A Long Way Off

by Pascal Garnier

  Anne ran back over to him. Her eyes, nose and lips were shining, polished by the sea air.

  ‘You look like an Eskimo.’

  ‘I’m hungry, I need to pee and I’m tired.’

  Boudu had found himself a worthy napping partner in Anne. Feeling slightly left out at the sight of them snuggled up, competing for who could snore the loudest, Marc set out on a walk round town by himself. Besides the vandalised window of a Catholic charity centre (boarded up and showing traces of a fire), notable sights were few and far between. All roads led stubbornly back to the beach: Le Touquet had nothing else to offer. A pool of sunlight was emanating from somewhere, but didn’t provide any warmth or cast a shadow. Looking for some human contact, Marc entered a Monoprix. Octogenarian couples in ill-fitting Lacoste tracksuits haunted the aisles, over-sized trolleys rattling with yogurts, chocolate, biscuits and other sweet treats they bought to pass the time. Marc picked up tins of food for Boudu – rabbit, liver mousse, salmon – and for Anne, Rocher Suchard chocolates. Then he retreated to a bar – overlooking the sea, obviously – and ordered a hot toddy, swiftly followed by another. He felt the need to fill a void that had opened inside him unnoticed, a void into which he seemed to have fallen when he set off with Anne.

  At first he had found the idea of running away amusing – but it was only an idea. Now they were here, it was another story. For years he had been content with plans that came to nothing: learning Italian, visiting the islands of Saint Pierre and Miquelon, wearing a wide-brimmed hat … All great ideas, but as for putting them into practice … The strange helplessness he now felt was largely because of Anne. The total self-assurance she had displayed in the clothes shops, at the hairdresser and the restaurant had confused him. But what, after all, had he been expecting? That she would go around dribbling everywhere and sticking her fingers up her nose? Roll her eyes, pull out handfuls of hair and let out high-pitched screams? Of course not. But, given her condition, he had expected she might seem a little fragile or withdrawn – after all, her only contact with the world these days came from watching TV and rare visits from her father or mother. Oddly enough, it was he who was feeling vulnerable. This morning on the beach, she had been like a caryatid keeping her head up under the weight of the sky, while he was buffeted by the wind like an old man trying to beat his way through a crowd. He ordered a third hot toddy to rouse himself from his chair.

  It was already dark outside. Thanks to the hot toddies, no doubt, every streetlamp, neon sign, headlight and star twinkled like magical candy canes on a Christmas tree.

  Back at the hotel he found Anne sitting on a barstool, talking to the barman.

  ‘Papa, let me introduce you. Désiré, this is my father, Marc.’

  ‘Good evening, Monsieur.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Désiré is from Togo. It’s in Africa.’

  The palm of his hand was pink and soft, his smile, eyes and shirt an incandescent white. There was very little black about him.

  ‘A glass of champagne, like your daughter?’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s drizzling outside and I’m chilled to the bone. I’m going to head up and change for dinner.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. See you later, Désiré.’

  ‘See you later, Mademoiselle.’

  In the lift, Anne smiled at herself in the mirror.

  ‘See, I made a friend.’

  ‘He seems very nice.’

  ‘Yes. You smell like a sailor – salt and rum.’

  ‘I had a hot toddy. I think I’ve caught a cold. As for you, should you be drinking champagne, with your medication …?’

  ‘You’re right. I’ll stop the medication.’

  ‘I bought you a Rocher Suchard.’

  ‘I’m giving those up too. I want to be thin.’

  The room smelled of cigarettes. Anne shut herself in the bathroom and Marc threw open the window. A cloud of fog swirled into the room. A light, perhaps from a ship, was flickering in the darkness. Or was it a star? Marc took a tin of cat food out of the plastic bag and opened it, calling Boudu. The cat ought to have appeared at the sound of the lid lifting, ears pricked up, whiskers poised, lips quivering.

  Nothing. Marc banged the tin.

  ‘Boudu? … Boudu?’

  He looked under the beds and pillows, inside the wardrobe, on the balcony – not a whisper of a cat. Marc knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Anne?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Boudu’s not in there with you, is he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s not in the room.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You didn’t leave the door open, did you?’

  ‘No. Oh, yes! Before I came downstairs. I’d forgotten my cigarettes.’

  ‘He must have snuck out.’

  ‘Yes. He can’t have gone far.’

  ‘No. I’ll call down to reception, ask them to keep an eye out.’

  It wasn’t the end of the world – the cat would be prowling round the hotel somewhere – but Marc was nonetheless annoyed. There was a strong fishy smell coming from the open tin. He closed it and slipped it back inside the Monoprix bag.

  Anne was wearing a dress bought that morning, in a fuchsia pink so vivid it remained imprinted on the retina long after you had stopped looking at it.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Dazzling.’

  As they emerged from the lift, a couple hesitated to step inside, choked by the perfume in which Anne had doused herself.

  ‘Go and sit down, Anne. I’ll just let reception know about Boudu and I’ll come and find you.’

  As he headed towards the entrance hall, Marc found himself irresistibly drawn towards the door. It was as if an invisible hand were pushing him while a voice whispered ‘Get out! Run while you can! Leave, get in your car and keep driving, don’t stop.’

  Of course, he did not act upon this. There wasn’t any sense in it. And yet, as he told the receptionist about the missing cat, he was sure he had just missed the opportunity of a lifetime.

  Anne was munching through the crudités, Marc was carefully dissecting his sole and the bottle of white wine was half empty.

  ‘What do you think of Désiré?’

  ‘I told you, he seems nice.’

  ‘To look at, I mean.’

  ‘He’s a good-looking young man.’

  ‘I want to have sex with him.’

  ‘Slow down a bit. Don’t you think you’d better ask him first?’

  ‘Why would he turn me down? I’m pretty now, aren’t I?’

  ‘Very, but … It doesn’t work like that. You need to give it time.’

  ‘Do you know how long it’s been since I had sex?’

  Marc did not reply.

  ‘You don’t care.’

  ‘No, I understand, it’s just …’

  ‘What about you? When did you last get laid?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Two days? Two months? Two years?’

  ‘I don’t know, Anne! Can we talk about something else?’

  ‘It’s been three years for me. It was with a nurse. He was fired. Karl, his name was Karl, or Charles … I can’t remember. He had a face like the back end of a bus, but a lovely, bright-red cock.’

  ‘Please, Anne.’

  ‘Yes, he was ugly, but I wanted him so badly … Have you ever done it with someone hideous?’

  ‘Probably. I can’t remember.’

  ‘I can. Even in the dark, ugly people are still ugly. But it doesn’t matter, when you’re in the mood … Hey, the lady wants to talk to you.’

  The receptionist was hanging back at a respectful distance, three steps away, trying to avoid interrupting their conversation.

  ‘We’ve found your cat.’

  Marc stood up and followed the young woman, whose slight limp stirred him unexpectedly. She led him into the laundry room, where he found Boudu nestling against the attendant’s ample bosom.

  ‘He was tangled up inside a pillow
case.’

  ‘A pillowcase?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how he got in there. Looked as if he might’ve been shoved inside. He didn’t seem scared, he was just meowing quietly. He’s a cuddly little thing.’

  ‘Yes, very. Thank you very much, Madame. We must have left our door open and he seized his chance.’

  Boudu passed from the laundress’s arms to Marc’s, purring all the while, eyes half closed.

  ‘I’ll take him upstairs. We’ll be more careful in future. Thanks again.’

  Back in the room, Marc put Boudu down on Anne’s bed, but against all expectations, instead of continuing the slumber even his trip to the laundry room had not interrupted, the cat stretched out with a growl and went to sit on Marc’s bed instead. This unusual initiative, for an animal who normally displayed none, aroused a vague sense of suspicion in his master. Marc checked to see if there were any pillowcases missing. They were all present and correct. Relieved, he left the opened tin of salmon cat food near the cat and left the room.

  The bed sighed as Anne threw herself on it with arms outspread. Marc staggered into the bathroom.

  ‘Oh look! The little fucker’s back!’

  Sensing himself being talked about, Boudu raised an eyelid and pricked up his ears.

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘In the laundry room.’

  ‘They found one in the laundry room of the hospital once, too. But after it had gone through the washing machine. It was at least twenty centimetres bigger.’

  The cat arched his back as Anne persisted in stroking him, before jumping off Marc’s bed to rub against her.

  ‘He really is thick, this cat. Marc?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you pissed?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Me too. I like it. Did you ring Chloé?’

  ‘Yes, of course. She sends her love.’

  ‘Liar.’

  Marc got up in the night. He was cold. Anne and Boudu had synchronised their snoring so effectively he felt as if he were lying in a ship’s cabin next to the engine room. As he searched the wardrobe for a blanket, he saw that of the two spare pillows, one was missing a case.

  Kites twirled like commas in a sky so clear you could see into its depths. Some flew so high it looked as if they would never come down, but in the end their strings always pulled them back to the beach where they jolted, clumsy and pitiful when not in the air. Fat little people bundled up in garish coats pulled the kites towards them, laughing. Marc felt like giving them a slap. In their chubby hands, the kites were no more than skinny, floundering flat fish. As the tiny, arrogant cosmonauts trampled the grey sand, their fathers ran towards them, big and stupid, drunk on themselves and their progeny, kneeling before the remains of the great birds now reduced to silk squares on a pair of sticks. If only someone would invent special scissors to cut the strings that bind us so tightly to one another – and abolish the laws of gravity while they’re at it.

  Marc was convinced that Anne had tried to get rid of Boudu: the missing pillowcase was proof. Yet he had left them curled up together when he left the room an hour earlier. We all become attached. The victim to his tormentor, the tormentor to his victim, the father to his child, the child to his kite … All attached. All strung together … After discovering the absent pillowcase, Marc looked out at the cloudless sky to see a web of threads stretched between the stars, the way the signs of the zodiac are depicted in astrology books. Only here, all the figurative symbols had disappeared, replaced by tangled lines like a doodle you might draw while on the phone, a meaningless scribble in which only the Great Bear remained, recognisable by its saucepan shape. Chloé had once bought a picture like this at a flea market, a hideous object with gold thread embroidered on a black velvet background in the shape of a horse’s head.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s … very kitsch.’

  ‘I love it!’

  She had hung it in the loo, behind the door, facing the toilet. It was fine if he was taking a piss, otherwise … A horse’s head?

  Chloé … He typed her number into his mobile and let it ring a dozen times before hanging up. Of course she could no longer answer him, because she was no longer part of the story. He should have made a run for it yesterday, should have answered the call of the revolving doors as he approached reception. Now new lines had begun to form, ties that bound him slowly but surely to a future that was no longer in his hands. He felt like a trapeze artist bouncing into the net after a failed trick, caught in a spider’s web he could no longer escape from, lumbering, ashamed, in a trap of his own making. Perhaps there was still time … He could leave some money for Anne at the hotel, jump in the car … He could – but already he knew he would not. He was lacking the one small thing that saves a man from drowning, the kick of rage that lifts you up from the bottom and propels you to the surface. It was still a long, long way off. He was not there yet.

  ‘Anne?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why did you try to get rid of Boudu?’

  ‘What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything to your cat. He just went off.’

  ‘There’s a pillowcase missing from the cupboard.’

  ‘So? Talk to the chambermaid.’

  ‘Fine. Be like that – but I know it was you.’

  ‘You’re really starting to piss me off, you know. And that cat, always hanging around like a bad smell. And purring. Anyway, are you playing?’

  Marc laid down his last card, the king of spades.

  ‘Ace of hearts, I win!’

  How lost the little red heart looked in the middle of the white rectangle. Anne lit a cigarette and stood before the window, whose glass was thickly tarred by the dark and rainy sky.

  ‘You know you’re really bored when you’re playing War at six in the evening. Everything’s boring in this place. I’d have been better off staying at the hospital.’

  ‘I’ll take you back tomorrow if you like.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry … I would have liked … to do something fun with you. Bringing you to Le Touquet at this time of year was never a good idea.’

  ‘It’s OK. You always were rubbish at presents.’

  ‘True. I’ve never had a clue. Tell me what you’d like. If I can …’

  ‘Désiré.’

  ‘Désiré … the barman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think that’s beyond me.’

  ‘Like hell it is! Slip him a grand and he’ll soon come round.’

  ‘Anne, you can’t just buy people like that.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever hired a prostitute?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Well then, what do you know?’

  ‘Yes, but this boy isn’t a prostitute, he—’

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  ‘Anne, ask me whatever you want, but …’

  ‘Forget it. You can take me back tomorrow and we’ll never mention this again.’

  Anne flopped back onto the bed, lifted up Boudu, who was sleeping on the pillow, and moved his front legs into various positions like some parody of a gymnastic routine. The cat, limp, eyes half shut, was so out of it he did not attempt to put up a fight.

  ‘He’s such a wuss, this big stupid cat, you can do whatever you like with him. He’s realised the easiest thing is to say yes to everything.’

  Of course she had been taking the piss with the Désiré suggestion, but Marc felt frustrated not to be able to offer her anything besides the frivolous pleasures of clothes, haircuts and restaurant meals, which left nothing behind them but a feeling of deep ennui. He had been the one who suggested this trip – she had not asked him to do anything. Of the two of them, it was probably he who was most keenly aware of the void he had opened by taking them on this break.

  ‘Anne, I’m going downstairs for a bit.’

  ‘Yep. See you later.’

  There was just one couple at the bar drinking multicoloured cocktails and gazin
g mournfully at the empty restaurant. Since he had nothing better to do, Désiré was keeping himself busy polishing glasses that didn’t need polishing. Seeing Marc, he dropped the act and came over, smiling.

  ‘Evening, Monsieur.’

  ‘Good evening, Désiré. I’ll have a scotch, double, no ice.’

  ‘Very good, Monsieur.’

  He really was an attractive young man, supple, precise in his movements, neither obsequious nor overly familiar, polite and straightforward.

  ‘There you are, Monsieur. Will Mademoiselle Anne be joining you?’

  ‘For dinner. Tell me, Désiré, what are your plans for this evening?’

  ‘Me? Well, I’m working, up till midnight.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘Afterwards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going home. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered.’

  Marc downed his drink in one gulp, as Désiré looked on doubtfully.

  ‘Same again.’

  ‘Very good, Monsieur.’

  Désiré brought over another glass which followed the same course as the first. Marc almost choked as he finished it. A ball of fire was yoyoing from his head to his toes. It was as if a white-hot iron rod had been plunged into his stomach. The barstool on which he was sitting now seemed twice as high.

  ‘Something wrong, Monsieur?’

  ‘No, no, everything’s just fine. Désiré, what do you think of my daughter?’

  ‘Um … she’s very nice.’