‘Don’t be so silly. Now, tell me what this Monsieur Dinsky’s like.’
‘He doesn’t look in much better shape than his deceased brother, but he’s charming, you’ll see. And his Black Forest gateau is as good as your kouign-amann.’
‘Do you think he’ll let me sit in the front? I get car sick.’
‘There are three seats in the front, in case you hadn’t noticed. The seat next to the casket is for the fourth pallbearer when there’s a funeral.’
The gate was open. Ambroise parked the hearse in the courtyard in front of the house and asked Beth to wait in the vehicle. Samuel Dinsky seemed even feebler than the previous week. His frail body was lost in a suit several sizes too large for him. His sparse white hair was neatly combed. There was a streak of shaving cream on one of his cheeks. Ambroise didn’t dare mention it to him. He relieved him of his luggage, a half-leather, half-canvas suitcase that was surprisingly light. Samuel Dinsky gazed for a long time around the living room he’d just exited, then inspected each room one last time, making sure the shutters were properly closed and the lights off. He locked the front door and placed the key under the pot of geraniums in the hall. He winced and had to take hold of Ambroise’s arm to go down the steps. The bright daylight made his migraine ten times worse. The sun’s rays pierced his retinas like white-hot needles. He turned around and creased his eyes to look at the house in which he had spent most of his life. Then the old man sat down beside Beth who had moved over onto the centre seat.
‘Elisabeth,’ she introduced herself, holding out her hand, ‘your travel companion.’
‘Delighted, madame. Samuel Dinsky at your service.’
‘May I?’
Beth took a handkerchief out of her bag and started dabbing at Samuel’s cheek.
‘My late husband was just the same. Every single morning there was always a bit of shaving foam left on his face. And when it wasn’t on his cheek, it was on the tip of his ear, his chin, or sometimes even on the end of his nose.’
‘Thank you, madame.’
‘Beth, call me Beth, I’d like that.’
‘Thank you, Beth.’
Morges was less than six hours away, seven including stops. If all went well, Ambroise reckoned they’d reach the hotel on the shores of Lake Geneva in the afternoon. He was glad he’d opted to leave midmorning, after rush hour and before the lunchtime crowds. They drove through the outlying suburbs and took the motorway heading north.
‘Have you been doing this for long?’ Samuel asked.
The question was addressed to Beth.
‘What do you mean, this?’ she replied.
‘Volunteering. Supporting relatives.’
‘Well, to be completely honest, you’re my first.’
Ambroise cut short the conversation by hitting the radio button in search of frequency 107.7.
‘Must we really have the radio on?’ asked Beth, slightly irritated.
‘I like to listen to the traffic news, so we know if there’s a tailback or an accident.’
‘Because your eyes aren’t good enough to inform you? Some driver you are.’
Ambroise glared daggers at his grandmother who took refuge in a peeved silence. A little later, the sign ‘Next exit Pont du Gard’ roused Samuel from his torpor.
‘Excuse me, Monsieur Larnier, but could I possibly ask you to make a detour to view the viaduct? I haven’t seen it for ages.’
‘Oh yes,’ gushed Beth, clapping her hands like a child who’s just been promised a ride on the merry-go-round.
‘Well, we’ve still got a long way to go and I don’t want to arrive after dark.’
‘It’s not far out of our way. And as the family support volunteer, I think it’s a lovely idea that can only do Monsieur Dinsky good.’
‘Samuel, call me Samuel.’
The two of them seemed to be as thick as thieves. Outnumbered, Ambroise took exit 23 signposted Remoulins, not without darting his grandmother another glowering look. He had a nasty feeling that they were going to arrive much later than his planned time. They did not get back on the road until midday, after Samuel had gazed one last time at the ancient stone arches silhouetted against the azure sky.
27
Beth and Samuel jointly requested a first stop to answer the call of nature at kilometre ninety-six, the Montélimar South interchange. Urged on by his increasingly desperate passengers, Ambroise was forced to put his foot down on the accelerator.
‘There’s a storm on the way, I saw a flash of lightning,’ observed Beth.
‘I think I did too,’ agreed Samuel.
‘That’s funny, there isn’t a single cloud,’ said Beth, pushing her face closer to the windscreen to scan the sky.
‘Maybe a heat flash,’ suggested Samuel.
‘It’s barely twenty degrees. Twenty’s not very hot, not for a heat flash. And they tend to happen in the evening, heat flashes.’
Ambroise was concentrating on the road and didn’t bother to explain to the two old folk that the flash hadn’t come from the sky but from the fixed speed cameras that had just immortalized the moment when Roland Bourdin & Sons’ hearse had reached the more-than-respectable speed of 158 kilometres per hour. He turned onto the slip road to Montélimar East services and pulled into the first available parking space. He watched with a smile as Samuel and Beth hobbled together towards the toilets. As he was getting out to stretch his legs, he spotted an apple-green car parking a hundred or so metres further up. He had noticed the same vehicle earlier, in the car park at Pont du Gard. Nothing unusual about that. But something was niggling him. You don’t forget that shade of green, and he was certain he’d already seen that car somewhere before, but couldn’t think where. Beth broke into his thoughts when she came back from the toilet.
‘I think we’ve lost him,’ she announced anxiously.
‘What do you mean, lost him?’
‘Samuel, I haven’t seen him come out. He should be back already.’
‘Don’t move from here, whatever you do. I’ll go and have a look.’
Ambroise raced across the car park and dived into the men’s toilet. Given the octogenarian’s frail condition, it was possible he’d been taken ill. Calling his name, Ambroise bent down to look beneath the doors of the cubicles, expecting to find a body slumped on the tiled floor. He eventually found the old man near the entrance to the shop, standing in front of the sunglasses display.
‘Monsieur Dinsky, we need to get going. Is something the matter?’ asked Ambroise with concern at the sight of fat tears rolling down the old man’s hollow cheeks.
‘I’m all right. I’ll be fine. It’s nothing, don’t worry. Just some bad memories that caught up with me.’
Samuel seemed deeply shaken and Ambroise had to help him back to the car.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he whispered, reassuring Beth, who had a worried frown, as he slid back in behind the wheel. He put his finger discreetly to his lips, signalling to Beth that the best thing was to keep quiet for the time being and let the old man recover from the upset. As he pulled out into the acceleration lane to merge with the flow of traffic, he glimpsed their pursuer in his rear-view mirror doing the same. Pure coincidence, he told himself, even though he had a growing sense of unease about this car that had clung to them since the start of the journey. There was only one way to find out. As he had seen countless times at the cinema, Ambroise gradually reduced his speed, going from 130 down to below 110, then he suddenly accelerated before slowing down again. In the rearview mirror, the green car grew bigger, melted then grew bigger again as he sped up or slowed down, its driver trying to keep a distance of around a hundred metres behind the hearse. There was no doubt about it, they were being followed. What could anyone want of them to stay on their tail for so long? He had no enemies to his knowledge, had no secrets, and the same was true of his grandmother. But what about Samuel Dinsky who perhaps led a double life, in the guise of a harmless octogenarian? They had been driving for more than half an h
our when once again, Beth shattered his thoughts.
‘It’s gone one thirty. I don’t know what Samuel thinks, but maybe we could stop for a bite to eat,’ she suggested.
‘We’ll stop once we’ve passed Valence,’ Ambroise reassured her. ‘There’s a restaurant at the next motorway services, if that suits Monsieur Dinsky.’
‘What do you mean, a restaurant? Whatever next?’ choked Beth. ‘A picnic area will do just fine. I’ve prepared a picnic basket for all of us. It’s also part of the family support volunteer’s job to look after the wellbeing of the relatives,’ she added for the benefit of her grandson, with a note of mischief in her voice.
‘But perhaps Monsieur Dinsky would prefer the comfort of a restaurant to a picnic table?’
‘Not at all, on the contrary. It’s ages since I’ve eaten outdoors. And even though I no longer have much of an appetite, I’d be delighted to do justice to the food you have prepared, Beth,’ Samuel complimented her.
Two against one. Once more, Ambroise had to bow to the wishes of the majority. At the sight of the sign announcing Les Fruitiers picnic area, he pulled over into the slow lane.
‘That’s a pretty name for a picnic spot,’ gushed Beth.
At this time of year, the car park was almost empty and the few tables and benches dotted around the tired lawns after a summer of being trampled intensively were nearly all free. Ambroise parked the Vito in the shade of a tree, switched off the engine and got out. Their pursuer’s green car had stopped at the entrance to the rest area, its engine ticking over. Ambroise decided to ignore it, secretly hoping that the driver would eventually tire of this stupid game of cat and mouse.
‘Where did you put the basket?’
‘In the box at the back.’
‘What do you mean, box? What box?’ groaned Ambroise, fearing he knew only too well what Beth meant.
‘The chiller cabinet, is there another one? We’re lucky to have a mobile refrigerator, and you’d rather I hadn’t used it to keep my salads and pâtés cool?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ exploded Ambroise, racing round to the rear of the hatchback.
To his great relief, the refrigerated compartment used for transporting corpses was empty.
‘See how he fell for it. So quick to fly off the handle, my Ambroise,’ she gently mocked. ‘He’s always been like that, ever since he was little. As innocent as a lamb. And how his gullibility used to annoy his father, even if, between you and me, I think it shows a certain magnanimity. No, you silly billy, it’s all in the cool bag on the back seat.’
‘You sound as though you know him well,’ remarked Samuel as the two of them picked their way over the grass towards the picnic tables.
‘To tell you the truth, I’m his grandmother but shush, when we’re working, he prefers us to keep our relationship strictly professional.’
They chose the table with the most shade, to protect Samuel’s eyes from the bright sunlight. Beth spread a large gingham tablecloth and laid the table.
‘Picnic or not, we’re not animals. Paper tablecloths, cardboard plates and plastic cups get blown away in the wind, make the food taste bland and ruin the wine. I’ve made remoulade, cucumber salad and sliced beef tomato with mozzarella,’ announced Beth as she unwrapped and presented the food. ‘There’s duck rillettes and chicken liver pâté. For those who prefer fish, I’ve made a salmon terrine. All home-made. For the cheese, I thought a Pavé d’Affinois, a piece of Tomme de Savoie and a slice of Brie would do the job. And a Saint-Joseph to wash it down. A Saint-Joseph is good, isn’t it? What do you say?’
Stunned at the sight of such a feast, Ambroise and Samuel didn’t know what to reply.
‘Look at this gorgeous weather! Autumn really is a good time to go on a journey,’ said Beth, spreading a generous layer of rillettes over a hunk of bread.
‘A good time to go on a journey,’ echoed Samuel softly.
28
As promised, Samuel did justice to the food prepared by Beth. He ate a little of everything, even asking for a second helping of remoulade. Beth insisted he have a tiny sip of the Saint-Joseph and he eventually accepted the thimbleful she poured for him. Ambroise remained slightly aloof, and ate on his feet, watching the green car out of the corner of his eye. From this distance, all he could see of the driver was a dark shape behind the windscreen. When it was time for the cheese, Samuel had to face the fact that he had overestimated his stomach’s capacity for so much food, no matter how excellent it was. The shooting pain in his temples was worse than ever and, feeling suddenly nauseous, he excused himself and left the table to totter unsteadily to the toilet. Beth rushed to help him and offered him her arm. ‘It’s all right, I’m looking after him,’ she yelled in the direction of her grandson as she accompanied Samuel to the toilet block thirty metres away. Ambroise nodded then immediately turned his attention to the object that was preoccupying him. The green blob on the edge of his field of vision had moved. Their pursuer’s vehicle had started up and was racing across the car park. Contrary to all expectations, the car pulled up next to the Mercedes Vito with a screech of tyres. Ambroise’s heart began to beat wildly. In a primitive reflex, he clenched his fists, ready to do battle. The engine spluttered twice, then stalled. Curiously, the image that the Polo and its unusual colour had so far failed to evoke, that of a furious young woman in tears barging into him after hurling copious abuse at him, was aroused by the fume-filled hiccup the car gave as it stalled. And as that same young woman got out of the car and headed towards him with a determined step, he said to himself that she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Just under one metre seventy, weighing fifty-five kilos, his trained eye told him. A light tunic, jeans, soft loafers – her clothes displayed a casualness belied by her anxious gait. She stood and looked Ambroise directly in the eyes.
‘Look, knowing him as I do, I imagine he won’t hear of it, but don’t you think there are other alternatives to his problem than the one you are preparing to commit?’
‘Ambroise. Ambroise Larnier,’ he introduced himself.
She continued in the same sharp tone, ignoring his proffered hand.
‘How much did he pay you for this, eh? How much? It’s funny, I thought funeral directors only took care of the dead, not the living,’ she sneered.
‘Listen, there’s no point getting all het up. We are simply carrying out Monsieur Dinsky’s wishes, as we always do with our clients. I don’t know what alternative you mean, but we’ve always worked like this and I don’t see what the problem is.’
‘The problem? Let me tell you what the problem is: I see an old man, not really in a condition to cope with a journey like this, a man who perhaps isn’t in full possession of his faculties, encouraged in his plans by people whose prime motivation is profit, profit and nothing else.’
‘Well, I grant that Monsieur Dinsky perhaps overestimated his ability to cope with such a trip and so did we, but—’
‘Overestimated his ability? Overestimated his ability? Just listen to yourself! Even without being an expert, you must know that people who are on their last legs are rarely in tip-top form.’
She had a strange way of repeating herself, which made her all the more intriguing.
‘At the risk of shocking you, but it seems that everything that comes out of my mouth shocks you, it’s not our job to judge the wishes of a person who is suffering. And insofar as there is nothing unusual about his request, we felt it was quite natural to agree to it. That’s all.’
This was the first time that Ambroise had heard himself say such a thing. What was this smarmy, idiotic spiel he was giving her? It was good for Bourdin, not for him, but she was pushing him to the limit too, yelling at him as if he were a complete thug.
‘The wishes of a person who is suffering. You make me puke with your trite little phrases.’
‘Now look, Manelle—’
‘Oh, so you know my name too. That takes the biscuit! Mr Undertaker knows my name.’
‘I’
m not an undertaker,’ protested Ambroise weakly.
‘Oh no, of course not. So what should I call you? Mr Fancy Funeral Director. Or what about Charon, like the ferryman who carries the souls of the dead across the River Styx on his rotten boat? Charon would suit you very well!’
Just then, Samuel, back from the toilet, sank down onto the bench, still clutching Beth’s arm. The colour had returned to his cheeks, as it did after each bout of vomiting. The vice gripping his head had relaxed a little. On catching sight of his home help, the old man’s face lit up with a smile.
‘Have you changed your mind?’ he asked eagerly, with hope in his voice.
‘Even though I still think you’re making a mistake, I couldn’t abandon you like that,’ she said, grasping his hands. ‘After storming out the other day without saying goodbye, I felt ashamed. I’m happy to come with you but on one condition, Monsieur Samuel-Dinsky-who-won’t-listen: that you allow me to try and persuade you to change your mind as many times as I possibly can,’ she whispered in his ear.
‘If that’s the only price to pay for the pleasure of having you beside me, then all right, but I have a condition too.’
With these words, the old man stood up and drew Manelle to one side, out of earshot.
‘I’d like all this to remain a secret between you and me for as long as possible. The young man you see over there, and a charming young man he is too, knows nothing of my plans. The official story is that we’re going to Switzerland to bring home the body of my deceased twin brother. It’s as simple as that.’
Manelle spluttered.
‘You mean that this guy knows nothing of your intentions, nothing of Deliverance? That he has no idea of the purpose of this journey?’
‘Absolutely none.’
‘But why invent this story about a twin?’
‘Why? Quite simply because it was much easier to lie than to tell the truth. Do you know many funeral directors who would have said, OK, we’ll take you there alive and bring you home dead, no worries? Sitting in the front seat on the way there, and lying in the back on the way home. Ethically, it wouldn’t be acceptable. I said to myself that once faced with the fait accompli, the lie would no longer matter. He’ll have no option but to bring my body back so that the last of the Dinskys can be buried in the family vault. And I’ve paid enough for the firm that employs him to feel morally committed and for the job to be seen through to the end.’
The Rest of Their Lives Page 9