Her brother Georges would be home too, with his bible-black violin case, and his hair now worn very long.
What could they be saying to each other, the three of them, in front of the open window through which the racket of the pianola could be heard? If they leaned out, they must see men coming up the hill, looking shifty, and then slipping into the brothel.
He’d played his shot. He stood waiting, his second boule in his hand. The aftertaste of the pastis still made him feel a little queasy. He drank it without quite knowing why, because it had the colour and the smell of the south.
He had put on weight. Under his leather belt, his belly was a bulging mass.
‘Go on, Gène!’
And Gène took a long time to aim, holding a pose that suggested he was about to take flight. He leaped forward, took three flying steps and the boule arced through the air to hit the opponent’s ball. After which, he turned aside, with a false air of indifference, like a man to whom it all comes easily.
‘Your turn, doctor.’
Suddenly, he was sorry he hadn’t waited for Elisabeth. Now it would be much harder to go back there. What would he say? Or else, he’d really have to bring her some sewing work. But Hélène saw to all their linen herself.
He felt hot. He kept on searching, with furrowed brow, and the sickening thing was that he didn’t know exactly what he was searching for with such determination.
Suddenly he remembered something Gène had said, about Dr Lepage, who spent most of his days lounging in his garden. Gène had said:
‘That man there, I’ll tell you what it is about him. He’s tired of being in his skin!’
8. Victory to the Péquois
‘Do you realize, François, that we’re going home the day after tomorrow?’ his wife had said to him over lunch.
They had been served mullet, he remembered afterwards, seeing again the red patches on their plates. It was a Wednesday. They were supposed to be leaving on Friday, in order to be back at Saint-Hilaire by Saturday evening. This was the date agreed with his locum, who needed to be away to meet someone in the mountains.
‘It’s as if you’re not giving it any thought …’
He was making no preparations. Nor had he arranged – despite noticing two weeks earlier that the car’s battery was flat – to have it recharged. When he went to Hyères, he took the bus.
But what was there to prepare? He had not replied to Hélène, who had already sorted out the children’s toys and most of their clothes. Tomorrow, he knew from experience, they would all have on the clothes they would wear to travel.
Did he already know he would not be leaving?
At any rate, he had not yet managed to say anything to Dr Lepage, who was still waiting, dozing in his deckchair.
He had not seen Elisabeth again. Or rather, and this was quite frightening, he wasn’t sure he had seen her. He had been back to Hyères three times, the first time one morning, when the sun was shining on her side of the street and all the shutters were closed. On that occasion, there were no women on the pavement. He had walked up and down without daring to go in, and he had seen Georges leave the house and set off to the town, his violin under his arm. He had become a skinny adolescent, with bright eyes and flaring nostrils.
Another time, at the bottom of the street, he had met little Madeleine, clutching some money in her fist, and going into a grocer’s shop. She had recognized him, with some surprise, no doubt wondering why, since Elisabeth was at home, he was not going up to see her.
But he had not dared do that, precisely because he knew she would be alone in that big room, with the cool air circulating. Perhaps, to tell the truth, he wasn’t really coming to Hyères to see her after all?
The third time, he had been getting off the bus when he gave a start. A young girl was walking along past the houses with precise steps. She was wearing a dark blue dress and a little straw hat, also navy blue, on her golden hair. He could only glimpse a part-profile. He had a feeling, rather than a certainty, that it was her. To make sure, he would only have to walk on quickly for about a hundred metres go past her, then stop to look in a shop window, or turn back. He thought about it, but stayed where he was, on the pavement. She turned a corner. He hurried forward, then thought better of it, and stopped at a little bar where he had already become a regular.
The following night, however, he had had that dream. It was something very special. He would never have dared tell anyone about it, for fear of being laughed at. First of all, he had to put himself in the right frame of mind the evening before – ‘a state of grace’, he called it. In order to do that, he drank rather more than on the other days, until his thoughts had become vague and soft, almost dream-like already.
Lying on his right side, he would conjure up a certain number of images in a certain order, and drop off to sleep. But as a rule, the dream didn’t come, and he would wake in the morning disappointed. Other times, the dream began, he felt it beginning, he helped it with all his might, and then woke up suddenly, seeing the shining slats of the shutters in front of him.
This time, he had managed to dream the whole thing. It was a morning, the morning after Alfred’s visit to the army hut. He was walking across the square, without meeting anyone. There was no one on the quayside either. It must be very early, because the island was drained of colour, and had the freshness of daybreak.
He walked up the steep path and saw the open door – open because he was expected; he went in, he knew she was there, and that she was alone. She watched him approach with a sad smile on her lips, sad, but not bitter or angry. She was wearing the red dress, which was now too short for her.
Then his heart would leap up, and he would say:
‘I’ve come …’
Elisabeth’s smile became more luminous. Quite naturally, she allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms, and nestled there as if it was her natural refuge.
He added:
‘It had to be. I loved you too much.’
She would reply. He knew the words she would utter:
‘Yes, I knew that …’
But curiously, he couldn’t hear the sound of her voice.
‘Now I have come to take you away for ever.’
That was the end. Or rather, something inexpressible happened. They didn’t really go away, in the sense that they were not going anywhere; he couldn’t see the landscape changing, for instance. Their departure, much more extraordinary than a real-life departure, was marked by an internal movement, a leap, so that at that moment, knowing the dream had ended, he would wake up, exhausted by a superhuman effort.
He had had another dream, the same night, before or after the Elisabeth dream, he couldn’t remember which. It was because of this other dream that he still felt as if there was an iron band around his brow. It was hard to say where it was taking place. He was in a public square. Rather like the playground of the school he had attended as a child, or the market-place of Saint-Hilaire.
He was standing up, and he needed to leave, he knew there were pressing reasons why he should leave. But there were people milling around him, just as, some evenings, tourists crowded around the boules players in the square at Porquerolles. The difference was that these people were looking stern, ‘impenetrable’ – the word occurred in his dream – and they formed a perfect circle, as if for some kind of game that he couldn’t remember.
Was the point of the game to stop him escaping from the circle? He wondered if this was it, knitting his brows. He looked at their serious expressions, hoping all the time that they would smile, that perhaps they would all burst out laughing at the good joke they had played on him.
He knew them. Certain faces were very familiar to him, aunts, uncles, cousins of both sexes, all members of the large Mahé family. Others were almost strangers to him, but he did know that t
hey too were Mahés, the ones from all the shop fronts and businesses where his name was written up.
He didn’t want to be a bad sport. He smiled as he approached the ones who looked the least threatening, and murmured as he tried to push through:
‘Excuse me …’
Nobody moved. They were like statues. And he went round the circle. He was sweating with anxiety. He knew that he absolutely had to get out urgently, minutes counted. He went red in the face and became really angry.
‘Do you think this is clever? Are you going to let me through, yes or no? You know it is absolutely imperative that …’
And suddenly it was no longer men and women who surrounded him, but tombstones standing in a circle, and yet these stones were recognizable, they still bore the features of the persons they represented.
Now he was no longer dreaming. He had spent an exhausting day, pursued by first one then the other of his two dreams. He was crossing the square, and as he approached the doctor’s house he slowed down, sensing that his legs were getting heavier. He reached the fence, and felt a mixture of hope and disappointment as he saw that the deckchair under the fig tree was empty. He pushed the gate. The maid called out:
‘The doctor is in his surgery.’
‘Is there someone with him?’
‘No, he’s been working all day … Go on in.’
If she hadn’t said that, he wouldn’t have gone in, but he dared not disobey the instruction. He went along the brown corridor, and knocked at a dark door.
‘Come in, doctor.’
He wasn’t dreaming now, that was sure. It was five in the afternoon. He was wide awake, in possession of all his faculties, but it felt like a dream, seeing little Dr Lepage, a pale face in the half-light of his surgery, motioning him to a chair without getting up himself.
‘I’ve come to have a serious talk with you,’ he blurted out, to get it off his chest. ‘Four years ago, yes four years ago, you told me one day that you would be going to live with your sister, in the Alps, near Nice I believe …’
The other man made a vague gesture as if to say that didn’t signify greatly, or that he wasn’t particularly intent on it.
‘I might be willing to take over your practice.’
It was at that point that it really became a dream. Because on the desk were scattered sheets of paper, covered with careful handwriting, with a column for figures and footnotes at the bottom of the pages.
‘I was expecting this,’ Dr Lepage was saying, in a voice at once silky and icy. ‘So much so that I’ve spent all day drawing up an inventory.’
Dr Mahé failed to understand.
‘I knew you would say something today or tomorrow, since you are supposed to be leaving on Friday. So to save some time …’
Mahé reddened. He had the feeling his free will had just been stolen from him and that, for weeks now, he had been deceived. Because for weeks, Lepage, sitting in his deckchair, had been following the progress of his obsession, and had worked out a diagnosis so precise that on the relevant day – not the one before or the one after – he had sat down to work.
He should have left immediately, with a shrug of his shoulders. He would have given anything to be able to do so. Instead of which, he murmured:
‘Inventory? Of what?’
‘If I go to live with my sister, which is quite likely if we can come to an agreement, I won’t be needing the furniture, or anything else in the house. And you know as well as I do that a public auction is always a disaster.’
If his mother had been there, how quickly she would have put this pale-faced little doctor in his place! Because she was a sharp businesswoman. But Mahé knew he was about to be cheated, that a shameless act was being played out for his benefit, yet he didn’t have the courage to protest.
‘So I was anxious, whenever you made up your mind to speak to me, as you just have, to be able to give you a figure, then we could come to terms at once. I get very easily tired, as you know, and arguments particularly exhaust me. That’s why I’m somewhat reluctant to go to my sister, who is a difficult woman, and who seems to enjoy getting on my nerves. So if you’re not sure about it …’
Like a horse trader at a fair, he was threatening to let the whole deal go up in smoke, and his hand reached out to pull together the papers on the table.
‘Yes, I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Have you spoken to Madame Mahé?’
‘My wife will agree to it.’
And to think that with one blow from his massive fists he could have crushed this livid-faced, diabolical little man!
‘Well, there are several things to consider. First, the purchase of the patients in the practice.’
‘I thought there were hardly any …’
‘I may have said that … I didn’t want a rival settling here.’
‘With only four hundred residents …’
‘In winter, yes! You are forgetting that in the summer, we have one of the best clienteles in France, and there are always fresh arrivals …’
Mahé tried again:
‘… who are not ill.’
‘Well, if it’s like that,’ Dr Lepage said sharply, ready to close the discussion right there.
‘I’m sorry to be raising objections … You were saying, the price of the practice?’
The other man quoted a figure so enormous that Mahé should have stood up and left immediately.
‘And then there’s the house, and just last year, I was offered …’
He named an equally ridiculous figure. He was asking for this little place double the value of the large comfortable house in Saint-Hilaire!
‘Don’t forget that land is scarce on the island, because most of it is owned by the military. Then there is the furniture and other moveable items, and I’ve drawn up three copies of the list, with the values marked. I can, of course, go round the rooms with you and …’
Dr Mahé already had one of the lists in his hand, and was looking at it with stupefaction. If he had been dreaming, no doubt all those Mahés from last night would have burst out laughing, or ground their teeth. Who knows whether the circle wouldn’t have pressed inwards on to him to stifle him?
He allowed himself to be led through the gloomy rooms, where his colleague pointed out here an old armchair, there a worn carpet, an amateur watercolour, all of it valued at ludicrously inflated prices.
He imagined Hélène walking in here, sniffing and looking at him incredulously. She wouldn’t be able to believe her ears. All the less when she found out that even if they got a good sum for the Saint-Hilaire house and most of its contents, he would still have to cash in some shares and holdings his mother had left him in order to put up enough money.
‘You are leaving, the day after tomorrow?’
He said no. He wasn’t sure. He felt literally nauseated. This inventory being forced upon him, an interminable and minutely detailed catalogue, made him sick to his stomach. He could smell the dust, the old odours enclosed for years inside cupboards and bedrooms.
There was even a cracked chamber pot listed in the inventory.
‘I suppose you can pay cash, at least for three-quarters of the sum?’
No, he couldn’t. He would have to arrange matters. While waiting to be able to sell his house, which would take time, he’d take out a mortgage. The family solicitor wouldn’t believe his ears either.
So why didn’t he just walk away? Why was he following, like a docile schoolboy, behind his bloodless and sarcastic guide?
‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy here, and that Madame Mahé will soon feel quite at home.’
He couldn’t be serious. And yet he wasn’t smiling. Polyte’s voice came from the square, calling him:
‘Doctor, are you coming? … Ready for the game now.’
�
�I think they’re waiting for you. You are already popular on the island – that’s an advantage. They’ve never really taken to me … If you like, before your game, we could sign a promise of sale …’
‘That might take too long …’
They returned to the surgery. Two sheets of paper were ready, and Mahé felt between his fingers a wretched cheap penholder, sticky with purple ink.
‘Here … look … and here. We can look into the details tomorrow. Take your copy with you. I won’t offer you an aperitif, if you don’t mind … As I never have one, I’m not sure there’s anything in the house.’
‘Thank you. They’re waiting for me.’
He had to shake that clammy hand, and when he found himself outside, he felt as though he was emerging from another world, his eyes clouded, his gait unsteady.
‘Your turn now, doctor. You’re with Gène and Bastou. Cabrini sent up the first ball, but you’ll be able to deal with him.’
During the whole of the game, he felt he was being mocked. He could see irony in every expression. He ended up wondering whether the entire island was in on the trick that had been played on him.
Who knows, perhaps since the first time he had stepped off the boat … Four years ago now. He had been struggling for four years … Or rather no, it wasn’t true. On the contrary he had wallowed in his pain. He had known that sooner or later it would end in disaster.
But why think it a disaster? He looked round at the square, seeing it with different eyes from the past. He was part of it now. All he would have to do in future was open the front door, in slippers or espadrilles, and walk along, his skin still damp with sweat, to await the arrival of the Cormoran, then sit on Maurice’s terrace for the first glass of white wine of the day, reading the paper and chatting with one of the fishermen.
The Mahés could just take a running jump! What had they brought him up to do? Nothing. They had truly fixed a circle of stone round him, just like in his dream. You will marry Hélène, because she’s mild and docile. You’ll father a couple of children with her. You’ll do your rounds on a motorbike to save petrol. You’ll be a country doctor all your life, and your house will be well cared for.
The Mahé Circle Page 12