be no crying on my ward – because misery, you must understand, can leak from one soul to another – I can’t bring myself to tell her to leave. And nor can I put my arms around her, as I long to, while we are on the ward. So instead, desperate to get her away, I take hold of her elbow and ease her to her feet. Silently, we walk down the ward together, then out through the French windows and into the intense heat of the summer garden, where in the shelter of a laurel bush, I take out a tissue and gently dry her tears.
—I dream about it every night, she whispers. —The same dream, over and over again. Just like a film. It’s always in silhouette, I can’t see their faces. It’s like I’ve blanked them out. Two people wrestling with each other. One huge, one tiny, in the distance. And they get too close to the edge. I’m screaming at them. But they can’t hear me, I’m too far away. I’m just powerless. Completely powerless. And then he’s falling. And that’s when I wake up.
Her eyes have glazed over; suddenly, as though becoming aware of herself again, she shakes her head and blinks.
—Forgive me, I ask eventually. —But when it happened – what did your husband do? Afterwards?
—Pierre? She stops and bites her lip, then turns her back on me. Lowering her head, she says in a blank voice: —He went and had a look at what he’d done. But Louis was in the water by then. There was nothing to see.
Although we are outside, and out of earshot of the ward, we are both whispering. She is so small, so frail-looking in that moment against the dark leaves of the laurel bush. Her hair is like gold spun through with copper and honey. I can feel the heat of the sun full on my back.
—He ran away. He just left me there. Screaming for help.
Her voice is flattened out, expressionless as ever. She turns her head slightly; I can see the blood rise in her cheek. Through the glass doors, we have a view of the beds, including Louis’. We can see the boy, too: a small hump beneath the bedclothes. As if prompted by its pathos, she suddenly spins round to face me, her eyes glittering with tears.
—You see what a coward I was married to? she blurts. —Who would do that to his own son, and then just run away?
I’m about to say something conciliatory, something about how not all men are like that, how her husband must have–
But the words don’t come. Instead, I take her perfect oval face in my hands and kiss her. She does not resist; indeed, she succumbs in such a sweet, almost grateful way that I wonder whether the resistance I sensed in her before – a certain coolness, a diffidence, an untouchability – was a figment of my imagination, an idea my conscience cooked up to ward me off. She smells of the same perfume I smelt on her before. It’s insistent, sexual. Or is it the sun on my back? How did I come to do this? How did I dare? It’s a delirious kiss which I fall into like a sleepwalker. I’m drowning in it.
—I’ve never done this before, I say pulling back from her gently, still amazed at myself, and wondering if I have shocked her, done the wrong thing.
—Kissed the mother of a patient? she says softly. The tears are still wet on her cheeks; I brush them away softly.
—No.
—I suppose I should consider myself flattered.
—I can’t help finding you very attractive.
—Can’t help?
—I’ve been fighting it, I confess. —Should I – carry on?
—What? Finding me attractive, or fighting it?
—Fighting it.
—Yes. Certainly for a little while. I’m not really ready for anything. I’m sure you understand.
But she doesn’t resist as I lean to kiss her again. Deeper this time, and once again I am in another world, where I am drowning. Drowning–
Until something halts me. I cannot explain what it is, this bad feeling, this strangely amorphous dread that creeps up on me and tells me that something’s wrong. Is it Philippe Meunier’s warning, or my own vague guilt about Sophie, or is it something else? A distant noise? An instinct? Something, anyway, that forces my eyes open in the middle of the kiss and makes me look through the French windows and into my ward, where what I see – a swift, decisive movement in the far bed – stops me in my tracks and makes me gasp aloud. I pull away from Natalie, my heart tugging painfully.
—What is it? she asks, alarmed. I open my mouth but can’t speak. My eyes are fixed on the ward.
Where Louis Drax is sitting up.
You see what a coward I was married to? Who would do that to his own son, and then just run away?
It’s like electricity going through me and I sit up.
They were kissing.
They shouldn’t do that, should they? Bad things will happen, and it’ll end in tears. The sun’s too bright. If you look into the sun, you go blind.
—Where’s my Papa?
When I was young, say five or six, I had all sorts of stupid babyish soft toys. Don’t laugh, I was just a little kid then, all little kids have babyish animals, especially if they’re in hospital a lot and they don’t like Action Man because he’s a gay loser. When I got older, say seven or eight, I used them for the Death Game. I’d line them all up – Monsieur Pingouin and Rabbit-Face and Pif and Paf that were kangaroos and Cochonette who’s actually a moose and a black and white cat called Minette – and they’d take it in turns to die. Sometimes they’d die like heroes in a fight against the Forces of Evil and other times stuff would happen to them, unlucky accidents like drowning or being strangled or maybe they’d look up the names of dangerous drugs and poisons and stuff to die from. You can do that if you have the right books. Fungus books, the encyclopédie médicale. Insulin. Chloroform. Arsenic. Sarin gas. Lupin seeds. One swallow and you’re dead.
Sometimes Pif and Paf decided to die together. The best time was when Pif put Paf in her pouch and they got into my model aeroplane and flew out of the window and crashed on to the courtyard. Cool. They enjoyed it too, because it was a proper kamikaze stunt.
When a toy animal died we did Funeral Arrangements. All the other animals put the dead animal in a coffin that’s a shoebox and made speeches. Sometimes they’d talk about how devastated they were. I am devastated, I am just so devastated. But other times they’d laugh. When Cochonette murdered Monsieur Pingouin by putting him in a pretend microwave, he said: I’d do it all over again if I could, because Monsieur Pingouin was evil and I hated him. He deserved to die, he should have his dick cut off.
—Why’s it just Pif and Paf? Where’s Paf’s Papa? I ask Maman when me and the animals have finished all the funeral popcorn.
—Paf hasn’t got a Papa, says Maman who’s reading a beautiful-lady magazine again.
—Why not? Everyone’s got a Papa.
—No they haven’t actually, says Maman. And she puts down her beautiful-lady magazine and looks at Papa. He’s reading the newspaper, the sports page.
—Why not?
—Because some fathers don’t deserve to have children, says Maman. —And others are just pretending to be dads. If they were real men they’d take care of their families, they wouldn’t go chasing stupid dreams in the past that were never meant to happen.
Papa is folding
up his sports page and walking out and then we hear the door slam and the car starts.
—Where’s he going?
—To the airport, says Maman. —And then up into the sky.
And Papa leaves us again. He doesn’t come back for a long time, because he’s with his evil mother in Paris who’s called Lucille or Mamie. She is a bad influence, she treats him like a baby and she spoils him, and he probably believes all the rubbish and slander she tells him about Maman because she hates Maman because she thinks Maman isn’t good enough for her precious boy, that’s what she tells Papa, she brainwashes him, and brainwashing your son is the evilest thing a mother can do, no decent mother would dream of doing that, manipulating her own child’s feelings.
After Papa goes we put the TV in the kitchen and I’m allowed to watch it when I’m eating my dinner. Maman doesn’t eat dinner because she’s always on a diet to stay thin. Astérix is on because it’s cartoon time and Maman’s reading a magazine with a picture of a lady and a man getting married, and it says, THIRD TIME LUCKY FOR DOMINIC.
—Who’s Dominic?
—A famous actor.
—Why is it third time lucky for him?
—Because it’s his third marriage, and when someone tries to do something and it doesn’t work out the first two times, people say third time lucky, to wish them luck.
—How many times have you been married?
She laughs. —Just once.
—And Papa?
She puts down the Third Time Lucky magazine on the table and looks at me.
—Has Lucille been talking to you?
—No. Maybe.
Our secret, Papa said. There’s a long wait before she says anything and when she does she says it fast to get it over with.
—He was married once for a very short time to someone he never really loved. He just thought he did. It was a mistake. And then he met me, and I was the one he loved. Far more than he ever loved her.
—But who was she?
—Nobody. There’s nothing to say about her. He left her. It was a long time ago. They got divorced. OK?
—So why does he feel bad about it?
She looks at me for a long time, like I’m Wacko Boy.
—Did I say he felt bad about it?
—No.
—So why do you say it?
—I don’t know.
I’m still feeling like Wacko Boy. You can’t see what’s going on in her eyes. They always look the same, like there’s nothing inside them. That’s how she hides from you.
—Well if he still feels so bad, he should go back to her, shouldn’t he? He can’t cope with us, and he can’t cope with his guilt. You have a father who can’t cope.
And she starts flicking through her magazine again and we don’t say anything for a while and I’m thinking, he can’t go back to her anyway, because she’s married to another man now and they have Chinese girls who are adopted and a fat baby they made all by themselves. But I don’t dare say that to Maman because boys shouldn’t make their mothers cry and then Astérix finishes and Tom and Jerry comes on. It’s the one where Tom tries to catch Jerry but Jerry gets away. Ha ha.
—Did you love anyone else before Papa?
Then she stops smiling, so maybe it’s not OK, and she gives me a look.
—I thought I did. But I was wrong.
—Why?
—Because he let me down very badly.
Tom’s uncle has written him a letter saying he would like to come and stay for a few days. But there’s one thing he must warn Tom about: he’s scared of mice. So he hopes there aren’t any mice where Tom lives.
—How did he let you down very badly?
She sighs. —Have you heard of honour, Lou-Lou? Honour’s doing the right thing. But he did the wrong thing. A terrible thing.
Tom has to try and get rid of Jerry before his uncle comes. But as soon as Jerry realises Tom’s uncle is scared of mice, he does everything he can to be scary. And on and on in the usual way, Tom getting burnt with the iron and going through the wall and leaving a cat-shape in the plaster. I want to ask her what the terrible thing is that isn’t honour but I can’t because she’s looking at me like I might make her cry again, and boys shouldn’t make their mums cry, it lets them down very badly. And then Jerry laughs and laughs and laughs, because he has won again. And then the circle comes and inside it says in English, That’s all Folks!
The Death Game’s a good game for an only child to play. Only children need to be self-sufficient if they haven’t got any friends and their maman’s very busy in the apartment reading magazines about how to make it even more beautiful, and what clothes to wear in it, and crying because Papa’s abandoned us again. Some families are too different and too special to be like other people. It doesn’t mean they’re worse than them though. Actually – this is a big secret, it’s not the kind of thing you should go round saying to anyone at school and especially not your teacher – it might mean they are just a little bit better.
So shhh.
Fat Perez says it’s normal to have mixed feelings about your parents and it’s OK to hate your papa for not being there any more. Hating people is part of loving them. Everything a child feels, it’s OK to feel. All feelings are allowed because the world’s a safe place for children. But deep down you know how much your maman and papa both love you. That’s why they decide to spend a weekend together being a family again, and take you on a picnic, isn’t it?
A picnic with a surprise.
It was a shame what happened there because maybe I’d nearly finished my miniature spiral staircase from balsa wood, and maybe my teacher Monsieur Zidane was going to reward me for how good it was by taking me out to play a bit of football in playtime. He still kicks a ball about for fun sometimes, he says. It’s not just the money he’s into, see.
That was going to happen but it never did because we got stuck.
It was a cool place on the mountain. With bushes and a drop to a great big sort of ravine that you mustn’t go near. We all sang happy birthday and Maman and me cut the cake and Papa took a photo and we both made a secret wish. I know what her wish was. Her wish was probably that I would be her little boy for ever. My wish was that Papa was my real dad, because if he was, I’d get to keep him.
And then things happened very fast. Something about my secret sweets. Papa saw me eating one and I tried to hide it but I couldn’t and he kept shouting questions at me and then they had a row, not a normal row, a much worse one, and it’s all my fault because of the secret sweets and they’re talking blibber-blobber language and then they’re shouting and Maman’s doing Emotional Work. She’s screaming like mad, and screaming and screaming, Let him go! Don’t you dare touch my son! And then I’ve got free and I’m running and running but then–
But then.
Seeing and thinking’s the same if your eyes are shut. A room full of bright lights and doctors yelling, and people gliding about like they’re on wheels and sometimes you see the sun or the moon or a clock, and sometimes photos of Maman and Papa being happy and pipistrelle bats and sometimes you remember bits of the seven times table, e.g. seven sevens are forty-nine, and Fat Perez’s binoculars, and the sound of them sexing in the night uh-uh-uh and Youqui in the photo who got run over by a tractor and chewing-gum and the frères Lumières and seven eights are fifty-six and Jacques Cousteau and the Power Puff Girls and the stars and seven nines are sixty-three and then you think of a building that’s white and looks like Lego and there’s forests all around and you’re high up like in a balloon floating above and seven tens are seventy, floating above the land and looking down on this white gravelly road and along it comes an ambulance that makes the dust fly up all around, white dust. And when it stops there’s a stretcher and a boy on it who looks dead, and his maman who’s trying not to cry, and then there are some voices that sound like they’re underwater, and then you see white clouds that are curtains blowing in the wind, and more voices–
—We do our best to ma
nufacture it here.
—Ten millilitres should do it–
—L’Hôpital des Incurables.
—The boys send their love–
—One big, one small ... I’m screaming at them. Screaming. But they can’t hear me or they’re not listening ... Completely powerless. And then he’s falling ... he just left me there. Screaming for help ...
—You see what a coward I was married to?
And then you sit up. He isn’t a coward, you want to scream, but you can’t. And you open your eyes and you know that there she was, just then, kissing a man. A man who isn’t Papa. They’re far away and it’s like they’re on TV and the sun’s too bright. He’s holding her. She’s holding him. Then he pushes her away.
—Maman! you yell, but no noise comes out because you’re stuck. Stuck watching them until you go blind. And suddenly there’s a thousand voices exploding right in your ear and someone’s hand’s holding the back of your head and you open your eyes but you’re still blind and Maman’s screaming. —It wasn’t his fault! He didn’t mean to do it! It was an accident!
Screaming too loud, right in my ear.
—Louis, can you hear me? I’m Dr Dannachet. You’re in hospital.
Hospitals suck. You kissed my maman.
—You had an accident. You’ve been in a coma. Like sleeping, but deeper.
Go away. Stop kissing her.
—But you pulled through. And here you are.
No I’m not. I’m somewhere else. Get away from me, you creep sucker arsehole. Where’s my papa? I want my papa.
His hand feels like a million volts of electricity. He’s electric-shocking me, and I want to yell Get the hell off me, you pervert, just leave me alone but there’s no sound. My head’s gone like a heavy ball, gravity’s made it too heavy for my neck, it might roll off and break my neck and then I’ll be in even more trouble. Do you think my maman enjoys having a kid like me?