I felt a pang as I realized the extent to which I’d completely dismissed this passion of Louis’s, the extent to which I’d treated it as a permanent joke, and how upset he must have been at my excuses. Parental approval and interest are so important. In months, I hadn’t devoted a single minute of my precious time to football. Football wouldn’t suffer, I said to myself. Football hadn’t suffered, of that I could be sure, but what about Louis? Wasn’t this wholesale rejection of my son’s passion the same as my mother’s rejection of the normal capitalist world I so wanted to be part of, a stance that had exasperated me when I was a teenager? How come I had replicated my mother’s behaviour so automatically? Louis had appeared to deal with it . . . of course, what else could he do? But what would it have cost me to show a little interest? A few hours standing around on the sidelines, cheering him on, giving him a little encouragement; a few smiles in my eyes, in his. That, too, I had missed out on, and I deeply regretted it.
I was finding it increasingly hard to cope with what I was learning about myself, about my past behaviour. I wanted to change my life completely, change everything and make it all different, make it all better. I’d had a long conversation with Mum about it, the previous day. Or rather, Mum had launched into one of her typical diatribes:
‘You can’t throw the baby out with the bathwater,’ she’d lectured. ‘You’re not a perfect mother, you’re not a perfect woman, you’re not a perfect daughter – that I can assure you . . . but you do what you can. Everyone manages as best they can, and it’s not a question of perfect mothers and hopeless mothers, pussycat. I’ve seen you with Louis, thousands of times. In his eyes, you’re the perfect mother, because you’re his mother. Don’t ever doubt that. If Louis is what he is today – and it’s not because he’s my grandson, but objectively – he’s a delightful boy, bright, sensitive and kind . . . well, if that’s what he’s like now, it’s thanks to you. You’re the one who’s raised that kid, and you can be proud of him. No, don’t say anything. I can see you shaking your head and you’re likely to come out with something stupid. You can be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.’
My mother has a knack for making me blubber with her great monologues, which she always delivers just when I need them most. Being there and saying the right thing is also part of being a mother.
I grabbed my phone and called the community centre. Yes, there would indeed be courses during the holidays. No, none for adults. For under- and over-thirteens courses, I should contact Edgar directly. His training sessions were on Wednesday afternoons and Friday evenings.
‘Thank you, madame, I understand. I’ll go and see Edgar and sign up.’
15
15 to 10 Days
Edgar
‘OK, you can put the balls down and we’ll all go for something to drink . . . No shoving!’
Shit, I was in agony. My lungs were on fire, and every muscle in my body hurt like hell. I’d even discovered some I didn’t know I had. How was it possible to feel pain between my ribs and in my biceps, from playing football? When I’d embarked on this, I’d been expecting some discomfort, but I never thought I’d have aches and pains from head to foot. I was paying the price for my lack of exercise over the past twenty-five years. If I hadn’t promised Louis, I’d have long since given up these torture sessions. This was day three, I still had another day to get through. I was tempted to carve little lines on a tree, like a prisoner counting the days until freedom.
Edgar came over and asked me if everything was all right. I could have replied curtly, of course, that I’d never felt so good in all my life, that I’d always dreamt of sprawling in the mud with a bunch of sweaty prepubescents, but I refrained. I tossed my hair back into place, saying, ‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine – a bit tired, that’s all.’ Something of an understatement, for someone whose muscles and respiratory system had turned to jelly.
Edgar. If there was one positive thing about this entire experience, it was meeting Edgar. The guy was incredible. I kept looking for a flaw, but couldn’t find one. What I felt was strange, new. I cursed him all day long – his exercises, his natural authority, which shut up the most rebellious of my pre-teen co-detainees – and, at the same time, I admired him. I admired him for his simplicity, his genuineness, his almost animal strength, and for the vulnerabilities I’d sensed. I felt as if I’d known him forever.
When I’d turned up at the Friday evening training session to ask for details of the courses on offer and to sign up – my heart filled with dread – I’d had to wait in a small room next to the community-centre sports ground, where I’d sipped a coffee that was too sweet as I honed my strategy.
I planned to come clean with Edgar, and tell him the truth about my project. I anticipated his likely reluctance. I’d brought Louis’s hospitalization certificate as proof, so he wouldn’t suspect me of being a predatory paedophile. I was prepared for every possible reaction. And I was ready to bribe him, if necessary.
I waited for the famous Edgar, and imagined him to be like Monsieur Ducros, my P.E. teacher when I was fourteen, whom we nicknamed ‘Little Ninja’ because he was both tiny and paunchy, but astonishingly agile. Monsieur Ducros gave us mind-blowing gymnastics demonstrations, transforming himself into a bouncing ball of energy, contrary to expectations. To look at him, no one would have bet a cent on his ability to teach any kind of sports discipline.
I was absorbed in my memories, staring into space, when I saw the stranger I’d met at Charlotte’s little party walk into the room. My nostrils quivered, recalling the smell of dried beer that had clung to me during the long hours I’d wandered along the towpath of the Saint-Martin canal. I neither wanted to relive the feelings of that disastrous and painful evening, nor to flirt, even if my knight was still as attractive. I looked away and devoured the fascinating activities brochure over and over.
‘Hello. We’ve already met, haven’t we? You are . . . We met at my sister’s birthday party.’
‘Hello. I . . . Yes, I remember . . . Hello – sorry, I already said that . . . You’re Charlotte’s brother? I had no idea she had an older brother . . . I mean . . .’
‘. . . That I look older than her? That I was out of place among all those young people at her apartment? No hard feelings; I thought so, too, and I was pleasantly surprised to meet you that night . . . I mean . . .’
‘. . . That I looked older than the average age, there? That I was out of place, too? I agree, and I think that makes us quits.’
Jesus, what an idiot . . . Incapable of putting a coherent sentence together, and punctuating my babbling with silly little giggles . . . So, I’d made a fool of myself two days earlier in front of the brother of pretty Charlotte, who was as blonde as he was dark. I’d never have guessed they were related. I was going to try to run away, once again, but he wouldn’t let me.
‘I’m very glad to see you again; you left so abruptly the other evening, we didn’t even have a chance to introduce ourselves.’
‘I’m sorry . . . I’m Thelma.’
I held out my hand. He took it and held on to it for a few seconds longer than was necessary.
‘I know who you are. I described you to my sister after the party and she . . . explained the situation. I’m very sorry about your son, Thelma, truly. Especially because I’m very fond of him.’
‘I beg your pardon? Who are you very fond of?’
‘Your son, Louis. When my sister told me . . . I realized that . . . My sister and I rarely talk about our work. She has a demanding job in the intensive-care unit, so, when we’re together, we talk about everything except her day-to-day work at the hospital. In any case, she never talks about her patients, and I never talk to her about my kids . . . Well, not really mine – the ones I coach. It’s a small world. Paris is a village, and it so happens that, at the moment, my sister’s looking after one of my pupils: your son, Louis. I’m Edgar. Delighted to meet you, Thelma.’
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God (as my son would say). Th
e guy I’d made an idiot of myself in front of was Charlotte’s brother and Louis’s football coach. I could never, ever have guessed, especially because he looked neither like Sophie Davant nor Monsieur Ducros, the Little Ninja.
We sat down for a moment, and I calmly told him the reason why I was there. He was moved by my story, that was obvious. He told me that he’d accept me on one of his four-day half-term courses, and annoyed me a little by saying he’d rather put me with the eight-to-twelve-year-olds. The thirteen-to-sixteens were fairly rough, and I might get hurt, which wasn’t the aim. What’s more, he had fully grasped the urgency of my situation, and the course for the younger ones started first. Sunday, actually. He added that, given the circumstances, I could do just one or two days, but I insisted on doing all four. It’s what Louis would have done, so that’s what I had to do. I would just have to get a move on with the following challenges – hoping that they didn’t include any more long courses. Edgar smiled when I let slip the word ‘challenges’. Then he gave me his phone number and asked for mine, so he could let me know if the course was cancelled at the last minute – officially.
The next morning, I told Louis what I was going to do. Charlotte mentioned that her brother was a tough coach and that I’d better get myself into shape beforehand, otherwise I’d find it hard going. Naturally, I ignored her advice. I spent the Saturday afternoon preparing myself physically in my own way: I had to find an outfit that wouldn’t make me look like a shapeless sack in football boots. I also attempted to learn about football by watching two matches . . . which confirmed my lack of interest in the game – both times, I fell asleep at half-time.
*
On day one of the course, I was the centre of attention. Eleven hyped-up kids stared at me, laughing their heads off at the idea that I’d be training with them. Edgar hadn’t told them that I was Louis’s mother, because most of them knew him, and he didn’t want that to interfere with the training. Nor did he want to have to justify my presence to the parents, who might have asked if they too could take part in the course . . . So Edgar introduced me as a journalist doing an article on football. That’s why I’d always be wearing a helmet with a little camera filming my face, to capture my expressions. Everyone should treat me normally, with respect – ‘Don’t forget she’s an adult’ – but should see me as just another student. No preferential treatment; everyone would do the same exercises, with the same discipline; there would be no exceptions. For a second, I saw his eyes burn with that sports teacher’s fire, and I was reminded of Monsieur Ducros, the Little Ninja, and the glint he aimed at deserters – which I was – to warn them of zero tolerance. I gave him a knowing smile, which, for me, meant, We’ve understood each other: I’m not going to do exactly as these children do; I have the right to sit out, if I want . . . But he didn’t return my smile: he was serious. I realized I was up shit creek.
I was among nine boys and two girls. I immediately wondered whether one of the girls was the Isa that Louis mentioned in his precious notebook, but these two were called Dora and Zara – a comic-strip heroine and a clothing brand – so no luck there, even though the pair of them were pretty and smiling. The boys had various wacky names, typical of this generation of parents, who liked to show their creativity by giving their offspring unusual monikers. So I was surrounded by Miles, Esteban, Jean-Rachid, Artus, Leonardo, Amadou, Gabor, Aly-with-a-y and Milou.
Edgar divided us into four groups and we put on fluorescent-yellow T-shirts. I was with Milou and Jean-Rachid, whom the others just called Rachid. They seemed super chuffed to be with me, and Milou even called me ‘Miss’ at one point. That made Rachid burst out laughing and he retorted that I wasn’t a teacher, that was obvious. I asked him what made him think that, and he replied that I didn’t appear to be very fond of children. I stopped the camera. I wanted him to explain, but Edgar saw us and ordered us to get moving. I soon understood what Rachid had meant, and how distant and superior I must have seemed to them. Since the start of the morning, I’d been much more focused on the camera than on the moment. I got a grip on myself and smiled at Rachid, telling him I’d show him, and that I’d give him a hard time with my vast footballing experience. He laughed, gave me a high five and said, ‘Let’s go.’
And go we did. Jesus, we’d been going at it for three days. Those kids were tireless. I tried various ruses to get out of some of the sessions, including my classic twisted ankle. Edgar asked the kids to vote to decide whether or not I’d twisted my ankle, and they all voted no. I tried the urgent phone-call tactic, and Milou declared that my phone hadn’t rung. I tried to bribe a child with a lot of sweets, and that worked: Dora was happy to pretend to feel unwell, and I offered to look after her. Edgar had no choice but to accept.
I spent a couple of delightful hours with young Dora. We played ‘Guess who I’m thinking of’, ‘I dare you’, ‘Truth or dare’, and she told me jokes that kids her age love – Dora had just turned twelve – and I laughed as I hadn’t laughed for years. Laughing with her in those changing rooms that reeked of sweat and dirty socks, I began to feel nauseous. At first, it was vague, and then it became more insistent, oppressive.
This girl’s energy and magnetic cheerfulness contrasted so painfully with my isolation, my solitude. The echo of the void resounded deep inside me. Dora’s laugh was like a mirror in which all I could see was a black hole. I’d been absent from my own life for a very long time – since well before Louis’s accident.
I tried to concentrate on Dora again – her jokes, her blond curls, her bubbly personality – but I couldn’t. A door had just opened and I wasn’t able to stem the stream of images that suddenly came flooding over me. I realized just how precious moments of complicity with a child could be, how I hadn’t taken enough time to share such moments with Louis, how egotistical I’d been, self-centred, obsessed with my work. How I’d neglected the most important things. The tears came, silent tears. How long was it since I’d spent two hours, two little hours, alone with my son? Shame mingled with my tears, coloured my words. I felt paralysed by their weight. Heavy words, burdened with the terrible truth: you’ve been a bad mother, Thelma. You should have done so much more, you should have done so much better.
I tried to hide my emotion by pretending I had a speck of dust in my eye, but, to my great surprise, Dora gave me a hug. I’d just made myself look ridiculous, on top of the shame. And yet, in the skinny arms of this little girl, something inside me gave way. She started to speak to me, to comfort me the way a parent soothes a child in the middle of the night. The world was upside down.
Then she said a few words that were to change our lives forever, although neither of us knew it at the time.
16
15 to 10 Days
Dora
‘Papa told me everything. I love Louis very much, too. That’s why Papa let me come back to the changing room with you. You know he didn’t believe you. He knows when I’m not feeling well, because I make a big fuss. I’m a rubbish actress and I hate people who lie. So does Papa. I think you needed to cry – it’s not good to bottle all that up, it had to come out. Papa always says to me, “Isa, sweetheart, it’s better to show your feelings and look stupid, rather than keep things inside you.” I think he’s right, and that’s not because he’s my father, OK? Oh, and, actually, I hate sweets. I know, it’s weird – everyone likes sweets. I guess I’m just not like everyone else.’
I sat up and dried my tears. I was gobsmacked by this incredibly mature monologue. In a few sentences, this little girl had just revealed an amount of information that my brain was struggling to process:
1. She’d spoken of Edgar as Papa.
2. She knew Louis.
3. She’d referred to herself as Isa.
To recap: she was Edgar’s daughter. That was clear. Once again, there was no visible family likeness. Now I knew the connection, I was able to detect a few resemblances between her and Charlotte – just about. Edgar stood out strikingly in this fair-haired family. I wondered what
this child’s mother must look like and I felt an irrational pang. I pictured her as very beautiful, very fair – as fair-haired as I was dark. I’ve always borne a grudge against blondes. They have some connection with envy, desire. Blondes represent a fantasy, for men and women alike. Brunettes are reality – wallpaper that blends into the surroundings. They only make waves when their hair is jet black. The brunette is in between, only revealing her true flavour when you really taste her. I’ve sometimes thought of bleaching my hair, but I’ve always given up the idea, full of lofty principles that made me narrow-minded. At the end of the day, perhaps I should have tried.
Another crucial nugget of information that she’d let slip: it sounded as if she was Louis’s Isa. The one who’d made my heart skip a beat, from the first page of the precious notebook. I felt a huge sense of relief mixed with huge embarrassment. Relief at finally being able to put a face to the name of the girl I’d fantasized about hundreds of times over the past weeks. Above all, at being able to associate that name with a child’s face. The Isa in the notebook could have been an adult in whom Louis had confided, who was important to him. I’d have died of jealousy. Louis was my child, and I couldn’t bear the idea of another woman stealing his attention. I thanked the heavens – just the heavens; there was no divine being in my imagination – that this Isa was a child, a pre-teen; it didn’t matter. Anything except another woman. So, a huge relief, but I also felt huge embarrassment at having made such an idiot of myself in front of her, revealing, one by one, the less admirable sides of my personality: I’d shown myself to be a cheat, always whingeing, a deserter, lazy, tearful. At least I hadn’t pretended to be anything I wasn’t.
The Book of Wonders Page 9