Soft in the Head

by Marie-Sabine Roger

  And when she walks, you can see her hesitate. At least if you observe her, you notice it.

  These days, when we go our separate ways, I always walk her all the way to the gate on the boulevard de la Libération. I’d be ashamed to let her go by herself.

  I say, I’ll go with you, Margueritte, I’ll walk you to the gate.

  She says, Oh, no, Germain, that’s very kind, but there’s no need, I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way.

  I tell her it’s no problem. And it’s not exactly far, it’s about 200 metres. But to old people, metres probably seem longer.

  “And besides, I don’t want to waste your precious time…”

  I’ve got time enough to burn. What would I save if I stopped wasting it?

  I walk next to her. You might almost say above her, given how tiny she is—I’ve got at least fifty centimetres on her.

  Sometimes I have an urge to take her arm, when I see her detouring instead of sticking to the middle of the path. But I let her get on with it, as long as she can stand on her own two feet. I wouldn’t want to humiliate her. So, when she goes too far off course, I go round to the other side of her—no one’s any the wiser—and I gently steer her towards the middle.

  When we leave the park, I wouldn’t dare follow her back to the old folks’ home. I stand there by the gate and watch her walk away, tottering like an old duck.

  I keep an eye out, just in case.

  I think about her having to deal with all that traffic, the pedestrian crossings, the people jostling her, all that shit. I feel like following her, forcing the cars to stop, scaring off the people so she has the footpath all to herself.

  And I realize that caring about a grandmother isn’t any easier than falling in love.

  It’s the opposite.

  I PUT IN as much time as I needed to be able to read properly. But I’m stubborn like that.

  Then one afternoon, when Margueritte sat down next to me on the bench, I said:

  “I’ve got a surprise for you!”

  She said, “Oh? Really?”

  And then she said: I love surprises.

  “You’re all woman, aren’t you?” I said.

  She laughed and she said: Oh, let’s just say more of a relic…

  She explained the word and I laughed too.

  “So, tell me then, this surprise?”

  “Close your eyes,” I said.

  She probably thought I was going to give her a present—chocolates or I don’t know what.

  I just said, You’ll see, it’s poetic and moving.

  And I started and—you probably won’t believe this—I was scared half to death.

  “How did it come to be built, this floating street?

  “What sailors, with the help of what architects, had built it in the high Atlantic on the surface of the ocean, above a chasm six thousand metres deep?

  “That’s six kilometres,” I explained.

  She smiled without opening her eyes.

  So I carried on.

  I admit I’d been practising. First, just in my head, then later out loud. And then in front of Annette who would say, Wait, yes, that’s good, a little slower, a little louder—it almost sounded like we were making love.

  “The child believed she was the only little girl in the world. Did she even know that she was a little girl?…”

  Margueritte sat, listening quietly, her hands in her lap. And it felt strange reading out loud in the middle of a park for fourteen pigeons and one little old lady.

  And at the same time as I was carrying on with the story, I was thinking—on a different channel—If that bastard Monsieur Bayle could see me now! Him and all the rest of them! Everyone!

  I think I was proud of myself.

  I stopped on page thirteen, just after The child of the high seas had no sense of what a far-off country might be, nor Charles, nor Steenvoorde—I mangled that last name, Ste-en-vo-orde, but I don’t speak foreign and there’s no subtitles to give you the pronunciation.

  “Would you like me to read the rest to you some other time?” I said, “Because right now I have to take it back to the library. But I’ll borrow it again if you want. I don’t mind, it doesn’t cost anything.”

  Margueritte opened her eyes and said:

  “Germain, that was such a lovely surprise. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  And then, just afterwards, she said:

  “Although… I have an idea. Would you like to come back with me to my apartment one of these days?”

  “Sure, of course. I can come right now if you like.”

  “I’m not putting you out?”

  “It’s no problem.”

  That day, she didn’t read to me, because I’d already done the business. She just asked me to read the rest to her some other day, if I would be so kind.

  I said, Yeah, sure, if you’d like me to.

  I would have been pissed off if she hadn’t wanted me to, given how much time I’d spent learning to read it aloud, this bloody story that was so poetic. Oh, and deeply moving.

  Afterwards we talked about this and that and nothing in particular.

  At some point she said unexpectedly and completely out of the blue:

  “I’m afraid I shall have to get myself a stick before long. I’m finding it difficult to see obstacles and hindrances now.”

  “Does that make you sad?”

  “Well, to be candid, let us say I’m finding it difficult to adjust to the prospect…”

  “What kind are you planning to get, wood or metal?”

  “Oh, I’d much prefer wood. Metal makes it seem like a prosthesis. I’ll come round to the idea when I’m an old lady… I’ve got a little time before then, don’t you think?”

  I laughed. She laughed too.

  I said:

  “The reason I asked is because I know where you can get really nice walking sticks in carved chestnut. It’s this guy I know, his family have been doing it for generations. Would you like me to take you there? We could go on Sunday? It’s less than an hour by car, it’s all back roads and I don’t drive fast.”

  “You’ll think I’m being ridiculous, Germain, but I get terribly carsick unless I’m the one driving… Back when I used to drive, it was not a problem but, alas, getting behind the wheel now is out of the question. I’d be a public menace.”

  “I can go myself, I can take my girlfriend. I’ll bring back a catalogue.”

  “Well, if it’s not too much trouble… I have to admit, I would feel proud to walk through the park with a beautiful chestnut cane…”

  “OK, that’s what we’ll do then.”

  She asked if I still wanted to come back with her.

  I said yes, of course. I’m not the kind to blow hot and cold.

  She lives in an apartment the size of a postage stamp. Bedroom-living room-balcony. But it’s well situated, not too noisy, not too stuffy. It’s fine. It doesn’t have a garden, but it’s fine.

  She showed me beautiful things she’d brought back from all over the world. Then she said:

  “It’s your turn to close your eyes now, Germain… And no peeking, promise?”

  “I promise.”

  I heard her open a drawer and rummage for something. Then she came over and told me to hold out my hand. She put something in my hand, something heavyish and a little cold.

  “You can open your eyes now.”

  I opened them and said, Shit! and then quickly, Oops, sorry!

  “It’s really beautiful, I can’t accept it…”

  “Please, for my sake.”

  It was a Laguiole pocket knife, top of the range—it was stunning. Damascus blade in forged steel, horn-tip handle, brass bolster and plates, and a beautiful leather sheath for carrying it.

  The sort of knife that costs a bomb and a leg, even for a Jivaro Indian.

  “I have to give you a coin in trade,” I said, fumbling in my pocket.

  “A coin? But why?”

  “Because otherwise we�
�ll fall out. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No, no… explain it to me.”

  “When you give someone a knife, he has to give you some shrapnel—some small change in trade. I’ve only got twenty centimes on me, but it’s not the amount that matters. Put it to one side, don’t spend it.”

  Margueritte held out her hand, very serious.

  She said, Oh, oh, in that case I must find a secret place to hide this precious treasure…

  One of the reasons I like Margueritte is because she’s a bit bonkers.

  I DID AS I PROMISED. I went to see them, the chestnut walking sticks. But on my own. Not that I was trying to get away from Annette, but I had an idea rattling around in my head and when that happens it’s best not to crowd me. I know Baralin, the guy who makes them.

  I said to him, Clément, I want a nice one, sanded but not varnished.

  “Is it for you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, “It’s for my grandmother.”

  “What size is she?”

  I said, Well she comes up to about here on me…

  “OK, let’s go for the children’s size then. She doesn’t sound very tall.”

  He got me to pick from a pile. I took two, in case my hand slipped.

  For a while, I wondered what I was going to carve and whether I was just going to whittle the handle or the whole length of the shaft. I’ve never whittled anything for anyone, except when I was a kid, a little sheep for Hélène Morin, because I was in love with her, only she made fun of me, showing it to everyone in school, the bitch. I put a jinx on her every day for at least a month.

  Later on, she married that fat bastard Boiraut. I figure that makes us quits.

  But this was completely different.

  I decided on the head of a pigeon, with the neck stretched out the way they do when they’re looking for crumbs, it was perfect for the curve of the handle. And the beak I carved as a relief, so it would be soft against the palm of the hand and rounded at the end. With a soldering iron, I burned two holes for the eyes, and they made it look so lifelike you wouldn’t believe it. Then I sanded it with P120 fine-grade emery paper, buffed it with a chamois and, finally, I varnished it. It took a hell of a time, but God damn it was stunning!

  When I’d finished, I stood it opposite my bed.

  Annette told me it was magnificent, and she even slept over that night.

  I got up twice during the night pretending I needed to piss, but that was just an excuse so I could look at the walking stick. I haven’t got prostate trouble yet.

  IT WAS TIME for me to give my present.

  When I saw Margueritte at the far end of the path, I felt my heart hammer.

  I got up, I held out the walking stick, I said to her, It’s for you.

  There was nothing else I could have said.

  She looked up at me, head tilted to one side, but only just. She took the walking stick, she gently ran her fingers over the handle again and again. It was like she was stroking a real pigeon.

  I asked her:

  “Do you like it?”

  “Oh, I have to admit, it’s not unattractive…”

  Not unattractive? I was hurt like a stab in the back.

  “That is litotes, of course,” she said.

  “No, it’s a pigeon,” I said.

  She smiled.

  “Litotes is a figure of speech, Germain, a way of emphasizing a point, using a negative to affirm a positive. It is saying black the better to say white. For example: ‘it’s not unattractive’ actually means that I think it is extraordinarily beautiful. A real work of art. And I am very touched.”

  And then she added, suddenly sounding very shaken:

  “Because you did it, didn’t you Germain… you carved the cane?”

  “With the knife you gave me.” I said.

  This wasn’t true: I can only really carve with my Opinel and a wood chisel. But I didn’t see why telling a little white lie about it would bother the Almighty, after all the ninth commandment just says Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour. God doesn’t say you can’t lie in other cases. And who am I to be more Catholic than the Pope?

  In any case, Margueritte was very touched when I mentioned her knife, I could tell, she gave a little tearful oooh and she squeezed my hand. All afternoon, I didn’t see her put down that cane. So you see I was right to lay it on with a trowel.

  After a little while, she said:

  “Germain, did you know that there are four-hand pieces written for piano?”

  “There are what?”

  “Some pieces of music are written for two people to play together on the same instrument. Well, only on the piano, actually…”

  “Well it would be pretty tough to do on a tin whistle.”

  She gave that little bell-like laugh of hers and said:

  “So, I was thinking, I mean only if you agree of course… I was thinking that we might read together, while there is still time?”

  “A four-eyed story, you mean?”

  And then I said: Of course.

  I’ll enjoy that.

  THE NEXT DAY, a bunch of us were down at Chez Francine, holding the fort while she was out shopping. I took out my new knife to clean my nails, all casual.

  Marco said:

  “You lucky bastard! That’s a magnificent beast!”

  “Any chance of a look?” said Julien.

  Landremont studied it from every angle, opened and closed it and ran his thumb across the blade like he knew a thing or two about knives.

  “A fine piece of craftsmanship,” he said, “Where did you get it?”

  “It was a present.”

  From who? they asked.

  I said, vaguely:

  “From my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother?” said Landremont, “You mean the one we know, your mother’s mother?”

  “My grandmother,” I repeated.

  “That old bat? She’s taken to giving you presents these days? I thought she hated you and your mother…”

  “You have to admit the women in your family are all psychos,” said Marco, “You’re lucky you haven’t got a sister.”

  I was about to tell him to get off my back when Jojo came in and sat down next to us.

  He said:

  “Wow, that’s a hell of a beautiful knife you’ve got there.”

  And before I had a chance to say anything, he added:

  “Listen, guys, we’re going to have to say our goodbyes soon. I’m moving, I’ve found a job in Bordeaux.”

  We said, Oh?

  Julien pointed out that it’s not exactly next door.

  “But it is a beautiful city,” said Landremont, who hardly sets foot outside his garage, but he reads a lot of magazines.

  Marco said:

  “What about Francine? Have you told her?”

  “No, I was planning on leaving tonight without a word…”

  “That’s not very nice…” said Marco.

  “Yeah, and more importantly, it’s not true. Of course I’ve told Francine! What do you take me for, you moron? You think I’d do a moonlight flit? I’ve given my notice, and I’ll stick around a bit longer if necessary to train my replacement.”

  Marco shrugged.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure this is a good time… Francine will wind up going off the rails. It was bad enough Youssef dumping her without you leaving too…”

  Jojo laughed and said:

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Francine’s feeling a lot better since last night…”

  We didn’t ask him why because right at that moment she came in with a big smile on her face and Youss’ trailing behind her carrying the shopping bags.

  “Oh, I see… So you’ve made up, then…” said Marco.

  Youssef gave us a wink and said, Give me a minute to sort things out in the kitchen and I’ll be right back.

  “Your sex life is your own business!” said Julien with a laugh.

  We joked for a bit
while we waited for Youssef, and when he showed up Landremont said:

  “Looks like Francine doesn’t hate you as much…”

  Youssef said: What do you mean “as much”? She doesn’t hate me at all, why would she hate me when I came back to her? Has she said something?

  Landremont roared:

  “Oh, stop flapping like a headless chicken, it was just a joke.”

  And I said:

  “It was an example of litotes.”

  “An example of what?” Youssef said.

  “Litotes. A way of saying black the better to say white, if you like. She doesn’t hate you as much means: she loves you. God, you can be slow on the uptake sometimes.”

  Landremont sighed.

  “Litotes. That’s it exactly.”

  But he was looking at me nervously, the way he does these days whenever I say something intellectual. For a minute I almost thought he was going to put a hand on my forehead to see if I was running a fever.

  He said:

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Germain, but I hardly recognize you. I’m not sure I didn’t like you better before, because these days you scare me.”

  Marco said:

  “It’s true, you’ve changed. You hardly drink any more, you don’t tell dumb jokes, you come out with words no one understands. If you’re not careful, pretty soon Annette will be the only girl you’re screwing…”

  I didn’t say anything.

  It’s true that I used to make them laugh. I’d tell dirty jokes, or jokes about Belgians and Jews and blacks. No Italian jokes, on account of Marco, or Arab jokes, because of Youssef. Friends are off limits.

  Nowadays I’ve realized that those jokes aren’t really funny. But when you’re drunk, the bar is lower, you’ll laugh at anything. And it becomes a habit, you know, being an ignoramus. I can say that from experience.

  It starts out because you’re lazy, but then the wind changes and you’re stuck that way.

  Then one day, counting pigeons, by complete coincidence you meet a grandmother who’s surplus to requirements and you end up with The Plague, the Jivaro Indians and poor Monsieur Gary who’s still crying for his mother. And that little girl in Venice, except it’s really the middle of the ocean. Not to mention the dictionary, which is actually an absorbing book given how you get completely sucked in when you try to find a word. And gradually, you see everything differently. You’re interested in different things. You stop fucking and start making love. You put up with your mother. You hang out in libraries.