Had Jess Rooland ever imagined that one day he’d watch the film of his life projected onto such a lousy screen?
TWELVE
Apparently Arthur heard about it from the neighbours when he was setting off for work. He turned right around, went back to tell Mum and the clock hadn’t struck eight before she arrived at the Roolands’, done up to the nines, if you please. She’d even put on lipstick, which went some way towards hiding her harelip. I was still asleep—I hadn’t got to bed till five. My head had hardly hit the pillow, with the covers pulled up over it, before I sank into a deep sleep.
“Louiiiiise!”
There was only one person in the world who called my name like that—like a peacock’s squawk. I sat up in bed. I was groggy with tiredness, and my first thought was “Thelma’s dead”, but I didn’t feel any regret. I was already thinking about her in the past tense. I pushed the shutters open. The night’s storm had cleared the sky. The sun wasn’t shining, though—it was too early for that. Round our way the sun has a lie-in every day, even the good days. Mum was down below, outside the door.
“I’m coming!”
The top-down perspective didn’t do her any favours. She looked like some kind of disfigured dwarf, her upturned face ugly and coarse. Behind her, in the red sand of the driveway, you could still see the marks left by the green Dodge. The car was dead too. That beautiful, seductive car!
Everything would die, then. But Mum seemed very much alive. There was something grasping and greedy in her manner too. I’d never noticed that before—I mean, to me she was just Mum, right? She was how she was—the finished article. No point in judging her.
I went down to let her in, glancing nervously through the open door of the living room on the way, half expecting to see the memory of Thelma still lingering inside, but the room looked brand new. It had already forgotten the American woman. It was just a normal bourgeois living room again.
“Hello, Mum.”
She came inside quickly, her eyes darting about to take everything in. She seemed strangely tense.
“I heard the news. Horrible. So, she’s dead, your boss?”
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?”
And, actually, I didn’t know. No one had explained to me how the accident had come about. Of course I’d seen the train, and the mangled car on the embankment, but the details were a mystery to me. That left Mum, who’d been questioning me two seconds earlier, to fill me in. She’d bumped into some people on the way who were in the know. So, she’d only been quizzing me to get one up on her informants.
“Seems like the level-crossing barrier was left up. La Magnin swears it wasn’t, but the facts are there for all to see.”
La Magnin—the fat, jaundiced barrier operator. She was from the same area as Mum, on the other side of the Seine. A long time ago she’d shacked up with an old retired pimp and opened up a chip shop on one of the islands round there. Some unkind sorts even said she’d do special favours for generous customers. Her man drowned while poaching pike from the river one winter night, and since the business was in his name she was left without a penny. So she seduced a railway employee, started piling on the weight, and ended up as the barrier operator at Léopoldville.
“It was terrible.”
“I knew it,” said Mum, walking over to the living-room door to look inside.
“Knew what?”
“That it would end badly. Something told me you should never have come to this house. Now you’re out of a job.”
I couldn’t stand her being so smug and shallow at such a time.
“I won’t have you talking like that, Mum! You should be ashamed.”
“What?”
“Yes, you should! And anyway, I’m not out of a job. Monsieur Rooland isn’t dead.”
“You don’t think I’m going to leave you here alone with a single man?”
“Why not?”
“How do you mean, ‘why not’? A single man’s a single man.”
You couldn’t argue with logic like that. I shrugged.
“What sort of bloke do you think he is? He’s a gentleman. D’you think he’s going to throw himself straight on top of the maid now his wife’s dead?”
“It’s a matter of principle.”
At that moment, nosing around the kitchen, she didn’t seem particularly principled.
“What’s that thing there?”
“A blender.”
“What’s it for?”
“You can use it to make fruit juice, mayonnaise… all sorts.”
“What will they think of next! Where are they burying her—here or in America?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think Monsieur Rooland might go back to his own country now that his wife’s dead?”
The idea hadn’t even occurred to me, and now it felt like a slap in the face.
“Do you think so?” I blurted, taken aback.
“Well, after the ordeal he’s had I should think France might start to get him down… Listen, Louise, if your boss had any old dresses, knick-knacks, well anything at all, really, that you need to get rid of, keep me in mind, will you?”
I didn’t answer, but she insisted.
“Will you, Louise?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“You’re acting all funny, you know.”
“Hardly surprising in the circumstances, is it?”
But she carried on.
“You’ll never guess what I thought at the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?”
“Of this—you working for them.”
“What did you think?”
“That there was something going on between you and him, the husband. The way you looked at him, you were all gooey eyed. And then the way he came to hire you himself, all alone… If you ask me…”
She took hold of my arm.
“So I don’t want you going back to work for him if he doesn’t buzz off to America. You can wait for him to get back from the hospital and give him a hand with arranging the funeral, but after that you have to come home, Louise.”
“We’ll see,” I mumbled.
“You have to, Louise. There’s no two ways about it.”
Casually, insolently even, she’d opened the pantry and was admiring the pyramids of tins from the NATO headquarters shop.
“American stuff?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
“Do you think I could take one or two? Just so that Arthur can have a taste.”
“I don’t think so, Mum.”
“What, do they do a stocktake or something?”
“No. That’s why I don’t want you to take any.”
That got to her.
“Oh! Louise, you poor thing.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It seems to me you’ve changed, sweetheart. You’re not yourself any more.”
It seems to me she was right about that.
Eventually she left, but not without reminding me to pack my bags.
The things Mum had said kept nagging away at me. That stuff about me being sweet on Jess worried me. Was it really so obvious that I cared so much for him? Before I’d even admitted its reality to myself, that strange feeling had already escaped from my control and become a weakness, something for other people to prey on.
On top of that, the idea that Monsieur Rooland might leave the country terrified me. Mum was right: it would be a natural next step, given everything that had happened.
I needed to chase away the blues somehow, so I set to tidying the house. For a while longer at least, it belonged to me. I was the new queen of the island.
He came back from the hospital while I was beating the rugs—hardly the ideal moment for him to make his arrival. I was on my hands and knees in the garden with my sleeves rolled up, hitting a doormat, when an ambulance pulled up outside the gate. The man who got out looked like he could’ve been Jess Rooland’s brother, but the
resemblance went no further than that. He’d lost weight, which made his face seem longer, and in the daylight you could see that he had bruises all over. It’s how I imagine a boxer must look, the day after a fight.
One of his shoulders was all bandaged up, with his jacket draped over the top. His injured leg was stiff as a board inside its iron-wire cast. Jess wouldn’t take the arm of the male nurse who was escorting him. He hopped up to the porch on his own, and only then did he steady himself against me with his good arm, while he went up the steps. He nodded a greeting to me. He seemed preoccupied, somehow—a bit rushed, like a man who’s just been told he’s wanted on the telephone. Once he was in the hall, he let go of me and made his way into the living room, supporting himself against the wall.
The nurse left us, ungraciously. Maybe he was expecting a tip, but Jess didn’t think to give him one. He sat down on the sofa where he used to flirt with Madame Rooland.
“I’m very happy to see you back here, Monsieur Rooland…”
Silence. He looked sadly around the room. I wasn’t going to let him start staring at the ceiling here too!
“How are you feeling?”
“Eh? What do you say?”
Jess spoke French well, but certain expressions confused him from time to time.
“Are you in pain?”
“Oh! It’s nothing.”
And then, to my astonishment, he added:
“I had worse when I used to play baseball.”
“I wanted to ask you something, Monsieur.”
How intelligent his eyes were!
“Are you planning on going back to America?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, since Madame…”
“No, Louise. I’ll stay.”
And just like that it was as if there was music playing inside my head.
He smiled, a smile as weak as he looked.
“My mother was here, Monsieur. She just left.”
“Oh?”
“She wanted to give her condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“And she also wants me to go back to live with her.”
I needed to get straight to the heart of the problem. I couldn’t have those threats hanging over my head. Better to make a clean breast of it, do whatever was necessary and then I could stop worrying about it.
“Why does she want you to leave here?”
“She says it isn’t right for a girl to live with a single man.”
“Why not?”
He was certainly frank, Jess Rooland. I wished Mum could’ve heard him ask that.
“Well, I…”
I was ashamed of myself. Thelma’s body wasn’t even in the ground, wasn’t even in a coffin, and here I was spouting this childish rubbish. There was even hint of hypocritical flirtation in my manner.
“Oh! Yes, I see,” sighed Jess.
He stroked his unshaven chin, glinting with the beginnings of a red beard.
“Are you going to do as she tells you?”
“No, Monsieur. I’ll stay here as long as you want.”
“Well then…”
“But I’m still a minor; if my Mother insists…”
He made a dismissive gesture with his free hand, as if swatting an invisible fly.
“She won’t insist. You know very well there’s a way to make her see reason.”
And he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, shamelessly.
Cash! They certainly know the power of the dollar, those Americans.
“Thank you,” I said, looking down at the floor. “Would you like to go up to bed, Monsieur?”
“No, I have some things to take care of.”
“Of course. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“There is. We’ve got a lot of work to get done, the two of us.”
“Will… Will Madame be buried in America?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t you go to the funeral?”
“No, we’ll have a service here, with the NATO chaplain.”
He got up with great effort and went over to the record player. It was all set up, ready to play, with a pile of records on the arm. I was shocked for a moment, thinking he was about to turn it on. But instead he took the records and threw them in the fireplace.
“It’ll be the same for everything, Louise.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’ll have to get all of my wife’s clothes together and give them away.”
“All her clothes?”
“Yes, all of them. All her things too, her lingerie… Everything!”
He leant against the chimney, buried his face in the crook of his arm and started talking to himself in English. There was a rhythm to the words, so I think he must have been reciting poetry. It brought tears to my eyes. A sudden sorrow, impossible to hold back. He had a way of being sad that was all his own, did Jess.
THIRTEEN
The police came round in the afternoon as part of their investigations. When I say “the police” I mean the Léopoldville commissioner—the one who’d come to the party and seemed to be so taken with Thelma. The business of the level crossing having been left open was causing a bit of a stink in the town. The Paris newspapers had got hold of the story and were banging on about it, and as you can imagine they were selling well round our way as a result.
What everyone wanted to know was: whose criminal hand had raised the barrier? Because La Magnin wasn’t responsible. A couple of station employees, going home at the end of their shifts at around one forty, had testified under oath that the barrier was closed at that time. At one forty-six, though, when the express passed through, it was open. The police decided that some driver in a hurry must have raised the barrier just before the Roolands’ arrival and forgotten to put it back down.
Jess received the commissioner in the living room, offering him whisky and a cigar. The policeman sat terribly awkwardly on his chair, his felt hat on one knee. Nothing really important happens round our way, apart from the odd drunken punch-up—that’s why they send young coppers out here to get them used to all the paperwork and bureaucracy of the job.
When I left them both, I deliberately kept the door slightly ajar. While I was mopping the hallway floor I could hear every word of their conversation. The commissioner began by offering his condolences, then he got straight down to the facts:
“Monsieur Rooland, could you please tell me everything you remember about your accident, without leaving anything out?”
“That won’t take long,” Jess replied calmly. “I was driving back from Paris. My wife was asleep… As I was driving across the rails I saw lights to my right. When I realized it was a train… I must have braked. It was an awful moment, commissioner.”
“It must have been.”
Jess sighed.
“Maybe if I’d stepped on the accelerator we would have been able to get through. I don’t know. My foot acted all on its own. It’s impossible to control oneself when something like that happens. There was a terribly loud noise. I found myself lying on a pile of stones… And then, well that’s all! Do you see?”
“I understand. When you crossed the rails, were you going fast?”
“No. Anyway, I never drive very fast, even on an open road. In the States we have a speed limit, you know?”
“Before you came to the level crossing, were you overtaken by any other vehicles?”
“Yes, by a motorcycle.”
“A motorcyclist would have used the gate. He wouldn’t have raised the barrier,” muttered the commissioner under his breath. “You didn’t see the tail lights of another car ahead of you?” he asked Jess.
“No we did not!”
“It’s strange. Someone other than the barrier operator turned the crank to raise the barrier before you got there.”
“And didn’t that fat woman hear a car pull up?”
“No, she was asleep. I turned the crank myself to check—it hardly makes any noise, just a faint clicking… Very go
od, that’ll be all for now, Monsieur Rooland. We’ll try to track down the motorcyclist you mentioned. Maybe he’ll be able to shed some light on the matter…”
The commissioner left. Jess seemed agitated. He called me in:
“Louise!”
“Monsieur?”
“Have you finished getting all Thelma’s clothes together?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Who will you give them to?”
That flustered me.
“To my mother—if that’s all right with you, of course.”
“OK.”
“I wanted to ask you, Monsieur—what shall I do with the fur coat? It must be expensive. You could sell it, at least?”
“No, you keep it.”
“Me!” I gasped.
“Yes. But I don’t want to see you wearing it. Put it to one side for later.”
“Oh, Monsieur! What a present—it’s too much.”
“It’s not a present. If you don’t want it, give it to anyone you like.”
“Oh, well, I’ll keep it.”
“OK. Now listen, Louise. You’ll have to give me your bedroom. You can take mine. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Very well, that’s all.”
*
And so Thelma’s beautiful fur coat stayed in its cupboard, and I moved into the Roolands’ bedroom. I was pleased to have such a gorgeous fur, but unhappy at the thought that that I wasn’t to wear it until later. “Later” meant “when I no longer worked for Jess”.
If I told you I slept well that evening, in their big upholstered bed, I’d be lying. Apart from anything else, there were people in the house all night—the guests from that party: the general, my overweight dance partner, the French bloke, the Belgian and some others I didn’t recognize. They all came round to be with Jess and to comfort him.
To begin with they were solemn and grave, but as the whisky started to flow their voices rose, and I heard them droning on long into the night from my new bedroom. I lay awake until dawn, staring at the bathroom door in the half-light, still expecting to see Thelma walk out dressed in that striped white dressing gown of hers that would sometimes fall aside to reveal a breast or a leg.
The following days passed in a confusing, incoherent blur. There was the service at the NATO chapel, then the departure of the lead-lined coffin in a plane from Orly. As Monsieur Rooland wasn’t well enough to drive yet he had an American soldier as his chauffeur—a big, bland, blond guy, who chewed gum instead of making conversation.
The Wretches Page 7