Soft in the Head

by Marie-Sabine Roger

  “To God Almighty? Nothing.” I said.

  “Oh, go away! You make me tired. Go and live in that caravan of yours for all I care!”

  I walked out and left her, I didn’t respond, I didn’t even turn back.

  I LIKE THIS CARAVAN. I resprayed it white and built an arbour over it to train a vine. It keeps me cool in summer and acts as a gutter during the rainy season. The caravan doesn’t belong to me, but I don’t think there’s any danger of the owner coming to claim it. Not if he values his balls, at any rate.

  Gardini, his name is. Jean-Michel Gardini.

  He showed up at the house one day. I was still a kid at the time, nine or ten maybe. Not much older. I do know I hadn’t started on my vegetable garden yet and that I was still going to school more or less. That gives me a couple of reference points.

  This guy showed up one morning and asked my mother if he could park his caravan on our land because he was here for two weeks “on business”.

  I don’t know about you, but a guy who sleeps in an Eriba Puck and comes around telling you he’s “on business” makes me suspicious. Well, it would make me suspicious now, but back then nothing seemed strange or surprising because I was still a kid.

  In fact his “business”, we found out later, was selling knock-off jewellery at local markets.

  Anyway, there he was explaining to my mother that someone down at the town hall had mentioned we had a large garden and that he’d like to rent part of it while he was here. And, while they were on the subject, he was prepared to pay extra if she would cook lunch for him every day.

  At the time, my mother was pretty much living from hand to mouth. She did a few little jobs here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. So the prospect of renting out a bit of waste ground that no one ever used—except me as a playground, but I didn’t count—of taking in a lodger, half-board, cash in hand, no word to the taxman, gave her pause for thought. Though it wasn’t a long pause.

  I think she’d said yes before he finished his sentence.

  I hated this Gardini from the moment I set eyes on him, the two-faced fucker. He was a flash bastard, all tailored suits and stripy shirts. He wore his hair down over his shoulders, leaving snowdrifts of dandruff. He was trying his best to look artistic, but really he was just an arsehole, something I knew all about even then. Just having to sit opposite him at breakfast, lunch and dinner was too much for me. The way he ate was disgusting. He never washed his hands when he came out of the toilet, but that didn’t stop him helping himself to bread from the basket. He was forever talking with his mouth full, and I would spend the whole meal calculating the trajectories—line (parabola) describing the path followed by a projectile after launch—to avoid ending up with breadcrumbs floating in my water glass.

  My mother would yell at me:

  “Germain, what’s got into you? You’re holding on to that glass for dear life. Would you ever just put it down! No one’s going to steal it! Children, I tell you… You wouldn’t believe what I have to put up with, Monsieur Gardini!”

  “Call me Jean-Mi, Madame Chazes. All my friends call me Jean-Mi.”

  “I couldn’t possibly…”

  “Even if I ask nicely?”

  “Well… as long as you call me Jacqueline. Germain, you’ll get a slap if you’re not careful.”

  “Jacqueline? Such a charming name. It suits you… You must be so proud to be blessed with such an elegant name.”

  “That’s so true.”

  This was news to me. She spent her time moaning to her girlfriends:

  “Jacqueline makes me sound like an old biddy. I prefer Jackie…” And Gardini, bowing and scraping to get into her good books, telling her how she cooked like a queen, how she deserved a Michelin star. How she was one of the ten wonders of the world. He had a good line in soft soap… Long story short, after a couple of days they hardly even talked during meals, they were so busy devouring each other with their eyes. At first, I was happy, I didn’t have to play goalie with my water glass any more. But even though I was a kid, I wasn’t completely blind. Whenever my mother got up from the table to get more bread or fill the water jug, I noticed that Gardini watched her like a stray dog watching someone take away its bowl. And that he mostly stared at her below the waterline.

  Sometimes, after the cheese course, he’d start jiggling on his seat like a corn kernel on a hotplate. Then he’d say:

  “I’ve brought some lovely stuff back from my studio in Paris. Would you like me to show you?”

  “It would be a pleasure, but you do know I couldn’t possibly afford—”

  “I’d just like you to see them.”

  And my mother would say:

  “Well, in that case…”

  Gardini sprinted down to the end of the garden and came back with the large briefcase stamped Brotard & Gardini—Authentic Parisian Chic—Jewellery and Finery that he always kept in the boot of his Simca.

  In the meantime, my mother would have cleared away the plates. Gardini would set the case on the table. He would start giving her the sales pitch while he showed her his tacky crap.

  “Here, try on this necklace. It’s genuine silver plate, look at the hallmark! Go on, try it on! Just for me… It would beautifully show off that elegant neck of yours.”

  I wondered why he was always talking about her neck since the necklaces were never chokers, but chains that dangled down to her breasts.

  Gardini was always helpful, I’ll say that for him. He would go round behind her and press up against her.

  “Just a minute, Jacqueline, just a minute, I’ll put it on for you.”

  It must have been a tricky process, because he seemed to struggle for a long time behind her. My mother would giggle loudly. He would blush and his voice sounded hoarse.

  Eventually, my mother would say:

  “Germain, I’ve just noticed the time, shouldn’t you get back to school?”

  That was suspicious in itself since usually she didn’t give a shit whether I went to school or not. Then she’d say, in this strange, soft voice:

  “Go on, go on, you don’t want to be late.”

  And I thought to myself, women are stupid, one silly necklace and suddenly they’re in a good mood.

  Kids are so dumb.

  GARDINI WAS QUICK to get his feet under the table. He would come for two weeks, disappear for three days, then come back again, and so on. He would stretch his size 11s farther and farther under the table, sink deeper and deeper into the sofa. He had decided to, as he put it, take me in hand.

  He started giving me orders, Tidy your room, set the table, stop bugging me, go to bed. He started calling my mother by her first name and finding fault while he was at it, You’ve put too much salt in the stew, fetch me a can of beer, what’s keeping you with the coffee?

  My mother may be a fine filly, but don’t go jerking the reins. In our family, we’ve got short fuses. I don’t know if I told you: I get my height from her. Obviously her height is a bit more feminine. But not much more, relatively speaking. Gardini just about came up to her ear.

  Anyway, what is bound to happen, happens. That’s the law of fate, and I’ve noticed that it’s a law that also means shit happens.

  One night, I don’t really remember why, he gave me a clout. Now, my mother might not have had an ounce of maternal fibre, but she had a sense of propriety. Only one person was allowed to wallop her son and that was her. She said:

  “I won’t have you hit that child!”

  “Shut your hole!” Gardini said.

  “What?” my mother said, “What did you just say to me?”

  “You heard me! And stop busting my balls, I’m watching the match.”

  My mother turned off the TV. Gardini roared:

  “Turn the fucking TV back on!”

  “No,” said my mother.

  Gardini lost his head, he leapt to his feet and said: “Jesus H. Christ! You’re asking for a slap too!”

  He lashed out at my mother, whack
whack, and gave her a box round the ears. Now that, that was a mistake.

  My mother went completely white, she walked out without a word, she went straight to the garage.

  She came back with a pitchfork. And my mother waving a pitchfork is not something you laugh at. Especially when she’s pointing it at your belly and saying in a patient voice:

  “You’re packing up your bags and you’re leaving.”

  Gardini tried to come on like gangbusters. He stepped towards her, raising his hand, really threatening as if to say, What, you want a second helping, haven’t you had enough?

  My mother stabbed him—tchak—right in his blubbery thigh. A quick, fast jab, like a torero in a bullfight. The guy started bleeding and screaming:

  “Ow-shit-fuck-shit! You’re a bloody lunatic!”

  My mother said:

  “Looks that way.”

  Then she added:

  “I’m going to count to three. One…”

  Gardini grabbed the keys to the Simca off the sideboard, stumbled backwards towards the door, saying:

  “Think about it, Jacqueline, think carefully! If I walk out this door, you’ll never see me again!”

  “I’ve already thought about it. Two…”

  “I forgive you!”

  My mother lifted the pitchfork, aiming an inch or two higher. She said:

  “Three.”

  Gardini said Ow-fuck-shit-fuck! a couple more times—varying the order—then legged it down the garden.

  He climbed behind the wheel of his car, waved his fist, screaming, This isn’t the end of it! and took off at top speed leaving the caravan behind since, that particular morning, it was unhitched.

  A few days later, Monsieur Saunier—he was mayor at the time—came by to see my mother.

  “Listen, the reason I’ve come to see you is because we’ve had a call at the office from a man named Gardini about a caravan that is apparently parked on your property.”

  “That’s true.”

  “He wants it back.”

  “Let him come round,” my mother said, “I’ll give him a warm welcome.”

  “You sound hostile, Jackie,” said the mayor, “Do you have some grievance against this man?”

  My mother said:

  “He’s been beating my lad.”

  “Oh…” said the mayor.

  “And me.”

  “Really?”

  “What are you planning to do? Send the police round?”

  “And why would I do that?… You’ve assured me that, if he should show his face, the gentleman will get a warm welcome, haven’t you?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You have not made any threats against him in my presence, have you?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, it is a personal matter that does not concern the local police. You have every right to give a friend a warm welcome.”

  “Damn right,” my mother said, “It’s a free country!”

  “In that case, I believe we’re done. Oh, no, while I think of it… I don’t suppose you have a pitchfork by any chance?”

  “In the garage.”

  “Would you lend it to me for… let’s say two or three months?”

  The chicken-shit bastard phoned to threaten my mother every night for a few weeks. Then the calls became less frequent. Eventually they stopped.

  “But Jackie, what will you do if he comes back?” the neighbours would ask.

  And my mother would say:

  “A mischief.”

  She always was a woman of few words.

  IN THE BEGINNING, I used the caravan as a playhouse, later as a shag pad, and it was really practical. Eventually, one day, I decided to make it my primary residence.

  It has to be said that my mother was getting to be unbearable.

  She was getting to be completely batshit crazy, which was sad since she was only sixty-three. She’d got to where she only talked to the cat, and even then it was just repeating the same old things. She wasn’t interested in anything any more except her magazines; she would spend all day cutting out photos of American actors and pasting them over photos in the family albums. I don’t have much in the way of memories, and I don’t really give a toss, but it scared the crap out of me—to put it politely—seeing Tom Cruise or Robert De Niro pasted over my grandfather or my uncle Georges.

  When I asked her why she was doing it, she said:

  “I’m tired of looking at his ugly mug.”

  “Are you talking about Grandad or Uncle Georges?”

  “Both. They’re as bad as each other.”

  I came to the point where I thought that with parents, the only thing is to get out as early as you can. I hope the Good Lord can forgive such ingratitude, but He had it easy, His mother was a saint. So He can’t really compare the two.

  I’m talking about normal people, crazy people like my old lady.

  You don’t get this sort of problem with animals. When sparrows leave the nest, they don’t come back for lunch every Sunday as far as I know. And their parents don’t go round saying, What sort of time do you call this? Where have you been? Wipe your feet before you come in! Beasts are cleverer than us, even if they are dumb animals.

  Obviously, it was down to me to move out, to leave my mother. But seeing as how her health wasn’t too good, I hung around a bit longer. In case the house became vacant. And besides, like I told you, I had the vegetable garden to think about. And if you haven’t experienced it, let me tell you: a garden has a greater hold on you than a scraggy bit of umbilical cord. If I’m allowed to say such a thing about something that is a family tie—and therefore sacred—I hope God won’t chalk it up on my slate.

  Then again, Julien is always saying: “No matter what you do, Germain, she’ll always be your mother. In this life, we only get one mother. You’ll see, when she’s gone, you’ll be the first to shed a tear.”

  And that really hacks me off. Me, shed tears for my mother? Over my dead body, I thought. All she ever did was bring me into this world, and then only because she couldn’t get rid of me, because once I was inside her I had to come out somehow. And I’m supposed to cry for her?

  Where’s the justice in that?

  *

  These days, I know that it’s not possible to explain everything.

  Emotions, for example, are often irrational—see also: unreasonable, unwarranted, senseless. My mother was like a stone in my shoe. Something that isn’t really serious, but still manages to ruin your life.

  So, one day, I decided to leave home. The last straw was when I saw her on her own in the kitchen screaming at the ants because they were leaving footprints all over the sink.

  That was the point when I thought, right, now she really has gone too far.

  Let her die, I thought, I don’t care, this time, I’m definitely out of here.

  It came to me like a sudden urge, like when you desperately need to take a leak, with much the same result—a huge feeling of relief once it’s done.

  That night I talked to my friends down at the bar. I was happy. I said:

  “I’ve left home.”

  Landremont threw his hands up to heaven and said:

  “Praise Jesus! It’s a miracle! So you’ve finally made up your mind?”

  “Yeah, it’s done and dusted.”

  “So where are you going to sleep?”

  “In the caravan.”

  “In the caravan?” Julien repeated. “Yeah… it’s not a bad idea, I suppose. I didn’t realize it was still roadworthy… So where are you planning to park it? At the camp site?”

  “I’m not planning to park it anywhere, I’m leaving it where it is.”

  Jojo laughed and Landremont buried his head in his hands.

  Julien said:

  “Oh… Let me get this right, you’re saying that you’ve left home and moved to the bottom of the garden, is that it?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  Julien shook his head slowly. Marco said:

/>   “He’s a certified bona fide grown-up now, our Germain.”

  Landremont sniggered. He said:

  “Certified, I’m not sure; certifiable, definitely.”

  Everyone laughed, especially me. That’s what I always do when I don’t get the joke. But to be honest, I thought about it that night while I was cooking some grub, and I still couldn’t see what the wankers were laughing at. What was the problem with me leaving home and moving into the Eriba Puck? Distance is all in your head. Moving to the bottom of the garden was symbolic, so to speak. That’s what I would have told them if I’d had the word handy at the time. That’s exactly what I would have said.

  The caravan was symbolic.

  And besides, being nearby, it was practical.

  ONE TIME—I can’t quite remember why—Margueritte asked me:

  “Have you still got your mother, Germain?”

  “Oh yes, still…” I said.

  I could have added “Worse luck!” but I figured that Margueritte probably wouldn’t understand that kind of thing. Especially since, right then, she heaved a big sigh.

  “Oh, you are so lucky.”

  What could I possibly say to that?

  Given her age, Margueritte probably lost hers long ago. I thought maybe she still misses her. Maybe old people feel like orphans too, when they lose their mother.

  It must have been something like that, because she decided we were going to start another book “that beautifully describes a mother’s love. You’ll see, it is terribly moving…”

  Promise at Dawn, it’s called.

  At first I didn’t really understand all the stories of gods with strange names. Totoche and I don’t know who all. A bit later, I really got into it, when the hero talks about how he found his vocation when he was thirteen, except for him it wasn’t rose windows, it was wanting to be a writer, but as jobs go, it’s no stupider than any other.

  Margueritte read a bit to me.

  I said, It’s not bad for a made-up story.

  She shook her head and said:

  “Actually, it’s autobiographical!”