He stood up, threw his bag over his shoulder and began to laugh to himself, like a kid playing a prank. He was going to disappear, simple as that, walk through the night, and all the next day, and so on like the fool in a tarot set. He had barely stepped out of the station when the little Aixam pulled up in front of him.
‘Éliette!’
‘Get in … Don’t just stand there, get in!’
He obeyed, open-mouthed like any village idiot. The microcar’s right eye wandered like the inspector’s, and the wing was crumpled. No sooner had he taken his seat than Éliette put her foot down.
‘What’s happened? Have you had an accident?’
‘Nothing serious. Agnès is dead.’
‘What are you talking about? Are you mad?’
‘Maybe!’
‘Where are we going? This isn’t the way to the hotel … Tell me what’s going on!’
‘We’re driving. It’s seven minutes past eleven, and we’re driving south.’
‘I don’t know what’s gone on, but you’re making a big mistake, Éliette.’
‘No. I’ve done that already.’
Éliette’s profile seemed to be carved in stone; she didn’t so much as blink. She stared straight at the road ahead of her, oblivious to the honking of horns as she was repeatedly overtaken.
‘Something’s catching on the front right-hand wheel.’
‘Yes, it is.’
As they drove out of town, the road sign with MONTÉLIMAR struck out looked like a funeral wreath with a red ribbon pinned across it.
‘Why don’t we stop and you can tell me all about it?’
‘No. You’ve been doing your best to go nowhere all your life. Well, now you can.’
The sound of something rattling in the back made Étienne look over his shoulder. The handle of the briefcase was bumping against the window.
‘You picked up the case?’
‘When you’re going nowhere, you have to take your baggage with you.’
‘For fuck’s sake, come on! Stop messing around. Where’s Agnès?’
‘Hey! Stop shouting! Agnès is nowhere, just like you, just like me, just like everyone.’
‘Fine, be like that. You’ll have to stop eventually to get petrol.’
Étienne reached for the handle of his door. The Aixam wasn’t exactly speeding along, but it was going fast enough for a fall onto the tarmac to be fatal.
‘What about our date with the law tomorrow?’
‘They won’t miss us.’
‘No, of course not! This is ridiculous. You said yourself everything would work itself out.’
‘I was wrong. I’ve killed your daughter, don’t you get it? … Bashed her head in with a rock. It’s just the two of us now.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘All the bridges are burnt now. The past is gone; now everything’s in the headlights ahead of us …’
‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it!’
‘Me neither. I used to believe, but I don’t any more.’
‘But why? Why, damn it?’
‘You’re asking me why … Please. Take a holiday; stop acting like a bastard. It doesn’t suit you.’
The lab rat in the maze suddenly came to a halt. The note of sincerity in Éliette’s voice was crushing any vague hope of escape. If there had been a way into the labyrinth, there was surely no way out. It was pointless fighting it; all he could do was wait, and thank the heavens for the reprieve that had come in the shape of the Aixam’s engine gasping for breath. The for and against had finally joined hands, slotting together like the pieces of a jigsaw whose picture you guessed long before it was finished. Going from one tragedy to the next, you eventually reached a nebulous nirvana, ending up more or less back where you started.
‘You killed Agnès …’
‘Yes. She told me about you two. I could have understood, but I was so hurt … You should have told me.’
‘I couldn’t even admit it to myself.’
‘You know, it’s not the incest that shocked me so much as the way you played me for a fool, or rather the way you played at life without me. I love you, Étienne – I would have understood; I could have been your ally. You needn’t have been afraid of me. It’s the fear of fear that did for us. I didn’t hate her, you know; I could have accepted it. You don’t try to compete when you’re my age. If you like, I’ll drop you at the next service station.’
Étienne’s heart was like an Agen prune: shrivelled and black. Darkness was closing its fist around the ridiculous little beige car that no outlaw in his right mind would have used to make his getaway. In spite of everything, the kilometres of road kept coming, like parts of a never-ending telescope. They passed through villages with peculiar names. Chairs were being put away on café terraces, and soon the only light came from the street lamps looming over them like the eyes of a dinosaur. What they felt was more akin to the sensation of teetering on the edge of a vertical drop than of chasing the horizon. They shared the silence like a cell, without hope of escape.
As they rounded a wide bend in a sort of shadowy creek, the blinking pink and blue neon lights of a truckers’ café, or a nightclub, or something, made Éliette slow down.
‘I’m thirsty. Let’s stop.’
‘OK.’
A dozen cars were parked outside, each sporting a white tulle bow. The puffed-out Aixam nestled in among them. The air was pulsing to the binary rhythm pumping out of the building. As soon as they stepped inside, they were confronted with a thundering rendition of ‘Macarena’. A hundred or so people were writhing about on the dance floor, dripping with sweat and screaming along to the chorus. Waiters weaved their way through the crowd, hair slicked to their foreheads, carrying trays laden with glasses and bottles. Here and there children slipped under the tables and popped up to down the dregs of drinks. Just like in photos of family celebrations, everyone had red eyes – only here it was not the fault of the camera. The tang of sparkling Clairette de Die hung in the air. Éliette and Étienne gradually manoeuvred their way to the bar. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Étienne asked the glassy-eyed barman for a Coke and a beer which they drank while pinned to the wall. The bride – for a wedding was the cause of this bonanza of animal magnetism – was a tall, skinny brunette. A fine layer of bluish fuzz covered her upper lip, suggesting the rest of her body might be equally hirsute. Wearing the Barbie-doll outfit of her dreams, she swung on the arms of her guests, twisting her ankles on her high heels, a permanent smile slapped on her horsey face. As for the groom, he could have been any one of the prematurely aged, bleary-eyed young men singing at the tops of their voices, ties loosened, blue suits bursting at the seams, never to be worn again. The oldest and ugliest members of the party sat, deafened, eyelids heavy, around the edge of the room, their chins resting on ample chests or distended stomachs. A dishevelled-looking girl moving with difficulty in a tight lamé dress tried to make Étienne join a wild farandole around the room. Her sticky hand slipped between his fingers like a fat fish. There was no need to pay for anything. No one had fingers left to count on, or clear enough vision to keep an eye on things. In a few rare circumstances, the little people play rich. It takes them the rest of their lives to shake off the horrendous hangover, if not longer!
Neither the Coke nor the beer had quenched their thirst. But the fine spray from the night sky was now spitting in their faces. As he was about to get back into the Aixam, Étienne noticed that the keys to the car parked next to theirs had been left in the ignition. The car, which no doubt belonged to the wedding couple, was more laden with flowers than a hearse.
‘Éliette, wait!’
‘What?’
‘Get the case and the bags out.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it!’
The luggage was transferred from one vehicle to the other. Étienne got behind the wheel while Éliette sat in the passenger seat. An incredible racket like the sound of bins being emptied followed their departu
re. Étienne pulled over a hundred metres down the road to detach all the saucepans and chamber pots that had been tied to the bumper.
‘We’re not going nowhere any more; we’re going everywhere.’
The tulle- and flower-adorned Citroën XM waited for a greengrocer’s van to give way before rearing up and galloping into what remained of the night.
The speed, the real speed of a real car thrilled Étienne and made Éliette’s legs stiffen plank-like in the footwell. The trucks and cars they overtook seemed to be treading water. Éliette stared goggle-eyed at the night’s gaping mouth, as they steamed towards it. The heady scent of the bouquets heaped up on the back seats was getting to her.
‘All these flowers are making me feel sick.’
‘Open your window and chuck them out. It stinks of cheap happiness.’
The wind rushing at her head stopped her breath. One by one the sprays of roses were scattered on the tarmac in a firework display of multicoloured petals.
‘Better?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s got the fire of God in it, this motor!’
‘As if the devil were biting at its heels. We’ll get there quicker in this car.’
‘I don’t want to go anywhere any more. At this rate we’ll be at the Italian border by daybreak.’
‘And then?’
‘We’ll be Italian. This wedding car is worth all the passports in the world. They’ll let us through in this, no question. No one will say a word. We’re on honeymoon! Rome, Naples, here we come!’
Éliette burst out laughing despite herself. It was stronger than she was; she had just realised that for her entire life she had been two people and that the other Éliette who had played second fiddle for so long to the sweet version of herself – the good wife and mother, the dignified widow – had just taken charge. And she was capable of anything. With her head tipped back and a strange smile playing on her lips, she gave in to sleep. Étienne put the radio on. Bashung was singing ‘Ma petite entreprise …’
A milky cloud was beginning to lighten the sky when Étienne pulled over. His eyes were prickly and his stiff jaws could no longer hold back the yawns. Éliette was still asleep. Soundlessly, he slipped out of the car. The dawn was thick with birdsong, as if this was the very first day on earth. He lay down with his arms spread wide, facing the horizon that rolled on as far as the eye could see. The sky was blushing like a girl’s cheeks after a profession of love. The XM’s bonnet was boiling hot. Through the windscreen, Éliette was dozing calmly, her head resting on her shoulder. For all Étienne repeated to himself that this lovely, gentle, peaceable lady had just killed his daughter, his mistress, by smashing her over the head with a rock, he could not bring himself to consider her guilty of anything. She was innocent, just like him, like the worst criminal, like the dog who kills the cat, the cat who kills the mouse, the mouse who … must kill something too. All around, in the bushes and the grass, prey and predators mingled in the same macabre dance. You could be one or the other, depending on the circumstances, all of which were extenuating. It was what they called life, the strongest of all excuses.
By way of breakfast, he took a sniff of coke off the point of the knife. Éliette opened her eyes at the same time as a streak of white powder shot across his brow.
‘Where are we?’
‘About sixty kilometres from Ventimiglia. How are you feeling?’
‘Too early to say. What are you doing?’
‘I took a sniff to wake myself up. Want some?’
‘Why not?’
Étienne took a bit from the bag.
‘You have to cover one nostril and breathe in very hard with the other.’
‘You don’t think—’
‘Forget what you’ve read in the papers. If it wasn’t good, no one would take it.’
Right nostril, left nostril, Éliette closed her eyes and slumped back in her seat. She expected to sink into a universe out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting, teeming with horned monsters and grimacing gargoyles, but instead of seeing infernal hallucinations, she found herself breathing fresh mountain air. It was like opening the window on the first day of springtime.
‘Well?’
‘It didn’t do anything for me … or maybe it did. I have the impression of being incredibly normal.’
‘There you go, that’s it.’
‘I need to pee.’
The grass bounced beneath her feet like the fluffiest of carpets. Squatting behind a bush, she watched the sun rising above the patchwork of fields as if seeing the spectacle for the very first time. It was as if she had been myopic her entire life; never before had she seen so clearly and precisely. They ought to make bread with this strange flour, to give humanity its sight back. It made you wonder why the stuff was illegal. She was not unsteady on her feet, wasn’t tripping over her words like a drunk, on the contrary! She had never been more alert in her life.
‘Étienne, I’m hungry.’
‘Me too.’
The little village they stopped in resembled a giant pot of geraniums. The flowers were bursting from every window sill, carpeting roundabouts, growing in between the bricks of the houses.
The light mist from the fountains made little rainbows form against the blue sky. Everything seemed clean and fresh, like a soft-boiled egg with its top cut off. The yellow yolk of the morning sun ran down the roads. The beribboned XM could not have parked against a better backdrop. The waiter in the nearest café greeted them with a flourish.
‘My first customers of the day! And a pair of newlyweds to boot! I’ll look after you. Sit back and make yourselves comfy!’
The nightmare was giving way to a dream. Everything that was happening seemed so totally natural and crystal clear that neither Éliette nor Étienne batted an eyelid. Life was regaining the upper hand because it was at home here. They ate a hearty breakfast of eggs and ham for Étienne and warm croissants with jam for Éliette. From the café terrace, they watched the growing crowd of people out walking with baskets on their arms and poodles on leads, everyone polished, gleaming, almost metallic, as if they had all just left the same hair salon. The air smelt like something you could bottle.
‘You know, Éliette, we should give ourselves a makeover. Newlyweds should have a bit of sparkle about them.’
The waiter gave them the coffees on the house – starting the day’s business with newlyweds (even wrinkly ones) must bring luck!
Éliette bought herself a striped T-shirt dress that looked like a sailor’s outfit, while Étienne picked up a pair of white jeans. They rounded off their purchases with a pair of sunglasses each and even a basket which they filled with a bottle of champagne and a jar of caviar, to really complete the newlywed look. The Italian customs officers welcomed them with open arms as if they had been waiting for them all their lives. It was such a relief that they took the risk of doing another little line in the car park next to the customs post. The sun showered them with laughter that no night could ever extinguish. Every Italian had a mandolin in his throat. They stopped in the first hotel they came to, with an ochre front and palm trees in the garden. There, as the daylight beat its drum against the shutters, they made love as if defying gravity.
It was very mild and the roads were filled with people casually strolling and taking the air, breathing in the blue pigment of the night sky. Étienne and Éliette were sitting on the terrace of a little restaurant overlooking the sea. By the glow of paper lanterns, they were tucking into a fritto misto accompanied by a bottle of Lacryma Christi. It was as lovely and as idiotic as a scene in a fotonovela. Yet Étienne seemed to have something on his mind. He looked like a sergeant major putting the finishing touches to a plan of attack.
‘I think it would be safest to ditch the car tomorrow. We can take the train to Rome. Agnès left some addresses in her bag. I shouldn’t have too much trouble shifting the case.’
‘We’ll keep a bit, though, won’t we?’
‘Éliette! … Yes, a bit. And then—’
The remainder of his sentence was carried away by the insect-like buzzing of a Vespa. Not that it mattered much; Éliette agreed to everything. She smiled as she sipped her drink, giving herself up entirely to this new-found happiness she had never dared imagine possible. She felt immortal, miraculously cured, even if she knew perfectly well that her state of mind was largely due to drugs. They had taken more in the bedroom before heading out for dinner. And so what, where was the harm in it? Forty years of yoga to achieve nirvana or a split second’s inhalation, the result was the same. The hunger, this bulimic urge to live, justified the means.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘If one of my children had told me last week that they were on drugs, I’d have been worried out of my mind.’
‘Just be a bit careful. It’s not a magic bullet. It comes at a price.’
‘I think I’ve paid in advance. I’ve been retired; I deserve my final showdown. What do you think of this ashtray?’
‘The ashtray? It’s just like any other ashtray. Why do you ask?’
‘I want to take it as a souvenir.’
‘I’m going to ask for the bill. I’m tired.’
Étienne settled up, but as they left the restaurant they were stopped by the waiter.
‘Excuse me, but please could the lady give back the ashtray she put in her bag?’
Étienne went green. He babbled muddled excuses until Éliette handed back the stolen goods.
Back on the road, he began almost running. The looks of passers-by seemed hostile; the Vespas were conspiring to run him over. The devil had set foot in paradise.
‘Étienne, what’s come over you? … Wait!’
‘You’re out of your mind! Do you think now is the time to get ourselves noticed?’
‘Oh please, there’s no need to fuss! It must happen all the time. All right, sorry.’
Étienne didn’t feel at ease until he had locked the door of their hotel room behind them. Lying on the bed with his eyes glued to the ceiling, he only unclenched his jaw to take a drag of his cigarette.
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