I had a sudden impulse to get to know her. I don’t know why. Yes, I do know why. Because she appeared to love my son. ‘Love’ is perhaps a bit strong; over the years, she must have developed a thick skin to stop herself from crumbling in the face of all that human suffering, but she wasn’t indifferent to this adolescent and his slightly wacky mother and grandmother.
What was her story? How had she decided to become a nurse? Where did she live? How old was she? Did she have children? Was she married? Did she have a dog, a cat, a hamster?
When we were outside my place, I found myself starting a conversation:
‘Would you like to come up for a minute?’
‘That’s kind of you, but I wouldn’t like to . . . and, in any case, I can’t . . .’
‘You know I’m asking you in because I want to. But, don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you!’ I added that last bit with a laugh, because I saw her hesitate and it occurred to me that my invitation – and especially the way I’d phrased it – might have sounded ambiguous.
She laughed too and replied that she hadn’t imagined any such innuendo, but she really couldn’t. After a pause, she finally said, ‘To tell you the truth, I’m having a little party at my place tonight for my birthday – it was two days ago – and, if you’d like to come, you’d be welcome.’
‘Thank you for the invitation, Charlotte – I’m deeply touched. Truly. But don’t feel you have to ask me, and don’t take your work home. You already put in so much effort at the hospital. No need to lumber yourself with your patients’ depressed mothers . . . Happy birthday, all the same!’
‘Thank you . . . You know I’m asking you because I want to. But, don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you!’
We laughed again, and Charlotte insisted, assuring me that it would do me good and saying her place was just around the corner. She’d known that, like her, I lived close to the Saint-Martin canal, as did probably more than a hundred thousand Parisians, but she hadn’t realized we were almost neighbours. She gave me her address, which turned out to be three streets away. If I felt bored or out of place, I could leave at any time; it would be a simple little dinner with friends, buffet style, people would be dropping in all evening. Then she added, with that typical twinkle in her eye, ‘Let your hair down, it’ll do you good – and I’d love you to come!’
I said yes. She said something like, ‘Great, so see you around eight,’ and I watched her slight form ride off on her scooter.
Shit – why had I accepted? What the hell was I going to be able to talk to all those strangers about? I looked at myself in my bedroom mirror and felt a surge of panic. This would be the first time I’d gone out since Louis’s accident. I began inspecting myself by rolling up my trousers. I rolled them down again immediately, realizing with horror that my legs were more like those of Chewbacca than Miss World. My grey roots were beginning to show. At Hégémonie, I’d have been pelted with stones – or at least rotten tomatoes.
What time was it? Four fifteen. I had three and three-quarter hours to do something about it and make myself presentable. I started to thank the god of beauty salons that I lived in Paris and not in one of those small towns where everything closes at six. I still had time to get my legs waxed, buy some flowers to thank Charlotte, get my hair done and camouflage my wrinkles beneath one of the foundations that had been gathering dust in my cupboard for a month.
I grabbed my jacket and raced out. I’d left my mother a Post-it that would give her the shock of her life. I’d written, soberly but in a flurry of excitement, Don’t cook for me tonight – I’m going out.
13
17 Days
A Filthy Old Dive
A little party, Charlotte had said. Ha ha. The apartment was tiny and crammed.
It felt like the Hégémonie Christmas bash, the kind of party where anyone would think the guests had all fasted for three months . . . All I ever managed to grab were three ham canapés, being too well brought up to push and shove. Well, at Charlotte’s, you had to battle your way through to get anywhere near the buffet or the drinks.
Charlotte welcomed me, all smiles, and invited me in, thanking me for the flowers and gratifying me with a ‘Wow – you look gorgeous!’ which thrilled me. I’d chosen a simple but striking outfit: slim jeans, white semi-sheer blouse, statement blue heels. I returned the compliment. Charlotte looked stunning. Of course, I recognized her, but her evening look was totally different from the white coat, Crocs and light make-up that I was used to seeing. Perched on platform sandals that flattered her tanned legs and made her a good four inches taller, she twirled in her black dress, bestowing her infectious zest for life on each guest. Given that there must have been fifty people, it didn’t take me long to work out that my quota of Charlotte during the party would be very limited.
I’d been there for nearly twenty minutes and I still hadn’t entered into conversation with anyone. I was the oldest guest there. Charlotte must have been ten years younger than me. I hadn’t articulated it so clearly to myself at the hospital, but now that I was seeing her in her home surroundings, it was obvious. What the hell was I doing there? As the minutes went by, I felt more and more out of place. I was different from this crowd of young singles, who were carefree, laughing, drinking, smoking. And I envied them. I wanted to be like them, pull the wool over their eyes and make them believe I fitted in. I usually found water-cooler conversations so easy, but I’d lost that ability to feign interest in things that bored me, to respond with nods or ‘Oh, wonderful . . . Oh, that was lucky . . . Wow, that’s amazing . . .’ to the wittering of a vague acquaintance telling me about their holiday in Nepal. These past weeks had numbed my socialization synapses. It hadn’t dawned on me because I hadn’t found myself in a situation like this since slamming the door of Hégémonie. I was about to leave, when I heard a man addressing me.
‘It’s unbelievable; these kids would do anything for a few drops of alcohol. Can I offer you something, mademoiselle? If I manage to squeeze through, that is . . .’
He had a warm, husky voice, almost cracked. Very masculine. I turned around, a typical reply-that-takes-the-wind-out-of-the-sails-of-don-juans-who-talk-like-in-a-novel on the tip of my tongue: ‘No, thank . . .’ And stopped mid-sentence.
The guy was good looking. Charming. Not what I had been expecting. Forty, or a little more – it didn’t matter – in any case, a lot older than the average age of the other guests. Tall, fairly classic features and a muscular physique that was visible through his loose, long-sleeved grey sweatshirt. A thin, well-kempt beard, longish curly black hair, which he’d smoothed behind his ears but which I could immediately tell he had trouble taming. Of Mediterranean origin, most likely, both coarse and sophisticated at the same time. Very dark, almost black eyes, with a steely glint, despite his smile – because he was smiling at me, waiting for my answer. I was standing rooted to the spot, probably looking a little gormless, and then a girl carrying several beers bumped into me. Crash. Beer spilt all over the floor. I desperately clutched at the person next to me. Missed. Slipped. Beer all over my white blouse. Humiliation.
The young woman apologized profusely, repeatedly calling me madame. Further humiliation. My handsome stranger had said mademoiselle, that was my consolation prize. Shit – my blouse. All I needed was a beer-soaked wet T-shirt competition . . . I told the girl it didn’t matter – ‘Honestly, I assure you –’ and my knight in shining armour held out his hands and helped me up. I was surprised by the contrast between his firm, vigorous grip, completely in keeping with his slightly gruff image, and his unusually long fingers. A man’s hands are the first thing I look at – after his eyes and buttocks, of course. As for his bum, I hadn’t managed to catch a glimpse of it yet, but his eyes and hands fulfilled their promise.
‘I’m so sorry; it’s all my fault . . . If I hadn’t distracted you—’
‘Don’t worry; it’s nothing – and, besides, I love the smell of beer on my body.’
Jesus, Thelma, what k
ind of stupid joke is that? Can’t you think of anything better?
‘That’s lucky. I also love the smell of beer on your body.’
The guy had a sense of humour. He was on a roll.
‘Let’s go back to where we left off, shall we? Allow me to offer you that drink I promised . . .’
Where the hell did this guy, who looked like an action-movie hero and spoke like an educated actor, come from? Impossible to remain indifferent, in any case. I have to admit, I felt an immediate, almost animal attraction towards this stranger. It was inexplicable, disconcerting. Fucking pheromones.
I was going to say yes to the drink, but I stopped myself. I thought of Louis. I hadn’t thought of Louis for twenty minutes. What was I doing? Forgetting my son? What right did I have to flaunt my alcohol-soaked breasts in front of a beau? A yawning abyss of guilt opened up and began to suck me in, punishing me for being capable of thinking lewd thoughts while my son was in a coma. My blouse was starting to reek like a filthy old dive. I found myself pathetic. I had to leave, right away.
‘No, thank you, honestly. I have to go. In any case, I’m not presentable.’
‘I assure you that you are much more than presentable. I insist. Let me get you that drink, then you can leave.’
‘I’m sorry. Have a lovely evening.’
I grabbed my coat and went, without even saying goodbye to Charlotte, who was on the balcony, chatting with a young man and chain-smoking. She’d missed the unfortunate beer episode. Good; at least I’d preserve a shred of dignity in her eyes.
What an idiot I’d been to accept. I wasn’t ready, I should have known. But I was so desperate to believe that my life could return to normal again. That I could return to normal. I’d been so wrong.
I was only five minutes away from home, but I needed to walk. For a long time. I couldn’t go back so early; Mum would bombard me with questions. She’d been even more excited than me at the thought of my going out. When I’d got back from the beautician’s, she’d fussed over me endlessly, reminding me how wonderful I was, saying I was allowed to carry on living, to be happy. I had almost let myself be persuaded, but I’d come to realize a little belatedly that my sole priority, my love, my burden, my pain, my joy, my hope was still Louis.
Alone in the street, I walked beside the Saint-Martin canal, which my son had so loved. Tears filled my eyes when I noticed that I was thinking of him in the past tense. I held them back, just on the brink. The Saint-Martin canal that my son so loves. Louis isn’t dead, Thelma. Louis is going to live.
The weather was mild for early February. I kept my coat open to dry my blouse, which gave off a very unpleasant odour. I’d gone from smelling like a filthy old dive to smelling like a club at around four in the morning.
I thought about my knight in shining armour. In the end, I’d learned nothing about him, but I could still feel the imprint of his hands on mine. I bit my lower lip, punishing myself for such inappropriate thoughts.
I sat down on a bench and gazed at the surface of the canal, wondering what it must feel like to drown: was it a painful death? Was it slow? Was it bearable? Dying seemed so easy. Why did we feel this profound need to live at all costs? Why was this damned instinct, this compulsion to hang on, so powerful? It would have been easier to let go. I could have leaned so far forwards that I’d have toppled in and sunk into the water of the muddy canal. No one would have seen me if I’d gone about it properly. But I couldn’t let go, I knew. I was in purgatory, condemned to live.
I drew in the night air hungrily, with desperation, as if it were compressed oxygen from a cylinder in a hospital room.
14
16 Days
One, Two . . .
The day after Charlotte’s party, my mother questioned me non-stop, and she quickly sensed I was being evasive. I tried to make up some story or other, but I remembered that Mum knew Charlotte as well as I did, so she wouldn’t have any trouble finding out that I left the party very early. Better to head her off with some woolly explanation: I didn’t stay long because I wasn’t feeling too good, probably something I’d eaten at lunchtime, or tiredness. I went out for some air, for a stroll through the city. Yes, of course everything’s fine, Mother. She wasn’t fooled – she never is – but she left me in peace. She said that Louis’s little notebook was doing me good, was doing us all good. Maybe I could attack the next challenge; it would take my mind off things.
She was right. I had sixteen short days left and Louis was still showing no sign of waking up. The electroencephalograms remained hopelessly unchanged, still as anarchic. I had asked if it was possible that moments of wakefulness, his brain’s real activity, had been missed. I was told that, with a coma, anything was possible, but that concern was growing as time went by.
Before opening my son’s notebook, I held it close and sniffed it. It still gave off a few fleeting whiffs of Louis. At the hospital, Louis’s only scent was that of the products they used to wash him. How much longer would these remnants of my son last? Time caused smells to fade, images to blur. I needed to look at photos to stop his eyes and his smile from being erased, keep them alive, not allow them to sink into the recesses of a memory that was becoming hazy much too quickly.
I stroked the cover of Louis’s Book of Wonders. I flicked past the page about stripping naked in the English teacher’s class and couldn’t help smiling. Then I closed my eyes and turned the page. I opened only one eye, dreading what lay in store for me, prolonging the little pleasure that would also be short-lived. The number of pages Louis had filled was limited; he planned to live and add to it gradually. But Louis hadn’t had enough time. Reading this new page, at first, I howled inwardly – ‘Oh no, not that!’ – then I gave a sort of nervous laugh that spoke volumes. As a matter of fact, I’d been expecting to find something to do with football in the notebook, I’d even been surprised that Louis’s beloved sport wasn’t the very first entry. For sure, the cover was plastered with football images, visual warnings that had prepared me mentally. Despite this expectation, the sentence was harsh, unfolding in his rounded handwriting on the page which mocked me endlessly. I called my mother in and held out Louis’s notebook. She burst out laughing, gratifying me with a ‘Well, he’s certainly putting you through your paces!’
There, in front of me, the treacherous football crime scene lay spread out with an exuberant defiance:
Football football football ☺☺☺
– Do an intensive course with Edgar, yes! (and Isa . . . )
So, who was this Edgar? His soccer coach, most likely. I vaguely remembered Louis mentioning that name . . . but I never listened properly when he was talking about football. On the other hand, what the hell was the mysterious Isa – this was the second time her name had appeared – doing in the midst of this nightmare?
Once over the shock, I wondered whether I could find a way of sidestepping this dream. I didn’t mean to avoid honouring my promise – I’d do as instructed – but I could still try to make my own alternative interpretation of what he’d written. After all, Louis spoke of an intensive course, without specifying the content. Perhaps I could find someone called Edgar and a girl called Isabelle and ask them to play a football video game intensively for a few days, and that way fulfil the challenge while staying nice and snug at home?
I must confess that I’ve always hated football. I’ve never understood through what obscure genetic process my aversion could have mutated into a passion in my offspring. I don’t recall whether Louis’s father was particularly fascinated by the game either. No, this was something he had developed all by himself, no doubt encouraged by the global brands that spend millions on transforming morons with a limited vocabulary into intergalactic stars, and a completely ordinary sport into a top attraction. Of course, not everyone should be tarred with the same brush, not all the players are total idiots, but, even so, how has it become acceptable in our society for a footballer to earn ten thousand times more than a nurse, a teacher or a scientific researcher –
real-life people, doing useful jobs? That is beyond me.
In my case, it’s not just a question of football. I dislike sport in general. I did a bit of dance between the ages of ten and thirteen with relative enthusiasm, although I always contrived to miss the end-of-year show. At secondary school, I was one of the girls who had a stomach ache, who had her period, a persistent headache, a twisted ankle . . . any excuse to get out of gym classes.
But, if Louis were conscious, how would he react to my shameless perversion of his dream, which was actually so simple to put into practice?
Are you kidding, Mum? Is that how you expect to motivate me, by making up lies and not even attempting to take an interest in the thing I’m passionate about? You’ve never been interested, anyway . . .
But I hate football, as you well know . . .
So, I’m not worth a little physical effort, is that it? If only you knew what I’d give to be in your shoes!
If only you knew how much I wish you could be in my shoes. I’d give my right arm to be able to change places with you, my darling.
After this dithering and my imaginary conversation with Louis, I had to face the facts. I couldn’t back out. I resolved to seek out this man, Edgar. It was Thursday, 2 February, the half-term holiday would begin in two days’ time – maybe there were courses being organized. Football courses for beginner oldies? Some hope! I was going to have to persuade the coach to allow me to take part in one of his sessions for pimply youths. They’d think I was crazy, but I was beginning to get used to that.
I flicked through the admin file, and looked in the section headed Louis: school lunch bills, medical certificates and subscriptions of all kinds. Registration for his guitar lessons (he gave up after three months), his table-tennis course (I warned him he wouldn’t like it, but he wouldn’t listen, and he hated it), registration for football, football, football. From the age of six. In the early years, I had to get up at five o’clock in the morning on a miserable June day to go and queue to sign him up. The leisure-centre staff didn’t arrive until nine, but I had to stand there from dawn, surrounded by parents ready to do anything to get their brat on to the course for their favourite sport, glaring daggers at anyone who stepped over the imaginary line they’d drawn to indicate that they were first in the queue. This year, I’d managed to duck out of that chore; Louis was big now, and I’d sent him to do his own queuing – well, not completely . . . in the company of two of his footie friends and the mother of one of them. He’d waited and signed himself up. Since the beginning of the school year, in September, he’d been going to training sessions and coming home on his own, and I’d managed to wriggle out of going to watch any tournaments or matches. I was very proud of the success of my avoidance strategy and boasted about it around the coffee machine at Hégémonie, declaring myself a disgraceful mother and laughing about it. At the time, I sincerely thought that it meant I was a woman who successfully juggled being a mother and working.
The Book of Wonders Page 8