The Stone Boy

by Loubière, Sophie

  21 October 2009

  For the attention of the Deputy Mayor for the environment

  Mr. Deputy Mayor,

  I read with great satisfaction the piece in the city council’s magazine issue devoted to green spaces in the city. And I am delighted to live in a town that can boast a four-flower “City in Bloom” rating.

  I am glad, too, to read your comments in the article regarding “planting and landscape heritage” and “sustainable development.” The use of chemicals is banned on the city’s plants, and city gardeners are working with organic fertilizers—I myself have been a natural compost enthusiast for over thirty years. As for the numbers, they speak for themselves: 40 hectares of green space, 9,000 trees, 15 kilometers of hedgerows, 372 planters, 250,000 tulip, daffodil, and hyacinth bulbs—you’d think you were reading a garden center’s promotional leaflet.

  I can only encourage you in the development of the arboretum at Bois de L’Étoile; it seems to be a veritable tree museum, one that I have not yet had the time to visit.

  But allow me to inquire after the contrasts of our beautiful city: why cheer up the approach to a train station with abundantly planted containers, when a few meters away buses leave their engines idling while parked along the path, where users don’t even have a bus shelter to protect themselves from the elements and breathing in pollutants? And what about that awful old bridge, black with dirt, which spans the main street of the town, causing terrible noise pollution for passersby and the neighborhood? None of your delicate little window boxes would last a day attached to the safety barriers against which a cyclist was crushed by a truck some time ago, if memory serves.

  Walking under the bridge is my greatest fear. The pavements are ridiculous; it feels like the cars are grazing against you as they pass. The roar of a high-speed train passing overhead terrifies me, and I’m not the only one. It makes babies and children jump in their buggies. I’ve nicknamed it “the devil’s mouth”!

  This bridge is a wart on our beautiful town. Perhaps the traffic patterns should be reviewed in the area. Perhaps a plan could be developed to vent the sides of the pedestrian passageways in order to shield them from the cars and pollution?

  I know you to be a sensitive and generous man; you are a kind man, and it shows. That is why I allowed myself to write you this letter, as you no doubt have some influence with the mayor, and have your voice heard, that of maintaining a pleasant environment for all, and an ecologically balanced urban space.

  Respectfully yours, and with continued encouragement for your work,

  Elsa Préau

  (Retired)

  39

  The green tartan shopping trolley jangled across the parking lot. Madame Préau straightened the scarf under her chin. With apprehensive steps, she entered the Intermarché. There was nothing fun about it. The cashiers had been depressed since their uniform jackets had been replaced with less flattering charcoal-gray blouses. The selection of organic fruits and vegetables was down to the bare minimum, the prices shown corresponded only sometimes to those paid at the till, and some of the frozen goods bore a thin layer of frost on the packaging (a sign of earlier thawing). It was advisable to avoid the butcher’s counter, where on a Monday some of the pieces of meat took on an aftertaste of cleaning products. But Madame Préau was a woman of habit, and she had a club card. She enjoyed the brief but warm exchange with the employees, whom she began to recognize and whom she passed in the street from time to time. That the range of products and their location never varied an iota suited her down to the ground. She was not tempted by novelty, and her wallet was never the worse for wear. Her only trouble was difficulty accessing the red onions (placed in a display at floor level) and the organic whole grain biscuits arranged on the top shelf of diet products. Fortunately, there was always a charming gentleman to reach them for her.

  Ten days had passed since Martin forced his mother into confinement. The routine of doing her shopping was getting her back on track: dosed with royal jelly, ginseng, and magnesium, Madame Préau pushed her shopping cart with the resolute air of a future World Championship medalist in swimming. Despite her convalescent pallor and slightly glassy eyes, she had regained her poise, a small woman with a firm chin and a surprisingly straight back for her age. Under her wool coat, she wore a gray scarf around her neck. She put a packet of flour, butter, chocolate, milk, and eggs in the bottom of her cart with a graceful gesture, like a dancer performing an arabesque. If it weren’t for a slight raise of her eyelids and the sporadic contractions of her mouth, there would be nothing to suggest that she was preparing to wage a battle against all odds, taking no heed of the indifference of the country’s social services. There was nothing to suggest that the whispers of a child accompanied her every step.

  Save me, Granny Elsa, save me.

  40

  Before going to the police, Madame Préau went to her hairdresser, an unpretentious salon on Rue Jean Jaurès, close to the pharmacy. She wanted to make a good impression. Under the purple neon, four sinks, four mirrors, and two hair dryers dedicated to permanents made the slow trade still more modest. Yet Jessica, the owner, had painted the walls the same color as the neon, which pleased the old lady. Madame Préau had once had raven-black, smooth, and silky hair with glints of red or blue depending on her mood. In 1981, she had decided on a bob with a short fringe and a bare neck. “You look like Joan of Arc,” mocked her son, while Bastien later compared his grandmother’s hair to his Playmobil figurines. Over time, her hair had become coarse, turning the color of stone. A special treatment for gray hair would revive it and, with two strokes of the scissors, the hairdresser brought her fringe back up to four centimeters.

  “Can you imagine? ‘Gone for cigarettes’ is what he told the police. But by the time the neighbor phoned the police, more than two hours had passed. And it took them forty-five minutes to find him! It’s just so miserable. Leaving a baby of fifteen months at home alone… They should be made to pass a test, fathers like that. If you don’t have your ‘parent’s license,’ you have no right have to have kids! Tilt your head there, Madame Préau. How is the water temperature?”

  It was lovely to have her hair washed by Catherine, her favorite hairdresser. Catherine had gentle little gestures and didn’t speak to the customers much except when she was in a snit about something. Madame Préau liked her idea for a parenting license. She would give some thought to writing a new letter to that effect to the Prime Minister, François Fillon. But her neck was resting on the edge of the basin, which was tormenting her, so she asked Catherine to hurry in applying a treatment. With her skull swaddled in a towel like a Hollywood starlet just out of her bath, she sat in a chair next to the bay window to watch the world go by as the rain beat down.

  I’m cold, Granny Elsa.

  The little boy spoke to her more and more often. He communicated with her especially in the kitchen, where Madame Préau regularly heard small knocks from inside the cabinets. There was undoubtedly a meaning behind it, unless it was just the wood settling. He was there, in the salon, lying against her, putting invisible kisses on her cheeks.

  “Do you have something to read while I wait?”

  Madame Préau took the magazine she was offered, put on her glasses, and began reading Hello! She was up to the “Hot/Not” list when a shrill whistle in her left ear made her look up. Taking off her glasses, Madame Préau looked around to see what could have caused such a noise. Leaning to her side, she saw a woman sitting with her back to her a few meters away. The owner was cutting her hair.

  Madame Préau recognized the face reflected in the mirror.

  Madame Desmoulins went to the same salon!

  This changed everything.

  Cautiously, the old lady stood up. She had no desire to meet this woman’s gaze. The only thing she wanted was to crush her fingers bone by bone with the hammer in her purse until she admitted that she was keeping her eldest son locked up. But Madame Préau was a realist. Such behavior would be out of place
in a hair salon. She had to try a different approach. Tempt fate by going to the police. The Desmoulins weren’t that powerful. At least she hoped not.

  “The treatment didn’t work, then? First thing’s first: a vinegar rinse.”

  Snatches of their conversation reached her between the running taps and the din of a hair dryer. It seemed to be about nits in Kévin’s hair.

  “Have you been to see the pharmacist next door? Because she has some good products.”

  The old lady winced. Kévin had lice? She waited until Madame Desmoulins had left the salon to ask the hairdressers a few questions. As far as they knew, yes, there were two children in the Desmoulins family. The little ones came to the salon.

  “They don’t have the hair for head lice, the Desmoulins kids. Normally, you’ll get everything with the first shampoo on hair like theirs. My son, though—the lice just thread themselves onto his curls like beads. That’ll be thirty-two euros, Madame Préau. Will I give you a bottle of the whitener as well?”

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

  The old lady slipped four euros into a pink neon piggy on the counter and added: “Can I ask you something? Have you been getting regular phone calls about installing windows in the last month or two?”

  The question seemed to surprise the hairdressers. When they shook their heads, Madame Préau nodded.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Then she added with irony, “For your information, Mr. Desmoulins can get you good prices on double-glazing.”

  Protected by her umbrella, she left the salon certain that the stone boy had passed the lice on to his younger brother and that she was now being harassed. It was time to go to the police.

  Notes: Saturday 24 October

  Lovely police officer. Assures me that the commissioner and the police chief look at the desk sergeant’s logbook every day, and an alleged abuse case would be quickly taken in hand.

  Saw a poster on the wall at the police station of an outstretched hand, with leaflets about ongoing, dedicated support to victims. A woman has been offering to listen and provide support every day from 9 to 5 at the police station for a year. I am relieved to see that such initiatives exist in France. The police officer, who is originally from Guadeloupe, told me that the logbook frequently reported acts of violence against women. They would only rarely lead to complaints. Women do not know their rights and are dying of fear. Especially young African women.

  On my return, I met Ms. Blanche on Rue des Lilas. She was carrying a plastic bag on her head to protect herself from the rain. A soggy baguette and a few newspapers were sticking out of the bag. We exchanged a few words. I warned her against the cats, but she already knew about the microchips. She let me know that a tower to improve mobile phone reception had been installed recently 150 meters from my house, just opposite the railway station on the Villemomble side. It seems that these antennas emit microwaves, which have disastrous effects on your health. Some hypersensitive people could develop serious diseases. She told me about a supplement to Geo magazine that investigated cutting-edge technology. The Israeli military has a sensitive, super-lightweight motion-sensor apparatus that sends information to a remote control unit. Also, an ultra-high-frequency device that can see through walls.

  It’s very worrying.

  We are never sheltered from view.

  And yet, they’ve never hidden so much from us.

  My headaches have worsened since this strange flu. Are they caused by micro-radiation?

  Getting rid of the cats has become a priority.

  41

  By Sunday morning, Martin had still not brought the camera his mother needed. Madame Préau had to walk to the Monoprix to get one for herself.

  “It won’t read it.”

  The old lady started as she adjusted her beret.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The cashier repeated it again, passing the item in front of the scanner. The name Tiphaine was pinned on her blouse.

  “Nothing doing,” she repeated. “Where did you find it?”

  It had to happen with this particular item. Madame Préau sighed.

  “At the cheese display,” she said. “Why?”

  Some cashiers could be so stupid. She would never be able to do it. How could you ask such a question about a disposable camera? The bottle of green apple liqueur, the roll of aluminium foil, and a packet of weed killer passed the laser beam test without incident.

  Sing something for me, Granny Elsa.

  On the way back, she gave Bastien her hand and hummed a song about a chestnut tree, followed by one about a short man who had broken his nose.

  At noon, she prepared a special menu for the cats seasoned with Roundup herbicide, a veritable killing machine.

  At one o’clock, she started collecting the little cadavers in the garden.

  There would be more. Some of them only came at nightfall.

  Burying them was out of the question. The microchips should be disabled, and covering them with soil wouldn’t be enough for that. Madame Préau had been doing research at the library, perusing the work of one Ralph State, assistant scientist at the University of Luxembourg, who knew a lot about the subject. These microchips, or “passive transponders,” the size of a grain of rice, had a coil that could be activated remotely and respond in echo to a radio wave according to a predetermined code. Equipped with a cellular antenna receiver/transmitter, they could activate their memory at any time, energy being generated by the identification marker. Information was exchanged instantaneously. The applications of these chips were many; in certain cases, they had been implanted in humans, such as royal heirs, with the aim of preventing kidnappings. But Madame Préau was not fooled by the primary purpose of these vehicles of destruction.

  There was indeed a way to disable them. If a chip were subjected to a brief pulse from an intense magnetic field, the stress generated by induction would be sufficient to destroy its circuits, like any other electronic device.

  But Madame Préau had no machine to create a magnetic field. However, she did have a washing machine. The ninety-degree white cotton cycle would be more than enough to deactivate even the most resistant components.

  42

  At three o’clock, she was at her post, camera in hand. It was a rudimentary thing: you put your eye at one opening and pressed a button. Madame Préau was nervous. Again that night she hadn’t slept because of the rain pounding on the roof and the infernal racket of mice in the attic, so she didn’t get to sleep until dawn. She had drunk too much tea to fight off drowsiness, and when she stretched her hands out in front of her, her fingers trembled. To ease the palpitations, after her Sunday vegetable soup and a few figs, she served herself a generous digestif, which warmed up her ears. The neighbors’ soggy garden looked like a battlefield. Would her little soldier have the courage to show himself?

  Laurie and Kévin were the first out of the house, wrapped up in fur-lined parkas. Laurie picked up a ball and threw it smack in her brother’s face, producing the first cries. Kévin ran after his sister, seeking revenge, but she surprised him, suddenly pushing him away, hard. He fell on his bottom and howled, his trousers covered in mud. The cruel game continued for ten minutes, and their indifferent parents stayed inside the house. Finally, Mr. Desmoulins showed his nasty face on the porch. Lighting a cigarette, he told Kévin to go back inside. Whining, covered with dirt, the child trudged toward his father, who slapped him on the back of the head to hurry him back indoors. Visibly satisfied, Laurie had taken over the swing and lifted her legs up high to get the most out of the upswing, giving a nod to her dad. Madame Préau sighed. She would have loved to have straightened out the brat. But, after all, it was up to Kévin to learn how to fight back, to rebel against his sister’s authoritarianism. In time, he would grow up and eventually smack her back.

  Suddenly, the boy appeared behind Mr. Desmoulins. Almost a shadow, a ghostly apparition. He stood stooped, his face bent over his dirty trainers, and h
e was swimming in his jacket. A red cap had been pushed onto his head that was too narrow, and it stood up, cone-shaped, à la Jacques Cousteau. Madame Préau put down the binoculars and snatched up the camera. The child was partly hidden by his father. He had to come forward for her to take his picture. But he did not move. It looked like he was waiting for something. The sound of Madame Préau’s piano? After what seemed like an infinitely long time, the boy took a few steps forward, dragging his feet. He was now alone in the viewfinder. The old lady moved the forefinger of her right hand and released the shutter. That was when something incredible happened. The child looked up abruptly, staring toward Madame Préau’s window, and made a sound. The most terrifying sound the retired teacher had ever heard. Like a pig having its throat cut, shrill and guttural. Appalled, Madame Préau staggered, almost losing her balance. She caught onto the headboard and put a hand to her heart. It only took her a few seconds to regain her composure, but when she returned to the window, the father had thrown down his cigarette and was dragging the stone boy along the ground by the collar of his jacket. The boy was writhing, struggling fiercely to free himself from being strangled by his clothing. From the swing, Laurie witnessed the scene impassively. Madame Préau had a world of trouble to take a picture she was trembling so much. The boy’s back jolted as it made contact with the steps leading up to the front door, and then the father grabbed the child and threw him inside the house, swearing.