‘Maybe … they’re not hurting. See, everything down to my middle is fine.’
Marc was swinging his arms from left to right and turning his head from side to side, so that everyone could see for themselves how perfectly the top half of his body moved. Zoltan, convinced he was indeed witnessing a local custom, took it upon himself to begin imitating Marc, throwing his arms wide and moving them about with a grin that showed all his teeth, which were as yellow as a donkey’s and wide as spades. Marc immediately ceased his grotesque choreography.
Anne was picking her teeth, looking uncertain.
‘So we’re not going to Agen?’
‘It doesn’t seem likely at the moment. Maybe I should have a lie-down on the bed?’
‘Maybe … Do we have to carry you?’
‘Well, yes, I’m afraid you might have to.’
‘Zoltan!’
With Anne holding him under the arms and the Hungarian under the knees, Marc let himself be hauled into the camper van like a piece of furniture and left lying in the foetal position in the middle of the bed.
‘Thanks. We’ll just have to wait a while.’
‘If you need anything, I’ll be outside.’
‘OK, Anne … What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘You’re all red. You look like the doll, curled up, waving your finger in the air. See you later.’
He couldn’t lie on his back or front, but he could switch from side to side. If he chose his left, his gaze confronted the wall of the vehicle; his right, the white expanse of the fridge door. His immediate future held no prospect of more distant horizons. In the course of Marc’s installation, Boudu had allowed himself to be moved to the foot of the bed without in any way abandoning his constant search for perfection.
His purring sounded like a wood-burning stove. Anne and Zoltan’s muffled voices reached Marc’s ears, repeated words, bursts of laughter … She must be teaching him some basic French. A tractor passed by and he listened to the engine gradually revving up and then slowing again.
‘Life without me …’
There was a scratch at the bottom of the fridge door as if someone had angrily kicked it shut. The grim grey carpet was almost threadbare in one area. A stain in the shape of Spain had been rubbed at too vigorously. What had happened here? A drunken evening? To celebrate buying the camper van, perhaps … Yes, this place had a past. People had eaten, drunk, slept, made plans, lost illusions, loved one another – here, on this bed. What had led them to sell the camper van only six months after they bought it? The vehicle raised so many questions it was worthy of paleontological study, like a modern-day Lascaux which Marc was discovering, face to face with the traces of the previous inhabitants of this destabilising black hole. People like him, like anyone, like the ones he had undressed with his eyes this morning at the café, Tinettes … What traces would he leave behind? Tyre tracks … People like him, like anyone …
‘No! Not like me! Not like me!!’
Anne’s face appeared in the doorway.
‘What’s going on? Why are you shouting?’
‘It’s nothing. I was drifting off. I had a nightmare.’
‘Oh right. I’m going for a walk with Zoltan. Legs still not right?’
‘No, but I’m fine. See you later.’
He had shouted ‘Not like me!’ just as he had blurted ‘I know Agen, too!’ at the dinner party two months ago, so that for just one moment he could feel he existed: ‘Not like me!’ But what made him any different from other people? Precisely the fact that they were other people and he was himself, the one and only Marc Lecas, and if he was no more, then other people – each and every one of them – would disappear with him, because their existence depended wholly on his. After Marc Lecas there would be nothing, zero, an empty car park, a beach without footsteps in the sand, a cloudless sky, a gaping chasm of nothingness. There would be nobody left … The enormity of this revelation propelled him to interstellar heights and he was just preparing to blow himself into outer space when a searing electric shock tore through his finger. The pain was bringing him back to life, but it was not a pretty sight. There was something obscene about the purplish, erectile index finger topped with its black nail. A probing, threatening, accusatory finger that might cause whatever it pointed at to wither and die. And now that the burning sensation was becoming truly intolerable, the finger was becoming an even greater burden, as every second that passed brought a new wave of white heat. It was enough to drive you crazy, like a ticking time bomb, tick, tock … If he’d had an axe within reach, Marc would not have hesitated to use it. But there was none. So he opened the fridge and plunged his hand into the ice tray.
Lying right on the edge of the bed with his arm outstretched was not the most comfortable position, but the relief that came in contact with the ice largely made up for it.
It was perfectly possible to do without your right index finger. It was perfectly possible to do without all kinds of things. Other than the head and the heart, most things were not essential. But still, he wasn’t going to spend his life with his hand in a fridge. He must make a firm, definite decision as quickly as possible. He remembered a kidnapping that had been all over the news. The kidnappers had cut off the finger of their victim, a well-known businessman who, when asked about the incident after his release, could only recall a clean, almost painless cut. A good knife and bam! Over and done with. Only, in Marc’s case, who would wield the knife? Not him, because he was right-handed and that was the hand he couldn’t use. Anne? … She would certainly be capable of it … on the board they used to slice saucisson … he would just have to close his eyes … bam! A clean, precise blow, like the butcher slicing up chops. ‘Will that be all, Madame?’ As simple as a trip to the butcher’s. And when it was done, they would never speak of it again.
‘Anne …? Anne?’
No answer. Oh, yes, she had gone for a walk with Zoltan. What was that guy doing here? Trust Anne to find a Hungarian on the outskirts of Agen. Although they were probably to be found elsewhere too. Sooner or later a Zoltan always makes his way into your life, just when you’ve made up your mind to have your finger amputated by your daughter.
The clock radio had come on. They were talking about a crewed space mission, gushing over the courage of the astronauts spinning at a dizzying 450 kilometres above our heads. It was the same distance from Paris to Limoges – nothing to write home about. Marc had long since sailed higher. He was cold, as if someone had slid a pane of glass down his back. Apart from the line of light trickling from the part-open fridge, it was dark inside the van. His hand was still in the ice tray but his arm was paralysed all the way up to the shoulder. He had been sleeping so well. What did he care about these explorers of the lunar suburbs? He was much further away, much more alone … He was overwhelmed by such a deep sense of abandonment that he had to bury his left fist in his mouth to stop himself crying out in terror. Just then, the camper van began to list and the door swung open.
‘Anne!’
‘It’s freezing. What are you doing in the fridge? Are you hungry?’
‘No, I was in pain. My finger.’
‘And your legs?’
‘I don’t know. It’s my finger …’
‘Mind out. I’ve done some shopping. I need to put it away.’
‘Is Zoltan not with you?’
‘No, he’d had enough. He went to Agen.’
Marc rolled onto his right side, his hand and arm to all intents and purposes fossilised. The Hungarian’s absence was altogether good news. The act he was about to ask his daughter to carry out did not require the presence of a third party.
‘I got cassoulet, cheese, rum and lemon to make hot toddy. Next time we should stop at a campsite so we can hook up to the electricity rather than run off the battery. We could get a little telly as well, couldn’t we? The two of us will be bored shitless in the evenings otherwise.’
‘Anne, I need to ask you something.’
‘W
hat?’
‘I have to have my finger cut off.’
‘Do you want to go to hospital?’
‘No. It has to be done here, now.’
‘And who’s going to do it?’
‘You.’
‘Me …? Right now? Before dinner?’
‘I’m serious, Anne. Look, it’s gone all black. The gangrene will spread. We can’t wait any longer. I’m ready.’
‘Couldn’t you have asked the old git in Limoges?’
‘I was scared. I thought it would be OK. You know you can do it.’
‘With what? The bread knife?’
‘Yes. On the chopping board. One clean blow …’
‘You’ve got a nerve asking me …’
‘It’s a matter of life or death.’
‘It’s a matter of pissing me off!’
She lit the gas lamp with a sigh and took his hand. Sitting in the ring of white light, she had something of the fortune teller in a gypsy caravan.
‘We could cut it at the first knuckle. You’d still have a bit of finger left.’
‘Do whatever you think. Just be quick.’
He immediately regretted what he had just said. Anne had picked up the board and the knife, clutching his hand firmly between her knees. He had not expected her to make up her mind so quickly. ‘Be quick’ was a figure of speech, like ‘Just a minute, Mr Executioner.’ But Anne was a woman of action, she acted first and thought about it afterwards, if she thought about it at all. Her knife-wielding shadow loomed terrifyingly behind her.
‘Anne, wait!’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know … Give me some rum.’
‘You’re such a pain in the arse! Do you want this to take all night?’
She poured him a glass, all the while muttering about how hungry and cold and tired she was and how now was really not the time and a whole lot of other things he didn’t catch because the drink had set off a violent coughing fit. Having caught sight of the chopping board and the long knife, sacred objects generally used to cut food from which he would be offered scraps, Boudu had come to join them.
‘Right, ready? I’ll count to three. One …’
Neither two, nor three. It was the noise that hurt the most. The same crack you heard when you struck a bit of cartilage in a veal chop. Other than that it was just cold, an intensely cold sensation that paralysed him from head to foot. His jaws seemed welded to one another and his eyelids forever sewn shut on a vision of the past.
‘Shit, the blood’s pouring out! We’ll have to cauterise it.’
‘Just a bandage. A bit of alcohol to disinfect it and a bandage.’
‘And you think I’ve got all that stuff with me? It’s not as if I was planning on doing an operation this evening. I’m telling you, we need to cauterise it. Wait, I’ve got an idea.’
Anne went to the front of the van and searched the dashboard. She was like a giant striding about inside a matchbox. Marc’s face was glazed with cold sweat. The hostage was right, you hardly felt anything, maybe just a lack … After a minute, Anne reappeared holding something in her hand that was glowing like embers.
‘What’s that?’
‘The cigarette lighter. Don’t move, it’s the perfect fit.’
The burn was so sharp and so sudden he didn’t hear himself scream before losing consciousness.
Anne and Boudu were sharing a tin of sardines when Marc resurfaced. It was light outside. The pain in his right hand, wrapped in a towel, had dulled slightly, leaving a vague heat like a fire smouldering under ash. He realised he could now move his legs. His mouth was coated, caramel-like, with the taste of rum. He would have given anything for a big cup of coffee at Tinette’s café. It was freezing. Anne was wearing her coat and hat. Everything around him looked messy and dirty. How had they come to live like tramps so quickly? Open tins of food, crusts of bread, orange peel, dirty glasses, various food wrappers … and a smell like an upturned dustbin, like burnt flesh …
‘Ah, you’re awake. How are you feeling?’
‘It stinks in here. Can you open the door, please?’
‘You must be joking. It’s freezing outside. How’s your hand?’
‘It’s OK.’
‘You’ve found your feet again, at least. You gave me a bloody great kick before you keeled over, you bastard. Want a coffee?’
‘Yes … No, not here, it smells too bad. In the village.’
‘Will you be all right to get there?’
‘I think so. Anne, what did you do with my finger?’
‘The fingertip?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know. It must still be on the chopping board … Wait … yes, it’s there.’
‘That’s what stinks. We need to bury it. Then we can go to the café. Help me up.’
Pissing with one hand is not easy, especially when you’re still wobbly on your feet. The pale rays of sunlight were beginning to melt the duvet of white ice covering the bramble leaves. Little by little, Marc began to feel more sure of himself. Anne was waiting behind him holding the chopping board and something which could have passed for an old piece of chorizo.
‘Where shall we bury it then?’
Marc scanned the ground around him. ‘Anywhere’ is not an easy place to pinpoint. He felt as if he were on a beach trying to choose where to lay his towel.
‘Are you going to make up your mind?’
‘There.’
Marc pointed to a random tuft of grass on the embankment. Anne was about to pull it up when he stopped her.
‘No, not there. It’s too close to the road. Everyone will drive over it.’
‘So?’
‘That won’t work. It’s a piece of me, after all … Imagine the tractors … We need to find somewhere more suitable.’
‘Shall I make you a little marble mausoleum to put it in, with your name in gold letters? It’s just a piece of rotten meat. Make your mind up, or I’ll throw it into the bushes.’
‘You wouldn’t, would you?’
‘Watch me!’
Before Marc could grab her arm to stop her, using the chopping board as a racquet she had sent the defunct index finger flying over the brambles into the bottom of the ditch, where it bounced off something big and red. Marc was open-mouthed.
‘You did it!’
‘Good riddance. Things like that attract animals. Don’t go off looking for it. In a few hours there’ll be nothing left of your sodding finger to play knucklebones with. Now, are we going to have this coffee?’
Despite his annoyance at the lack of solemn funeral rites, Marc took comfort in retracing the familiar route to Au Bon Trou: the house with the blue shutters, the collapsed wall, the farming co-op … Everything was getting back to normal. The tinkling of the bell as he pushed open the café door made him feel he was entering paradise. Yet, as they sat down at their table, Marc became aware of some commotion at the bar. Those who had yesterday sat peacefully sipping their drinks, clinging to the counter like mussels, now seemed to be in the grips of a kind of fever, brows furrowed, frowning, exchanging onomatopoeia thick with innuendo. The inscrutable Tinette came to take their order. She had changed her blouse but not her moustache.
‘What’s going on?’ Marc asked tentatively.
‘A dead body.’
‘A dead body?’
‘A Hungarian, so it seems. He was found this morning on the Agen road with his head smashed in.’
‘A Hungarian?’
‘So they’re saying. If you ask me, Hungarians … So, two large coffees and some bread and jam.’
Anne chewed in silence, indifferent to the kerfuffle around her. She flicked idly through a copy of the previous day’s paper, the one filled with mundane news items, whose pages were not yet haunted by a Hungarian corpse. There couldn’t be dozens and dozens of Hungarians in this area. Marc’s thoughts had, of course, immediately turned to Zoltan, and thus also to his daughter, who, if it really was him, had surely been one of the last to see
him alive.
‘Anne, do you think it’s Zoltan?’
‘Who?’
‘The dead Hungarian.’
‘How should I know? … It’s dangerous, hitchhiking.’
After her terse response, Marc paid for their breakfasts and they headed back to the camper van without exchanging a word. On their return, Anne offered to let Marc stay outside to have a cigarette while she cleaned up. Marc wandered towards the bushes where Anne had chucked his finger. The branches had been trampled here. The big red object was still lying in the bottom of the ditch. It looked like a kind of nylon bag … A rucksack.
They arrived in Agen around two. Marc parked by the covered market, where half a dozen road sweepers were cleaning up the remnants of the morning’s activities. Rotten cabbages, carrots, potatoes and lettuces filled crates stacked in fragile pyramids. The sky was overcast, as if covered by a milky substance of an almost pearl-grey colour. Apart from the staff dressed in green and yellow, everything was grey.
‘So this is Agen?’
Marc didn’t answer. Of course this wasn’t Agen. It couldn’t be. They had passed Agen long ago. Now they were simply somewhere else, where the estuary of far, far away opens out into an ocean of possibilities. Anne wound down her window to flick away her cigarette butt.
‘What are we doing now?’
‘All I know is there’s no going back.’
‘Why not? If we’re not going anywhere else, I may as well go back to the hospital.’
‘And act like nothing’s happened?’
‘Exactly. Anyway, what has happened?’
‘Oh, nothing much. Désiré, the pizza guy, Zoltan …’
‘What are you talking about? What do those three have to do with anything?’
‘What “did” they have to do with anything?’
‘I don’t get it. If you want to carry on talking rubbish, go ahead, but I’m going for a walk.’
‘Anne, I saw Zoltan’s rucksack in the ditch.’
‘He must have chucked it. He wanted to travel light.’
‘Anne, please, stop! I’m not judging you. I’m not even asking why you did it. I know now, that’s all. I’m with you, I want to protect you, help you … We have to think about tomorrow …’
A Long Way Off Page 6