by Adam Thorpe
There was a silence while he looked at me, waiting for an answer. Then he sniffed and blew softly on his coffee. My mother was wiping surfaces.
‘We’ve got Carole’s birthday two weeks after Gilles’s Communion,’ she said. ‘Don’t go planning anything then. We can have a little party in the sanatorium gardens.’
‘Sanatorium,’ my uncle murmured.
‘I prefer to call it that. It’s where she’s recovering. She’ll be twenty-one. Not my little girl any more!’
‘Our little outing won’t be then,’ said my uncle. ‘Will it, chum?’
My migraine still rumbled somewhere far off in my head, but it was heading away now, whatever happened. I always found it easier, just after a migraine, to tell what was really going on, as if my brain was missing a layer of skin. I knew that my uncle wasn’t thinking of the deal we’d made a few weeks ago, in the car, after Mademoiselle Bolmont had screamed and begged. He’d forgotten all about that deal. No, he was making up for my not being able to go to the ballet.
I looked at him as if I’d never really noticed his face before. He was busy slurping his coffee between drags. His head was very smooth and oval, I realised. With the sideburns stopping exactly halfway down, it made me think of a pie in a dish. The skin was all glossy like pastry out of the oven.
‘That’s nice, isn’t it, Gilles?’ said my mother, over her shoulder, while she rubbed hard at the tiles above the sink.
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ll want to know where, I expect,’ said my uncle, a bit stiffly. He rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand, making squidgy noises.
‘Where?’
‘Where I’m going to be taking you.’ He leaned forward. His eyes were bleary, in fact, the bags underneath pushing them up so they seemed almost Chinese. They were much smaller than his thick eyebrows. ‘Listen, it’s a secret between us two. I said to your mother, I’m going to take him somewhere special, but it’s just between us two. The males of the family.’
He winked at me, the eyelid sticking a bit as it was released.
‘As long as it’s not one of those floor shows,’ laughed my mother, a little falsely.
‘It’s not a floor show,’ said my uncle. ‘That’s for later.’
‘I hope not!’ joked my mother, dribbling yellow cleaner onto the cloth. She was nervous this morning.
My uncle scratched under his collar, hooking a finger and rubbing the nail against the skin. I thought of his collars and cuffs lying on the ironing board like haloes, completely flat, my mother spraying them with starch from the aerosol with the picture of the robin on its side, then pressing them with the iron. I wondered whether the other women he knew all over France did that for him, too. All of them moving their irons over his collars and cuffs at the same time, like a dance on television, with different scenery behind them and red lipstick on their mouths and smiles full of white teeth.
‘It’s very special, anyway, chum,’ he said. ‘An integral part of your education. A one-off. Just us two in Paris, eh?’
‘When?’
‘Oh, soon. In the next two or three weeks.’
‘Except for Carole’s birthday,’ my mother said. ‘May 26. That’s a Sunday, of course.’
‘If it’s a Sunday, then it’s OK. Ours won’t be on a Sunday, Danielle. I’ll look into it when I’m in the centre of town, today. I’ve a meeting with the Dutch.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Business. Hard drivers, the Dutch—’
‘The variety show? Is it because of the ballet?’
My uncle’s face twitched. He tried to hide it behind his cigarette.
‘Gilles,’ said my mother, ‘I’m sure, whatever it is, you’ll prefer it to the – to Jocelyne’s show.’
‘Jocelyne,’ sang my uncle, as if he knew a song with the name in, spreading his hands and wobbling a little, his eyebrows right up.
I ignored him.
‘I want to see the ballet,’ I said. ‘I’ve read the story. It’s about a robot disguised as a – as a person.’
‘You sound like a little boy,’ said my mother. ‘Wanting everything, just like that, dear.’
‘I’ll be better tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’m much better already.’
‘You look it,’ grunted my uncle, tearing off some bread from the stick on the table. ‘You don’t look in the slightest bit grim, chum. Picture of health, I’m sure.’
He opened his mouth very wide and took a bite of the bread, the crust smashing under his teeth. He then dunked the rest in his coffee, chewing with his mouth open, and stuffed the bread in before he’d swallowed the first bite. Then, still chewing, he lifted the bowl to his lips and took a large gulp of the coffee. He came out from behind the bowl still chewing, and wiped his mouth on the napkin with AG sewn on by my mother in silver thread. I’d never watched him like that before, noticing so much: it was the effect of being ill. My brain had been scoured out.
‘If it was my Solemn Communion,’ I said, ‘you’d make me go.’
‘It’s not your Solemn Communion,’ my uncle growled, half-jokily, still chewing. ‘It’s pretty stuck-up little cousin Jocelyne.’
‘It certainly isn’t your Solemn Communion, dear.’
I sat there with a rumpled face that I felt was full of spite and venom, staring at the burn-marks on the Formica below my chin.
‘Gilles, I’m going to get narked,’ my uncle declared, folding his napkin carefully and smoothing it flat. ‘Your mother says no, and no it is.’ He scraped back his chair and stood, smoothing his throat where the stubble grew fluffier above the collar. I kept on saying nothing, crouched in the chair like Christophe’s grandmother.
‘I suppose if he was taken there and then brought straight back,’ suggested my mother, looking at me. ‘If he’s that disappointed.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said my uncle, slowly. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘If he’s that disappointed. Otherwise he might get upset and have another migraine for his Solemn Communion.’
‘Don’t let me down like this, Danielle,’ my uncle said, his voice rising. His hands made a shape like the mime artist’s holding an invisible box. They moved up and down as he spoke. ‘One decides on a scheme, one decides on it – and then one applies it. One applies it one hundred per cent. OK?’
‘Like your scheme to knock down the wall, I suppose,’ said my mother, and gave a sort of laugh.
My uncle jabbed a finger at her and started shouting. It made my head buzz like a fridge.
‘That’s marvellous! Oh, that’s bloody marvellous! Listen, woman! I try to help you! I try to sort things out! I get back in the early hours, from work, dead as a bloody dog, and the next morning I’m up and sorting things out! The family! I’m able, I’m willing! I don’t ask for a bloody medal! Well, the next time, don’t hold your breath waiting! Don’t hold it!’ He turned to me. I felt smaller and whiter and emptier. ‘Stop niggling at your mother, all right? If you want to look up Jocelyne’s skirt that badly, then do it off your own bat. But don’t expect her to be champing at the bit, chum—’
‘I don’t want to look up Jocelyne’s skirt,’ I said, staring at a burn-mark on the table. ‘I don’t like Jocelyne.’
‘No need to be vulgar, Alain,’ my mother said.
My uncle ignored her, placing his hands on the table and leaning over it so that I could smell the coffee and stale tobacco coming from his breath. The table wobbled on its metal legs.
‘Whatever you want to do with her—’
‘I said, I don’t like Jocelyne. I want to see Coppélia’
‘The show,’ added my mother, quickly, glancing at my uncle.
‘Thank you, Danielle. I didn’t think it was a heart transplant or Expo 67.’ He turned back to me, his forehead shiny with sweat, smiling grimly at his own joke. I glanced up at him – he hated not being looked in the eye when he was cross.
‘Ba-llet,’ he said, slowly and with an effort, as if he was in pain. ‘Now what’s so great abou
t ba-llet, chum?’
The word ‘ballet’ came out like a belch each time. I noticed something weird in his face, now, something almost frightened.
And I realised that I wasn’t lying, then. It was a shock for me: I did want to see Coppélia. I wanted to see Coppélia as much as I wanted to see Jocelyne. Or even more so, because the thought of meeting Jocelyne again gave me butterflies.
‘I know the story,’ I said.
‘Eh?’
‘I know the story and I want to see how it’s done.’
My mother stopped wiping. ‘I thought it wasn’t the—’
My uncle shushed her, then turned back to me. My mother started wiping again.
‘Carole’s put you onto this, hasn’t she?’ he said, sounding as if he was chewing something.
‘What?’
My mother’s wiping changed its rhythm, going slower. The sink’s metal reflected her plastic apron like a mirror.
‘Your sister,’ my uncle murmured. ‘She didn’t put you onto this, when you saw her on your own? This bloody ballet business?’
‘Of course not. Why?’
‘Honest, Gilles? Man to man? Between blokes?’
I started stammering something out. About halfway through I caught up with what I was saying.
‘Just because she was – when she was dancing – just because she didn’t have all her clothes on, you think—’
‘What?’
My mother had turned round. I didn’t look at her.
‘When she was dancing, in the ward,’ I went on, feeling trembly inside. ‘In the nude. When we visited. You think … But it really didn’t upset me. That’s what people with mental problems do. It’s normal. In the nude.’
‘Subject closed, Gilles. Off the menu. Finito,’ my uncle said, straightening up.
I caught him making a little sign to my mother, sort of calming her and shutting her up at the same time. It made me think of a traffic policeman. He left his cigarette in his mouth and adjusted his trousers, running his fingers along the belt and then hitching them up in a self-satisfied way. I suddenly hated the way he did this – it was a kind of victory sign.
‘Right,’ he said, tucking in his shiny shirt that didn’t need to be tucked in. ‘Some people have got to work.’
‘In for lunch?’ asked my mother, scratching her forehead and not looking him in the face.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth after sucking hard on it. The smoke never came out. ‘Seeing the Dutch boys for lunch at some posh place. I’ve got them fond of me and I don’t want to stand them up. If there’s no objection.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Well, it’s work.’
He gave a sigh as he crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. Then he sniffed into his throat and walked out of the kitchen, his trousers looking too high on his stomach. We heard him thud up the stairs and creak around above us.
‘He really does his best for you, Gilles.’
She sounded cross with me, frowning hard. She snatched the yellow bowl off the table and wiped the brown rings it had left on the Formica. ‘He really does his best, you know.’
I didn’t answer. I heard Mademoiselle Bolmont’s voice in my head, but clearer than on the radio. Madame, I cannot walk. She was affected now by my dreams and nightmares, so I couldn’t think of her as she was in normal life, sitting in her bungalow with her books and teacups and chatter. The memory of her in my dreams was more real than that memory, in fact. I desperately wanted to mention her to my mother. It was like toothache.
My mother switched the radio on, as if reading my mind. There was an excited reporter speaking in the centre of Paris, perhaps because of some big fire or accident. My mother kept her rubber-gloved finger resting on the radio and listened. After a few moments it was obvious that he was talking about the opening of the Vietnam peace talks. My mother moved back to the sink and started running the tap again, wiping the cleaner off her gloves. I looked out of the window. The revolving dryer’s washing-lines gleamed in the sunlight coming over the shed. It was almost too bright for me to look. Steam or smoke from one of the factories was billowing up behind the roofs, making false white clouds that turned almost black against the sun. She opened the top window, letting in cool air.
‘Mm, smell the spring,’ she said, blinking tensely. ‘About time.’
Then the sun went in behind real cloud, a grey bank of it that looked permanent.
‘Would you like something to drink, dear? Nestea? Better not have Caro, not after your migraine.’
‘No.’
‘No what?’
‘No, I’d better not.’
‘I thought you were saying no, thank you. Except that you didn’t say thank you.’
‘That’s because I wasn’t, Maman.’
There was a noise like a drill coming from the radio, covering the news presenter’s voice.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ said my mother, turning it down, ‘why does it keep on doing this?’
‘Electrical interference,’ I said. ‘Probably a building site. Or the metal workshop. You can get a suppressor for it.’
‘Oh, that sounds far too complicated.’
She looked out of the window, still blinking tensely. The sun came out and then went back in again exactly like a gap in a slide show.
‘It would be nice to have a garden,’ said my mother, as if she was imagining our yard as one. She always said this around this time, when everything was bursting out elsewhere – flowers and leaves and so on.
‘I’m supposed to do some gardening for Mademoiselle Bolmont,’ I said.
‘Mademoiselle Bolmont?’
‘She asked me. You remember. I think it was your idea, anyway.’
‘That was ages ago.’
‘Not that long.’ I couldn’t remember how long, weeks or months. ‘Only a few weeks ago, probably. Anyway, gardens don’t change much.’
‘Mademoiselle Bolmont has gone funny,’ she said.
‘How?’
‘She’s turned against Alain – Papa. She no longer works for us.’
She was wiping the sink again, although it didn’t need it. My heart was like something thudding outside the window.
‘I know that.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then.’
‘I can still work for her. She can’t walk. She said she’d pay me but I don’t mind doing it for free, to help her. Charity. That’s what Jesus always did. He wasn’t paid for doing miracles. He just did good, simple deeds.’
My mother switched off the radio and sat down opposite me.
‘Gilles, what’s got into you? Is it the migraine?’
‘What?’
‘You’re not taking no for an answer.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We are your parents. We do know best, you know, Gilles. I know youth these days are going around and saying that it’s all rubbish, parents knowing best and so forth, and smashing things and breaking windows, dear, even well-educated youngsters who ought to know better, but I do believe you are much more sensible than that. And respectful. We don’t want to be like the Americans, do we, never having proper meals together? Why did you get migraine, suddenly? Hm? Alain – Papa and I were talking and we think it was Carole. We think it was Carole. Your sister triggered it off, we think. Something always triggers it off, doesn’t it? It can’t be oranges this time, I haven’t bought any oranges for ages.’
‘What?’
‘What did she really say to you? Dear? When you were on your own with her?’
‘I was with Christophe.’
‘All the time? God forbid she said things in front of him! Mad things. It’ll be all over Bagneux!’
‘Like what?’
‘What?’
‘What things? You’re always going on about it and you never tell me. That’s not fair! Maman!’
I thought, for a moment, she might tell me, I’d got so desperate. Her hands in their pink rubbe
r gloves were folded in front of her, as they would be in church when she was praying. I’d got very worked up, accelerating like a car. We could hear my uncle moving about in the bathroom – the buzz of his electric razor, waste water flowing down the pipe, the boiler firing.
And then it hit me: Carole must have told Maman about the other women. Adultery. That was the wicked thing. His Adultery. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Which I used to think (until I was about eleven) meant not hiding things from grown-ups.
‘I’ve always said, dear,’ my mother went on, taking off her glasses to say it, ‘that being impure in the mind can lead to impurity in the body. That’s what we were told, Gilles, when I was young. Before the war. Foul thoughts can corrupt you physically. Physically. Like a real disease. Like a disease can – you know, an infection. In the blood. More, really. Never forgotten it. Funny little priest. Foul thoughts and impure behaviour.’
Her eyes looked small and red, without the glasses.
‘I haven’t had foul thoughts,’ I said.
She gave a merry little chuckle only because she was nervous.
‘I wasn’t talking about you, dearest! I’m talking about your sister. The way she’s behaved, for years. We’ve put a lot of it down to Henri’s passing away, but I’m not so sure these days. She was always wilful, even as a little girl. No, I believe that her letting herself – go – like that, like – like she has done since she was sixteen and a half, even at sixteen and a half she was letting herself go, ever so wilful …’ Her voice trailed away, then took up again. ‘Her mind’s got diseased, physically speaking, that – by letting herself go, that’s what I believe. Her being always so wilful.’
My eyes rolled upwards. I stared at the ceiling’s polystyrene tiles.
‘Then why isn’t he ill, Maman?’
‘Sorry, dear?’
‘Why isn’t he ill all the time? If sinfulness can make you ill.’
The ceiling creaked above us. I stared at it, at the snowy surface of the polystyrene tiles. The waste water gurgled down the pipes. I thought I could hear him gargling with his mouthwash, getting ready for the Dutch. The fresh spring air poured through the window onto my face and then my face disappeared behind something I understood about two seconds later was pain and shock. My nose started to bleed, although she hadn’t struck me that hard; she had had to lean over the table and flail out, slapping me across the face with her palm, filling my nose with the smell of her rubber glove. I blinked back tears and tried to speak but swallowed instead and choked a bit and she was on her feet, pulling tissues from the box, piling them onto me and then blowing her own nose.