The Eskimo Solution

by Pascal Garnier

‘Pierre.’

  ‘Pierre’s nice too. If we’d had a son, we’d have called him Pierre, wouldn’t we, Arlette?’

  ‘Yes, Pierre or Bruno. But we had Nadine.’

  I offer them another drink. Louis accepts; Arlette covers her glass with her hand. Louis talks about the job he did before he retired, working on the railways. I hear him, but I’m not listening. I’m trying to find my features in his face and, of course, I succeed. The resemblance is actually quite striking. I wonder how Arlette has failed to notice.

  ‘Anyway, enough about me, we’ve kept you long enough already …’

  ‘Yes, my husband does like to talk! … Why don’t you come for lunch with us tomorrow? It’s market day. Do you like fish?’

  ‘The thing is … yes, OK, I’d love to.’

  ‘We’ll see you tomorrow then, Pierre! Thanks again!’

  Why did I lie about my name? His really is Louis though …

  3

  Louis’s mother took all her medication for the week in one go on Monday morning so that she could be sure she wouldn’t forget. That was her best day of the week. She laughed at anything and nothing, spent an hour staring at the pattern on her waxed tablecloth, moved her knick-knacks about and invariably ended up embarking on a complicated recipe for which she only possessed a fraction of the ingredients. At eight o’clock, she collapsed in a heap for at least twelve hours.

  Louis could smell it from the end of the corridor, something overpowering that caramelised his nostrils and covered his face like a leather mask. The radio and the TV were both blaring. His mother, curled up on the sofa, reminded him of a box of spilt matches. She had the bones of a bird that jutted out at all angles from under her black dress. A tuft of mauve hair indicated her head. Louis turned the volume of the television down, switched off the radio and went into the kitchen, holding his breath, his hand held out towards the cooker knob. Two fossilised pork chops lay on the bottom of a pan coated with burnt chocolate. On the side a cookery book was open at page 104, ‘Cocoa chicken’. Louis opened the fridge and unearthed a slice of ham, a yoghurt and an apple and returned to the sitting room. Before eating, he propped his mother up with cushions, arranged a pillow under her head and laid a rug over her legs. He really liked watching television with her, especially when she was asleep. It was a programme made by Mr Average for Mr Average about Mr Average. Louis didn’t bother to try another channel. He watched the television, not what was on. Exactly like in the street, or anywhere. What was happening in front of his eyes was only a pretext to let his imagination wander. It could be anything or anyone.

  Sometimes he would follow someone in the street until he got fed up. The last time had been at Gare de Lyon, a woman with a parcel. She had led him as far as Melun. It must have been about one o’clock and the train was half full. Louis had sat a few seats away from the woman so that he could watch her without her noticing. About fifty, a bony head and torso, but plumper from the waist down. She was reading a magazine, Modern Woman, her elbows resting on the parcel on her lap. The parcel was so well wrapped that it looked fake: brown paper perfectly folded, string taut and knotted into an elegant but solid bow, the name of the recipient written in beautiful block capitals (M— something or other).

  The buildings got smaller the further they went from Paris: tower blocks, then four-storey buildings, single houses and finally a cemetery, just before the beetroot fields. Very soon, the same sequence repeated itself but in the opposite direction as they approached Melun.

  Melun prison! The package! The woman was going to visit someone in jail. A son? Or a husband more likely. She wasn’t the kind of woman to have children. Melun was for long sentences. How many years had she been making this journey? How many times a week? There was something at once sad and comic in this image of the frumpy woman with the words ‘modern woman’ in her hands. What on earth could the bloke have done to end up in prison? Killed for money? To give it to this woman? At Melun, Louis had let the ‘modern woman’ disappear into the crowd. He understood at once that Melun was a dismal town, flat and useless. He had drunk coffee as he waited for the next train back to Paris.

  Louis’s mother let out a little fart, very short, but loud. How much was she going to give him? A thousand francs, two thousand francs? She never refused to give him money, but she gave it sparingly, at little old lady pace, so that he didn’t stray. Even when his father had been alive it had been like that. Benefiting from the invariable paternal siesta, she would take him aside in the dining room. Eight uncomfortable, immovable chairs stood round a table as solid as a catafalque. There was an enormous sideboard in which piles of plates slept peacefully except for the once or twice a year they were taken out. They practically never went into that room, except to polish the furniture, a ritual like going to put flowers on Grandmother’s grave on All Saints’ Day. The rare dinners they gave were always depressing affairs, with his father’s colleagues or family members, a universe of adults as icy as the polished mahogany of the furniture. You had to behave well, which meant you couldn’t do anything you wanted to do. The moment his parents opened the glass doors hung with lace curtains that separated the dining room from the sitting room, they were no longer the same people. They assumed a stiff bearing and spoke in low tones as if they were in a museum. They didn’t like going into the dining room either; they much preferred the kitchen, but that was how it was – grown-ups had obligations, work and dining rooms. It was because of little things like that that Louis had refused to grow up, and at forty, he wasn’t about to change his mind.

  ‘Louis, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes, Maman.’

  ‘I already gave you a thousand francs for your car insurance, and that was only two weeks ago. I’m going to give you another thousand but after that I can’t give you any more. We have to have the garage door redone, you know, and that will cost an arm and a leg.’

  ‘I told you, I’ll pay you back!’

  ‘Shh! Your father’s next door. I would give it to you if I could, you know that; it’s just … at the moment …’

  Louis had not been ashamed of asking them for money. They had money, not much, but more than he had. His mother’s face had been barely visible in the gloom. It was only when she had moved her head that there was a reflection off her glasses. They never put the light on until it was completely dark, either in winter or in summer. Not because they were miserly but out of respect for the memory of an era in which thrift was as much a virtue as a necessity. Louis’s mother had opened the sideboard and removed some notes from an imitation-lizard-skin box. That was where she hid her meagre savings. Everyone had known it, but no one ever mentioned it. Like the dining room, his father’s siesta or the tardy lighting up, it had been part of their little habits as tightly woven together as the twigs of a nest.

  ‘Put that in your pocket, and don’t tell your father.’

  ‘Of course I won’t. Thank you, Maman.’

  On the other side of the partition, Louis’s father had known perfectly well what was going on between mother and son and it was fine by him. It was part of their game. Louis had crammed the notes hastily into his pocket, which his mother disapproved of; you were supposed to fold notes neatly in two and keep them in your wallet.

  ‘Right, Maman, I must run now – I’m going to be stuck in traffic. Say goodbye to Papa for me.’

  At the end of the road, the entire house was framed in his rear-view mirror. If you had turned it upside down it would have begun snowing.

  Something very strange was happening on television. His mother’s date of birth had just appeared on the screen: 7/10/21. Louis turned the volume up.

  ‘If anyone born on 7 October 1921 is watching, they should telephone us because they have just won this superb caravan!’

  A sort of square igloo shiny with chrome filled the screen: WC, shower, folding double bed, electric hob, oven, fridge …

  Louis’s eyes widened, like a child in front of a big Christmas toy. He wanted that
caravan, he wanted it all for himself. That was where he wanted to live and nowhere else. A brand-new life in a brand-new caravan. It was obvious to him that destiny had made this programme just for him. And that wasn’t all. He wanted everything else as well, everything his mother owned, her meagre savings, the house, her life.

  The roll of cling film lying on the table was not there by coincidence. There were no more coincidences, just the last pieces of a puzzle all fitting together perfectly. That was why his mother was turning over, offering her face to the film of plastic Louis was preparing to press over it.

  ‘Now you are brand new as well, shining and without a wrinkle. This is not going to hurt you any more than the day you gave birth to me. You’re giving me life for a second time.’

  There was barely a sound, a soft breeze rustling leaves and fingers opening and closing. The old woman, packaged like a supermarket chicken, had just died without making a fuss.

  For a second Louis remembered the lady with the parcel on the train, and her husband in jail in Melun. But that wasn’t going to happen to him; this was just a family affair, just something between him and his mother. It was nothing to do with anyone else. A little sooner, a little later … for his mother it changed nothing and for him it changed everything. A new life was beginning, a proper life, the life of an orphan.

  4

  To tell the truth, I don’t care that the Vidals are stupid, boring and not especially nice. At the beginning of lunch it bothered me a bit, then I got my head down and focused on the grub and the plonk. I stuffed myself like a goose for foie gras, until they once again seemed beautiful, radiant, unique, the perfect couple. I could tell that my ebullience was causing a few raised eyebrows, but, after all, arty types are always a bit zany. Still, they seemed pleased to see me go after the Calvados coffees.

  I love napping on the beach, sheltered from the wind, leaning back against the jetty, my feet buried in the sand, hands in my jacket pockets, face to the sun. Slow explosions of red, green and yellow behind my closed eyelids. When I was little, I used to love pressing my eyes or staring at light bulbs to make fireworks go off inside my head. Arlette used the most marvellous expression when talking about a friend of theirs with a drink problem: ‘His face has been completely defaced by alcohol.’ She comes out with a lot of things like that. It must have been partially aimed at Louis, who was starting to go glassy-eyed after the aperitifs. She stopped him showing me the scar from his operation. ‘Not while we’re eating!’

  Three horses gallop by in the distance, down at the water’s edge. I hear their hooves on the hard sand, slightly out of sync. That’s how I’ve been feeling since this morning – just marginally out of step, slightly missing something. It’s not an unpleasant feeling – halfway between spectator and tourist.

  This morning, Louis – my Louis – killed his mother. So that’s one thing ticked off. I’ve deflowered him. No sooner had I turned off the typewriter than Hélène rang; the England trip is on hold. (What a shame!) Problems at the newspaper, problems with her daughter, problems as far as the eye can see.

  ‘Sorry, darling. Poor you. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No, love. It’s as if everyone made a pact to be a total pain yesterday. Nat went off on one! I don’t know what’s up with her at the moment.’

  ‘She’s sixteen.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s no fun. She’s buggered off God knows where. If you hear anything from her, will you—’

  ‘Of course, if she rings I’ll let you know straight away.’

  Poor Hélène, at the mercy of ‘other people’. If only you’d listen to me … We could shut ourselves up here for ever. We’d never go to England, we’d never go further than the beach and we’d see nobody, except the Vidals from time to time. They’re really nice, you know; you don’t have to try to be clever around them. We’d eat, we’d make love, we’d sleep fused together like Siamese twins. War and peace, summer and winter would come and go around us and we wouldn’t notice. It would all be the same to us. What the hell do ‘other people’ have to do with anything? Remember the time we stayed in bed for forty-eight hours? Wasn’t it wonderful?

  ‘But we can’t spend our whole lives in bed! What would we live off?’

  We’d take a leaf out of my Louis’s book, wouldn’t we? Remember after the famous birthday party at Nane’s, after we’d taken Christophe home? In the car, you said, ‘What I find really upsetting is that she’ll never get the chance to enjoy a share of her bitch mother’s money. She could at least have travelled in the last year, done the things she’s always wanted to do …’

  ‘It’s been years since Nane wanted to do anything. It’s like she’s living the same day over and over again.’

  ‘Maybe, but it still leaves a bitter taste. When I look at all these old codgers who have more time and money than they know what to do with … My father gets a new car every two years – he only uses it once a month. My mother’s always on the lookout for a new coffee machine – she’s already got seven. Can you imagine? Seven!’

  ‘You’ll inherit.’

  ‘Yeah, right! They’re rock solid. Not that I’m wishing them dead, but—’

  ‘But it’s like our pensions – we’ll be half dead ourselves by the time we get them.’

  ‘Exactly. What about you? Don’t you think you’d make better use of your mother’s money than she does?’

  ‘No question.’

  ‘So it’s only when you no longer want anything that you get to do whatever you like? It’s a joke!’

  ‘I can never retire anyway – I’ll just have to live off my fame and fortune. As for you, if you’re relying on Nat and her friends to pay for you, things are not looking good. Our best hope is for an epidemic to wipe out the old people this winter.’

  ‘They’ve all been vaccinated.’

  We sat in silence after that, torn between feelings of guilt for having parricidal thoughts and dreams of inheritance. It was a struggle to get out of the car; the night sky looked like a huge empty black hole, or a box of ether-soaked cotton wool for killing kittens. The next day was when we stayed in bed for two days.

  I’ve run out of cigarettes. It’s starting to get chilly; the wind has changed. I’ve kept my evening plans to a minimum: a yoghurt and then bed. All of a sudden I feel exhausted, tiredness weighing on me like a great damp coat. Quick pit stop at the nameless café, where I hear it’s going to rain tomorrow. I count my steps as I walk back to the house. I stop at 341; there’s someone crouching outside my door.

  ‘Nathalie? … What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Just popped over to say hi. Is it a bad time?’

  ‘Of course not. Come in.’

  A gust of icy wind seizes the chance to come inside the house with us. I have a devil of a time trying to shut the door.

  ‘Louis! Haven’t seen you for ages! You haven’t really changed. A bit fatter maybe.’

  ‘A little, yes. Hello, Solange, you’re looking good.’

  ‘If you say it fast enough! But there you go, you can’t make something new from old bones.’

  Louis thought otherwise. He smiled at the mother of his first wife, Agnès. A voice from inside the house put an end to this embarrassing exchange.

  ‘Bring him in, Solange! You can’t just stand there in the doorway!’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in, Louis! Oh! Gladioli – you shouldn’t have! Thank you, Louis.’

  Nothing had changed, although now the furniture, the walls and Agnès’s parents themselves were coated in a fine film of dust. It had been years since he’d set foot in this house, ten years, maybe more. Raymond, probably reluctantly, turned off the television and poured glasses of Ricard. Solange was twirling about with the gladioli, arranging them in a shaped crystal vase brought back from a trip to Hungary.

  ‘Cheers, Louis!’

  ‘To your good health.’

  ‘Raymond! These drinks are really strong!’

  ‘So what? That’s exactly wh
at a reunion like this calls for.’

  ‘Condolences for your mother, Louis – Agnès told us. How old was she?’

  ‘Sixty-six or sixty-seven, I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Louis saw they were subtracting their age from his mother’s and noting with horror the tiny difference. Then …

  ‘You know, we were really surprised to get your call the other evening, after such a long time.’

  ‘I’m sure you were. It just occurred to me, after speaking to Agnès. Time passes so quickly.’

  ‘It does, but nothing much happens in all that time, at least not to us. Just our daily routine. Can I get you another? Come on, just one more.’

  That had been last week. From the window of his caravan, Louis watched the barges sliding along the Seine. He had parked his caravan in the Bois de Boulogne campsite. It was very quiet at this time of year. He had been here for two months, since just after his mother’s funeral. He hadn’t worried about her death for a moment. Everyone knew the state of her heart and how she took her medication all in one go. He was feeling good, as he had felt every day of the past two months. He wanted to communicate his happiness to other people. To let them know happiness was possible and it was important to believe in it. So he had opened his address book at ‘A’ and picked up the telephone. The first two ‘A’s had been out, but Agnès answered.

  At first everything had gone well for Agnès but as time passed nothing was right any more. Jacques, the man she had been living with for seven years, had just lost his job, and hers wasn’t going well either. Fred, the son she’d had with Louis twenty-two years ago, was nothing but a worry. She didn’t know where he was, Holland, or England, but he was certainly caught up in some scam involving drugs. Hardly surprising, since Louis had never bothered doing anything for him. Well, anyway. The other two children though, the boy and girl she’d had with Jacques (and whose names Louis could never remember) were turning out fine. If only they had a bit of money, they would buy a van and go and sell frites and waffles far away from Paris, in those places where people are always on holiday; it would be a great life, but …