The Rest of Their Lives

by Jean-Paul Didierlaurent

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ breathed Manelle. ‘Samuel Dinsky, you are the biggest liar I know,’ she scolded him affectionately, wagging her finger as if reprimanding a child.

  ‘Who’s she?’ Beth asked as she packed away the remains of the meal, gauging the young woman out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘A fairy, a demon, perhaps both, I have no idea,’ Ambroise replied, disconcerted.

  29

  Beth fetched the thermos of coffee and the basket of kouignettes from the van.

  ‘Leaving the table without having dessert is like leaving mass without taking communion,’ she pronounced as she placed the caramelized pastries in the centre of the table.

  Samuel waited until she had sat down again before making the introductions.

  ‘Manelle, I have the pleasure of introducing Elisabeth, who devotes her time and expertise to supporting families—’

  ‘Beth, you must call me Beth.’

  ‘. . . and Ambroise, our driver, but you have already had the opportunity to become acquainted, I think.’

  ‘You could say that,’ mumbled Manelle, wringing her hands.

  The young woman’s sudden change in behaviour baffled Ambroise. All the aggression she had shown him a few minutes earlier seemed to have vanished as if by magic, and now she appeared visibly embarrassed.

  ‘Manelle is the person who assists me in my day-today life,’ Samuel went on.

  ‘A private nurse?’ asked Beth.

  ‘Not exactly, no. Manelle is what is called a home help. She comes to the house for an hour every day to assist with the jobs my age prevents me from doing. I shan’t hide the fact that she’s become much more than that. She makes that hour into a celebration. And with time, I’ve come to see her as the granddaughter I never had. A granddaughter who’d come every day of the week to visit her grandpa, sit and chat with him, and sometimes eat with him. I have reached the point where I live only for that hour spent breathing in her presence, listening to her voice, hearing her laugh, sharing her loves and hates. So it seemed perfectly natural to me to ask her to escort me on this macabre expedition. I didn’t know at the time that I would be benefiting from the presence of a companion such as you, Beth.’

  Beth blushed and squirmed with delight.

  ‘At first she got angry and refused, arguing that in my condition, such a journey was sheer madness, but it seems that now she’s understood that this mission is more important to me than anything else and she finally made up her mind to join us.’

  As he spoke, the old man grasped Manelle’s hand. Despite his visible exhaustion, he found the strength to smile at her.

  ‘Even though I still think that this trip is anything but sensible,’ declared Manelle, giving Samuel a solemn look.

  While Samuel, given his digestive problems, was naturally spared the kouignettes, there was no excuse for his home help. Having eaten nothing since the morning, Manelle gratefully tucked into the pastries and dipped into the basket several times. She washed them down with large gulps of coffee, raving over their taste. ‘They’re really very good,’ she said. At that moment, Manelle Flandin, home help by profession, had just unwittingly gone over to the side of the angels in the eyes of the old woman facing her, who gazed at her fondly.

  When it was time to leave, Manelle insisted on Samuel going in her car. They were still nearly four hours away from Morges. Four hours, the only and last chance for her to try and talk the old man out of his morbid plan. The Polo had other ideas. When Manelle switched on the ignition, the engine spluttered and wheezed then died completely amid the smell of oil and petrol fumes. Manelle thumped the steering wheel several times and swore.

  ‘Shit, I don’t believe it. This would have to happen now. It’s not true, dammit!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Manelle, it’s only a car,’ Samuel consoled her from the passenger seat.

  ‘But that’s not the problem, don’t you understand?’ she snapped, trying the ignition again.

  ‘Stop, there’s no point, the engine’s dead,’ decreed Ambroise.

  The large pool of coolant spreading beneath the car was clear enough evidence of the seriousness of the breakdown.

  ‘And it’s a mortician who’s telling me it’s dead,’ Manelle burst out with a hysterical laugh. She laid her head on the wheel, groaning. ‘What a pain in the arse.’

  All the hopes that the prospect of a lengthy tête-à-tête with Samuel had aroused in her were suddenly shattered.

  ‘Look, if you don’t mind leaving your car in the car park, we can easily all fit into the hear . . . into the Vito,’ Ambroise volunteered. ‘And we’ll get a tow truck to come out to your car on the way back. We’ll find a solution.’

  Yes, and on the way back there’ll only be three of us, if you reckon that the dead don’t count. We’ll have plenty of room with just three of us, she felt like screaming in the face of this angelic-looking guy who always seemed even-tempered, whatever happened. Beaten, Manelle had to face facts: she had no option but to accept Ambroise’s offer. She opened the boot and took out her little overnight bag in which she’d flung a few random items of clothing before leaving, locked the car and walked over to the hearse, flanked by the two octogenarians.

  Ambroise unfolded the jump seat at the rear. Once again, he was flouting the regulations of Roland Bourdin & Sons, which prohibited anyone not an employee of the company aboard its vehicles. Manelle looked with distaste at the refrigerated compartment that occupied part of the space before sitting down.

  ‘It’s the seat for the fourth pallbearer,’ Beth explained, turning around to tap Manelle’s knee before helping Samuel to fasten his seat belt, only too happy to have him sitting beside her again.

  They set off. The interior soon resonated with the snores of the two old people who fell asleep almost at the same time, lulled by the gentle purr of the engine and the trickle of music from the car radio. Ambroise glanced in the rear-view mirror at regular intervals, hoping to meet Manelle’s eyes, but each time, she avoided his gaze. For nearly half an hour, each waited for the other to speak first. Their mutual embarrassment was palpable. Finally, it was Ambroise who took the plunge, as they were driving through Grenoble.

  ‘Have you been working for him for long?’

  ‘I’ve never really felt I work for him,’ she replied. ‘He makes life seem so good, so simple and sweet. He never raises his voice, he’s always considerate. Increasingly I ask myself who’s the employer and who’s the employee. What about you, how long have you been in this profession?’

  ‘Almost five years.’

  ‘And why?’

  ‘Why “why”?’

  ‘Why the dead and not the living?’

  He detected a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  ‘The fact is, I don’t do this for the departed, but for those who are left behind. Embalming is—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The art of embalming the dead.’

  ‘Because you do that too, embalm dead people?’

  ‘That’s mainly what I do.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ She pulled a face as if suddenly she were confronted with the most heinous villain.

  ‘What?’ said Ambroise furiously. ‘You think that there are two types of people in the world, the good and the bad? Those who look after the living and those who look after the dead? Warm-blooded and cold-blooded beings? That because I treat – yes, mademoiselle, we say “treat” for embalming too – because I treat the dead, corpses, cadavers, stiffs, call it what you like, I’m no better than the maggots that invade them if I don’t intervene? Oh, of course, nice little home helps like you can’t understand. You’re like my father, convinced you’re on the side of the angels, and that the guy facing you is no good, as devoid of feeling as the bodies he treats. But it’s because I’m too sensitive that I treat the dead, would you believe? I’ve tried the living but I can’t bear their suffering. I hate seeing people die, can you believe that? And besides, let me say it again, I do it for those who
are left behind, to save them from having to look death in the face in all its repugnance. So if you’re asking me why I do this job, let me give you an example: because it’s easier for a mother to kiss the forehead of a son who looks as if he’s asleep in a peaceful eternity than to remain haunted by the image of a face ravaged by death. And if my answer isn’t what you expected, I’m sorry, but that is my reply and you won’t receive any other.’

  Ambroise withdrew into himself, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Manelle’s gaze lingered on his closed face as if seeing him for the first time. At that moment, she found him beautiful. That young man she’d judged to be smooth and transparent had just revealed facets of a character she had not suspected. Beneath his appearance of a docile wimp was a hyper-sensitive soul. The way his eyes had flashed when he flared up had entranced her.

  ‘I apologize, I didn’t mean to offend you,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s me. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, I’m very sorry.’

  Beth and Samuel put an end to this conversation by waking up. They both stretched then asked Ambroise for another toilet stop.

  30

  It was after five o’clock by the time they reached the Swiss border post. In his slow drawl, and somewhat intrigued by this strange crew in what appeared to be a hearse, the customs officer questioned Ambroise as to the purpose of their journey. He explained the reason for their trip, the brief stay in Morges to bring the body of Monsieur Dinsky’s brother back to France.

  ‘Do you plan to take the motorway?’ asked the customs official, inspecting the windscreen for the sticker.

  ‘No, we intend to take the main road along the lake.’

  That skinflint Bourdin had been too mean to buy a motorway pass. ‘Anything to declare?’ asked the officer suspiciously. A glioblastoma multiforme, Manelle wanted to yell at him. ‘No,’ replied Ambroise, echoed by Beth and Samuel who energetically shook their heads from left to right in unison, which made the man even warier.

  ‘Would you open the hatchback, please.’

  Ambroise complied, not without showing his irritation. The official made him take out his cases and unwrap all his embalming equipment. His sharp eyes roved over the instruments and bottles, and inspected the pumps before he permitted Ambroise to pack up his tools again.

  ‘May I see your ID, please?’

  The guy had decided to be zealous. Beth panicked and it took her almost five minutes to find her identity card sandwiched in her purse between her social security card and her voter’s card. The customs officer scrutinized the four documents.

  ‘Monsieur . . . Dinsky, is that right? You’d better renew your ID card, Monsieur Dinsky. It expired six months ago.’

  He handed everything back to Ambroise and released them, saying magnanimously, ‘I’ll turn a blind eye this time.’

  ‘So much for Europe,’ fumed Beth as they set off again. ‘Did you see how he treated us? As if we were crooks. And that superior air of his, with his ridiculous cap. And his “I’ll turn a blind eye this time”, implying that next time, it’ll be go straight to jail, do not pass go. For goodness’ sake, where on earth are we?’

  ‘In Switzerland, Beth, in Switzerland,’ Samuel tenderly calmed her.

  As Ambroise had feared, they found themselves stuck in the Geneva traffic and it took them more than twenty minutes to cross the Mont-Blanc Bridge, which gave Beth plenty of time to marvel at the giant Jet d’Eau fountain.

  ‘All right, so their customs officers aren’t very nice but you’ve got to admit that when it comes to building fountains, they’re the best!’ she announced, transfixed by the white plume rising high into the sky.

  The traffic on the main road between Geneva and Morges was more fluid than anticipated and the Mercedes Vito turned into the Regent Hotel’s car park shortly before seven o’clock, just as night kissed the waters of the lake. They walked into the vast lobby with its tall, ornate mirrors. The soft lighting from the high ceilings imbued the marble colonnades with warm tones. Thick carpeting muffled footsteps. The place oozed luxury. The receptionist confirmed the three reservations. Room 101 on the first floor for Samuel, 103 for Beth and 236, on the second floor, for Ambroise. Since the hotel was full, Beth invited Manelle to share her room and she accepted.

  ‘If the rooms are as grandiose as the lobby, there’s no risk of us treading on each other’s toes,’ joked Beth.

  The porter who took their luggage up was unable to hide his surprise at Beth’s military trunk. ‘It must make a change from Vuitton,’ she said. Manelle went with Samuel to help him settle into his room. He sank down on the edge of the bed, completely exhausted. Manelle felt his forehead. It was clammy.

  ‘You have a temperature. Did you bring your medicine?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, the pill organizer is in my toilet bag. I can’t help wondering why I brought it. A stupid reflex.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you why you brought that pill organizer, Samuel Dinsky: because deep down you still have faith. Something’s telling you that despite the pain, days like today are still worth living.’

  ‘If you say so,’ murmured the old man, unconvinced.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘Then you should go to bed,’ she suggested gently, holding out the two pills and a glass of water. ‘You’re exhausted. And we can see about having a shower tomorrow.’

  Samuel was struggling to undress, so Manelle helped him remove his clothes. She did it naturally and without embarrassment. She took off his trousers, socks, shirt and vest, slid his underpants down and assisted him into his pyjamas.

  ‘And don’t take advantage of the situation,’ she laughed, ‘or I’ll have to fight you off and rouse the entire hotel, screaming for help.’

  ‘I know a young Apollo who would like nothing better than to rush in and save you,’ teased Samuel in a tired voice.

  ‘I prefer wealthy old men,’ she whispered mischievously as she tucked him in.

  ‘The head of the association is coming to pick me up at the hotel at ten o’clock tomorrow to take me for my medical check-up. I’m really counting on you to come with me,’ pleaded Samuel, gripping Manelle’s hand.

  ‘I promise, but only because I like old men who are loaded,’ she replied, kissing his forehead and slipping out before being overcome with sadness.

  Manelle went into the adjacent room where she found an ecstatic Beth busy hanging up her clothes.

  ‘Look at this! A closet you can wander around in, it’s crazy!’

  ‘It’s called a walk-in wardrobe, Elisabeth.’

  ‘Beth, please, call me Beth. I’ve never liked my name. Elisabeth sounds like a nun, don’t you think? It’s funny when you think about it: Eliza has a nice ring, it’s light, airy, but as soon as you add Beth, plop, it’s as if it closes up and falls to the ground. What about you? You must like your name. Manelle is so pretty.’

  ‘Yes, except that at school, the boys had the infuriating habit of calling me Manky Manelle.’

  A knock at the door interrupted the women’s conversation.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Right arm Monday, fun day,’ trumpeted Ambroise, walking into the room.

  ‘I’d completely forgotten,’ confessed Beth sheepishly as she went to fetch the insulin kit.

  ‘You see, I don’t only deal with old people who are dead, I also inject old people who are alive, on occasion,’ Ambroise provoked Manelle as he gave his grandmother her jab.

  ‘And what do you do with young people?’ she retorted without missing a beat.

  Beth couldn’t help smiling at her grandson’s dejected expression as he laid down his arms, defeated before the battle had even begun.

  ‘Shall we all meet downstairs for dinner?’ he suggested.

  ‘Samuel won’t be eating. I put him to bed, he was too exhausted to swallow a thing.’

  ‘The same goes for me, children. That long journey has done me in. I think I need a good night
’s sleep to build up my strength for the coming days. I’m going to take the edge off my appetite with a couple of kouignettes then I’m going to beddy-byes and I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, you youngsters.’

  ‘OK, I’ll wait for you in the lobby, then,’ Ambroise said to Manelle, before depositing a kiss on his grandmother’s forehead and leaving the room.

  ‘Is he always so considerate towards you?’ asked Manelle after Ambroise had left.

  ‘I’m not saying this because he’s my grandson, but he’s the sweetest boy imaginable. And when I see how seriously he takes his job, I say to myself that the dead who pass through his hands really are very fortunate.’

  31

  For almost a quarter of an hour, Ambroise had been studying the various menus when Manelle jolted him from his contemplation. She had made the effort to get changed. A white blouse, a midnight-blue cardigan slung over her shoulders, dark leggings and a pair of canvas trainers. A light application of eyeliner emphasized the brightness of her eyes. ‘Diamonds like that don’t need a setting to shine,’ Beth had assured her as she put her make-up on.

  ‘Did you want to eat here?’ Ambroise asked. ‘To be honest, the restaurant is a bit too stuffy for my taste and the prices are like everything else: over the top. So if you don’t mind eating somewhere where you don’t get to sit in a Voltaire armchair surrounded by an army of waiters ready to pander to your every wish, I saw on the map that there’s a restaurant less than five hundred metres along the shore which looks rather nice. What do you think?’