The Penalty Area

by Alain Gillot

  She emptied the contents of her bag onto the kitchen table. There were cloths and things for washing. Then she turned to face me. She had eyes of amazing clarity.

  “When your sister suggested I look after your mother part-time, I didn’t say no, but now . . . I have this other lady I look after who’s just fallen downstairs, and she’s going to need me full-time. That’s why I’m late. We had to talk and change the contract. I had to reassure her. She’s no barrel of laughs, I can tell you, I’d much have preferred your mother, believe me!”

  We were in the middle of the little kitchen. I didn’t remember the place being quite so dark. I wasn’t sure I quite understood. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Oh, I won’t leave you in the lurch, Vincent, I’ll find you someone.”

  “You can’t stay?”

  “No. I just explained.”

  I retreated to the stone sink. I needed something to lean on. “Did Madeleine know you were looking after someone else?”

  “Of course.”

  “You told her you’d only be part-time?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Because we need someone full-time.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize that.”

  “When exactly did you speak to her on the phone?”

  “Your sister? Well . . . Would you like a coffee? I could do with one. Don’t worry, I know where it is.”

  I was in the house in Saint-Quentin, with my mother, and things were getting complicated.

  “It’s strange to see you in the flesh, you know. Her idol!”

  “You must have the wrong son.”

  “April 17.”

  “What about April 17?”

  “That’s your birthday.”

  “Yes, I know that, thanks.”

  “Every April 17, she cries. And when she says, ‘my big boy,’ well, that says it all.”

  “Madame Robin—”

  “Christiane, please.”

  I paused to catch my breath. I had to stop myself from drowning. “Christiane, could you at least look after her for, let’s say, ten days?”

  “No, I really—”

  “Just until my sister gets here.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not possible... Contracts are no joke. You can lose your license. As I told you, this other lady’s a tough cookie, and if I—”

  At that moment, a muffled noise was heard, coming from the bedroom. We both rushed there. My mother had fallen, probably trying to go to the toilet. She had thrown up all over herself. Her cardigan, her blouse, her skirt, it was everywhere.

  “Well, that’s very nice, isn’t it?” Christiane Robin said.

  We had to undress her, and wash her in the bath. She couldn’t stand and I kept her upright as best I could, while Christiane rinsed her down with the shower.

  “I’m going to find her some things. I know where they are.”

  I found myself drying her. She was trying to pull herself together. Her eyes were closed and she was struggling to open them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Try to hold on to the edge of the bath.”

  She gripped it with her hand, and it was only now, as I dabbed her skin with the towel, that I saw the scars from her operations. Her chest had been butchered, her abdomen opened from one side to the other.

  Christiane came back with clothes, everything she could find that was warm and comfortable. We swaddled her—that’s the only word I can find for it—then took her to the bed, each supporting her under one arm.

  “It’s better when you’ve thrown up, isn’t it, Gaby?” Christiane said.

  My mother replied by lifting her hand a little, but didn’t open her eyes. She fell asleep again immediately. The trip to the bathroom had exhausted her.

  The coffee was cold and I reheated it. I poured a cup for Christiane, but didn’t have one myself. I was already too nervous.

  “The worst of it is that pain is the only thing she has now. It’s sad to say, but that’s how it is.”

  “You know her local doctor?”

  “Don’t talk to me about him. A real son of a bitch. Pardon my language, but that’s what he is. He’s a Catholic, a real one, a fundamentalist like Monseigneur What’s-his-name, the one who says that abortion is murder.”

  “I don’t see the connection—”

  “Because as far as he’s concerned, pain is part of redemption, and so he never gives morphine. I know because he took care of my niece and she had a hard time of it to the end, but it was so that her sins could be forgiven.”

  “There are other doctors, aren’t there?”

  “You obviously don’t know how things work around here. They don’t take each other’s patients in a town like Saint-Quentin, it’s too small.”

  “And the hospital?

  “It’s not their problem anymore when it happens outside. They can’t even cope with what happens inside! What you need in a case like this is to know people, otherwise . . . Vincent, I have to go. You’re going to hate me but these are my working hours right now. I’ll come back later if you want me to.”

  She kissed me again. I was starting to get used to it. She looked me in the eyes as she held my arm. She squeezed it tight. I never knew a woman could have such a strong grip. “It’s good that you’ve come,” she said. “Things will be better for her now.”

  I sat down on a kitchen chair. I heard her drive away. She was exactly the person my mother needed. But she wasn’t free. I glanced around me at this room where my mother would take shelter with her sponges and her scrub brush when my father’s madness made the walls shake. I had often hoped they’d both die. That they’d be laid forever under the ground, forgotten. But I hadn’t foreseen the pain, I hadn’t foreseen the scars.

  I washed the cups mechanically. The cold water on my hands did me good. I’d often stood on a stool and floated wooden boats in that sink. That was a thousand years ago, or maybe yesterday. And then I thought again about what Christiane Robin had said, that you needed to know people when you were in this kind of situation. I saw Catherine’s lovely face outside my door, the evening she came to ask me if everything was all right. I did know people. I looked for Dr. Vandrecken’s number. I was quite capable of having deleted it. No, I still had it. I called, thinking she was seeing patients, getting ready to leave a message. But it was her voice I heard, as close as if she was in the room.

  “Vincent?”

  “I need you, Catherine.”

  33

  Christiane came back just before eight. I informed her of my decision to take my mother away. As far as she was concerned, it had been obvious from the start. She packed her bag, while I made up a kind of bed in the back of the Peugeot. When everything was ready, we gave my mother one more tablet and took her out in the blanket. Her size made the operation easy, and we were able to stabilize her on the seat. Christiane kissed Gabrielle on the forehead, then me, too, and wished me a safe journey.

  At that time of day and that season, the road between Saint-Quentin and Sedan wasn’t very busy. I hardly needed to use the brakes. At one point, my mother spoke in a language that was part of her dream.

  There was a free parking space just outside my house. I was able to open the door of the house and come back to get my mother without any difficulty. I put her in the big room at the back, the one that Meunier had lived in for a few months. I brought water. I made sure the bedside lamp was working. My mother was still breathing, her mouth open, slightly obscenely. I put my hand on her forehead. It wasn’t a caress, I wanted to see if she had a temperature. Her arm was hanging a little and I placed it by her side. I left the room.

  Catherine arrived soon afterwards. She was wearing a sweater with a very high turtleneck and her hair was pulled back. She passed me, went to the table, and put down what she’d been able to obtain from Dr. Méri
eux. The morphine and the syringes.

  “Do you know how to give an injection?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her bag again, gave me a discreet smile, and headed for the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You asked me for help. There it is.”

  “Stay.”

  “I’m not the kind of person who throws herself at people, you know.”

  I caught her by the arm. “Catherine, forgive me. You scared me.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You’re too intelligent, too . . . I didn’t feel as if I was in my place.”

  “What place?”

  “Please stay.”

  There was a fiery look in her eyes. That was something I hadn’t seen in her before. And then she softened. “You must be exhausted.”

  A moan came from the corridor. The effect of the Nordax was wearing off. Catherine went with me to the bedroom. My mother was gripping the sheet. It was as if she was trying not to slide off, which would have been very painful. We moved her back to the middle of the bed. Catherine lifted the sleeve of her nightdress. Her arm was as thin as a twig. Catherine looked for the vein, put the syringe in, and the liquid spread through my mother’s body.

  “Have you eaten?” Catherine asked me.

  “No, but I’m okay.”

  “I’ll make you something. Stay with her.”

  Catherine left the room. Soon afterwards, my mother gave a little chuckle, and almost immediately her eyes opened. “Vincent.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know this room.”

  “You’re in my house. In Sedan.”

  She smiled and was silent for a long time. It was as if her whole body was relaxing. Then she tensed again slightly. “Your sister. Have you heard from her?”

  “She’s in Rheims. She couldn’t come because she’s working.”

  “And Léonard?”

  “He’s with her.”

  “That boy’s a wonder.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “He came here.”

  “His father . . . his father thought he was crazy. He was ashamed of him. That’s why he left Madeleine. She always ends up with men who . . . She’s unlucky that way. I’d so much like to see the boy before I die. To hold his hand . . . Do you think he’ll come?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d be so pleased . . . ”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. I assumed she wanted to speak some more. Her mouth made as if to utter a word, but she fell asleep again, and this time I turned out the light.

  Catherine was making ham and eggs. She seemed quite at home in that kitchen. She’d half opened the window, to let out the smoke from her cooking and her cigarette.

  “How is she?”

  “She smiled. She even spoke to me, and then she fell asleep again.”

  “It’s the morphine. I made do with what I could find. Do you have any wine?”

  “I think so.”

  “I could really do with a glass.”

  I laid my hand on a bottle of Irancy. I always had a bottle or two, in case I had guests, except that I never did. Luckily, it wasn’t corked. Catherine drank her wine, with her back to the counter, while I ate with gusto. I was on the last mouthful when my phone vibrated. An unknown number: It was Madeleine. I went out into the backyard.

  “It’s your sister. I’m calling you from the bar. I was worried when I didn’t hear from you. How’s it going?”

  “Ma’s at my house.”

  There was a silence on the line.

  “What’s going on, Vincent?”

  “What’s going on is that Madame Robin isn’t free and her doctor’s an idiot. What’s going on is that I didn’t have any choice. That seems to be the fashion right now.”

  “But you can’t keep her.”

  “Keep her? Madeleine, you don’t seem to understand. She’s dying.”

  “Ma? She’s as strong as a rock. She already pulled that one on me twice.”

  “I don’t think there’s going to be a third time. She wants to see Léonard.”

  “I told you, Vincent, I’m stuck here.”

  “I’m not asking you to bring him. I can come there and fetch him.”

  There was a second silence. “That won’t be possible.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  I could hear her breathing. At least ten seconds went by before she replied.

  “He’s in a specialist institution. He can’t come out.”

  She couldn’t have done that. I wanted to believe I was wrong. “You mean that highly regarded school?”

  “No. That didn’t work out.”

  “Do you mind explaining?”

  “He threw a fit in his first class. You know, those few days with you . . . ” “What of them?”

  “Well, he’s been a bit strange since then. He’s withdrawn, nobody can get close to him. In the apartment, he started breaking things. An apartment we’d been lent temporarily! I went to see a specialist.”

  “A specialist in what?”

  “Difficult children. He recommended an institution. He may have . . . some kind of schizophrenia.”

  “What he has is nothing like that!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Madeleine . . . ”

  I felt like throwing it all in her face, her denial, her cowardice, her lack of awareness, but at the last moment I restrained myself. I knew my sister well enough to know that driving her into a corner at a time like this would only make matters worse.

  “Vincent, are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about Léonard. I’ll call you back. And as soon as I can get away to see Ma, I’ll be there.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  I hung up. I didn’t go straight back into the house. I was hoping that the tension throughout my body would subside. Catherine came out and joined me. She had a glass for me too.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “You don’t drink, you don’t smoke.”

  “I’m a sportsman.”

  “Try, just for this evening.”

  Reluctantly, I took the glass. I felt the liquid run down my throat. I had to admit that, at that moment, it was exactly what I needed.

  “Léonard is in a special home. A shrink told my sister he’s schizophrenic.”

  Catherine turned pale. “It seems to me you need to take a trip to Rheims.”

  “I’m thinking the same. But what do I do with my mother?”

  “I could stay.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “Of course you can. I’ve always dreamed of having a mother to look after.”

  34

  I left for Rheims before day had even risen. My plan was to arrive unexpectedly before Madeleine had time to put up any smokescreens. I knew where to go. The bar. She’d told me that its location would make it the place to be for every party animal in town. It was situated on a square behind the cathedral, opposite the movie theaters. It should be easy enough to find.

  I drove into the town just before ten in the morning and headed for the historic center. I saw the cathedral looming up in front of me, and drove around it. It was market day, and I realized I needed to park quickly. I continued on foot and came to the square with the movie theaters without even searching. The bar was on the other side. From a distance, you could see scaffolding. The front of the building was being renovated.

  As I approached, I saw that the double door was open because of the smell of paint. I ventured inside. I could hear a radio playing. A stand-up comedian was doing a monologue. The bar was far from ready to open. The counter was still nothing but a wood
en frame. One wall had been knocked down, and the rubble hadn’t been cleared. The sound of the radio came from the rear of the premises, so I continued on through. in a large room with a fireplace, a painter was at work, carefully painting the frame of a mirror.

  “Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Madeleine Barteau.”

  He switched off the radio and came down from his perch. He had a blotchy face and very clear blue eyes. From the way he wrung out his brush, and how clean his hands were in the middle of all that mess, you could see he wasn’t an amateur.

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m looking for Madeleine Barteau.”

  “Oh, the girl! It isn’t her time, my friend, you’ll have to wait a bit. What do you want with her?”

  “I lent her some money. I can’t seem to reach her.”

  That was how I presented it. A creditor showing up at a site was credible. I wasn’t going to tell him my whole life story.

  “Well, I hope you have stamina.”

  “Is it as bad as that?”

  “You see this place? I’m starting on the finishing touches here while they’re still taking the other side apart. It’s all like that. Him, I saw once and then goodbye, I wonder if he’s on the run. She’s his puppet. She doesn’t decide anything. She doesn’t have the money. She talks to him on the phone for hours, but nothing ever happens. She acts like she’s the boss, but if you want my opinion, he’s stringing her along. The thing is, he must have tried to get a few local bigwigs to come in on this surefire deal of his, and when that didn’t work, he made himself scarce, and she’s going to end up in the shit. As far as getting paid is concerned, I’m not holding out much hope. The only reason I’m finishing the job is for my reputation, not for anything else. Do they owe you a lot?”

  “Quite a bit. Around what time does she get here?”

  “Sometimes she doesn’t come at all!”

  “I don’t suppose you know where she lives?”

  “Not far from here. In a hotel that rents out rooms. It’s in a dead-end street at the end of Rue des Carterets. I had to go there and wake her once, because of a supplier who was kicking up a fuss.”

  “So she doesn’t have an apartment?”

  “No, that’s his. He managed to get a loft, just to show off. But it’s over between them, he has other girls now. You should see his suit, his watch. Once he’s had what he wants from them . . . ”