The Stone Boy

by Loubière, Sophie

  “Why not? I am not a terrorist, so far as I know.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You can’t just drop into a school anymore. You have to be the parent of a student or have an official reason to go there.”

  Madame Préau took no notice. She moved on to another topic of conversation: Isabelle.

  “I’m not sure I want to keep her.”

  Martin dropped his chopsticks.

  “Don’t start this again, Mum. You’re not going to make us go through the ‘maid who goes through your things and steals your jewelry’ rigmarole again. Isabelle is perfect. She has been taking care of the house for years. When you were away—”

  “When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

  Martin glared into his mother’s eyes.

  “Let me be clear: if Isabelle goes, you go, too!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  Leaning toward her, enunciating each word, he said, “I’ll send you to a retirement home.”

  Madame Préau carefully rested her chopsticks on the plastic place mat. The reappearance of her ex-daughter-in-law in her son’s life was making itself felt: this was a speech that showed how Martin was being fed hostility toward her. Never underestimate the power of the enemy. She knew it was too early to get rid of the housekeeper. She would get back to that later. For now, there was an important matter to resolve: to learn about the Desmoulins family. She had to get to the bottom of the story of this child who doesn’t exist: why is he not in school, and why does his sister deny his existence while still putting him in her drawings?

  “You’re still seeing Dr. Mamnoue on Wednesdays?” asked Martin.

  “Of course.”

  “How’s it going?”

  Madame Préau straightened, taking on the air of a circumspect headmistress.

  “Well, we discuss many different subjects. The lamentable state of public services in the region, for example. Abolishing the business tax represented a loss of three hundred million euros in taxes for Seine-Saint-Denis. And, for now, there is still no compensatory allowance from the state. I am very worried for the future of corporate taxpayers. Be that as it may, you can call him if you want.”

  “I will call him. Are you sure you’re taking your sleeping pills?”

  “Yes, yes, don’t worry. All is well. And my blood pressure is good. So long as I don’t eat too much of this food tainted with MSG, I shouldn’t fade away.”

  Despite his age, Martin still needed to be reassured.

  Madame Préau made sure that he was.

  She put a hand on his left arm and smiled tenderly.

  She did not speak of Bastien, or of the burst ball in her garden.

  25

  After he dropped her off, Madame Préau waved at her son from the front porch. The old woman did not open the door. She went back down the steps and closed the gate behind her. A moment later, she was sitting in the number 229 bus. Madame Préau got off a few steps from 4a Rue Alsace-Lorraine. She was received immediately by Ms. Polin, the social worker on duty, a woman in her fifties with her skin still tanned from her holidays; an alleged abuse case was a priority.

  On the walls of the office where they sat, posters aimed at a public in trouble set the tone for the interview: sordid affairs were handled here. On one of the posters, a baby was pictured sitting in a high chair. His terrified eyes reflected the slogan inscribed under his chair: The only witness to the domestic abuse of women is often two years old. AIDS, hepatitis B, illiteracy, pedophilia, violence against women—each image was a slap to Madame Préau, helpless in the face of so many evils. Leaning on her handbag as she sat on a chair with a gray faux-leather backrest that dug into her middle, she felt the blood pounding quickly in her veins.

  “Can you tell me more about this child?”

  Name and address of the parents, approximate age and general condition of the boy. Ms. Polin noted the details given by her interviewee carefully on a large notepad. Her right hand slipped nervously onto the page. A pendant that matched a pair of cherry earrings shimmered with her movements.

  “You say he’s not in school?”

  “It seems not. His brother and sister are currently in the Blaise Pascal School. The parents have been living in the area for two years, so the child must have been doing his last year of kindergarten in the same school. But the school headmistress assured me that Laurie and Kévin were the only Desmoulins children to have been registered.”

  “You spoke to the headmistress?”

  “Very briefly.”

  “This doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been in school: perhaps he’s still attending his old school. We would need to know their previous address to check. Have you witnessed any mistreatment of the child?”

  Madame Préau shifted in her seat. The interview was making her uncomfortable.

  “I’ve never really seen him up close.”

  “Do you mean to say that you haven’t met him?”

  Madame Préau crossed knees.

  “No. But I have been watching him playing in the garden every Sunday for months, and the view from my window is unobstructed.”

  Ms. Polin raised an eyebrow.

  “From your window?”

  Madame Préau pulled at the hem of her black skirt. She had the feeling that she had suddenly crossed over to the wrong side.

  “From my window, yes. Listen, I know that an old lady who spies on her neighbors from behind the curtains sounds… well. But I wouldn’t have come to bother you if… The life of a child is in danger, do you understand?”

  The social worker rubbed the top of her pen mechanically with her thumb.

  “Madam, may I ask your age?”

  “I use binoculars,” answered Madame Préau weakly.

  “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  The old woman coughed lightly.

  “I use opera glasses. And I hope that your vision is as good as mine when you’re over seventy.”

  Ms. Polin readjusted her garnet-colored rectangular glasses.

  “I think that ship has sailed.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m talking about my prescription,” she said, tapping her frames with a pen before rereading her notes. “So far, we have an initial witness statement based on an observation of a child of about seven or eight years of age living some thirty meters from your home, a child who never leaves his house and who isn’t being educated either. Right. Any other witnesses? Family members? Neighbors?”

  Madame Préau shook her head.

  “I live alone. And the part of the garden where the child stays isn’t visible from any other house because of the weeping birch tree that his little sister put in a drawing for school—under which you can see the outline of a child.”

  “I see. I am going to pass on these details to the CPIO. But I must ask if you would like your name to appear in the file, or if your statement is anonymous.”

  “What is the CPIO?”

  “An office that collects information of concern. It works in conjunction with Child Social Services, based in Neuilly-sur-Marne.”

  Madame Préau refused to let her name and address go on the report on the grounds that she didn’t want the neighbors to know that she was the source of the report.

  “I don’t know them, and I’d be worried about how people might react, you know.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “How many days will it take for the office you mentioned to process the report?”

  “It shouldn’t be too long, but don’t expect to hear from us any sooner than a month from now if all goes well.”

  “A month? But that’s frightfully long! What if the child is suffering?”

  “We have no choice but to follow procedure. We have to call the parents in with their family record book, and if they don’t respond, that can take more time still.”

  The social worker stood up: the interview was over. She accompanied Madame Préau to the lobby and held out a cold hand. />
  “Well, thank you, Madame Préau, for coming in to flag up this child’s case to us.”

  “Could I ring you to find out how things are coming along?” she chanced.

  “Of course. But give it a fortnight.”

  Madame Préau left the social welfare center with a bad feeling. She decided to walk rather than take the bus. She got home at about four. Rain had started to fall, and the garden released the smell of wet earth. She dropped her key twice before sliding it into the lock. She took off her shoes, put the kettle on for tea, and then thought better of it. Exhausted, she went up to her room and fell asleep in her slippers without having bothered to draw the curtains.

  29 September 2009

  For the attention of Roselyne Bachelot

  Minister of Health and Sports

  Minister,

  Please allow me to respond to the scandals erupting in the Church today. I am heartbroken three times over. Heartbroken with shame, to think that priests abused children for whom they were responsible, as I myself was responsible, as headmistress of a school, for the outcomes of thousands of students. I am heartbroken with sorrow for the victims whose childhoods were ruined. I am heartbroken as a retired teacher, as to be a teacher is to devote oneself to the education and future of our children.

  At some point, the silence becomes unbearable, and people talk. The Church as an institution is confronting it now, but it will not be the only one. I would like to draw your attention, Minister, to the fact that a gym teacher and an Army general were recently arrested. Pedophilia does not only strike the Church and celibate men. It is often a phenomenon within families, a perversion for which there is no cure.

  We talk a lot about the celibacy of priests. This celibacy is often experienced as an amputation, not only in terms of sexuality, but also in emotional terms. Just imagine that these men never hold anyone in their arms; they never feel anyone’s arms around them, apart from their immediate family. That is very difficult to live with, believe me. I myself have been divorced since 1975, and, having chosen not to remarry so as to devote myself to my son and my job, I know how it feels. I think of all those men and women who suffer from loneliness and lack affection, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some were to plunge into depression, alcoholism, or perversity. How many priests leave their parishes to “rest” when in reality they are in nursing homes to treat chronic depressive conditions? Listening to unhappiness can drown us in it. Personally, I meditate an hour a day.

  It seems to me that recognizing the emotional want suffered by a great majority of the French population is crucial to the future of our society, which tries to medicalize an emotional problem. I think that if we increased the time dedicated to mutual support, solidarity, and exchange of ideas, we could bring about a reduction in the Social Security deficit. This would be just that—true “social security”: reassuring the forgotten, giving them back a place among us, helping them before they are in distress.

  I hope you will hear this appeal from a modest retiree who no longer expects much from life other than a bit more time to lend a helping hand to her neighbors.

  Respectfully yours,

  Elsa Préau

  26

  For the next week, the old lady watched in horror as a crane was erected behind the Desmoulins family’s home. With the residence on Rue des Petits Rentiers nearing completion, work was continuing with the construction of a halfway house opposite the train station. There would be no respite for the residents: dump trucks and JCBs smashing apart a little more tarmac each day, hollowing out nest holes in each corner of the Rue des Lilas.

  From her room, Madame Préau had a perfect view of the crane operator perched some fifty meters up. It was a shame he didn’t work on Sundays. At that height, the stone boy would have to be in his field of vision. But the presence of this crane would mean that she would have to keep the first- and second-floor shutters closed. Allowing herself to be spied upon so blatantly was out of the question.

  And they spoke of practically nothing else at the physio: the construction of the new halfway house. Local residents were concerned about the potentially high-risk population, talking about convicts, former drug addicts, or alcoholics.

  “If I were you, I would take on at least two bodyguards,” joked Mr. Apeldoorn.

  The physio always had a joke for Madame Préau and worked wonders on her neck. His patient replied that she kept her father’s hammer close at hand in case things got rough, and that had amused Mr. Apeldoorn, the expression “in case things got rough.” In the last few weeks, he had been strutting about the place: his weighing scales had been giving him good news.

  “That’s the Sarkozy diet at work! No bread, no pasta or flour. You have to avoid everything that makes crumbs—but you can have strawberry marshmallows and chocolate!”

  He also referred to a diet based on lacto-fermentation, which very much interested his patient.

  The Wednesday afternoon session with Dr. Mamnoue was devoted to his patient’s telephone. Madame Préau had been receiving strange phone calls since the school year had begun. It rang automatically at nine twenty a.m. and five ten p.m. two to three times a week. She would pick up and then hear the voice of a woman she didn’t know ask her to “Please be patient while I connect you to your correspondent.” Then, without fail, two minutes later, the line would be cut. These calls were bothering Madame Préau: the automatic message delivered gave her no opportunity to intervene, which led to her being frustrated and angry.

  “Have you thought about getting onto the do-not-call list?” asked Dr. Mamnoue, examining his sleeves one after another in search of a trace of wear or an ink stain.

  “Don’t you think that I’m already on the do-not-call list, Claude?”

  “Maybe you recently answered a questionnaire on, I don’t know, an environmental charter in which you were asked if you intended to change your windows to save energy.”

  Madame Préau’s eyes widened.

  “I received a letter from the electricity company to which I responded, actually. It was about my insulation and installing double-glazing.”

  “Ah! They’re very savvy about marketing. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit, dear Elsa; this is certainly one of those semistate partners of the electricity company harassing you with an offer on new windows—a service for which the electricity company gets a small commission, that goes without saying.”

  “So it will continue?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “I’m going to have to change my number. That’s very annoying.”

  Dr. Mamnoue sat back in his chair and moved on to examine his cuff links.

  “Give it a little time. The calls will probably dry up, or their automated call system will eventually put you in contact with a salesman before disconnecting. These telemarketing systems are far from fully functional.”

  By the end of their conversation, a temporary solution had been found: take the phone off the hook at nine twenty and five ten. Madame Préau paid for the session, during which she had been careful not to mention her visit to Ms. Polin, the social worker.

  On Friday, she did not forget to add a packet of caramels to her shopping list. She would need them for an experiment that she had come up with on Thursday when she went to borrow some books from the local library: a brand-new “tactile” book was waiting for little hands to open it and enjoy the story of “Hansel and Gretel.”

  When Ms. Briche visited Madame Préau on Saturday morning, she found that her blood pressure was high. She explained to the nurse that she was immersed in a fascinating book by a university professor about rumors and had read well beyond a reasonable hour last night. As a result, she had doubled her dose of morning coffee. Neither woman believed the lie.

  Waiting for news from the social worker and looking out for any sign of the child in the garden was putting her nerves on edge.

  By contacting social services, she had chosen to give up on her peace of mind.

  But whatever the pri
ce, Madame Préau was ready to pay it if it could save the child who looked like Bastien.

  27

  Each weekday, she had done her utmost to work on her fingering. For almost ten years, Madame Préau had lived surrounded by the elderly and palm trees with only the following activities: walking, reading, and preparing meals—she never ate in the refectory with the other residents. The baby grand piano in the common room of the home allowed her to keep up practicing and avoid lots of chattering sets of dentures. The waiting audience, nestled in velvet club chairs, always hoped that she would play the choruses of songs that would make their hearts leap, hits by Piaf or Yves Montand. To spite her entourage, Madame Préau would only play pieces by Satie. She had his whole repertoire at her fingertips, “Pièces froides,” “Preludes flasques,” “Enfantillages picturesque,” “Rêverie nocturnes,” “Gnossiennes”—such compelling works—and of the six pieces dating from 1906 to 1913, “Effronterie” was her favorite. By contrast, the “Gymnopédies” bored her stiff. Yet that was the only piece appreciated by the other residents. As a one-time boarder at private institutions where they had gone to great pains to make a good Christian out of her, she had retained a sense of sacrifice. So the pianist dished up what her audience wanted, year in, year out, like soup in a flavor that surprises no one anymore.

  Earlier, she had gone to play for the stone boy. And for Bastien, it went without saying. The concertiste had the three “Peccadilles importunes” from Satie’s works for children. She thought them appropriate to the mood of the garden, a breeding ground of screaming and bickering. She played them in the order set out by the composer: “Being Jealous of His Big-Headed Friend,” then “Eating His Sandwich,” and finally “Taking Advantage of the Corns on His Feet to Steal His Hoop.”