Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

  As I convince myself of this, I arrive at the bottom of Rue de Fleurus. I ready myself for the adventure that is making my way across the Jardin du Luxembourg – no easy task for me – but end up changing my mind. This is nothing to do with anxiety, but because I have another idea. I want to take a stroll alongside the cemetery at Montparnasse, where there are a number of undertakers. Is that a weird idea? Morbid? Not really. I may as well get all this boring business out of the way before my physical condition goes ahead and deteriorates. At least this way, I’ll avoid any poorly acted compassion from the undertaker’s staff. And it might just be that preparing the funeral service will help me come to terms with the reality of my expiry date. Who knows?

  It takes me less than twenty minutes to find what I’m looking for. I spot two shopfronts and choose the smaller of them. The larger place is much more eye-catching and gives the impression of being much more luxurious, but it’s far too over-the-top for me. And more than anything else, I can see who would be dealing with me – a young man, very tall, very sure of himself, who would, I’m absolutely sure of it, have me agreeing to his every suggestion. I know how I am when I come across people like this: I’m totally incapable of refusing anything they attempt to sell me. That’s exactly how I found myself suddenly the owner of a brand-new six-cylinder Audi estate when I’d gone out to buy a Polo. So, no, not him. However, I’ve already walked past the other shop three times and haven’t yet seen anyone inside. Who am I going to be faced with? Never mind. I’m going to go for it.

  A woman welcomes me. Bad news. My dealings with male acquaintances are already complicated enough and, of course, it’s a whole lot worse with the opposite sex. But she’s well over fifty and I don’t find her particularly attractive in her grey woollen dress and black fitted jacket. I should be able to keep my wits about me. However, she’s already seated behind her desk, which I hadn’t noticed from outside, so she must have seen me walking back and forth in front of the window and taken me for a nutcase. Well, I’ll soon find out.

  ‘Sir? Can I help you at all?’

  Her voice is warm and full of empathy. She must have learned how to do that at funeral school.

  ‘Perhaps. Actually, I’d like some information in order to make some provisions for . . . an upcoming death.’

  ‘Of course. That’s what we’re here for. Please take a seat.’

  I sit down in the leather chair facing her desk. There are coffin catalogues arranged in front of me. That’s another thing I’m going to have to decide on. Even though I want to be thrown into the fire as soon as they put me in it, I bet it’s mandatory to have one.

  ‘So . . . I imagine this is for someone close to you?’

  ‘Erm, yes . . . I don’t think we could be any closer.’

  What has got into me, to say such a thing? As if it all isn’t complicated enough, I’m now putting myself in an even more embarrassing situation.

  ‘A parent?’ she asks.

  ‘Uh . . . no. In fact . . . it’s for me.’

  ‘Oh . . . well, that’s quite a different matter, then.’

  ‘Why? Is it not the done thing?’

  ‘No! It’s not that. Actually, it makes sense. The loss of a loved one is already painful enough for a family. If we can help them with the management of certain obligations ahead of time, we’re doing them a huge favour. Now then . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  There is a hint of awkwardness behind her reassuring speech. It takes her a few seconds to find the words to continue.

  ‘It’s more often than not elderly clients who take these steps, but if you’re here today, it’s possibly because you’re afraid . . .’

  ‘Quite right. I’ve got six months. At best. At least, that’s what my doctor told me yesterday,’ I say with a nervous laugh.

  Yet another example of my inability to communicate normally with my fellow man (or woman, for that matter). I hope she doesn’t think I’m having her on.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ she nevertheless assures me.

  She must be putting my awkwardness down to emotional shock following my very recent bad news.

  At this point, I may as well get to the bottom line. ‘The bottom line’ is the exact term I use to talk about cremation with her. She continues as if this is all quite standard practice, and busies herself with questions as to whether I’ve consulted my family, as apparently some people still have problems accepting cremation as a final choice. When I explain to her that I have no close relatives with whom I can share this decision, that presumably I’ll have to inform the hospital staff and that they’ll be in touch when the time comes, her compassion strikes me as being sincere. As for the ashes, it’s she who suggests having them placed in the cemetery where my parents are buried. It’s in Charentes, the same village where they bought a little house for their retirement. But neither of them made it as far as retiring. Maybe it’s some sort of family tradition.

  Following a few more fairly innocent-sounding questions whose sole purpose is to uncover my budget, she promises to send me an estimate within the week. I should be able to last that long.

  I feel relieved as soon as I leave the place. It was something that I had to get out of the way, and now it’s done. There is no big wave of emotion, despite having discussed exactly what would become of me after my departure. I haven’t really grasped my situation any better, but I believe I dealt with all that very well. This is quite rare for me.

  I feel not only a sense of relief – I also feel quite well. Two months ago, I was put through some pretty heavy radiotherapy and it left me in a sorry state indeed. It would have been unthinkable back then for me to have walked as far as I have today; I could only just about manage to take the lift down to the ground floor and climb into the taxi that took me to hospital. Little by little, I started to feel better, and today I’m more than capable of making my way home on foot. I even decide that I can complete this morning’s mission: a walk in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

  I stroll down the main pathway in the direction of the Sénat. It’s a beautiful sight. It really is. A few random memories drift back to me. A school trip in particular. My so-called ‘chums’ – as we referred to each other back then – pushed me into the park lake. It came as no surprise to our teacher, as he was so used to me being bullied. I was the official class whipping-boy. I had to go home, soaked to the bone, to be welcomed by a pitying yet resigned look from my mother.

  You can still hire miniature boats here: colourful old sailboats that children can push around the edge of the lake with sticks. It’s surprising that they should still want to do this in the age of virtual-reality helmets connected to smartphones.

  I walk around the lake, then along, parallel to Boulevard Saint-Michel, as far as the Medici Fountain. I think about my neighbour’s novel again. I can’t remember the title and didn’t even get through a third of it, but I seem to remember this fountain playing an important role in the storyline. The main character used to sit here and read with his girlfriend. Or something like that.

  Polyphemus surprising Acis and Galatea

  I perhaps didn’t understand a word of that novel, but I have a perfect memory when it comes to the story behind this fountain. As was systematic with me as a child, on that very first school trip to the park, I learned what was written on the plaque in front of the monument by heart. We must have taken the tour in the opposite direction, because it was before I ended up in the lake.

  I’m just checking that my memory is still up to scratch by rereading the plaque when she suddenly comes up behind me.

  ‘Hello.’

  As I turn, I recognise the baseball cap with its wide visor and, underneath it, the young woman who waved at me earlier this morning. She’s thirty – maybe thirty-five – with sparkling blue eyes and a few strands of black hair falling over her face. She must have stopped running a while ago because she’s not the slightest bit out of breath.

  ‘Erm, yes . . . Hello.’

  ‘I�
�m sorry about this morning. I could tell straight away that you didn’t recognise me. Especially dressed like this . . .’

  She stretches out her leg, points to her tracksuit bottoms and pulls at her T-shirt with her other hand, accentuating the baggy effect. It looks to me like she’s someone who doesn’t take herself too seriously. I get the feeling that I might even think she’s quite nice. But who is she?

  ‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,’ I venture timidly, ‘but I don’t think we’ve ever met. Are you a student of mine?’

  ‘I wish!’ She laughs. ‘It’d make me a good few years younger than I am, but no.’ Her face takes on a more serious expression as she adds, ‘We bumped into one another at the hospital. Several times, in fact. Sorry, I thought you . . . Well, excuse me, then . . . I just . . .’

  ‘No, it is me,’ I interrupt eagerly. ‘I just don’t recall faces well.’

  It’s no good trying to pretend I recognise her now. I won’t come across as very credible. And I can’t just walk off either, without at least showing a minimum of interest.

  ‘So have you been ill, then?’

  ‘No, I was visiting someone.’ She seems hesitant. This is always such a delicate subject. ‘You look a lot better than when I last saw you there. Are you . . . on the right track?’

  I already find it difficult to talk about with the few people I know properly, so I’m not about to start spouting off to a near-stranger. ‘It’s too soon. We don’t really know.’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  This is verging on uncomfortable now, and I’ve had more than enough emotion for one morning. ‘It’s . . . it’s been a pleasure. Goodbye now.’

  I make a swift getaway without daring to turn back. I’d rather not imagine what she might think of me.

  CHAPTER 3

  The rest of the day plays out in a way that conforms a lot more closely to my usual habits. After another warmed-up frozen meal eaten straight out of the packet and a short nap, I spend three hours straight on a thesis with so much wrong with it that I start to fear my own scientific and pedagogical abilities, followed by a couple of games of chess and a trip to the kitchen to fish around in the beer drawer in the fridge. When I throw myself down on to my sofa, it is with an almost childlike feeling of having spent the first day of the rest of my life achieving something useful.

  I’m impatiently watching the titles roll to Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? when there’s an event that hasn’t occurred since the bin men came around selling their Christmas calendars last November. Someone knocks at my door.

  It’s her again. She’s changed her clothes and instead of sportswear she’s now wearing turned-up jeans, shabby trainers and a scuffed leather jacket. She’s not exactly the epitome of elegance. She remains quite pretty, however, and even dressed as she is, she doesn’t lack for charm.

  As she stands there in the hallway, it suddenly dawns on me. She’s going to ask me if I read the Bible. That must be it. My first reflex tells me to shut the door in her face, but I think better of it pretty quickly because, no . . . she’s not dressed like a Jehovah’s Witness or any of those other evangelical Bible-bashers.

  As I dither, she grabs her chance and confidently thrusts out her hand to me. ‘I didn’t introduce myself earlier. Chloé Schneider. Schneider like the actress. Romy? You know? Delighted to see you again.’

  I reply instinctively, and before I’m able to ask to what I owe the honour, she takes the initiative and starts a conversation.

  ‘Monsieur Gaudin, I’m afraid I lied to you a bit this morning. I’m fully aware of the dreadful news you’ve just been given, and I’d like to talk to you.’

  This can’t be right. What does this woman want with me? Unless . . . I’ve heard that some of those cancer charities are very quick off the mark when it comes to making the most of loved ones’ generosity when people die, and that family members are particularly receptive just after they lose someone; but to think they get right down to work before someone’s even dead, and go after the dying people themselves . . . Well, it’s something I’d never have the courage to do. But she doesn’t allow me the time to express my feelings on the matter because she just keeps talking.

  ‘I know that you only have six months left to live, and I’m here to give you the last adventure this life has to offer . . . or, dare I say, the only adventure your life has ever offered?’

  ‘Is that right? And what is this offer of yours? Should I sail around the world? Take a trip to the moon? It’s my pleasure to inform you that I’m not into that kind of business!’ I try my hardest to adopt a sarcastic tone, but it doesn’t sound at all right coming from me.

  My visitor’s smile expands. ‘Don’t worry! I understand that you’re more the stay-at-home type. The actual reason I’m here is to ask for your assistance in killing a couple of people. Can I come in?’

  She explains this in such a way that, even without her charming smile, I think I’d let her invade my space. I move to one side and usher her in.

  She takes a seat on the sofa. I drag my large wing chair over to the coffee table so I can sit facing her. She seems to be expecting something from me and, for once, I respond fairly rapidly. I start by turning off the television and then, in accordance with the social niceties to which I am so ill accustomed, I offer her something to drink. In this case, it’s beer, coffee . . . or nothing. A quick trip to the kitchen produces a bottle of 1664, which I place down on the table next to my own, along with a glass, which she pushes to one side. She lifts the bottle towards me as if to make a toast before taking a first gulp. I imitate her gesture and do my best to put on a cheerful air, like a man who’s at ease no matter what the circumstances, the sort who has a witty response to any given situation.

  ‘So perhaps you’d like to start by telling me who it is you’d like me to do away with?’

  My inept sense of humour is really something. Her face remains closed, but her eyes scrutinise me. She must be wondering whether or not she knocked on the right door.

  I’m obliged to apologise for my tone. I ask her again, more seriously this time, if she can explain why she’s come to see me.

  Her mocking smile returns, and tiny wrinkles appear around her eyes. Ridiculous though it seems, I do find her very attractive. I try to force the thought from my mind.

  ‘Régis . . . Can I call you Régis?’ she asks without waiting for a response. ‘Please understand that the offer I’m putting on the table tonight is as serious as they come. Obviously, it isn’t exactly what you’d call conventional and perhaps it doesn’t conform to everyone’s idea of morality, but it is nonetheless very serious.’

  I nod to show I’ve got the message loud and clear and that I won’t attempt any further irony.

  She continues. ‘Let me put this simply. I’m an agent working with a small group of people who got together quite unintentionally following what we might refer to as “tragic accidents”. Now . . . I’m not going to go into all the details with you, but let’s just say that each of the members of our “association”, which of course doesn’t have any kind of official status, has lived through one or more painful events that have led them to view life quite differently from others, and to consider some people’s continued existence to be perhaps not what we’d call “fair”.’

  She pauses to make sure I’ve fully grasped the no-nonsense nature of the subject, and then resumes her speech. ‘I want to get a possible misunderstanding out of the way from the outset. We’re not simply looking for a hitman to settle a couple of scores.’

  ‘Well, that’s the impression you’re giving, from what you’ve said so far,’ I say before I can stop myself.

  ‘I get that. But that’s just it. I don’t think I’ve explained myself properly. What I mean is the people I’ll suggest you help me eliminate pose a threat to society as a whole. Once we get to work, you’ll see that these are people nobody will miss. Their disappearance will bring about either total indifference or even a sigh of relief from the vast
majority of the population. Are you getting this now? It’s important that you do before I let you in on the rest of our project.’

  Our project . . . I note that I’m actually in the middle of having a fairly pleasant discussion about my future as a murderer, as if it’s something I’ve done all my life, and as if this is nothing more than a new contract in which we’ll be adding a few names to my already long list of victims. I pull myself together and try to look pensive.

  ‘Do you have any idea what you’re talking about? You’ve said it’s a noble cause and that these assassinations can be justified . . . but do you actually believe I’m the right man for the job? If so, it’s quite evident you don’t know me at all.’

  ‘But I do!’ she retorts with a fit of laughter. ‘And better than you might think!’

  ‘Is that so? Then you’ll know I’m a researcher. A scientist who lives as a recluse in his flat, someone who’s more or less totally disconnected from society . . . someone who’s been described as asocial and who has only half a year to live.’

  ‘I know all that. And a lot more.’

  ‘Not to mention the fact that, despite the aversion I have to a great many aspects of our society, I’ve never really veered off what you’d call the straight and narrow. I’ve never broken the law. Nor my own moral code, for that matter.’

  ‘I know that about you, too.’

  ‘So you’re mad, then!’

  ‘Not at all. You must follow my logic. Only someone in your position would consider accepting this offer. Firstly, if I’m to avoid police suspicion of any kind, I need someone who hasn’t got so much as a speeding ticket. That’s you. Secondly, the fewer familial or romantic attachments the person has, the freer they’ll be to get the job done. And, if I’m not mistaken, you also fit the bill perfectly there . . . Finally, I need someone who has nothing to lose. And, as it happens . . .’