The Truth about Marie

by Jean-Philippe Toussaint

  The fireman ordered me to leave the premises immediately, and as I tried to return to the pickup with Marie, she walked beside me shielding her face with her arm. She began coughing, spitting, she hobbled along through the smoke, staggering down the rocky path. I lifted her, put her arm around my shoulder to give her support, she’d stopped walking, she dragged her feet in the dirt, her flip-flops scraping against the ground, kicking up small rocks. I opened the door to the truck and placed her on the seat, her body sunk down, she slid down her seat, limp. I sat her up, repositioned her in her seat, grabbed her left arm that was hanging out of the truck and placed it on her lap, slammed the door. I sat down at the wheel and started the truck right away. Unable to turn around, I drove straight ahead, reentered the equestrian club. Peppino and the few remaining rangers had given up protecting the buildings — it was too late, the club had completely burned down — they’d simply gathered together with the survivors around the tanker and, in shock, they watched me pass by, while the horses, neighing and panicked, their tails lashing, their manes swaying, kicked up a whirlwind of dust in an effort to follow me. I did a U-turn in the lot and exited the way we’d come, leaving the equestrian club behind us as I accelerated into the dust.

  I drove on, speeding along, unperturbed by the road’s bumps, potholes, ruts, letting go of the wheel only to keep Marie from falling over, her body tipping over against my shoulder or abruptly lurching toward the windshield, causing me to grab her by the back of her shirt to keep her from hitting her head. I wasn’t sure if she was unconscious or not, I continued to drive through the fog, seeing nothing by the beam of my headlights, all was smoke, shadows, and the glow in the distance. Leaving the unpaved road, I headed toward Portoferraio, following a craggy coastline route. The wind from the sea shook the old truck, making the doors vibrate, and some stronger gusts pushed us over to the shoulder. I sped up, and I saw the shrubs jitter along the road, their branches swaying in my headlights, and the small trees of the undulating thicket bowed as we passed. I was shirtless at the wheel, my eyes unblinking, wild, mesmerized by the hypnotic unraveling of the road. I didn’t slow down when passing another car, didn’t turn my brights off, our fenders would touch, I’d swerve onto the side of the road and my tires would bounce unevenly in the gravel along the cliff ledge. I made out in the distance the darkened profiles of the great rocky coastal cliffs, whose tortured sides crumbled into the sea like the petrified bottom of one of Marie’s designer dresses, with its rumpled sheets, its pleats, its laminae, its vertical ridges and sharp jags fashioned by wind and storm. I heard the sea rumble below me, black, immense, churning, raging in a fury of foam, and I sped on along the craggy coastline, carrying in my wake this procession of phantom dresses of volcanic rock, dresses the color of lava or magma, which joined the basalt’s darkness with the metamorphic rocks, mixing together granite and porphyry, ophiolites, cipolin and limestone, mica sequins and glimmers of obsidian grains.

  Marie had fallen next to me, slumped over on the seat, her eyes distant, her body tossed around by the car, her shoulders passive, shifting according to the curves of the road. Her T-shirt was blackened by the smoke, stained with fingerprints, bits of grass and mud, dirt, its cotton scorched in many places, specked with ash and other charred material. She’d lost one of her flip-flops, soot covered the straps and V attachment of the remaining one, and its daisy was black, dying, without petals. Her T-shirt hung askew, baring a shoulder and rising up at the thigh, but her nudity was far from carefree and charming, her body was bruised, she must have felt mortified for not having panties on. Make no mistake, Marie loved walking around naked, but if nudity agrees with the sea and open air, it clashes with fire, which gives it an unpleasant, if not unbearable, character. I dug through the glove box but found nothing to cover her with. I slowed down abruptly and parked on a seaside cliff. I had some trouble getting out of the pickup, the wind pushed against the door, its metal frame creaking, and I had to slip through the narrow opening I was able to make. I took a few steps against the violent wind and took off my pants, then removed my boxers. There I was, naked on the cliff, standing in the white beam of the truck’s headlights. I could see Marie’s silhouette seated in the truck, I saw the sea below, the dark vegetation waving furiously in the wind. I put my pants back on, twisting in place, and, opening the truck door, pulling hard, holding it open in the storm, I slid in and handed my boxers to Marie (here, put this on, I said, don’t say I never did anything for you). Marie looked at my boxers confusedly, and then she smiled, she gave me a shy, grateful smile. She took the boxers and slipped them on while I started the truck again in the night.

  A little farther on, I was forced to slow down, the road was blocked, siren lights spun silently in the night. I got out of the old truck, leaving Marie asleep in the vehicle, and walked over to a small crowd of onlookers gathered on the road around some fire engines. The fire couldn’t have been far away, orange cinders could be seen in the undergrowth by the road, a few isolated flames flickered here and there above its length. The firemen had unrolled a fire hose, which dripped in the middle of the road, and a dozen campers watched them silently behind police tape set up by the Red Cross. They had been evacuated from a nearby campground, they’d rushed out of their tents and were now standing here, idle, with the look of refugees, young girls in nightgowns, a few odd objects in their hands, a toilet case, a bottle of water, ping-pong paddles. I wandered for a while among them on the road and walked over to a fireman who was giving explanations to a man in shorts seated on a Vespa whose motor continued to run. The fireman, helmeted, his neck protected with a sort of extended permeable hood, explained to him that the fire was spreading on Monte Capannello and that a pocket remained active on Monte Strega, the fire had reached Volterraio and two other valleys were still burning. Shirtless, I continued to amble down this smoky coastal road, when a Red Cross first-aid worker caught up to me without my seeing him and put a thermal blanket around my shoulders. I said nothing, I didn’t react in any way, I didn’t even thank him (I can’t imagine the stricken look I must have had), and I returned to the truck. I took the blanket off my shoulders and placed it carefully over Marie’s thighs as she continued to sleep in her seat, tucked her in gently.

  I turned around then and headed back in the direction of the equestrian club. Marie had opened one eye but remained speechless, she stared out at the road in front of her. I drove slowly, I was spent, deprived of energy and strength. The wind had abated. The sun had begun to rise, on the horizon smoke and morning fog covered the sea. As we reached the small white bridge a couple of miles from La Rivercina, I slowed and turned onto the road that led to the equestrian club, driving carefully, avoiding potholes and bumps. The undergrowth thronging the road was completely scorched, blackened, charred, and a strong smell of fire penetrated the vehicle. The coastal shrub had burned like dry wood, after having run wild for several years, growing unevenly, never clipped or tended, drying after long months of drought and August’s torrential heat. Nothing remained of the tangles of rockrose and thorny broom, of myrtle, of strawberry tree and tree heath, choice combustibles, rich in flammable oils, which the fire must have set ablaze as soon as it came near. I pulled into the equestrian club slowly, and Marie grabbed my arm, I felt in my body the terror that seized her.

  The equestrian club was deserted, spectral, the firemen had left, and the hill loomed, lunar, in the morning’s gray light, blackened trees showed their skeletal profiles, their limbs splayed, smoking, with here and there a last dying flame wrapping around a charred branch, curling back and dying for lack of combustible material. A thick layer of ash covered the ground, more white than gray, still hot, with, in various places, incandescent embers still smoking. The fire hadn’t been completely put out, it was spreading over the ground at the foot of a demolished stable, stray strands of straw burning slowly. Nothing remained of the club’s facilities, barns, cottages, all had burned, consumed on the spot, all was leveled, only charred debris remained,
scattered mounds, piles of sheet metal and wood crumbling on the ground. We’d gotten out of the truck and were passing through the smoky ruins, grief-stricken, heading toward the small stone reception house, the only building spared by the fire, when Marie let out a cry and grabbed my arm, she covered her eyes after seeing three long white sheets spread on the ground in front of the door, three makeshift shrouds covering forms whose dimensions were unclear in the silent gray light of dawn, not human forms but clearly dead bodies of some sort, charred carcasses of animals.

  We entered the small stone reception house, all the lights were off, and we didn’t notice right away that someone was there. Peppino was there, in the dark, lying on his back on a stone bench, one knee bent, wet compresses over his eyes, just rubber gloves, one over each eye. I wasn’t sure if he’d realized we’d come in, but he remained motionless for a moment, then, without moving the rest of his body, still lying supine, he took off the compresses, one by one, and looked at us, considered us in silence. His face was black, covered in soot, his shirt, his clothes were black — that is, they hadn’t been black initially, but had become so soaked in soot and smoke that they’d turned black. Without speaking a word, he put his legs down and sat up, and he stared at us blankly. His squinting eyes were red, irritated, even his eyebrows had been burned, the hairs of which had curled into tiny balls. After a long moment of silence, in a loud and grave voice, he asked, faltering and failing to hide his grief, if we’d seen his daughter, who’d just left to take the rescued horses to a pasture he owned in La Guardia. Marie told him no, we hadn’t, we hadn’t seen anyone. Then, not without some difficulty, he stood up, took a step forward, dejected, defeated, and, without a word, hugged Marie, what a nightmare, he told her, three horses were dead and Nocciola was severely burned, we’ll probably have to put her down, and, together, in sync, they began to cry, they cried in each other’s arms, white tears streamed down Peppino’s black cheeks, which he wiped away clumsily with his sooty hands, but to no effect, adding black to black.

  After returning to La Rivercina, we’d gone to bed. The fire had destroyed a large part of the yard but had spared the house. Lying in my bed, I was motionless in my room, my eyes open in the dark, and I heard Marie moving around on the second floor, I heard the patter of her feet on the ceiling above me. I heard as usual the door of the armoire creak faintly as she opened it, and I knew she was choosing a T-shirt for the night, and then I heard her leave her room, I heard her steps moving down the hallway, I thought she was going to stop at the bathroom, but her steps continued and began coming down the stairs, Marie was coming down the stairs and she reached the first floor, I heard her cross the living room, I heard her steps getting closer and I saw the door in my room open and Marie appear in front of me in the dark, shedding her imaginary dimensions to materialize in reality, the limbs of my imagined creation now materializing in front of me in real flesh and blood. Marie crossed the room barefoot and slid into my bed, snuggled up against me. I felt the heat of her skin against my body. The sun had hardly begun to rise at La Rivercina, and we held each other in bed, we cuddled together in the half-light to comfort each other, the final distance separating our bodies was giving way, and we made love, we made love gently in the morning’s gray light — and your skin and hair, my love, smelled strongly of fire.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THE TRANSLATOR

  JEAN-PHILIPPE TOUSSAINT is the author of nine novels. His writing has been compared to the work of Samuel Beckett, Jacques Tati, and Jim Jarmusch.

  MATTHEW B. SMITH has translated Jean-Philippe Toussaint’s Camera as well as Running Away for Dalkey Archive Press.