French Leave

by Anna Gavalda

  “Just like Captain Haddock in The Castafiore Emerald,” laughed Simon.

  An old Rom took Vincent in his arms.

  “Hey son, here you are.”

  He’d certainly found himself a few families, our little Vincent. It was hardly surprising he’d snubbed ours.

  And then it was straight out of an old Kusturica film, from the time before he got bigheaded.

  The old guys were singing these songs so sad you could weep, it just turned you inside out, and the young ones were clapping their hands while the women danced around the fire. Most of them were fat and badly dressed but when they moved, the very air around them seemed to be in motion.

  The kids were still running all over the place and the grannies were watching television and rocking the babies to sleep. Almost all of them had gold teeth, and they smiled proudly to make sure we knew it.

  Vincent was right at home with them, in hog heaven. He played his guitar: his eyes were closed, maybe just a fraction more concentrated than usual, so he could keep the tune and a certain distance.

  The old men had fingernails like talons and the wood on the fret boards of their guitars was all worn down beneath the strings.

  Gling, gling, toc.

  Even if you didn’t understand the words, it wouldn’t be hard to guess the lyrics:

  Where are you, my country? Oh where are you, my love?

  Oh where are you, my friend? Oh where are you, my son?

  And it went on to say, more or less,

  I have no more country, only memories now.

  My love is gone, only heartache now.

  I’ve lost my friend, this song is for him.

  An old woman brought us some flat beer. The minute we finished our glasses she came back with more.

  Lola’s eyes were shining; she was sitting with two kids on her lap, rubbing her chin on their hair. Simon looked at me with a smile.

  We had come a long way, the two of us, since that morning . . .

  Oops, here comes the irrepressible old granny with her lukewarm watery lager.

  I motioned to Vincent to ask him if he had some smoke, but his answer was along the lines of hush, later. This was a new twist . . . Here we were among these good folk who don’t send their kids to school, and there might well be a little Mozart rotting away in this dump of theirs, and they do what they like with the laws we hard-working sedentary folk come up with, but they don’t smoke weed.

  By all the saints of Merco-Benz, we’ll have none of that here.

  You girls take Isaure’s bed.”

  “With all that moaning from the dungeon? No thanks.”

  “But that’s just bullshit!”

  “And with that dumbass who has a set of keys? No way. We’re sleeping in here with you!”

  “All right, just chill, Garance.”

  “Don’t tell me to chill! I am still a virgin, you better believe it!”

  I was dead tired, but I still managed to get a laugh out of them. I was actually rather proud of myself.

  The boys slept in Lover Boy’s stall, and we curled up in Hurricane’s.

  Simon woke us. He’d been down to the village for croissants.

  “From Pidoule’s?” I asked with a yawn.

  “From Pidoule’s.”

  Vincent didn’t open the gates that day.

  “Closed due to rock fall,” he wrote on a piece of cardboard.

  He showed us around the chapel. He and Nono had moved the château’s piano up to the altar so now all the angels in heaven could swing along.

  We were treated to a little concert.

  There we were, on a Sunday morning, sitting in a pew. Well-mannered and contemplative in the light of the stained glass, listening to “Knock Knock Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door ” . . .

  Lola wanted to visit every nook and cranny of the château. I asked Vincent to give us a rerun of his show. We were falling over each other laughing.

  He showed us everything: the chatelaine’s chambers, her girdles, her commode, her coypu traps, her recipes for coypu pâté, her bottle of hooch, and her old guide to the Peerage, Baronetage & Knightage, greasy from so much fingering. And then the cellars, the wines, the outbuildings, the saddle room, the hunting lodge and the old rampart walk.

  Simon was amazed by the ingeniousness of the architects and other fortress-building experts. Lola was herb-gathering.

  I sat down on a stone bench and observed the three of them.

  My brothers leaning over the moat . . . Simon must be missing his latest remote-controlled model . . . Oh if only See-sull Dabbleyou were here . . . Vincent must have read his mind, because he said, “Forget about your little boats. There are humongous carps in there. They’d chew them up in no time.”

  “Are you serious?”

  A dreamy silence, to stroke the lichen on the parapet . . .

  “Actually, you know what?” murmured our Captain Ahab eventually, “it would be much more entertaining. I’ll have to come back with Léo. Just to see some huge submoatian monster swallow down those precious toys he’s never had the right to go near—might be the best thing that could ever happen to the two of us.”

  I didn’t hear what he said after that but I could see they were high-fiving as if they’d just made a really good deal.

  And there was my Lola, on her knees with her sketchbook among the daisies and the sweet peas . . . My sister’s back, two daring white butterflies, her hair held up in a paintbrush, her long neck, her arms emaciated by a long divorce, the bottom of her T-shirt in a crumple as she used it to smudge her paint. A palette of white cotton that gradually took on its own colors . . .

  I have never been more sorry not to have my camera with me.

  Let’s just chalk it up to fatigue, but I found myself wallowing in sentimentality. A huge wave of tenderness washed over me looking at the three of them: somehow this felt like the last magic show, the last birthday party of our childhood . . .

  For almost thirty years they’d been making my life a place of beauty . . . What would I become without them? When would life decide it was time for us to part?

  For that’s the way it goes. For time parts those who love one another, and nothing lasts.

  What we were experiencing at that moment—something all four of us were aware of—was a windfall. Bor­rowed time, an interlude, a moment of grace. A few hours stolen from other people . . .

  For how much longer will we have the strength to tear ourselves away from everyday life and resist? How often will life give us the chance to play hooky? To thumb our noises at it? Or make our little honorarium on the side? When will we lose one another, and in what way will the ties be stretched beyond repair?

  How much longer until we become too old?

  And I know we were all aware of this. I know what we’re like.

  We were too shy to talk about it, but at that precise moment on our journey, we knew.

  We knew that in the shadow of that ruined castle we were living the last hours of an era, and the time for change was drawing near. Time to part with closeness and tenderness, with our rough-and-tumble love for each other. Time to let go; open our palms and grow up, at last.

  Time for the Dalton Gang to go their separate ways and ride off into the sunset . . .

  I’m such a dork. I’d almost worked myself up into a state of solitary weeping when I saw something by the side of the path . . .

  What was that thing?

  I stood up, squinting.

  An animal, a little creature was struggling to make its way toward me.

  Was he hurt? What was it?

  A fox?

  A fox with his jar of urine, an emissary from Carine?

  A rabbit?

  It was a dog.

  Unbelievable.

  It was the dog I’d seen from the car yesterday, the one who’d dissolved in the rearview mirror . . .

  It was the dog my eyes had locked gazes with, a hundred kilometers from here . . .

  No. It couldn’t be him. But
I think it was . . .

  Hey, at this rate, they’ll want me on Animal Planet!

  I knelt down and held out my hand. He didn’t even have the strength left to wag his tail. He took three more steps and collapsed at my feet.

  For a few seconds I didn’t move. I was scared shitless.

  A dog had just come to die at my feet.

  But then he gave a heartbreaking little whimper, trying to lick his paw. He was bleeding.

  Lola came over and said, “Where’d this dog come from?”

  I looked up at her and answered bleakly, “I cannot believe my eyes.”

  Now the four of us were on our knees to see what he needed. Vincent went to fetch some water, Lola to find some food, and Simon stole a cushion from the yellow salon.

  The dog gulped down the water then collapsed in the dust. We carried him into the shade.

  This business was downright weird.

  We put together a picnic and went down to the river.

  My throat was tight at the thought that the dog would probably be history by the time we came back up. But what could . . . At least he’d chosen a beautiful spot for it. And he’d have keeners as good as they come.

  The boys wedged the bottles in the stones at the edge of the river while we spread a blanket. We had just sat down when Vincent said, “Hey look, there he is.”

  The dog dragged himself over to me once again. He curled up against my thigh and fell asleep at once.

  “I think he’s trying to tell you something,” said Simon.

  All three of them were laughing, teasing me: “Hey Garance, don’t make such a face. He loves you, that’s all. Come on . . . Say cheese. It’s no big deal.”

  “But what the hell am I supposed to do with a dog? Can you see me in my tiny studio on the seventh floor with a dog?”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it,” said Lola, “remem­ber your horoscope? You’ve got Venus in Leo and you just have to accept it. This is the important encounter you had to prepare yourself for. I warned you . . . ”

  Another round of laughter.

  “Consider it a sign from fate,” said Simon, “this dog has come to save you—”

  “—so that you’ll lead a healthier, more balanced lifestyle—” added Lola.

  “—and get up in the morning to take him out for a wee,” said Simon. “You’ll have to buy a tracksuit and take him jogging in the country every weekend.”

  “This way you’ll schedule your day, and you’ll feel responsible,” Vincent chimed in.

  I was flabbergasted.

  “Not the tracksuit, spare me . . . ”

  Vincent uncorked a bottle and said, “And he’s a cute little guy, too.”

  Damn it, who could argue with that? He had bald spots and fleas and scabs, he was scruffy and ragged and mongrelly, but he was cute all right.

  “Seeing he’s made this huge effort to find you, after all, you’re not about to abandon him, now, I hope?”

  I leaned over to look at him. He was pretty smelly, for one thing . . .

  “Will you take him to the SPCA?”

  “Hey! Why me? We found him all together, may I remind you!”

  “Look!” shouted Lola, “He’s smiling at you.”

  Fuck. He was, too. He’d turned over and he was wagging his tail, limply, and he raised his eyes to look at me.

  Oh . . . Why? Why me? Would he even fit in the basket on my bike? And my concierge had it in for me, as it was . . .

  And what does a dog eat?

  And how long does it live?

  And what about that little shovel for picking up the dog doo? And the retractable leash, and the inane conversations with all the neighbors out walking their mutts after the evening TV movie, fellow members of the pooper scooper brigade?

  Heaven help us . . .

  The Bourgueil was nicely chilled. We nibbled on some rillons and spread rillettes thick as pillows on our bread, and slowly savored some warm, sweet tomatoes, pyramids of ashy goat cheese, and orchard pears.

  How good it felt. The water gurgling, the wind in the trees and the chatter of birds. The sun glistened on the river, shooting sparks here, vanishing there, bursting against the clouds or running along the riverbanks. My dog was dreaming about soft squelchy tarmac, grunting with happiness, and the flies pestered us.

  We talked about the same things we’d talked about at the age of ten, fifteen, and twenty: the books we’d read, the films we’d seen, the music we’d heard, and the places we’d discovered. We talked about the Gallica online library and all the other treasures you could find on the Internet, and about the musicians we loved, and about the train or concert tickets or the time off we dreamt of treating ourselves to, and the exhibitions we were bound to miss, and our friends and the friends of our friends and the love stories we had—or hadn’t—played a part in. Mostly hadn’t, as it happened, and that’s when we were at our best. At telling the stories, I mean. Stretched out in the grass, devoured by all sorts of little insects, we teased each other and mocked our own selves, writhing with laughter and sunburn be damned.

  And then we talked about our parents. The way we always did. About Mom and Pop. Their new lives. Their own love stories. And our future. In short, the everyday trifles and the handful of people that filled our lives.

  It wasn’t much, trifles to many people, and yet a boundless fortune.

  Simon and Lola talked about their children. Getting on in school, mischief, the sentences they should have written down somewhere so as not to forget them. Vincent talked at length about his music: should he go on with it? Where? How? With whom? And how much could he allow himself to hope? I told them about my new roommate who, yes, was legal this time, and my job, and how I wasn’t at all sure I was cut out for the bar. So many years spent studying and so little self-confidence at the other end; it was disconcerting.

  Had I missed a vital turning point? Where had I slipped up? And was there someone waiting for me somewhere? The other three encouraged me and shook me up a bit so I pretended to go along with all their kind words.

  Anyway, we all were a bit shaken up, and we were all pretending to go along.

  Because wasn’t life a bit of a bluff, after all?

  When the stack is too short and there are chips missing. When you’ve been dealt a lousy hand and you can’t keep up . . . That much we all agreed on, the four of us, with our grand dreams and our rents to be paid the fifth of every month.

  So we opened another bottle: Dutch courage.

  Vincent made us laugh with his latest sentimental fiasco.

  “Hey, put yourselves in my shoes! There’s this girl I’ve been after for two months, I wait for her for six hours outside her department at the university, then I invite her out to eat, three times, and take her back to her student dorm in the middle of nowhere a dozen times, and I invite her to the opera, a hundred and ten Euros a shot! Shit!”

  “And nothing’s happened?”

  “Nothing. Nada. Diddly squat. Shit! Two hundred and twenty Euros! Can you imagine how many records I could have bought with that?”

  “Well, I might point out that a guy who nickels and dimes like that deserves what he gets,” scolded Lola.

  “But did you—did you even try and kiss her?” I asked naively.

  “No. I didn’t dare. That’s what sucks, man.”

  Catcalls of the most eloquent variety.

  “I know. I’m shy, it’s stupid . . . ”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Eva.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Dunno. She told me, but I didn’t understand.”

  “I see. And, uh . . . do you think you have a chance, or not?”

  “Hard to say. But she showed me photos of her mother . . . ”

  Too much.

  We rolled around in the grass while Don Juan tried to pelt us with pebbles.

  “Oh,” I begged, “can I have that one?”

  Lola tore a page out of her sketchbook and handed it to
me, rolling her eyes skyward.

  She at least had been able to see the true nobility of that heroic mutt of mine as he languished in the sun. The only male, now that I think of it, who has ever pursued me with such constancy . . .

  The next drawing was a very pretty view of the château.

  “From the English garden,” nodded Vincent.

  “We should send it to Pop and write a little note,” suggested Lola.

  (Our Pop didn’t have a cell phone. Come to think of it, he never had a landline either . . . )

  Like all her other ideas from time immemorial, it was a good one, and as always and for all time, we fell in behind our elder sister.

  It was as if we were at the back of the bus on our way home from summer camp. Paper and pen going from hand to hand. Thoughts, greetings, tenderness, mischief, little hearts and the big kisses that went with them.

  The glitch—but that wasn’t our Pop’s fault, it was the fault of May ’68—was that we didn’t exactly know where to send our letter.

  “I think he’s working at a naval shipyard in Brighton . . . ”

  “Hardly,” joked Vincent, “it’s too cold for him there! He’s got rheumatism these days, after all, the old geezer! He’s in Valence with Richard Lodge.”

  “Are you sure?” I was surprised. “The last time I heard from him he was on his way to Marseille . . . ”

  Silence.

  “Okay,” decided Lola, “I’ll keep it in my bag for now and the first one to hear something gets in touch with me.”

  Silence.

  But Vincent strummed a few chords so that we would not hear it.