Switching off the typewriter, he laid the PUGNACIOUS page on top of the PIANO one. He stood up, rubbing his back. Thérèse’s nightdress cascaded over the back of the chair. He noted CASCADE on a pad, in pencil. That was tomorrow’s word.
‘Édouard? … Monsieur Lavenant?’
‘Yes?’
‘Someone’s here asking for you.’
Thérèse was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, frowning.
‘It’s a gentleman.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He says it’s personal.’
‘Oh.’
‘He’s waiting in the sitting room.’
As in a doctor’s waiting room, when Édouard came in, the man put the magazine he was flicking through down on the coffee table, got to his feet and held out his hand. He must have been around forty, tall, slim and well turned out.
‘Jean-Baptiste Lorieux.’
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘The name Lorieux doesn’t ring any bells?’
‘Lorieux? No, I don’t think so.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. I’m Sylvie Lorieux’s son …’
‘That doesn’t mean anything to me either.’
‘I understand. We ’re going back about forty years. Sylvie Lorieux was your secretary at that time.’
Monsieur Lavenant narrowed his gaze. The man’s face was strangely familiar but he couldn’t see the slightest trace of a Sylvie Lorieux coming through.
‘Don’t rack your brains, I’ll explain. I’m a communications consultant and by the greatest coincidence I found myself working for your firm in Lyon. My mother often spoke about you. For a long time I was in two minds about meeting you, then … well, here I am.’
‘I don’t quite grasp the purpose of your visit.’
‘I’m your son.’
When it was hot, Sylvie Lorieux used to put her hair up in a chignon, held in place by a pencil. She was a pretty girl, gentle, discreet. They had spent only one night together, during a business trip to Brussels. A simple one-night stand. Some months later she had left her job. He no longer remembered the reason. He’d missed her as she was very competent. Sylvie Lorieux.
‘Sit down. How is your mother?’
‘She died. Four years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Have you known for long that …’
‘Yes. Since I was old enough to understand.’
‘And you never tried to contact me?’
‘Yes, once. I must have been sixteen or seventeen. I phoned. It was your wife who answered. I hung up.’
‘Were you living in Lyon?’
‘No, Paris.’
The silence uniting the two men was short-lived. The merciless neighbour had just started up one of his diabolical machines. As Monsieur Lavenant got up to shut the window, Thérèse knocked on the door.
‘I have to go out for some shopping – you don’t need anything, do you?’
‘No, thank you, Thérèse.’
She stayed for a moment, surreptitiously giving him a questioning look, and then, receiving no sign from him, closed the door behind her, but not before she ’d given the stranger a dark stare. Monsieur Lavenant sat down in his armchair again, lighting a cigarette to give himself time to think of something to say.
‘I find it a little hard to believe you. The relationship I had with your mother – can it really be called a relationship? – was extremely short.’
‘I know, she told me. Once is enough though. That being so, she never blamed you for anything. I think she was really very much in love with you. There was your wife, however. She chose to leave the scene.’
‘She never married?’
‘No. The odd boyfriend. I never felt she missed the past. She had good memories of you. I believe she had quite a happy life.’
‘You … Were you ever in need?’
‘I wanted for nothing.’
‘Not even a father?’
‘To be honest, no. Well, sometimes, maybe. Most of my friends were fighting with theirs. It doesn’t make you wish for one.’
‘So why did you want to meet me after all this time?’
‘In Lyon I discovered that you’d been seriously ill. I think I would have regretted not having known you.’
Monsieur Lavenant gave a bitter little laugh.
‘Sorry, but I’ve already made my will, and anyway, as you can see, apart from this crippled arm I’m in the best of health.’
‘I knew you’d think of that. You’re mistaken. I make a very good living, I don’t need money.’
‘Come on! You’d be the only one then. I’m warning you, I’ll categorically refuse to take any test of my supposed paternity.’
‘You’ve got it wrong. As I’ve already said, it’s not a question of that. I needed to see you, the way one needs to look at oneself in a mirror, to follow a river upstream to its source.’
‘Very poetic, I’m sure, but you’ve happened on a stagnant pool. What do you expect me to do with a son at my age? Bounce you up and down on my knee?’
‘I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m on the wrong track. I’m sorry for disturbing you.’
Jean-Baptiste stood up, hesitated, then held out his hand to Édouard. It was a hand as honest and wholesome as a slice of bread.
‘Oh sit down, for heaven’s sake! I’m not sending you away. You parachute in like this, without a word of warning … Are you going back up to Lyon?’
‘No, I’m on my way to Avignon. That’s why I made the detour. I have a meeting tomorrow, in the early afternoon.’
‘So you’re free for the day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll stay to lunch. I won’t take no for an answer.’
When Thérèse came back from shopping, Édouard introduced Jean-Baptiste as an employee of his firm, and she seemed relieved. During the meal they talked work, percentages, profits and losses, things Thérèse didn’t understand but which in a way reassured her. When this Monsieur Lorieux had turned up that morning, she had been struck at once by his family resemblance to Édouard and, without really knowing why, had thought it augured badly. Now she was cross with herself for her misgivings. The man was most polite, calm, something of a dreamer. Édouard seemed pleased to have met him. In contrast to the previous days, he was talkative, full of a verve which took years off him. Even so, that resemblance … She left them to have coffee in the garden and went off to attend to other tasks.
The shadow of the lime tree cast a myriad of ever-changing patterns on the white tablecloth. A bee prowled round the sugar bowl. Édouard and Jean-Baptiste had started talking about business only to put Thérèse off the scent. At present they didn’t really know what to say to each other, both of them afraid of lapsing into the worst banalities.
‘Do you like fishing?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Angling, do you like it?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried. I’ve always lived in a city.’
‘Not even on holiday though?’
‘No. It never appealed. Do you fish?’
‘Once upon a time. Do you feel like it?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, why not? There are fish in the Aygues. I bought a rod yesterday. Why not sleep here tonight? With an early start you’ll have plenty of time to get to Avignon for the early afternoon.’
‘Why not? I have to admit I wasn’t expecting that, but …’
‘Did I expect to have a son?’
The stone was red-hot in the place Édouard had chosen, a two- to three-metre overhang above a pool just after a little waterfall. He had discovered the spot during a walk; you could see fish the size of your hand swimming back and forth in the clear water. After explaining to Jean-Baptiste how to prepare his line, he had sat slightly further back, where the branches of a willow formed a shelter. His son had square shoulders; his white shirt was so dazzling in the sun that Édouard had to pull the brim of his hat down over his eyes.
‘If someone had to
ld me this morning that I’d be going fishing with my father …’
‘If we knew everything about the future, the present wouldn’t be worth a jot. Are you married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Children?’
‘Two. Richard’s nine and Noémie turns six next month.’
‘So I’m a grandfather?’
‘You certainly are.’
‘Have you told them about me?’
‘No, and my wife doesn’t know either.’
‘Will you tell them?’
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘Don’t turn round. Keep your eyes on your float … You should do what you want. It makes no difference to me. I’m not family-minded. What’s your wife ’s name?’
‘Nelly.’
‘So all in all, you’re a happy man?’
‘You could say that. What are those birds up above the mountain? Buzzards?’
‘No, vultures.’
‘Vultures, here?’
‘Yes, griffon vultures.’
‘I’m out fishing with my son. I have a daughter-in-law called Nelly and two grandchildren. It’s grotesque! Children steal your past in order to make their own present from it; they take you apart like an old alarm clock and leave you in bits. Vultures at least have the decency to wait until their prey is dead before they rip it to pieces. Secondary tumours, that’s what they are, reproducing themselves ad infinitum. I didn’t want to leave anything behind me, not a thing! What do you have to do to finally be at peace? To stop dragging the past around like a ball and chain? I was just beginning to feel lighter, then this idiot fetches up with his healthy looks, his good intentions and his nice little family. He can go to hell!’
His hand tightened around a large stone, as smooth and round as an egg.
‘That’s it! I’ve got one! What do I do now?’
Monsieur Lavenant let go of the pebble. Jean-Baptiste was wrestling with his line, at the end of which wriggled a gleaming fish.
‘Well, you unhook it and throw it back into the water. They’re inedible, these fish, packed full of bones.’
Jean-Baptiste had gone to fetch his bag from the car, carrying the fishing rod – a gift from Monsieur Lavenant – under his arm. Thérèse was in the garden reading, feet up on a chair. Seeing Édouard coming, she lowered her dress, which she had hitched halfway up her thighs.
‘Has Monsieur Lorieux left?’
‘He’s gone to fetch his things. He’ll have dinner with us and spend the night here.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. What’s so surprising in that? There’s no hotel here. He’s leaving for Avignon early tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t bother me, it’s just that I have to get a room ready for him and change my menu. I think he’s a very likeable young man, very well brought up. It’s unbelievable how much he resembles you; he ’s like you as a young man.’
‘What do you know about it? You never knew me when I was young.’
‘I’m imagining …’
‘Well, you imagine wrong. I wasn’t at all like that. I’m going to take a shower.’
With a towel round his waist, Édouard faced himself in the bathroom mirror. ‘No, I wasn’t at all like that. No one thought I was likeable. I was already a dried-up old stick. I didn’t look like my father, short and stout with such dull eyes. I’ve always suspected my mother must have been unfaithful to him, even if she would never admit it to me. It’s better to be no one ’s son than just anybody’s.’
Slowly the steam turned the mirror opaque and Monsieur Lavenant was relieved to be back in the limbo he should never have left.
Thérèse had been behaving flirtatiously all evening. She and Jean-Baptiste seemed to get along extremely well. He had done his military service near Strasbourg and knew Alsace like the back of his hand. Monsieur Lavenant thought her ridiculous in the lilac dress he had never seen her wearing before. He felt sidelined, relegated to the rank of aged relation whom people respect, admittedly, while keeping a surreptitious eye on his wine and cigarette consumption. Thérèse and Jean-Baptiste had just discovered something else they had in common, besides Alsace. They had the same birthday. Wasn’t that amazing? They’d just missed spending their birthday together! Monsieur Lavenant insisted on cracking open a bottle of champagne, even though the other two didn’t see the need.
‘Yes, yes! It’s not every day you have something to celebrate. I’ll go down to the cellar.’
Édouard sat on a packing case, staring at the naked forty-watt light bulb hanging from the vaulted ceiling. There was a smell of humus, mushrooms, the dark. So that was where he’d be spending eternity, while the others danced on his head, eating, drinking, making love, laughing in honour of that bitch, life. How could all that continue without him? There was still too much light in this crypt. Wielding the bottle like a club, he smashed the bulb. Groping his way, he dragged himself up the slippery steps and out of the cellar, like one of the living dead in a horror film.
Thérèse had cleared the table. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining. With his back to them, Jean-Baptiste was holding both window panes wide open, breathing in the blue pigment of the night. On the ground his shadow made the shape of a large cross.
‘Well now, where were you? You’ve been ages.’
‘The cellar light’s not working.’
They drank to the health of who knows what, health itself perhaps, before Thérèse disappeared, leaving father and son face to face.
‘Thérèse is a very warm person. She seems very fond of you.’
‘She’s competent.’
‘No more than that?’
‘That’s all I want from her.’
Jean-Baptiste bent his head, then brought it up again immediately, with a serious look on his face.
‘Are you angry with me for coming?’
‘Tomorrow you’ll have gone.’
‘I don’t understand you. One minute you’re open, the next closed up, and I never know which side of the door I’m on.’
‘Who’s asking you to understand me? Am I trying to understand you? Anyway, what is there to understand? You wanted to see me, you’ve seen me, job done.’
Jean-Baptiste drained his glass and put it on the coffee table, damp-eyed.
‘You’re harsh, and it’s taking a lot of effort to be like that. I’m sorry for you.’
‘Oh please. I haven’t asked for anything from you. And why should I deserve pity more than you? My life has been what it’s been; it’s as good as any other. I shall leave it with remorse, perhaps, but without regrets. Yours is just beginning, a little grub of a life that you’re feeding with your illusions of a man in his prime. What a load of shit! No matter what you achieve – success in society, a happy family – it will all blow up in your face just as it does for the most heinous criminal. No, Monsieur Lorieux, I am not to be pitied, any more than any other human being.’
‘How black your view of the world is.’
‘If you think white is preferable then go and live on the ice fields. Everything’s white over there – the igloos, the bears, the polar nights! There’s no one there any more; even the Eskimos have cleared off.’
‘I wouldn’t like to be like you at the end of my life.’
‘There’s no danger of that happening to you. Right, I think we’ve said all we had to say. I’m tired, I’m going to bed. Has Thérèse shown you your room?’
‘Yes. We won’t see each other again, then?’
‘I don’t see the need.’
‘I’d have liked to do something for you.’
‘The harm’s been done, thanks. Goodnight.’
Monsieur Lavenant had had a bad night. Around four in the morning a cat fight had broken out on the roof of the shed next to his bedroom window. Starting off with threatening growls, it had turned into a stampede that set the old Roman tiles rattling, and culminated in an explosion of shrill miaowing which had reduced what remained of the night to tatters. He had
n’t been able to shut his eyes again until almost six, and then only to marinate in a feverish half-sleep which had exhausted him more than if he’d stayed awake. It took him some time to clear his head of the shredded remnants of his dreams.
Entering the kitchen, he was astonished to see Jean-Baptiste busy washing his hands in the sink, motor oil up to his elbows.
‘You’re still here?’
‘My car’s broken down. I’ve just spent an hour trying to get it started, but no joy.’
‘Oh.’
Édouard turned his back and poured himself a bowl of coffee. He didn’t want his son to see the secret satisfaction on his face. Not because of his engine problems but because he was still there. He couldn’t have said why.
‘May I use your phone to call a mechanic?’
‘Yes, but round here the mechanics are more often off fishing or hunting than in their garage. Worth a try though!’
He gestured towards the phone with his chin and began sipping his coffee, eyes level with the curved rim of the bowl. Without appearing to, he pricked up his ears.
‘What, three at the earliest? Well, give me the address of one of your colleagues. Oh … well, in that case … Yes, I’ll manage somehow, thanks.’
While Jean-Baptiste suffered defeat after defeat with the car mechanics, a broad smile was spreading across Édouard’s face. Naturally his mouth reverted to its usual downward curve when his son came and sat down opposite him, chewing his thumbnail.
‘You couldn’t make it up! They all have urgent breakdowns.’
Low Heights Page 5