The Rest of Their Lives

by Jean-Paul Didierlaurent

  Then, and for the first time in his life, Samuel began to talk about Sobibor. It was as if the sluice gates of a giant dam had just given way. He described the survival of the frightened little animal he had become within a few weeks at the camp. The filthy work, hunger, disease, lice, beatings and death everywhere, lurking, striking blindly. As he spoke, Manelle could see the fear returning to his eyes.

  ‘You know, Manelle, the only thing that enabled me to hold on in that hell was this gateau and the taste of that first mouthful etched on my palate and preserved like a sort of talisman. It’s thanks to that memory that I held out. When I lay on my freezing bunk, shivering and starving to death, I thought about that cake. I imagined its creaminess in my mouth, the delicate crunch of the cherry, the lightness of the sponge. I dreamed it was waiting for me, fresh and soft like that first day, and that in devouring it, I would be able to bring back our life as it was before. It was there, in the middle of that nightmare, that I swore I’d become a pastry cook if I ever got out alive. For more than forty years, in the back of my shop, I made Black Forest gateaux and all sorts of cakes for my customers, in the naive and absurd belief that a person who eats cake cannot be fundamentally bad. When I returned from the camp, I convinced myself that death would never come back to toy with me, that it was weary of me and would be content, when the time came, to blow me out like the flame on a candle. I don’t intend to allow death the pleasure of waltzing with me again as it did for months with the boy in hut number forty-eight in Sobibor.’

  As he spoke, Samuel had picked up the envelope sitting on the kitchen dresser. He took out the file it contained and placed it in front of Manelle. She couldn’t help shuddering at the sight of the word Deliverance printed in dark letters in the top right-hand corner of the folder. She had already heard of this association based in Switzerland that helped those opting for medically assisted suicide. An outfit which, in exchange for payment, provided a lethal cocktail to those suffering from an incurable disease who wanted to escape the suffering in which they were mired. She carefully read the pastel-coloured brochure vaunting the association’s merits. There were photos of bedridden elderly people with smiling faces, in sunlit rooms. A travel agency ad for a faraway destination, thought Manelle with disgust. She couldn’t suppress a shiver at the sight of the ten-page contract. It was the same sort of contract that she’d had to sign for the termination. Everything seemed to have been meticulously planned. The date and time of the appointment for the compulsory medical check-up by the doctor whose job was to ascertain the applicant’s initial condition, the precise address of the apartment where the procedure would take place, the detailed composition of the lethal potion, the name and photo of the accompanying person. The medical records were attached. Samuel had scrawled his initials at the bottom of each page. A marriage contract with the Grim Reaper, thought Manelle, closing the file.

  ‘Blow out the flame, that’s all I ask,’ argued Samuel. ‘They do that very well, you know. I’m waiting for the owner of the funeral directors I contacted for the journey. Everything is paid for already. Deliverance is in Morges, on the shore of Lake Geneva. The anteroom to heaven,’ he joked, without much conviction. ‘We leave next Monday. It will only take a few days. I have no family left, no one other than you, and I’d really like to have you beside me. Don’t see this request as the whim of a mad old man. I’m very conscious that what I am asking you to do goes far beyond the call of duty and I would understand if you said no, but you are the only person in the world I can ask to do this.’

  Manelle had stood up. The embryo was screaming inside her.

  ‘Once, I assisted death, so please don’t ask me to be its accomplice a second time. My job is to help people to live, not to die,’ she burst out, her vision blurred by tears, before fleeing the apartment.

  23

  Beautiful was the first word that came into Ambroise’s head at the sight of the young woman who opened the door to him, just before she turned into a shrew.

  ‘I know why you’re here and I hope you’re proud of what you do. It’s disgusting, do you hear me, disgusting! It’s aiding and abetting murder, there’s no other word for it. Aiding and abetting murder, that’s what it is. I wonder how you can face yourself in the mirror each morning. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Ashamed.’

  The girl had spat those last words in his face and banged into him as she left, her eyes full of tears. A fragrance of vanilla floated in her wake. Her footsteps echoed on the glistening pavement as she ran through the rain to her car. It took her two attempts to start up her ancient Polo, which finally spluttered into life. She pulled away from the kerb with a screech of tyres and shot off in a cloud of grey fumes. Ambroise stood there speechless for a few moments. He had to convince himself that he hadn’t imagined the fleeting but nevertheless wonderful apparition he had just witnessed. He had to persuade himself that the curly jet-black hair, the magnificent dark eyes that had looked daggers at him, the slender chest that heaved beneath the pale green overall as she spoke, the voice which, he was certain, must be soft when it wasn’t distorted by anger, and the pretty mouth from which the words had gushed were real. Beautiful. Despite the volley of hysterical abuse he’d just received, the adjective continued to spin inside Ambroise’s head. Never had that epithet seemed to describe someone so aptly. Ambroise had already encountered strange reactions to embalming from the relatives of a deceased person, had sometimes met with defiance, embarrassment or lack of comprehension, but never had he been the butt of such venom.

  The male voice inviting him to come in jolted him out of his reverie. Shuffling slowly down the passageway, the old man coming to greet him was short and frail-looking. Barely fifty-five kilos and just over one metre sixty, Ambroise reckoned. Despite the suffocating heat in the place, he was wrapped up in a thick dressing gown and had wound a woollen scarf around his neck. The deep crow’s feet around his eyes gave his face a friendly expression, despite his pallor. Ill, thought Ambroise as he shook the old man’s dry, warm hand.

  ‘Are you the gentleman from the funeral directors? I apologize for that little scene at the door,’ stammered the old man. ‘It’s all my fault. You must forgive Manelle, she’s such an impulsive young woman.’

  Manelle. The two syllables sounded like music to Ambroise’s ears. He wondered how a person could harbour such violence when they had such a sweet name. The old man showed Ambroise into the sitting room. Heavy curtains absorbed the sunlight, plunging the room into half-darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry, but daylight makes my head ache,’ he apologized as he switched on the centre light. ‘Do sit down, Monsieur . . . ?’

  ‘Larnier, Ambroise Larnier,’ replied Ambroise, sinking into a soft armchair.

  ‘Good. Now I believe Monsieur Bourdin has told you why I have requested your company’s services?’

  ‘Yes. It is a matter of performing the procedure and repatriating your twin brother’s body from Switzerland to France, is that correct?’

  ‘Absolutely. And did he inform you that I would be travelling with you on the way there and on the way back?’

  ‘He did. That won’t be a problem, our hearses have extremely comfortable passenger seats.’

  ‘Very good, perfect. I have the cheque ready for you. Monsieur Bourdin and I agreed on an advance but I’d rather pay the full amount now. The hotel is already booked, too. The Regent, for four nights.’

  Ambroise produced the contract which Samuel hastily signed. Ambroise cleared his throat, embarrassed.

  ‘It doesn’t say so in the document but we will be accompanied by a family support volunteer.’

  Beth had made no secret of her excitement at the idea of the trip. This expedition to Switzerland had set her talking non-stop about the country. The water fountain, chocolate, fondue, perch fillets, potato rösti, referendums, finance. Ambroise had had to dampen her enthusiasm by reminding her that the initial purpose of this trip was to transport a cadaver and not, as she suggested, to go and lay a wr
eath in front of the Hôtel de la Paix in Geneva where the pop singer Mike Brant had tried to commit suicide the first time, in 1974. He had primed her on the improvised role of family support volunteer that she was going to be playing. Knowing his grandmother, he had stressed that he expected her to conduct herself with moderation. ‘Above all, don’t overdo it,’ he had said. ‘Respectful silence will be the most appropriate. And you don’t need to say that you’re my grandmother. That won’t look very professional.’ Ambroise had repeated his story countless times, even saying it aloud in front of the bathroom mirror. Even so, he felt his cheeks turning red and his ears burning as he gave Samuel Dinsky his spiel. He’d never been good at lying and doing so was torture.

  ‘Don’t worry, she won’t be involved in the process at all. Her role is purely to be there to offer support. I hope you don’t object. Naturally, Bourdin will cover all her expenses,’ concluded Ambroise, relieved to have reached the end of his fib.

  ‘No problem,’ retorted the old man. ‘On the contrary, I’m reassured by your professionalism. I’ll book an extra room for this person, at my expense. Oh yes, I insist. You have probably already eaten, but allow me to offer you a slice of Black Forest.’

  Ambroise, who hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast, accepted with pleasure. He liked this man. Despite his obvious state of frailty, he exuded a strange serenity. Samuel came back from the kitchen with a huge piece of gateau, which he held out to Ambroise. A quarter of an hour later, his stomach full, he took leave of the old man, saying to himself that this fellow was like his cake: rich and generous.

  24

  The windscreen wipers were of little use against the torrential rain. Manelle honked furiously at the car in front of her when the lights changed to green. What are you waiting for? The rain to stop? Since she’d left Samuel and bumped into the death merchant on his doorstep, Manelle had been unable to calm down. The old man had re-opened her wound, unlocking the buried memories that now seeped out like impure blood. She recalled the radiant sunshine that day, the brilliant whiteness of the buildings, the glazed doors that had slid noiselessly shut behind her, the wall fountain where clear water had cascaded with a hideous gurgling. The lift had whisked her down to the basement, far from the sunlit, flower-filled rooms of the first floor where babies with pink or blue wristbands burbled contentedly in the arms of their elated mothers. The only light flooding the room where she had been taken came from neon tubes. It was not a place where you lingered, but a place where you arrived surreptitiously and left in a daze, with a yawning emptiness in the middle of your body. Despite the local anaesthetic, she’d shuddered when the speculum had slid inside her. She’d closed her eyes when the tube attached to the electric pump sucked out the fruit of her womb until nothing was left, just an empty space where future remorse could nest. It had taken the surgeon less than ten minutes to carry out the procedure, for a fixed price of four hundred and thirty-seven euros and three cents. A cut-price death, one hundred per cent covered by the healthcare system. As she left the hospital, she had seen another girl. Robotic walk and eyes filled with repugnance, a reflection of herself.

  As the rain beat down even more violently, Manelle promised herself that to make up for not having been able to give life, she would do her utmost to fight death.

  25

  Ambroise had slept badly. Beth’s excitement was contagious and he hadn’t managed to drop off until the early hours, just before his grandmother’s ancient clock woke the entire building, its bells chiming loudly on the dot of six thirty. Even the cold shower he forced himself to take wasn’t enough to drag him out of his comatose state. It was Beth’s luggage that finally woke him up when he stubbed the big toe of his left foot on the enormous metal trunk sitting in the middle of the passage. He hobbled into the kitchen emitting a stream of curses.

  ‘What’s that thing?’ groaned Ambroise, vigorously rubbing his throbbing toe.

  ‘Your grandfather’s old army trunk.’

  ‘Couldn’t you find anything smaller? We’re not going on a Nile cruise.’

  ‘I’ve never found anything better for packing my clothes in. At least my dresses and coats don’t come out all crumpled when I travel. Granted, it’s a bit heavy, but suitcases nowadays are too flimsy,’ Beth replied. ‘And we may not be off on a Nile cruise, but how does one know what to wear in Switzerland at this time of the year? Hot? Cold? Everything’s neutral there, even the weather.’

  Pleased with her definition of the Swiss climate, Beth opened the door of the oven, which was full on, and took out the twenty perfectly golden kouignettes – mini kouign-amanns. She immediately put in a second batch. The aroma of butter cooking filled the entire apartment. Ambroise nibbled at his three crispbreads without much appetite. Sitting on the windowsill, the mog, busy washing himself, drank in the first rays of sunshine. The previous day, Ambroise had taken his courage in both hands and gone down to talk to Odile Chambon who had almost fainted at the sight of the love of her life standing on her doorstep in the flesh. Don’t go in, whatever you do, don’t go in, Ambroise had said over and over to himself as he rang the bell. Just ‘Hello, Odile, could you look after the cat for a few days? Yes? Thank you. Goodbye.’ But while the injunction not to enter a minefield was going round and round in his head, Du-Beau-du-Bon-du-Chambon had grabbed his arm and pulled him into her lair. Tea? Coffee? Beer? Champagne? Do sit down. Don’t sit down. Whatever you do, don’t sit down. Coffee, please. Sugar, no sugar? ‘No, no sugar,’ he had stammered. The eyes of a praying mantis, she’s got the eyes of a praying mantis, he thought, sitting down on the living-room sofa. Say something, say something quickly, before she eats you up.

  ‘Autumn’s come early this year, hasn’t it? I see they’ve been doing some works in Rue de la Serpentine. The sewers, I think. Or cables. They’re installing fibre optic everywhere.’

  For several minutes, Ambroise made small talk, hiding behind a wall of words that made no sense. What the hell was Beth doing? They’d agreed that if he wasn’t back in ten minutes, she’d come and rescue him by making up some silly excuse. The bell rang just as Ambroise ran out of steam. ‘Hello, Odile. Ambroise, can you come upstairs, Monsieur Bourdin’s on the phone for you,’ his grandmother lied with aplomb. He apologized and took his leave. ‘Is it OK for the cat?’ Beth asked as they climbed up the stairs. Ambroise struck his forehead and swore. ‘Shit, the cat!’ In the panic, he’d completely forgotten the reason for his visit to Odile Chambon. It was Beth who finally took on the job of asking the concierge. The thought of being able to stroke Ambroise Larnier’s cat for five days in a row in the absence of its master had thrilled the lovelorn lady, and she’d eagerly agreed to look after the tomcat before the words were even out of Beth’s mouth.

  Having finished his last crispbread, Ambroise went into the bathroom to clean his instruments. Then, after locking his suitcase, he put on his jacket to go and pick up the hearse.

  ‘I’ll be back within half an hour, make sure you’re ready. Monsieur Dinsky and I arranged to leave at ten o’clock sharp. Don’t forget to take the litter tray and the cat food down to Du-Beau-du-Bon-du-Chambon.’

  ‘And the cat, don’t forget the cat either,’ teased Beth.

  26

  The Mercedes Vito stood waiting for Ambroise in the company car park. He collected the keys from the office and transferred his embalming equipment into it from his little van, and then set off. It only took a few minutes for him to acquaint himself with his new vehicle. Beth was already downstairs by the front door. Dressed in black from head to toe, the old woman looked every inch the tearful widow, apart from the basket of kouignettes she was holding. Ambroise had a hard job persuading her to remove the veil covering her face and the black gloves she was wearing.

  ‘Well, are we in mourning or aren’t we?’ she grumbled, putting the net veil and lace gloves away in her handbag.

  ‘We’re supporting the family, we aren’t the family, Beth,’ Ambroise explained gently, stressing the word ‘the’
as he went upstairs to fetch the army trunk.

  They went back into the apartment to retrieve the mog, the litter tray and the cat food. Odile Chambon was waiting for them on the landing, caked in make-up, fluttering her eyelashes like mad. ‘Come to Odile, my bunny rabbit’, she whispered, snatching the tomcat from Ambroise’s arms. ‘Mama’s going to look after you, you’ll see. We’re going to be lovely and cosy just the two of us,’ she added, trying to catch Ambroise’s furtive gaze with her heavily mascaraed eyes.

  ‘I made him a far breton,’ Beth broke in. ‘I’ll put it here, on the dresser. Whatever you do, don’t give it all to him at once,’ she added, ‘because it’ll take him a whole week to recover.’

  On the way to Samuel Dinsky’s, Beth was unable to conceal her anxiety. ‘I hope it’ll be all right. She called him bunny rabbit, did you hear?’

  ‘Between you and me, he didn’t seem to mind too much. You wouldn’t be a little jealous, would you?’

  ‘Jealous of what? I don’t like cats, remember.’

  ‘What if she’s right? Maybe the mog is a rabbit, with his little tail. We should try him on carrots when we get back.’