In her dream, Éliette was doing the washing up, a huge great pile of it! She had barely finished one plate when someone handed her another. She could not tear her eyes from the foamy basin of clinking cutlery, glasses and saucers. She wanted to look up at the sky which she knew was so blue, but everything was going too quickly … Still these anonymous hands were bringing piles and piles of dirty plates … One of these went crashing to the floor, and she woke up.
‘Étienne, I heard something!’
‘Hmm?’
‘I heard a noise. There’s someone downstairs.’
‘Stay here. I’ll go.’
His dream had been filled with snow. Reach the summit and he would have won. But won what? … He pulled on his trousers, wobbling in the dark, and left the room, coughing, his eyes still gummed up with sleep. It must have been around five in the morning; the pale light of dawn was creeping up the stairs like smoke. Outside, the birds were singing loudly, proud supporters of the breaking day. At the bottom of the stairs, Étienne hovered between the living room on his left and the kitchen on his right. He went for the kitchen, and the moment he stepped over the threshold, he knew what had been in store for the winner in his dream: a blow to the back of the head.
Pushing herself up on her elbows in bed, Éliette thought she heard a soft thud, like a pile of wet laundry being dumped on the floor, and then nothing.
‘Étienne? … ÉTIENNE?’
No answer. The light of dawn filtering through the slats in the shutters looked cold, like a grey shroud. She tried to cry out again but no sound escaped through the barrier of her gritted teeth. It was pointless. Someone was climbing the stairs, but it was not Étienne. Her fingers clutched the sheets while her eyes remained fastened on the half-open door, like an animal waiting for the butcher’s axe to fall. We tell ourselves in books that we could jump out of the window, cry for help, lay our hands on a blunt object, do something. But it isn’t true: fear paralyses you, makes an idiot out of you – the victim is suicidal, obediently waiting for the executioner to do his work. You know what’s going to happen and you believe in it fervently, as though it were a form of deliverance. Perhaps it is all we have been waiting for, all our lives.
‘Paul, why are you doing this?’
He had not yet pushed the door; only the barrel of his rifle pointed through the opening. He looked different, as though his profile had been etched on a bronze coin.
‘Don’t scream, Éliette. Don’t scream or I’ll kill you.’
The words were spoken calmly, as if to a restless child at bedtime. His gun was in his right hand, and with the handkerchief in his left he wiped the sweat from his brow. He surveyed the room and, having established there was no riot squad hiding behind the wardrobe, he sat down at the foot of the bed. He looked like a hunter returning home empty-handed.
‘I know it’s not right, all of that … But all my life I’ve done the right thing and look where it’s got me! I don’t regret anything. I would have liked it to happen differently, but … all those feelings …’
He was beating his chest with the flat of his hand, and making the bed bounce. He had tears in his eyes, his gaze as clouded as his state of mind. Éliette let out a deep sigh. Perhaps there was a way out after all.
‘Why don’t you put down your gun?’
‘I can’t … If you scream, I’ll shoot you, obviously.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s just the way it is! … You spend your whole life trying to find a place there’s no way back from. That’s where I am.’
‘What have you done to Étienne?’
‘That stupid little bastard? He’s not dead; I just gave him a good whack round the head. He’s tied up downstairs. What the hell do you see in that idiot, anyway?’
‘He’s a friend, Paul. Just a friend!’
Paul was now standing again, the barrel of his gun chasing the shadows.
‘He’s no man, Éliette! No man at all. He’ll hurt you, I’m telling you. I know what men are like – I was in Algeria! Up in the Aurès mountains, you soon sorted the men from the boys. I stood and watched the prisoners dig their own graves … Bang! Bang! … He is not a man, believe me.’
‘You’re scaring me. Put the gun down.’
He looked at her, dazed by his own rant, and began smiling as if he knew her game.
‘I may not be the sharpest tool in the box, but I’m no fool, Éliette!’
‘What do you want?’
‘I don’t know any more … Good, evil, it’s all the same … Smashing that little bastard’s head in was fun, just like nailing that crow to your door … Doing wrong … that’s it, that’s what I like.’
‘You won’t get anywhere with that attitude.’
‘Who cares? I’m already there! I’m not afraid of anything any more! Anything at all!’
He banged his head against the door several times to demonstrate how pain made him numb. A trickle of blood ran down from his bandage, skirting his nose, to the corner of his mouth. He stuck out his tongue and licked it.
‘It’s nice. Tastes a bit like rust. I’m rusty, Éliette, just like you, just like everyone. We’re all dead, only no one else knows it yet.’
Éliette shifted her weight on the bed. Paul stiffened.
‘Don’t move!’
‘I need a wee.’
‘Piss in the bed! Yeah, that’s right, piss in front of me. I’d like that … Go on then!’
Using the tip of his rifle, he pulled back the sheets, exposing Éliette’s bare abdomen.
‘Well? Is it coming?’
‘I can’t …’
‘You’d do it for him, though, wouldn’t you, slut? But not for me … Well, from now on you’re going to do all that filthy stuff in front of me. Even if I drop dead, you’ll always have me there with you, in your dirty shitty little memories! No one’s going to forget me!’
The barrel of the gun brushed against Éliette’s nose. She could smell its acidic metal odour. Paul’s eyes bored into hers, incandescent with rage. She didn’t even have the strength to faint. Paul lowered his eyes first. The two black holes, set one on top of the other in the barrel of the gun, turned towards the window ledge, where a blackbird had just landed with much flapping of its wings. Paul let the weapon fall into his lap and burst into tears.
‘Forgive me, Éliette. I’m not a bad person … but what am I supposed to do with all the bad stuff that’s happened? I want another life too! Do you think I chose to be a bloody yokel? To go to bed with bloody Rose every night? Of course I didn’t! I’ve dreamed of going places, just like everyone else. I’ve just never been lucky enough to live my dreams. Maybe they’ve turned to nightmares now, but they’re still my dreams, they’re mine! It’s all up to me! Damn, yes!’
Éliette was holding her breath. One false move and Paul could go up like a powder keg. In spite of her terror, she could not help feeling a little sorry for him. He was right: a nightmare was a dream that had gone wrong. Her bladder was straining. It was silly, but she was sure that if she could only go to the loo, everything would be better. Paul would calm down, everything would fall back into place, just like it was …
‘Do you remember when the kids used to play together? All laughing and shouting! Hmm? Do you remember, Éliette?’
‘Yes, Paul. I remember.’
‘We were happy back then. None of us could have imagined that one day … Know what I think?’
‘No, I don’t, but I really need the toilet …’
‘Your friend, downstairs – I think it was him who killed my Patrick.’
‘Why would he have done that? They didn’t even know each other!’
‘I don’t know. But I’m sure it was him. Ever since he’s been here, everything’s changed. You’re not the same, Éliette, nothing’s the same. It’s not just a coincidence!’
‘Let me go to the loo and then we can talk about all this calmly …’
Paul wasn’t listening. He rubbed the trigger of his gun as
if stroking a clitoris.
‘I’ll get rid of him. We’ve got to tackle him, like mildew.’
‘Paul, please …’
‘Huh? Oh, all right, but I’m coming with you. You have to leave the door open. I can’t trust you. It’s not your fault; he’s pulled the wool over your eyes, but I’m here. I respect you, Éliette. You can count on me.’
She got out of bed, naked, and Paul coyly averted his eyes while she put on her dressing gown. As she relieved herself, with Paul standing guard outside the door, the rifle over his shoulder, she could not help finding a modicum of truth in Paul’s ramblings. Of course, he was raving mad, but there was no denying that since Étienne had appeared, everything had turned upside down. The abandoned car that had caused Patrick’s death, Étienne strolling down the road, the way he had acted in front of the gendarmes, the story he had told about the girlfriend leaving him in the middle of nowhere, and Agnès, whose behaviour towards her father was so unlike what one would expect of a daughter … There was nothing concrete or certain any more, as there had been in Charles’s day; even the tiled floor of the bathroom seemed as treacherous as shifting sand.
‘Done?’
‘Yes.’
Paul had red eyes. He looked like one of those briar pipe bowls carved in the form of a sailor’s head.
‘Don’t you think we could do with a nice cup of coffee?’
It may have been the sound of the flush upstairs, a waterfall in his dreams of mountains, that woke Étienne up, or perhaps it was the shooting pain behind his ear. It was only when he tried to lift a hand to his head that he realised he was tied up, his wrists and ankles so tightly bound he could feel them puffing up like rubber gloves filled with water. A filthy hanky had been shoved in his mouth. Inside his throbbing head, his thoughts were jostling together and pouring out like a bag of marbles in a schoolyard. With his cheek pressed to the red floor tiles, he could see the undersides of the dining chairs with their battered straw seats and the table pocked with woodworm, along with a tiny mouse with round eyes, creeping the length of the skirting boards like a wind-up toy. He made an attempt to sit up, but the rope binding his limbs also went round his throat, preventing him from making any movement on pain of strangulation. He heard the door open and saw Éliette’s bare feet (one of which had the beginnings of a bunion forming) rushing towards him, followed by Paul’s heavy boots.
‘What on earth have you done to him? Étienne, are you all right?’
The question struck him as somewhat absurd. He made do with rolling his eyes and grimacing.
‘Paul, you’re not going to …’
‘Just make some coffee, Éliette. Don’t worry about that …’
Éliette and Étienne exchanged a look punctuated with ellipses as Paul sat down heavily, mopping his brow.
‘Gonna be a hot one today. Storm’s on its way back in. No good this weather, coming and going; nature can’t get its bearings.’
He sat with his rifle between his knees as if newly returned from a hunt, a good honest man full of concern for his land and ready and willing to discharge his weapon at the slightest move by Étienne. Éliette’s hands were no longer hers; they moved of their own accord, putting coffee in the pot, rinsing two cups, taking the sugar out of the cupboard – they could easily have done without her. Éliette was working on autopilot. She didn’t dare cast her eyes towards Étienne – taken the wrong way, a single glance could prove fatal to both of them. The sound of the birds chirruping outside made the situation all the more surreal. If Étienne had not been lying on the floor, it was just like countless other mornings when Paul had come round and she had made him coffee.
‘Two sugars, yes, thanks, Éliette … Oh, I don’t think I told you: the other night we were in Clément’s car coming back from Privas and we hit a wild boar – eighty kilos, the thing was. We cut it up the same night and chucked the head and the skin down the old well – you know, behind the old rubbish dump. Quite handy that well – all you have to do is throw a few bits of scrap on top and the gendarmes are none the wiser! Bet people have got rid of some interesting stuff down there …’
As he said this, Paul turned to Étienne.
‘Rose and I thought you might like a haunch to have with your kids. We put one in the freezer for you.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Paul, but if you want us to stay friends you need to untie Étienne and put your gun down.’
‘You’re having a laugh! You saw him whack me around the head with your pan! Four stitches I had to have!’
‘Yes, but remember what you were doing to me!’
‘I was drunk, Éliette. It doesn’t count! And anyway, you know very well that’s not the only thing. He’s the one who sent Patrick into the ravine, no shadow of a doubt! Don’t try to fool me you’ve known him ten years!’
Once again, doubts began rising in Éliette’s heart like a corpse surfacing from a bog. Étienne’s wide eyes pleaded with her.
‘Let him explain himself, or let’s call the police. You can’t just go round accusing people without any proof!’
‘Aha! You see – you’ve clicked something’s not right, too! I’m telling you, I know what men are like. You didn’t call the police out in Algeria. You made them dig their hole and job done! Next!’
‘But we’re not at war any more, Paul, and even when we were, that wasn’t …’
‘Of course we’re still at war! Thugs like him are roaming the streets. The towns are full of them and they’re crawling all over the place here too, ruining things for everyone!’
‘But for heaven’s sake, Paul, what do you think you can do about it?’
‘Some housekeeping! But not the kind women do. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. Isn’t that right?’
The barrel of the gun lifted Étienne’s chin; his face was pale.
‘Paul, I know you’re hurting, but this whole thing is ridiculous. I’m calling the police.’
‘No, Éliette. These things are best sorted out man to man. Don’t do anything stupid. Besides, I’ve cut the phone lines.’
‘You what?’
‘You’re not on my side, Éliette. He’s turned you. I don’t want you to be angry but I just can’t trust you. I’m going to have to shut you in the cellar while I finish the job. You’ll thank me later.’
The sound of a car pulling up outside made Paul leap up and point his gun at Éliette.
‘No funny business, OK? Or this is going to get nasty.’
There were footsteps on the gravel and then a knock came at the door. Serge’s voice called: ‘Éliette? … Papa?’
The oak door creaked open and soon Serge and Zep stepped into the kitchen, dressed in shorts and white T-shirts.
‘Papa? … What the hell are you doing with that gun? … We’ve been looking for you since …’ (Éliette discreetly drew his attention to Étienne curled up on the floor.) ‘What the hell’s going on here? … Papa?’
‘This has nothing to do with you! What’s going on here does not involve queers!’
‘You’re insane!’
‘Tell your Kraut not to move or I’ll blow his skull to pieces.’
‘Papa, please, put down the gun!’
‘Think you can tell me what to do, you little shit? On your knees! Everyone, on your knees! Even you, Éliette. Hands on your heads!’
Serge took a step forward. Zep moved away to the left, while Éliette pulled a chair in front of her. Paul stepped back.
‘Fuck. The first person to make another move gets it!’
It was like a game of grandmother’s footsteps. Everyone froze.
‘Papa …’
‘Shut up! You’re all against me. I’m the only one who knows! That fucker there killed your brother but you don’t give a shit! None of you do, because you never loved him, because Patrick was twice the person any of you will ever be!’
‘Stop it, Papa! Let Éliette’s friend go. We’ll say nothing about this – it stays between us. If you won’t untie him,
I will. I loved Patrick just as much as you did.’
‘Like hell you did!’
‘I did, for fuck’s sake! Even if I’ve known for years he wasn’t yours!’
‘Shut your mouth, Serge! Don’t you ever say that again!’
‘This has gone far enough! Let this man go. You’re not the only one having a hard time. Have you forgotten Maman, back at home?’
‘Your mother’s a slag!’
‘And Clément’s your good friend – but what does it matter now? Look, I don’t blame you for anything. Are you going to untie him or shall I?’
‘Take one step and I’ll kill you.’
‘You know, Papa, I don’t care if you don’t love me, I still love you. Please, put the gun down …’
‘Who told you? About your mother and Clément?’
‘Everyone knows. Please, this is ridi—’
Serge didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence. A sort of scarlet explosion speckled the wall in fragments of bone, brain and blood. The second shot hit Zep with full force, passing through his chest like a cannonball. The bang echoed around the kitchen for several seconds. Outside, not a bird was singing. They had all fled towards a boundless sky where human folly dissolved into wispy clouds that were munched like candyfloss between big blue teeth.
Éliette’s ears seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, and her lower jaw was practically touching her chest. Her eyes could not take in what they had seen and could still see now: the bodies of the two young men immobilised in grotesque poses, an arm here, a leg there, pouring with black blood that branched out into a complicated network of streams running between the floor tiles. Serge’s right hand rested on Étienne’s face; making short muffled cries as he moved his head from side to side, Étienne struggled to shake it off. There were unidentifiable splatters across his hair and forehead. Soon the stench of excrement mingled with that of gunpowder.
Too Close to the Edge Page 7