I began speaking gently. The cellar door closed securely, there was no reason why the mice should manage to get into the house, we’d put down traps or poison to kill them, I’d call François for his advice, she needn’t worry.
After a few minutes, she eventually calmed down. Then her eyes fell on the yellow Post-it stuck inside the notebook lying open on my desk – Post-it on which I’d written the previous night before going to bed:
Try to find out more about her leaving her father’s house.
Go back to the consequences of Jean’s death.
I saw L.’s eyes light on the Post-it for a fraction of a second and her body flinched backwards almost imperceptibly, as though she’d felt a point of impact, scarcely visible, at chest height. She looked up at me, incredulous.
She must have seen it. She must have realised what I was doing.
She didn’t ask any questions. With a sigh she asked if I’d go and close the cellar door. She’d been in such a panic that she’d left it open and didn’t feel able to go back.
I had no option. I picked up my crutches and limped to the kitchen.
I closed the door and called to her in a tone I tried to make light: the area had been secured; there wasn’t even a shadow of a mouse to be seen; she could come back.
I can’t remember if we managed to go back to work or if we hung around in the kitchen until lunchtime.
In the early afternoon, L. took the car to go for the weekly shop. I settled in the living room to read, near the fireplace, where she’d lit a fire before she left. But I couldn’t concentrate. After a few lines, my mind began to wander to hypothetical scenarios and, even if I avoided the worst ones, my mind was far from calm. If she had understood, I would know before long and I knew her well enough to fear the violence of her reaction. If she had some lingering doubt, she’d return to the subject and ask me about it.
Gradually it grew dark and wisps of fog curled around the trees. L. was gone so long that I thought she might have abandoned me there, with no car and no warning.
L. came back around 7 p.m. Through the living-room window, I saw her get out of the car, smiling. She came into the house, her arms full of shopping and asked if I’d been worried. She’d tried to ring my mobile several times without success. Most of the time, my phone only got a signal outside the house, so this wasn’t very surprising. As she put the shopping away, she described her adventure: having failed to find everything she wanted at the hypermarket, she stopped by at the chemist’s in the town centre, where she got some advice on exterminating mice. Triumphantly, she opened the bag she’d brought back in front of my eyes, full of traps and rat poison, enough to exterminate several colonies of rodents. The salesman had told her where to put the poison and the traps, which she set about doing without further ado, though she asked me to go down in the cellar, as she could no longer set foot in it. I left my crutches at the top of the stone staircase, used my arms to support myself and, pressing against the walls on both sides, made it step by step to the bottom. It took me ages to do this; after several weeks of immobility, my muscles had wasted away.
From the top of the stairs, L. threw down the traps and the cake of poison so that I could leave them where she’d told me.
I came back up slowly. My foot hurt.
When I returned to the kitchen, L. announced she had a surprise. She turned to me; I had never seen her look so challenging.
‘There’s always something to celebrate, isn’t there? Starting a book, the end of a story . . .’
She bent down to pick up a crate with a lid that she’d put on the floor, which I hadn’t previously noticed. She opened it carefully and took out two live lobsters, the last two from a special delivery that had come in from Brittany, she told me, which she’d bought at the hypermarket fish counter. I watched their distressed, disorientated movements.
I opened the bottle of wine that L. had brought back, a premier cru of which she’d bought several bottles, as opening the cellar door was now out of the question. Sitting at the kitchen table, I chopped vegetables, as she prepared to cook the two crustaceans.
L. first prepared a court-bouillon, to which she added some onion. When the water came to the boil, she picked up the lobsters one at a time and plunged them alive into the pot without hesitation. I saw the expression on her face and the smile of satisfaction as she used the skimmer to hold their heads under the water. I thought I heard their shells crack.
We dined together, a celebration dinner dreamt up by L.
I allowed myself to slip into suspended animation, one of those states of peace that often precedes a drama and of which I would have been suspicious if I’d been in my normal state. I don’t know if the alcohol explains the way my anxiety ebbed away, the calming of my senses, my renewed confidence. L. managed to allay all my worries and make me believe in the possibility of my victory.
Because that evening I continued to believe that I would overcome the fear, doubt, nausea – everything that had stopped me writing for months.
We drank white wine late into the night.
I think L. had bought a dessert from a pâtisserie, some sort of strawberry cake that we had second helpings of. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. Everything felt normal.
Later, when we were drinking herbal tea, L. spontaneously told me what had happened one day with the neighbour. She’d alluded to it once or twice on previous days, but until then had held off recounting it.
When I fell exhausted into bed, I felt reassured.
I think I’d managed to convince myself that it was possible that L., given the state of panic in which she burst into my office, hadn’t seen the Post-it, or rather that she’d seen it without seeing it.
48
The next morning, in spite of feeling very tired – more tired than usual – I sat down at my desk to record my recollection of the previous day’s conversation.
I found this file on my computer. It was the last one I was able to transfer.
AUDIO FILE, 12 NOVEMBER 2013
L. returned to the story about the neighbour. She returned to it without me asking, as though she owed me these details, as though this supplementary information was my due.
It took place in the second house, the one where she lived after the fire.
The neighbour was the father of the little boy L. sometimes babysat after school. He was nice to her; his eyes were kindly. When he came to fetch his son, he’d talk to L. for a few minutes if her father wasn’t there. She used to laugh with him.
One day, he rang the doorbell in the middle of the afternoon when L. was home alone.
Without a word, he stood close to the wall and pressed himself against her back. Then his hand slipped into her trousers, under the elastic of her knickers. Then his fingers – first one, then several – entered her and hurt her.
When the neighbour removed his hand, it was covered in blood.
L. never said anything about it.
I need to remember the details of this story, its brutality.
When I finished this recording, I felt drained. A tiredness like I used to experience before, when I was able to spend hours writing without looking up and emerged dizzy, my muscles numb. Yet I had only been in my office for twenty minutes and all I’d done was express some ideas aloud.
The sky was bright. I sat outside on the little stone bench. I needed light. I needed to feel the sun on my face, and needed that heat to slowly warm my skin. I stayed there for several minutes, hoping the sun would eventually banish the inner chill than was making me shiver.
A little later, we had lunch in the kitchen as usual. After that, I felt so weak I went to lie down in my room. I read and dozed.
For dinner, L. had made fish soup. I don’t like that, but I didn’t want to annoy her, because I’d heard her in the kitchen and knew that she’d spent part of the afternoon preparing it.
During dinner, L. seemed talkative and happy. She talked about Ziggy, her imaginary friend. I think she told me oth
er things I’ve forgotten.
I have no recollection of going back to my room. Nor of going to bed. When I woke up in the middle of the night, the sheets were soaking and clinging to my body. I was only wearing my knickers. I could feel my veins throbbing under my skin. My hair was damp and felt frozen. Suddenly, I leaned out of bed and threw up.
I wanted to get up to rinse my mouth and wash my face, but I couldn’t stand. I lay down again. I thought of the fish soup and threw up again.
L. must have heard me. She came into my room and over to my bed. She helped me out of bed and into the bathroom, where she sat me down on a stool while she put the plug in the bath and turned the water on. My body was being shaken by spasms; all my limbs were trembling. When the bath was full, she helped me up. I saw her sharp gaze pass over my shoulders, breasts and legs. She caught me under the arms to get me into the water, then held my fractured foot up so that it remained resting on the edge. She wrapped the splint in a towel to protect it. When she was sure I was OK, she went to get a glass of fresh water from the kitchen, which she handed to me with two pills. She said I was burning and we needed to get my fever down. I took the pills and stayed in the water while she was busy changing the sheets and coming back every two minutes to check everything was OK.
I felt sleep overcoming me again. A heavy, irresistible sleep. I think I fell asleep in the bath. When I opened my eyes, the water was cold and L. was watching me from the stool. Without a word, she went and fetched a bath towel. She helped me out of the bath and back into bed. I think she must have put pyjamas on me. I was frozen.
Next morning, my phone rang. I recognised François’s ringtone. I tried to find my mobile by the bed, but couldn’t. L. came into the room. She took the mobile, which was out of my reach on the table. I heard L. repeat, ‘Hello, hello?’ several times and then she went out into the garden.
Later she told me she’d spoken to François and had told him I was ill, most likely with food poisoning. He’d been worried, but she’d reassured him. She’d promised to send him news while I was unable to do so myself.
From that moment, I lost all sense of time. L. would bring me tea or warm milk, sometimes broth. She held my head up while I drank. I’d stopped vomiting, but still had a metallic taste in my mouth. Between L.’s visits, I slept. Heavy hours that I couldn’t fight against. I sank into a thick, dense, almost painful sleep. When I woke, I would register whether it was day or night; sometimes I’d be sweating, sometimes shivering, and L. was almost always there, still and attentive. I’d get up to go to the bathroom, on the other side of the corridor, holding on to the wall for balance. I didn’t know how long I’d been in this state. One night, I didn’t have the strength to get up. L. took care of changing the wet sheets.
I asked L. to let Louise and Paul know so that they wouldn’t worry about not hearing from me. She said she’d already done it.
Time had become unfathomable.
Even now, I don’t know how long it lasted: two days? Four? Six?
One night, I woke up and looked for my phone. I searched all around me, but it wasn’t there.
This was when I realised L. was keeping it by her and that she’d had plenty of opportunities to listen to my audio files. I’d backed them up on the computer, but hadn’t deleted them from the phone.
A wave of fear washed over me.
Of course L. knew.
Of course she’d understood.
But it was too late. Too late for everything.
I no longer had the strength to explain to her the book I wanted to write, nor the strength to convince her, nor even apologise.
One evening, in my half-conscious state, I heard the doorbell ring. Someone must have managed to get through the gate and reach the house. The bell rang several times. I heard L.’s footsteps in the corridor, just outside my door; she remained there for a few minutes and didn’t open the front door.
Maybe François had contacted a friend or neighbour. Someone had started to get worried. Someone had come to check up. Had probably looked through the window. Had seen signs that we were there.
Unless L. had closed all the shutters.
That same evening, I couldn’t drink the broth L. brought me. My nausea was so great that I couldn’t swallow. As she pressed me, I began to cry. I begged her. I couldn’t do it, she had to believe me, I wasn’t being awkward. L. allowed herself to be persuaded.
In the night my feeling of stiffness seemed less. When I got up to go to the toilet, I also had a drink. I held my mouth to the stream of water from the tap for several minutes.
I woke early and got up before L. appeared. I could stand up a bit more easily. I practised walking by the bed. Baby steps. I could now put my weight on the splint without it hurting. When I heard L. coming, I got back into bed. I felt a little giddy. She came in with a tray. She put it down in front of me, then sat down on the bed. I only took a few sips of the hot chocolate, claiming it made me feel queasy. I said I had stomach ache. I saw a cross look in L.’s eyes. I asked her to leave the bowl by me and promised to drink it when I could.
A little later, I heard L. on the phone and took the chance to pour the chocolate down the toilet. I managed to stay awake for part of the morning.
It was then that I felt sure that L. was poisoning me.
All day I refused to eat what she brought. I pretended to be too weak to sit up and feigned sleep all afternoon. With my eyes shut, I tried to think of a way out. I remembered that François kept a spare set of keys, including one for the front gate, in a kitchen drawer. I would still need to make it that far. How could I escape without her seeing? Without her catching me?
That evening, L. appeared with another tray. She’d made pumpkin soup. She lifted me and propped me up with pillows. In a mild tone that didn’t conceal the threat, she asked me to make an effort. She held the bowl in one hand and with the other tried to feed me.
With a precise, skilful movement, she raised the spoon to my mouth as she would have done for a baby. That was when I noticed she was using her right hand. The pretence was over.
We were no longer two similar beings with many affinities and concordant histories; we were no longer two friends whose actions obeyed the same impulse and blended. No. We were two different people, and one was at the mercy of the other.
As though she could read my thoughts, she whispered: ‘I’ve done everything to help you. You’re the one who spoiled it all.’
I swallowed a mouthful or two of soup and then said I couldn’t eat any more. I didn’t open my mouth again. L. cast her eyes around, as though looking for some implement that would enable her to force my teeth open. I’m sure it crossed her mind to thrust the spoon into my mouth, and also to slap me. She gave an angry sigh, picked up the plate and went out. I thought she’d be back with a dessert or some herbal tea, but I didn’t see her again all evening.
L. wouldn’t put up with my resistance for long. If I continued like this, she’d find another way to weaken me. When I realised this, I felt a wave of horror.
I couldn’t wait.
I had to get out of the house.
I had to reach the gates.
When I got to the road, I’d stop the first car that went by.
49
It had already been dark for a long time when it began to rain. Heavy, squally rain that beat against the windows. In my room, I could hear the wind gusting and in the distance the sound of tyres going through puddles. I didn’t know if I was imagining these cars or could really hear them. I didn’t know if I was capable of making it all the way to the village. With my eyes closed, I imagined myself, soaked, lurching into the middle of the road, waving my arms in the headlights. I imagined the moment when a car would brake, its door open and I’d be saved.
In spite of myself, I fell asleep.
When I woke again, all the lights were out. I had no idea what time it was, but I reckoned L. had gone to bed. As on previous nights, she’d left her bedroom door open to listen out for the slightest
sound.
The chances of me managing to get up and walk to the kitchen without waking her were tiny. I knew that. The splint would strike against the floor and my crutches had disappeared.
The chances of me finding the key in the drawer, getting out of the house and opening the gate without her waking up were zero. But I had no other option.
I put a pullover on over the T-shirt I was wearing. I had no other clothes to hand. The suitcase used to transport my things had disappeared. L. had removed everything.
I sat down on the bed and stayed there for a few minutes, scarcely breathing. I didn’t even dare swallow. And then I mustered all my strength and stood up.
I made it to the kitchen, where I opened a drawer and managed to find the key. I could hear my own breathing, laboured and painful.
I went out. I felt icy rain on my thighs, the splint sank into the gravel with a metallic crunch. Within seconds, my hair was soaked and whipping against my face, and I was having trouble walking against the wind. I tried to run but the pain was too intense.
I reached the gate. It was only then that I noticed that L.’s car had gone. I leaned against the wall to recover my breath. A gust of wind raised the branches of a willow with an intense rushing sound. It was like a cascade of broken glass.
Based on a True Story Page 22