Grumpily, she took the jar out of his hands and urged him to go and sit down. She was the one who poured the coffee and spread the bread, without a word or a look.
‘Good morning anyway!’
‘Huh?’
‘I said, good morning anyway.’
‘Good morning.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. It’s just I don’t think it’s sensible for you to get involved with cooking. You could have been scalded or cut yourself. And anyway it’s my job.’
‘Why didn’t you stay in my room?’
‘Because I’m not used to sleeping with someone else.’
‘Do I snore?’
‘It’s not that – though, yes, you do snore. Listen, let’s be honest with each other. I’m not after your money. I’m very fond of you but you mustn’t think … We got carried away yesterday evening. I don’t regret it but we mustn’t make a habit of it or …’
‘Or what?’
‘It wouldn’t be the same.’
‘So?’
‘So? I wouldn’t be me any longer, and you wouldn’t be you. Besides, nothing happened, so let’s leave it there. It’s better that way. Why are you smiling?’
‘You’ve got a coffee moustache at the corners of your mouth.’
‘Very clever.’
Thérèse wiped her lips with her napkin. Her eyes were brimming with tears as she got to her feet. Édouard caught hold of her wrist before she could escape.
‘Listen to me, Thérèse. I’m not trying to make you play the part of the priest’s housekeeper. I feel comfortable with you and I believe you feel the same way. It’s as simple as that. Whether we have a sexual relationship or not isn’t important, you know, at my age … What matters is that for the first time in long years, I don’t feel alone any more; that’s to say I’m no longer the centre of a shrunken world, and humbly I feel able to give you that same gift, because although I know almost nothing about you, one thing I’m sure of is that you are much more familiar with this solitude than I am. There’s no obligation on your part or mine; you can go on sleeping in your own room; we can continue to call each other “vous”, but from now on, whatever you may do, there is a Thérèse and Édouard.’
With a squeeze of her fingers he let go of her hand, sensing that Thérèse was about to dissolve into tears and that she wanted to be alone to unburden herself of the pressure filling her chest.
Towards nine o’clock the sky had grown dark, leaden with thick banks of cloud like a herd of elephants. The electricity in the air made it impossible to stay in one place for five minutes. Monsieur Lavenant and Thérèse had done nothing but meet each other coming and going like two demented clockwork toys. The atmosphere was stifling; the air piled up in the lungs like a wad of grey cotton wool. Then on the dot of eleven a violent storm broke, the rain streaming down hastily shut windows. Noses pressed to the window panes, Thérèse and Édouard jumped in unison at each lightning flash that preceded the din of thunder. Édouard counted the seconds, one, two, three, four … between the brilliant flashes and dull thuds which made the house shake.
‘That one wasn’t far away, four kilometres at the most. Above May, perhaps. It can’t be much fun over there.’
The herd of elephants disappeared as it had come, leaving behind only a hammering noise on the eardrums, and a swollen sky above Rémuzat. A spider’s web fringed with raindrops at the corner of the gutter glimmered like a diamond necklace.
‘That might be enough, don’t you think?’
‘Yes … No, wait, that one too, it’s a giant.’
After the morning’s storm, Édouard had taken it into his head to go and look for snails by the roadside. They’d collected far too many, more than they’d ever be able to eat, according to Thérèse, who with a sinking heart was contemplating the laborious preparation of the gastropods that lay ahead. But Édouard kept discovering ever bigger ones, with the result that the dozens were multiplying.
‘Édouard, it’s a waste. We ’re never going to be able to eat all those.’
‘You’re right. But it’s such a long time since I went snailing … I must have been a young boy, I suppose.’
They set off peacefully for home, Édouard tickling the grasses on the verge with his walking stick, Thérèse carrying the slimy basket. The hot, humid earth was exhaling heady perfumes.
‘When we get there, we’ll purge the creatures and then go into town.’
‘To Nyons? What for?’
‘I need to buy a typewriter.’
‘Ah.’
‘And a ream of paper. There’s no better age to write your memoirs than when you’re losing your memory. Come on, let’s go faster.’
On arriving back from Nyons, their arms full of a brand-new typewriter, two reams of paper (Monsieur Lavenant had so many memories) and some carbon paper, they had the pleasure of discovering the kitchen overrun by freedom-loving snails. The lid of the pail in which they’d been imprisoned along with two generous handfuls of coarse salt had not withstood the pressure from the escapees. They were everywhere. Some were bravely setting off up the north face of the fridge, while others, sensing where their career was to end, were clinging to the glass door of the oven, but most were just wandering around completely lost on the tiles, in total disarray. Streams of sticky slime were coming over the top of the pail and drying in silvery patches here and there. It took longer to catch and return them to their container than it had to collect them in the grass. While a grumbling Thérèse took a cloth to the floor, Édouard carefully unwrapped his work instrument, put on his glasses and began to give the instructions his most serious attention. At almost midnight, the table on which the machine took pride of place was surrounded by a sort of snowdrift of balls of crumpled paper with YYWW OOOOOOO ffff §§§§ … … +++++ … … nnnnn … … %%%%% or ///// printed on them. More than once Monsieur Lavenant had come very close to slinging the thing out of the window, having first crushed it with an iron. But thanks to Thérèse’s cool head, they had finally managed to get it to tabulate correctly and produce more or less legible type.
‘There now, we ’ve done it.’
‘Yes, but you must admit it’s ridiculously complicated. I had a manual Olivetti for years and it never let me down.’
‘It’s the modern world. Just look at all the things you can do with this one: delete, save, make corrections …’
‘But I’m not asking all that of the modern world. I’m quite capable of doing corrections myself, I’m not an invalid … OK, it’s a figure of speech … Goodness, with all this we haven’t had any dinner.’
After the frugal meal, Édouard went upstairs to clean his teeth and put on his pyjamas, before stretching out on his bed in the dark, eyes wide open in spite of his fatigue. He hadn’t dared ask Thérèse to join him, hoping she would do so of her own accord. Listening out, he could hear water running in the bathroom, and the washing process seemed interminable. Although he tried to stop himself falling asleep, his eyelids drooped inexorably and he yawned like a wild beast. He barely felt her slip between the sheets beside him and plant a very gentle kiss on his cheek.
‘My name is Édouard Lavenant. I’ll be seventy-five next October. I spent the night with my nurse. It was very …’ There followed a list of adjectives such as pleasant, nice, reassuring, tender, touching, all crossed out. The rest of the page was covered in scribbles, the kind doodled in biro during a telephone conversation. From his long years of existence, that was all he remembered and it dated from the evening before. There was no need to be put out by this, beginnings are always difficult. Monsieur Lavenant stretched in his chair and consulted his watch. Two hours of work, that wasn’t too bad. He had taken the infernal machine up to his room where it was quieter. It looked good on the small desk, with the white pages adorning the carriage. A bunch of impeccably sharpened pencils stood alongside the dictionary, which was next to an ashtray already overflowing with cigarette ends. A real writer’s table. He yawned so wide he could have dis
located his jaw.
Too late to bed. Out of practice. Too nervy. Strange dreams where he was travelling in a narrow lift that never arrived at either the top or the bottom floor. Not nightmarish, merely boring. It was only in the early hours that he had been able to enjoy completely undisturbed sleep, and when he opened his eyes, Thérèse was no longer there. But that didn’t matter, as he was sure she had spent the night with him. A whole night. The proof being that she had left her dressing gown and slippers at the end of the bed. He who had decided to immerse himself in the past was now interested in nothing but the present. Right, that was enough for the first day’s work. He needed to stretch his legs, and thanks to sitting on that chair he had backache and wanted to pee. In short, he had every incentive to be elsewhere.
‘Making progress?’
‘Gently does it. You don’t just dive into that sort of enterprise, you have to think; it takes time.’
‘A bit like the snails then. That’s five times I’ve rinsed them and there ’s still loads of slime! That was a great idea you had there.’
‘I’ll see to the court-bouillon.’
‘No, leave it, it’s fine. I’ll manage better on my own.’
Behind the grumpy front, Thérèse was smiling, while her reddened hands were moving the shells in the stream of water. Édouard went over and awkwardly stroked her hair. She turned in amazement and he put his hand down again, blushing.
‘I’m going to buy cigarettes. Do you need anything?’
‘Butter, please. I’m worried about having enough.’
Aside from the buzzing of the flies and the inevitable sputtering of a machine somewhere in the distance, there was no noise in the village. In spite of the tinted lenses in his spectacles, the contrast between areas of light and shadow was painful on the eyes. Monsieur Lavenant felt as if he were moving in an old silent home movie with a jumping black-and-white picture, random changes of speed and occasional white flashes where the film had melted, eaten away by a luminous leprosy.
As he went through the narrow streets, the ground-floor shutters seemed to half open to allow a split-second glimpse of a Goyaesque figure looming out of the darkness. A cat jumped down from a wall and crossed the road, glaring at him with blazing eyes, before taking up another strategic position. He was forced to step over a horribly fat dog, as dirty as a pig, which was slumped in the middle of the pavement, snoring. Apart from these two mammals he didn’t meet a living soul until he reached the tobacconist’s. The cool breath of a fan caressed his face as soon as he had passed the curtain of multicoloured strips which kept flies out of the shop. During the two or three minutes before the tobacconist’s leisurely appearance, Monsieur Lavenant, like a child in Ali Baba’s cave, was seized by an overwhelming desire to treat himself to something, anything – a postcard, a ball, a badminton set, a fishing rod.
Back on the pavement, with his cigarettes in his pocket and his fishing rod under his arm, he felt a strange mixture of pride and shame. If he’d wanted to go in for the sport seriously, he could have bought himself a decidedly more sophisticated piece of equipment. He’d tried his hand at it, salmon in Scotland, big fish in the Pacific, but no, it was this rod, this child’s bamboo cane with its cheap little reel, its line, and its two-coloured float in a neat plastic packet which had taken his fancy. It was more than likely that he’d never use it, but so what? It had brought him pleasure and, drunk on his own daring, he sat down on the café terrace in the completely deserted square and ordered a barley water.
‘Are you going fishing?’
‘No, it’s a present for my grandson. How much do I owe you?’
‘The same as usual; my prices haven’t changed.’
What was that supposed to mean, ‘the same as usual’? It was the first time he’d set foot in the place. There was some mistake, the chap had confused him with a regular. Plus, why were the waiter and the tobacconist as alike as two peas in a pod? The same stocky build, same steel wool on the cheeks, same shifty look … Brothers, no doubt. In such a small village it’s not unusual to see members of the same family running different businesses … Monsieur Lavenant chased away his question marks with a large gulp of barley water. The ice cube banging against his teeth was like hitting an iceberg. He must have been seven or eight when he’d first gone fishing, with his uncle, Bernard … No, not Bernard, Roland, yes, Roland! Or maybe Martial? A fat man, at any rate, who laughed all the time and whom his mother thought vulgar. Édouard had kept his eyes on his float the whole day without catching a single fish. When he went for a pee, he’d looked over his shoulder and seen his uncle hooking a roach to the end of his fishing line. ‘Édouard, come quickly! You’ve got a bite.’
Not only had that not brought him pleasure, he’d felt humiliated by it. That evening he hadn’t touched the fried fish.
Monsieur Lavenant mopped his brow with his handkerchief. He could still see the scene clearly and yet he could have sworn that this memory didn’t belong to him. He was no longer as certain as all that of having been fishing with an uncle, Bernard, Roland or Martial, nor of having gone fishing in Scotland or the Pacific, nor whether he’d drunk barley water on this terrace before … Apart from the fishing rod, whose bamboo pole he was clutching in his fist so tightly it might break, he was no longer sure of anything.
In front of him, without his noticing, a group of boules players had magically sprung up in the square. The boules knocked into one another and laughter erupted: ‘Oh Daniel, you’re not even trying.’ On the benches in the shade old women were quietly knitting new rows in long-running quarrels. A little boy was going round and round in circles on his tricycle. They all bore a striking family resemblance to the tobacconist and waiter. Monsieur Lavenant wondered whether his left arm hadn’t perhaps contaminated the rest of him, he had so much difficulty getting up from his chair. As stiffly as Pinocchio he crossed the square and vanished into the maze of narrow streets. The butter, he had to get some butter … But where was the minimarket? Where was he himself, come to that? And why did he have to get butter?
And why did his mother find his uncle vulgar? And why was this fishing rod under his arm? He had to lean against a wall, tears in his eyes, lungs choked by a cry which couldn’t escape, a cry which came from far, far away, from the very pit of his stomach …
‘Good day, Monsieur. Enjoying your walk?’ The woman with the rubber mask turned her unfathomable gaze on him. Two steps behind her stood the gangling young woman, pale as a shadow on a negative.
‘It’s stupid, I can’t find my way …’
‘It’s not a very big place!’
‘I know, but a few months ago I had a stroke … an illness … I don’t know …’
‘Don’t worry, we ’ll walk you home. Give me your arm.’
The touch of the woman’s skin on his own chilled him. It felt like marble. The tall girl walked along behind them like a faithful spaniel, without blinking once.
‘I’m sorry, this is the first time …’
‘It happens to us all … Don’t worry, we’re only five minutes from your house. Are you a fisherman?’
‘No, no, it’s for … a child.’
‘He’ll like it, I’m sure. All children love fishing, even if they generally hate fish. Children are a bit cruel. I knew a charming one, who ripped off …’
Monsieur Lavenant didn’t understand a word of what the woman was saying. His body was now nothing more than a sack stuffed with cotton wool, incapable of the slightest initiative. Not until he saw the familiar steps concertinaing up to his doorstep did Monsieur Lavenant recover his wits.
‘I’m most grateful to you for accompanying me. May I offer you a cold drink?’
‘That’s very kind of you but we have to get back. Another time. Good evening, Monsieur.’
‘Good evening, Mesdames.’
He watched them as far as the street corner, where they dematerialised in the rays of the setting sun.
‘What on earth have you been up to then? It’s almos
t three hours since you left. And what about the butter?’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t find the minimarket. Really sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter, but I was worried … What’s that?’
‘A fishing rod.’
‘Are you taking up fishing?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s a child’s one.’
Thérèse watched as he laid the rod on the table and slumped into a chair. The expression ‘shadow of his former self ’ suggested itself to her immediately.
He seemed to be sitting just to one side of his body, like a transfer applied by a shaky hand.
‘I haven’t put them back in their shells.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The snails, I didn’t put them back in their shells – I’ve done little ramekins. It’s less work, and easier for you to eat.’
‘Good idea, Thérèse.’
‘And it tastes just as good.’
Monsieur Lavenant hadn’t so much as poked his nose outside the door for three days, and was communicating only in monosyllables – yes, no – completely haphazardly. Occasionally his words hit the mark, but more often than not they didn’t, which had a way of really exasperating Thérèse. ‘Look, I’d prefer it if you didn’t say anything at all!’ He was scarcely more voluble at his keyboard. While waiting for ‘it’ to come, he would try on words like hats, in upper and lower case, dipping into the dictionary at random in the vain hope of finding one which would be the key to his sealed-off memory. None existed, however, for the simple reason that his past didn’t interest him in the least. Everything in it was drab, faded, without colour or scent. He had come to the conclusion that any life at all was worth more than his. Even the best moments were coated with that obstinate dust which inspires you not to take up a pen but to resort to clearing the attic. He wanted none other than to be reborn, virgin, nothing behind him, nothing ahead, to learn everything afresh. He had noticed that if you typed the same word all over a whole page, that word ended up losing its meaning completely. Only an empty wrapper was left, which could be filled with some completely different sense. PIANO, PIANO, PIANO, PI-A-NO, PI-A-NO! The repeated experiment plunged him into a state of strange exaltation. Today he had just wrung the life out of the word PUGNACIOUS and derived the serene satisfaction of having done his duty. It was exhausting work, and a real marathon, when you considered that the Petit Larousse contained 58,900 common nouns. But the game was worth the candle; when he had unlearned everything he would be entitled to a completely new life.
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