There wasn’t another noise to be heard in the Desmoulins’ garden.
Then, little by little, Laurie signaled her presence with the creak of the swing. There she was, oblivious to what had happened.
Madame Préau sat on the bed. She held out a hand to the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out a box of pills and tried to swallow one. But her hand missed her mouth and the medicine fell to the floor. The old lady got down on all fours to find it, then collapsed, sobbing.
Save me, Granny Elsa. They’ll kill me!
43
“What is going on?”
“What do you mean, what’s going on?”
“You told me to come as soon as possible, that it was a matter of life or death.”
“Don’t you want to sit down?”
Martin hadn’t removed his coat. He paced the hall, furious at having been worried about his mother.
“No, I do not want to sit down! I want to know what’s going on here! First, I want to know why I can never reach you on the phone. Don’t tell me you’ve unplugged it again…”
Madame Préau shrugged.
“I leave it off the hook on the weekend as a precaution. I’m tired of being disturbed by the neighbor. I made tea, you want some?”
“The neighbor? What neighbor?”
The old lady went to the kitchen, turning her back on Martin.
“He works for Lapeyre. Oh, I know what they want! Under the pretext of selling me double glazing, they try to get me to fall into their trap. But I wasn’t born yesterday. Milk and sugar?”
Martin’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He sighed before answering. The conversation was short.
“No, she’s fine… I don’t know… I said I don’t know! I’ll call you back… no. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Love you too.”
A moment later, he was watching his mother drink her tea in the lounge, refusing to drink even a glass of water. Fairly annoyed, he put his Nokia on the tablecloth.
“I promise you, everything is fine, Martin.”
“No, it is not fine. You cannot call me for help, and a quarter of an hour later behave as if nothing has happened. What happened at about four o’clock today? You had a psychotic episode, is that it?”
Hesitating, Madame Préau stroked her teacup with her fingertips. She regretted having called her son before waiting for the half a Stilnox to be absorbed.
“Look, I didn’t want to tell you about it before, because I didn’t want to worry you. But terrible things are happening in the house across the street, Martin.”
The man clapped his hands over his face.
“Oh, that’s all I need.”
“But it’s the truth. I’ve been watching them for months. There’s a child who—”
“Shut up, Mum. That’s enough!”
“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say? Why would I have called you for help? Or rather, for whom? There’s a little fellow who looks exactly like Bastien, who—”
“Are you not taking it anymore?” he barked. “Tell me the truth.”
Madame Préau leaned back in her chair. She was silent, embarrassed.
“Audrette thinks you have stopped taking your medication. Is that true?”
“My medication has nothing to do with it, Martin. It turns out that—”
A fist slammed down on the table.
“Well, shit!”
Martin leapt up and started pacing with his head down, turning in circles, not knowing what to do with his hands, muttering about his mother, the crazy loon who was ruining his life and would keep on ruining it until the day she dropped. He thought he was the only one to blame because he hadn’t had the courage to accept that she was completely crazy, refusing to put her in care because it seemed to him that, broadly speaking, she was independent; she ate well, behaved well enough, and basically kept her nose clean. Despite the traumas suffered in recent years, she had responded pretty well so far and seemed to be on the mend, but now it had started again: she was seeing dwarves everywhere.
“No. Never in my life,” Madame Préau corrected, savoring her green tea. “I’ve never had such visions. You’re talking rubbish.”
“And when you ask me for news of Bastien every time we see each other or talk on the phone, aren’t you, perhaps, being delusional?”
“It’s normal for me to worry about my grandson.”
“But Mum, Bastien is dead!”
Martin’s fist struck the table for a second time. His face contorted with rage; he looked like one of those union workers ready to do anything to keep up the strike. Madame Préau remained unmoved.
“I do not believe that the photographs the judge showed me back then were actually of Bastien.”
Exasperated, Martin left the room.
“Where are you going?”
He left without kissing his mother. The noise of his car engine rang out to the top of the street.
Madame Préau didn’t like it when they argued. She knew exactly which devil had sowed discord between them. Now, she knew to expect the worst. Probably injections—she loathed injections. Who knew if Martin would make good on his threat and put his mother in an old people’s home; Audrette had her eye on the house, no doubt. She had always known how to manipulate her son, to the point of making him blind to his own actions. She would have to handle him more carefully. Madame Préau would write a letter of apology to her beloved son to enrage the bitch. Changing the locks on her house to which Martin had the keys was also a priority. She had to stay here by hook or by crook until the stone boy was saved.
Something vibrated on the table, and she jumped. Her son had forgotten his mobile phone.
The bright screen displayed Audrette’s name in capital letters. Madame Préau watched the thing until it stopped flashing. Then, returning from the kitchen with a dustpan and brush, she cautiously slid it into the dustpan and went down to the basement to put on a wash.
Monday, 26 October 2009
Martin,
I’m sorry to have upset you so last night. It was not my intention. I received a severe blow myself that afternoon by witnessing a terrible scene in my neighbors’ garden—as I tried to tell you, they hit one of their sons. You know how sensitive a subject violence against children is for me. What you took for a delusion is unfortunately only the truth. Dr. Mamnoue has been aware of it for several weeks. I have also alerted social services, and I made an official statement to the police on Friday. I needed to share this with you, that’s all. I’m so sorry that things turned out so badly.
As for the camera that you forgot to bring me, I managed in the end. I bought one that is doing the trick for the moment. And I reconnected the phone this morning. About the shutters—I prefer to wait until they have dismantled the crane before opening them again. But I will do it, don’t worry. I have a holy horror of dust mites!
I have to go. I have just received a call from a Ms. Tremblay from the police who wants to meet with me about my statement.
Again, forgive me for causing you all this torment.
I think this wretched flu has made me very weak and no doubt affected me psychologically over recent days, but I’ll get through it.
We live in difficult times, but we will win out in the end, you’ll see.
Affectionately,
Mum
PS: Did you know that a relay antenna to improve mobile phone reception has been erected in front of my house on the other side of the station? (You can see it from the first-floor bathroom.) Isn’t it dangerous for my health?
44
She was courteously received. Ms. Tremblay was about forty years old and looked like a typical single mother. She had short hair, a beige turtleneck sweater, an olive complexion; a woman in a hurry who did a slapdash job of putting on her makeup without taking care of her skin. At the back of her office was a window that overlooked the nearby gym. The social worker, for this was her title, was interested in domestic violence, family disputes, and at-risk minors. Her role of listening to a
nd supporting victims went as far as making care orders and organizing placements. Every day, she consulted police reports filed the day before and took note of any cases that fell within her jurisdiction.
“This morning I read an electronic copy of the report you filed on Friday. Considering the content, I decided to call you immediately. Would you like a coffee? I’ve just made one for myself.”
A ceramic mug with a penguin on it landed in her hands.
“If you want sugar…”
She pushed a cup filled with wrapped sugar cubes towards Madame Préau, which she politely refused. The woman in the beige sweater asked essentially the same questions as Ms. Polin, but more delicately. She thought the old lady brave to take this step and didn’t question her about her age.
“Often, people are surprised when they first learn that their neighbor is being beaten by her husband all day long. They admit that seeing her leave the house with black eyes or an arm in a cast threw up a few question marks, but nothing more. Is your coffee okay?”
This Ms. Tremblay was friendly. Her sense of irony and her concern pleased Madame Préau, and they both bought the same Nescafé.
“It’s Green Blend with antioxidants, isn’t it?” inquired the old lady.
“I like it a lot. It has a slightly fruity taste.”
“Yes, it’s very mild.” Madame Préau unbuttoned her coat.
“Still, don’t be fooled. It’s only thirty-five percent green coffee. The rest is roasted.”
“Yes, and the antioxidant thing is mostly marketing. At .4 grams per cup of coffee, it would take hundreds of liters a day to feel the beneficial effects on the body.”
“Yes. You’d be better off snacking on dark chocolate.”
“Oh, yes!”
Ever careful, Madame Préau still held her handbag against her, its false base concealing a hammer; she wasn’t to be parted from it. That said, she felt almost at ease, except for one detail: the office door was left ajar. Muffled voices coming from the hallway of the police station were distracting the old lady. She leaned toward the woman, and in a whisper confided in her about the failure of her approach to social services. She replied in the same tone.
“Contacting social services was the first step to be taken. And it saves us time. They don’t necessarily take the same approach to their files, although our findings generally overlap. I’ll contact them for more information.”
Madame Préau got the disposable camera wrapped in a plastic bag out of her handbag.
“I took some pictures yesterday. I hope they are not too blurry. I haven’t had much practice. What I saw happen in the garden was so violent…”
“Yes, these are not generally the kind of photos neighbors take; they’re usually naked poolside shots. Much more pleasant.”
“I’ll get them developed. Perhaps…” Madame Préau crossed her arms.
“Do. But I don’t think that at this stage a photo of the child is necessary. And I am not in a position to take this kind of thing into account. My job is to relay information. But these photos could be valuable for the CPIO. I’ll make some calls and get back to you shortly. Would you by any chance be related to Dr. Préau?”
The old lady was taken aback by the question.
“Yes, why?” she stammered, putting the camera back in her handbag.
“I was a patient of his a few years ago. He’s a very good doctor. He is still practicing?”
“Yes, he is. His office is in Pavillons-sous-Bois.”
Ms. Tremblay’s cheeks took on a pretty pink color. The old lady knew then which of her son’s talents in particular the woman was alluding to, and immediately relaxed.
This could strengthen her credibility in the file.
This was perhaps why she was offered a coffee.
Madame Préau had given birth to a beautiful boy. Her great tragedy. The fairer sex soon stole him away from her, and the affectionate kisses of a little boy dried as quickly as he had grown. Now past forty, he looked like that American actor who wielded a whip and fought the Nazis—she had seen on the big screen at the Grand Rex in Paris. It had been one of the last times that, as a teenager, Martin had begged his mother to go with him to the cinema. After that, he went with his girlfriends.
“If you see him, can you give him my best? Valérie Tremblay.”
The two women shook hands. Leaving the social worker’s office, Madame Préau passed a policeman in his fifties who had a debonair look about him. He bowed graciously. Madame Préau quickened her pace. Something about the man rubbed her the wrong way, like when you are reminded of a bitter memory. She was eager to get her ID card, which she had left at reception, to get out of the police station, and to find a photo lab and an open locksmith—which wasn’t likely on a Monday when shops tended to be closed.
45
More than a hundred mousetraps had been set at various places around the house; not a single critter ventured near one. Either it was a question of a breed of superior intelligence (developed in a laboratory by the FBI) or Madame Préau was suffering from tinnitus: it hissed and whistled whenever silence fell around her. These bothersome nocturnal noises that faded at dawn could be caused by damage to the eardrum and might explain the increased frequency of her headaches. The old lady preferred not to make a call about it, even though the latter was the more likely hypothesis. All these years listening to children screaming in the playground had damaged her hearing. The same symptoms had occurred ten years ago, and this damned flu had not helped her ENT health.
“Me, I’ve never had the flu. I’m against it.”
On Tuesday morning, Mr. Apeldoorn was grouchy. The flu was decimating his patients, and Madame Préau was one of the few survivors who could manage to lift weights in his office.
“I’m deathly afraid of athlete’s foot. It’s the greatest threat to physiotherapists. Come on, a little effort from the miraculous rise of H1N1. Lift that for me.”
“It’s heavy, Mr. Apeldoorn.”
“There’s no room for nonsense between us. And next we have to fatten you up a bit, eh? You’ve lost muscle and fat. This isn’t the swimsuit season plan anymore.”
Madame Préau smiled. But a quarter of an hour later, she refused electro-stimulation.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“Mr. Apeldoorn, I’m not sure that this electrical current flowing through my body is beneficial for my body.”
“You’re afraid of turning into a radio receiver?” joked the physio while unhooking pulleys from saddlebags full of lead balls.
“You’re not far from the truth, Mr. Apeldoorn. Here’s a tip: you should remove the fillings from your teeth, as a preventive measure.”
“Bah! Where did you get that idea?”
“It’s because of waves and radiation. I don’t want to turn into a neutron bomb. I prefer to stick to the gymnastics.”
She ended her session with Mr. Apeldoorn looking puzzled, and then went on to the photo lab and the locksmith. The photos would be developed in under twenty-four hours, and the two locks (the front door and the kitchen door into the garden) were scheduled to be changed on Thursday at two o’clock. In the meantime, the old lady would take care to jam the backs of dining-room chairs under the door handles.
They could come and get her: she was ready and waiting with her hammer.
46
Laurie grabbed a spoon and tucked in to the raspberry tart. The little musician had pleased her teacher for the second time and was eating the homemade dessert greedily. Madame Préau scrutinized the child’s face, looking into her clear blue eyes for a sign of a rift, a call for help, but found nothing but cheekiness and greed. The old lady sighed. She had to take a more aggressive strategy. A word from the little sister could save her brother. But was that what she wanted? Wasn’t she under the influence of the father, too? How many children hushed up violence against other family members for fear of becoming the target?
“At school, it’s gourmet week,” the girl blurted. “The teac
her said on Thursday we’d have crêpes.”
“Have you ever flipped crêpes in a frying pan?”
“No.”
“If you like, next week, I’ll make the batter, and after your lesson, you can stick on an apron and we’ll make them for your whole family.”
“Okay. But we’ll have to be fast because Mum doesn’t want me to stay too long at your house.” Laurie took the glass of water and drank down half of it.
Madame Préau then started in on the most delicate part of the conversation.
“Have you heard of parents who spank their children, Laurie?”
The child’s face darkened. She didn’t answer.
“In the past, parents sometimes beat their children. But now, society has changed. We protect girls and boys better. You know that parents no longer have the right to spank children, and teachers, too.”
“Teachers give punishments, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s the same for parents. They have to respect their children’s bodies, because they don’t belong to them. What is the role of parents, Laurie?”
Laurie squirmed in her chair, drawing circles on the oilcloth with the back of the spoon.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“My mum takes care of the house and she picks us up at school. She does the cooking, too. And in the evening, she reads to me.”
Madame Préau crossed her arms, her voice softening.
“You’re lucky, Laurie, to have a nice mum who reads books to you. Some children aren’t so lucky. Some children have mean parents.”
The Stone Boy Page 12