by Louise Dean
Jeff put his hands up. ‘OK, grandpa.’
‘You should have kept it in your trousers,’ Guy said sullenly, turning to go back to the ladder. Simone was standing in the front porch of the villa.
‘They’re coming, the fire brigade,’ she said. ‘I told them the house was burning down and there was a kid inside, otherwise they wouldn’t have come. What’s he doing now? Max.’
Guy looked up, squinting. ‘He’s just sitting there, listening to us. It’s a good view. You can see for maybe a hundred kilometres. You can see the hills of Canjuers, you can see the Mediterranean on a good day. It’s a good place to sit. And he can hear everything that’s being said.’
Simone let him position the ladder against the wall. ‘Maxence, you want a coffee?’ she called out, stepping back.
‘How about a cigarette?’ Guy added, stepping back too.
Valérie went and sat on the trampoline, with Maud behind her going gently up and down, pitter-patter, singing a school hymn.
‘Dance then, wherever you may be . . .’
Jeff stood moving his hand across the bristle on his pate. It comforted him. His heart was racing and although it was bright and sunny nothing felt clear to him; he was stuck. In the chill air, he felt the little goat-teeth of conscience nip, nip, nip on his collar. He had so wanted to be a good father. He felt his arms loose, his hands unheld.
The fire engine, a great red truck, hauled itself in through the gates with a burly thick-set man leaning out of the window, looking every inch the gay pin-up.
‘Which house has the fire?’
‘This one.’
‘Where’s the fire?’
Simone raced forwards, letting the sleeveless jacket part, presenting her woolly breasts. ‘Oh, monsieur le pompier. There’s no fire. Forgive me, but we’re in such a state here. There’s a child on the roof.’
‘Well, tell him to come down.’ The man put his head back in to share this with his comrade, who broke into a handsome smile.
‘It’s not funny, monsieur. The child has been up there all night,’ she touched her nose, ‘maybe longer, we’re not sure. He might have hypothermia. He could die.’
‘Who is the kid then, madame?’
‘He’s my grandson. He’s not well in the head. He’s on pills for his head.’ She pointed at her own. ‘You’ve got to get him down, monsieur, I beg you.’
‘Here comes the punch line,’ said Jeff, as a taxi pulled in through the gates.
‘Ma foi,’ said the taxi driver, getting out, following their gazes, looking up. ‘There’s a kid on the roof.’
The back doors slammed as Rachel and Richard got out.
‘We’ve got a hose,’ said the fire-engine driver, descending. ‘We could soak him a bit, he won’t like that.’
‘You don’t go soaking kids,’ said the taxi driver. ‘He could fall, then you’d have a dead kid.’
‘I’m a part-timer.’ The driver shrugged, looking at everyone, recognizing Guy and giving him the bises.
His handsome comrade in the crisp uniform came round and greeted them all with handshakes, ending with Simone, whom he gave the bises.
‘Simone? I thought I knew you! My mother’s still doing the
Rotary club.’
‘She’s not!’
‘She is. Eighty-five next March!’
‘Guy. This is Guillaume . . .’
‘Dutouquet.’
‘I knew it was something like a parrot.’
‘Well, I think the best thing is if one of you could climb up and have a chat with him,’ said the big driver.
‘Tried that,’ said Jeff.
Maud ran across to Rachel. ‘Max is on the roof. He’s been reading your books, Mummy. That’s why.’
‘He’ll jump for sure if this guy goes up to reason with him,’ said Guillaume, pointing at Guy, grinning.
‘I don’t mind going up,’ said Guy grimly, focusing his eyes on the boy.
‘You’re no good with heights,’ said Simone.
Richard stood at the front of them, his hands sheltering the sides of his eyes. He relinquished Rachel’s hand though she’d come up behind him to hold his.
‘I’ll go up and talk to him.’
‘The kid’s a psycho,’ said Jeff. ‘He’ll come down when he’s hungry, he eats like a horse.’
Richard turned round to look at Jeff. Jeff held out his hand for him to shake.
‘I’m not shaking your hand.’
Jeff held it there. ‘I’m saying sorry, man.’
‘You’re saying it to the wrong person.’
‘He hasn’t eaten for days, not properly,’ put in Valérie.
‘He might be malnourished,’ said Simone, shrugging. Richard went inside.
‘There’s something wrong with the kid,’ said the burly fireman, hand at the peak of his cap. ‘I mean to be sitting up there arse-naked on a day like this, there’s got to be something wrong with him, that’s all I know.’
Guillaume saw Valérie. ‘Sorry for your troubles,’ he said.
‘Can’t you guys go up there and bring him down?’
‘We haven’t got that kind of equipment. We have been known to do cats as a favour, though according to the rules we’re not supposed to, if the cat got hurt we could get sued, you know. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But you know, one thing I do know is that you get up there and they come right down anyway.’
‘He’ll come down,’ Jeff repeated. His face was without any trace of mirth. He needed the boy to come down, to release him; he felt vulnerable standing there, as exposed as if it were he on the roof. He hadn’t even looked at Rachel, but he could feel her looking at him and it was an unpleasant feeling. It’s not my fault, he said to himself. None of this is my fault anyway.
‘He’ll listen to Richard,’ said Rachel. ‘Richard will know what to say.’ She said it with such a sure warmth that at last Jeff ventured a look at her. The expression on her face made him feel sick. They were lovers, then, she and Richard.
Richard had climbed on to the balcony wall and stood with his hands on the bottom ledge of the roof, where Jeff had been before.
‘He wants to be careful,’ said Guillaume, wincing. ‘You see, we can’t do anything like that really, not without being roped. I don’t think of myself, I mean if I weren’t wearing this uniform that would be me right there. It’s right that it’s the father though. He is the father, right . . . ?’ He looked quickly at Jeff.
‘They shouldn’t have asked you to come out. You’re only supposed to come out to put out fires. I know. I did a volunteer stint myself down in Cogolin in eighty-three,’ said the taxi driver.
‘Would anyone like a drink?’ asked Simone.
‘Sure, just a small one.’
‘A schnapps or something.’
Richard spoke to his son. ‘Come on, Max. I’m back now. Come down, son. I love you so much, Max. You’re my best pal. You know that. Come on, Max. I need you. Come down.’
Max put out two fingers and moved them in the air between them, making the V of the sights of a gun, then closing them and making a circle as if anointing his father. His right foot shifted and displaced the corner of a tile. Richard caught his breath as his son’s trainer-clad foot failed to find a place to rest; it seemed to hang and shudder. Automatically, he put a hand out. ‘Careful, kidder, it’s wet, the roof, from the rain.’
‘This is not good,’ Guy whispered. He had the ladder against the wall but it didn’t reach high enough to be of any use. He stood by it, tense, his hands in their fixed shape.
‘Come down, sweet boy,’ Rachel called out. ‘Come down. Let’s get you warm and safe and we can all talk.’
‘Listen to Rachel,’ said Richard, ‘she’s right.’
‘Happy families,’ said Jeff sourly.
‘Oh, Jeff, you’re such a fool,’ said Rachel, turning to him suddenly. ‘You’re such a hypocrite, you don’t have a conscience.’
‘Oh, don’t be all highfalutin, woman. Call me an asshole
or something, will you?’ He kept his eyes on the roof; he did not look at her.
The taxi driver clapped his hands together and blew on them.
‘Is the guy on the roof going to pay me? There’s no point in me waiting here watching it get dark, he could be hours up there, you know.’
‘He could be,’ said Guillaume. ‘You have to take these things slowly. It’s psychological. It’s a game of nerves. You get the big tough guys like Hubert here, who want the action, but me, what I find interesting is watching the thing unfold, you can soon see what’s going to happen.’ He put out his cigarette. ‘I don’t like the look of this one.’
‘People just don’t know how to raise kids these days,’ said the taxi driver.
‘Here’s your money, fella,’ said Jeff, taking a couple of notes out of his pocket and striding towards him. ‘There you go. Merry Christmas. That should cover it. Connard.’
‘I’m not the one with my kid on the roof. Connard.’
‘He’s not my kid.’
‘He’s a nutcase. What’s he doing — welcome party for Santa Claus?’ he snorted and got in his car, waiving Simone’s offer of a glass of schnapps.
‘The kid’s not a nutcase,’ said Guy, still looking at the roof.
‘That’s one thing he’s not.’
The firemen were each given a small shot glass of schnapps by Simone, who wiped her hands on her trousers and bristled in the cold. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen any more,’ she said.
‘Shh. Calme-toi,’ said Guy, ‘it will be all right. He’s not mad.’ Richard was speaking again, addressing his son. ‘Max. We’ve been selfish, all of us. We’ve been thinking about ourselves. None of it matters now, it only matters that you are safe. You’re a special kid. I love you, Max, I’d give my life for you. I’m coming up there.’ His hands got no traction on the damp tiles and he wondered how he was going to do it. He called down to Guy. ‘How do I get up there?’
‘Try the back balcony,’ said Jeff, ‘go to the other side, that’s how the satellite guy got up there, there are some steps. You want me to come show you?’
Richard got down and went back into the house.
Valérie stepped forwards, cupping her mouth, shouting up to the boy, ‘Max! Your father’s going to come to you. Just stay there.’
The boy’s left leg slipped and he looked slightly surprised; as he put his hands flat to steady himself, he dislodged a couple of tiles and they dropped to the ground.
‘Max!’ Valérie called again. ‘Just wait there, your father’s coming. Oh Max. I’m so sorry, Max. I’m finished with Jeff. I don’t care about that now, it’s all over with, it was stupidity . . . Please forgive me. I’ve been a terrible mother. Give me another chance, Max.’
Jeff went into the house, shaking his head and laughing without feeling.
‘Come down to us,’ said Richard softly, coming up the back roof, gripping the upper side of each tile, his cheek pressed to the tiling. ‘We can make a new start.’
Max was speaking. ‘My grandmother prophesies. My grandfather reads from nature. My mother is a demon. My father is a stranger. I am a servant of God. He wants me to be the bridge for you to meet upon.’
‘What’s he saying?’ Rachel asked.
‘He’s talking about my gift,’ said Simone, shrugging over at the firemen. ‘He might have my powers. I’d never have imagined it, but it’s possible. It can skip a generation, that’s quite normal.’
‘He’s talking about nature,’ said Guy. ‘Listen to him.’ The firemen lit cigarettes.
‘He’s telling a story,’ said Guillaume, smiling as guilelessly as if it were snowing.
‘. . . his politicians told the king that his people were dying every day, of a disease new to them. The king said to himself, “But I am alive and well and happy. If they die it won’t matter to me for I have stored up everything I need. If they die, even better, I will have everything to myself.” And a voice in his head said, “Yes, but you won’t be loved.” But he answered it, “That doesn’t matter to me.” The voice spoke again, “But you won’t have anyone to talk to.” And he thought about that too and answered, “I’ve done a lot of talking. I have had enough of it.” Then he heard the voice saying to him, “But, King, do you not think you ought to save them?” And he replied, “No, I do not. And I do not believe in you.” And he drank a lot of wine on his own, the best wine he had. He made sure to smile at everybody and to say things to trick them about what he was thinking so they wouldn’t rise up against him and kill him. He had the storytellers put out stories of his ancestors and their terrible evil doings, so that the people would say, “Well, in our time we have a much better king, we’re very lucky.” He surprised them at times with a little kindness. But even the smallest kindness hurt him, and he felt unhappy and his desire for the deaths of the people grew stronger until he went mad with longing for their destruction and tore at his chest to try to rip his heart out.’
The two firemen had been giving each other comical looks during the boy’s story.
‘It’s a Perrault,’ said the driver. ‘It’s called “The King and the Flute”, isn’t it?’
‘There was no flute in it.’
‘No, he forgot that part.’
Simone and Maud and Rachel held each other’s hands. Valérie had her hand over her mouth. Guy remained standing behind, his hands on Simone’s shoulders, a serious expression on his face.
‘That’s my story,’ he said, ‘that’s my story.’
‘I couldn’t hear half of it. What was it about? Some king eating his heart out? Is it an English story?’ Simone frowned at Rachel.
‘It was like a parable,’ said Rachel.
‘There wasn’t a happy ending,’ said Maud.
‘Look!’ Guy raised a finger.
The boy was no longer there.
Richard came to the front door with his hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘I’m going to get him to put some clothes on,’ he said, wheeling him round again. Max looked unperturbed; glassy-eyed and vacant, his cheeks were peaky from the cold.
Valérie ran to her son. ‘Oh, Max. I meant it, everything I said,’
she said. ‘Let me love you, Max.’
‘Let him get some clothes on, Valérie, he’s freezing cold.’
Max looked at his mother. He took her face in his hands and kissed her on her nose.
* * *
‘Well, thanks for the drinks.’ The firemen handed Simone their glasses. ‘Good luck to you all. Call the doctor out maybe, to check the kid over.’ They got into the cab of their truck and the noise of the unleashing of their amusement was only just caught in time by the electric windows. They drove off, laughing about it all.
‘And what about the old man saying, that’s my story . . .’
‘And the taxi guy calling the American a prick . . .’
‘You know they’ve swapped wives, right . . .’
‘Who?’
‘The two couples.’
‘They drink too much, they laze about around the pool, looking at each other’s wives half naked, they get everyone doing everything for them and then they wonder why they’ve got a kid on the roof.’
‘She’s had a breast job. Corinne told me.’
‘Sure, they got it half price, he’s in the business, that English guy.’
‘He used to go hunting with the Vidauban crowd.’
‘Yeah. I know that. He used to get drunk and go on and on about his work. A cosmetic surgeon. Down in Nice. It’s why I like this job, you see, you get to see people in difficult situations, you know. That’s how you get to see what a person’s like. I used to want to be an actor.’
‘Did you?’
* * *
‘Maxence! My grandson!’ Guy called as the boy, now clothed, came through the front door. ‘From this day I will not drink a drop of wine again!’
When they each tried to embrace him, he looked at them in turn. They clutched at him and said his name, and told him they loved hi
m. Then he went with his grandfather to his house and the first thing he did was to pick up the ten-litre wine box on the outside table and brandish it.
The old man assented.
Max took it and stood on the back doorstep, he held it low between his legs so that it seemed like he was urinating, and he turned the tap round to make the flow louder and faster and they both had a sly laugh about it.
‘Genius!’
‘I know it!’
‘Good man!’
‘A cigarette!’
Chapter 58
The winter advanced and receded in a war of attrition with the summer. One day the daffodil soldiers emerged with their long green-leaved spears, the next they were heavy-headed, struggling against the cold. There came first the white wild flowers and one or two white butterflies, and then the cold wind would blow them away. The next day the yellow dandelions broke cover, and they were matched by yellow butterflies, then blossom burst like popcorn popping on the branches of the cherry trees, infant fig leaves uncurled and blue flowers dared a dome-head here and there, and at last there came a poppy, just one, but the next day there were three, and then with a great hoorah nature chucked everything she had at summer and the poppies raged across the fields like measles.
The ex-pats had spent the cold months taking a turn here and there at somebody’s house, comparing prospective summer rental incomes, now in jeopardy ‘thanks to fucking Tuscany’, playing board games with petulance.
The morning after Maxence was on the roof, Valérie was in the kitchen, cooking her son pancakes with tears dripping off her chin, a wad of kitchen towel in one hand, a spatula in the other.
When Maud came to breakfast and saw her, she fled to the front door in her nightdress and stood on the doorstep calling out,
‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’ Jeff was gone.
‘What are you doing?’ Richard asked Valérie at lunchtime, finding her alone in the kitchen. She was sitting at the round dining table, holding the roll of kitchen towel between her hands.