by Dan Rhodes
When Life had started to go into profit, he had bought his friend a new bed, a new mattress, cotton jersey sheets and flannel pyjamas, and he had paid for a carer to come in twice a week. As his success had grown, he was able to provide even more for him; now the carers came every evening and stayed all night, keeping watch over him while his mother had a chance to sleep uninterrupted, and his mattress, bedclothes and pyjamas were renewed a little more often than they needed to be.
On his visits he always brought piles of CDs, and loaded his friend’s MP3 player with audio books. He had no idea how his tastes would have developed, so he tried to provide him with as wide a range as possible, from classical poetry to spy thrillers, and the latest pop music to avant-garde orchestral pieces. He road-tested everything for quality before introducing it to him, so they were all personal recommendations. It helped that his own tastes were broad; he was always looking for the best of everything. In between visits he would send him packages containing bits and pieces that he thought he might appreciate, and prior to each staging of Life, when he wouldn’t be in touch with him for months on end, he had made sure he had a good supply of books and music.
Every once in a while, Dominique Gravoir’s condition would be reassessed. The doctor would always say that there was no hope of a recovery, that it was surprising he had lived as long as he had, and that it was very unlikely that he would be able to comprehend a word that was spoken to him. Léandre Martin and Dominique Gravoir’s mother had no cause to disbelieve the doctors, and neither was waiting for a miracle. They knew he wouldn’t be coming back, but at the same time they felt that even if the words they spoke to him were never heard, they were not wasted, because every one of them was spoken with love.
As Life had taken off, and he had stood naked on stage in front of decent-sized and apparently appreciative crowds in London, Léandre Martin had a good feeling that his primary motivation had not been misplaced, that Dominique Gravoir was not living in vain. If it hadn’t been for him, the exhibition would never have taken place: his friend was as much a part of it as he was, and when he heard stories about how people had responded to the work, he felt gratified on his behalf as well as his own.
Ever since the battle with the cormorant, Léandre Martin had felt that he was living for both of them, and during the bleaker moments of Life, when loneliness took hold, he often had a feeling that Dominique Gravoir was helping him to get through it. He had little patience for tales of the supernatural, but he had a sense that his friend’s condition had become such a huge part of his own life that it was ingrained within him, and somehow he was able to draw inspiration from whatever strength it was that had been keeping him alive for all these years.
At the end of each run, Le Machine would be handed a large box of mail, with translations attached if necessary. It was always a mixture of demented scrawlings, sexual propositions from women (some of which he would accept, on the understanding that there was to be no chance of a relationship), sexual propositions from men (who were out of luck), and tales of how Life had improved the days of so many people who had been to see it.
These tales touched him to his core. He would read letters from people who had become more aware of their bodies than they had ever been. Some would tell him that they had started fitness regimes; others had found themselves eating healthier food. Other responses were more oblique, from people who, while watching him, had found themselves thinking deeply about their own lives, and had made big decisions of one kind or another: some had extricated themselves from bad relationships, others had decided to move house, some had abandoned their jobs and applied for nursing degrees. Dozens had pledged to get companions for their pet goldfish. Many people had said that while they had been watching him they had realised how simple life can be, and how cluttered their own life was, and that they had decided to pare back their belongings and lower their material ambitions.
None of these outcomes had been specific intentions of his. All he had wanted to do was display the human body at work, in all its familiarity and wonder, and let the audience think whatever they wanted to think. But still, he was glad to hear these stories. There had even been people who had written to tell him that they had decided against suicide after watching Life, realising that the body was too incredible a machine to destroy. And every time, without fail, he would receive a handful of letters from people who told him that Life had knocked them out of a state of denial about a medical issue, that they had finally gone to see a doctor about something that had been worrying them, and learned about an underlying condition that would only have worsened if they had left it any longer. It could be that you helped save my life, they wrote.
Léandre Martin weeded out the sexual propositions and the demented scrawlings, and read these letters to Dominique Gravoir before handing them to his mother to keep. She looked at her son with pride as she made her way through them. In ways that they could never have foreseen, Life had been a triumph.
To his mother, and to Léandre Martin, and to a lot of people who would never even know, Dominique Gravoir was a superhero.
Dominique Gravoir did not look like a superhero. His limbs were wasted sticks, his face lacked definition and expression, his eyes saw nothing, and his torso was little more than a bony row of ribs. Every doctor who had ever seen him told his mother that one day he would catch an infection and his body would be too weak to fight it. But for now, something inside was keeping him alive.
His mother sat beside him, as she had done every day for almost twenty years. She held his hand as she read the paragraph from the newspaper about Le Machine’s latest activities. She and Léandre Martin had never spoken about his reason for creating Life, but they didn’t need to. She knew exactly why he did what he did.
‘It seems to be quite an eventful run this time,’ she said. ‘He’s even selling out the early morning slots. And there’s been some gossip that he’s found himself a girl. Apparently a blonde with a baby has been seen hanging around the show. Do you know anything about this?’
Léandre Martin had told Dominique Gravoir all about how he had found somebody, that she had been blonde and as pretty as it was possible to be, that he loved the way her teeth were slightly wonky and one of her ears stuck out a bit more than the other, and that she had been looking after a friend’s baby. He told him he had noticed the baby first, and the child had reminded him so much of the one from his enormous print of Eugène Carrière’s Enfant avec casserole that he had become quite mesmerised by him, and when he finally looked up and saw the girl, he had immediately been ready to be with her, to share his life with somebody at last.
I thought of you, Dominique, he had said, and I know it sounds stupid, but I felt as if you were there with me, giving us your blessing. It all happened so suddenly, and it was as if you were right beside me, telling me that she was the one, that it was time for me to let somebody in. I know that kind of stuff isn’t real, but I really do think you would have wanted us to be together.
He had told him about what a wonderful day they had had, how she had made him laugh, and how he had even made her laugh, and for the first time since he was eight years old he felt he had a playmate, someone with whom he could be himself. And then he had ruined everything. He told his friend how awful he felt for messing things up. He told him how hopeless the situation was, and that he was sure he would never see her again.
‘There’s a picture here of her standing outside the venue,’ said Dominique Gravoir’s mother. ‘She’s very pretty. She looks nice, too. I always hoped Léandre would find somebody nice one day. He deserves it.’ She often found herself worrying about him, concerned that he spent too much time feeling bad about Dominique, and not enough time living his own life. He had been such a happy boy until that day, but ever since he had been so serious. She hadn’t blamed him for a moment, and she just wanted to see him smile again, to see him enjoying life as he had all those years ago.
‘Let’s hope she can bring him out of himself
a little. But who knows? It could just be a load of rubbish made up to sell papers. Maybe they’ve never even met.’ She looked at her son. Something about him had changed. ‘Are you OK, Dominique?’
It seemed to her that at that moment he looked more comfortable and content than usual. She thought she could see a light in his eyes. She checked herself. He looked just the same as he always did. She had only ever wanted to deal with the situation as it was, and she often warned herself against getting carried away by silly notions. She was still his mother, though, and she still allowed herself moments of sentimentality. Even though he was a grown man, there were times when she looked at him and all she could see was her little baby boy.
She kissed his forehead, and left the room to make a mug of coffee. She kept the bedroom door open for him. He had always liked the smell of coffee.
XXXIV
When Aurélie switched on her phone and picked up Sylvie’s message, she abandoned her plan to spend another quiet morning sketching Herbert, and hurriedly got ready to go down to the news-stand to find out what was going on. She knew there wasn’t going to be any hair dye in the house, so instead she borrowed one of Liliane’s hats and pulled it low over her eyes, and in the absence of a balaclava she arranged Herbert’s hood around his face so that only his eyes and nose were showing. As cute as he was, he really could have been almost any pink baby.
Just as they were about to leave, she spotted a pair of enormous sunglasses, and put them on, and hanging on a hook by the door was a magnificent scarf of Liliane’s. She wrapped it around her face until it was almost completely covered. It wasn’t the usual way she would wear a scarf, but she wouldn’t worry about that now. She liked the pattern, and the material felt really good. She found the label: it said, of course, La Foularderie. She told herself that as soon as all this was over she would go there. She looked at herself and Herbert in the hall mirror. There was no way anybody was going to recognise them.
They got to the news-stand without any drama. She looked around to find out what Sylvie had been going on about, and there she was, on the front page of L’Étoile, smiling as she pushed Herbert through the park. Underneath were the words:
EXCLUSIVE! Has this mystery blonde captured the heart of Le Machine? This pretty single mum has been seen hanging around Life, flirting with the naked artist. Read the full story on page 5.
Aurélie took the paper to the counter, and the woman picked it up, looked at her, looked at Herbert, and looked back at the paper. Then she did it again. And again. ‘It’s you?’
Aurélie shook her head.
‘Yes it is. It’s you.’
Aurélie didn’t have the energy to make a second denial. She nodded.
The newsagent put her hand to her heart, and trembled. ‘In thirty-six years I have never had a celebrity come to my news-stand. My husband is always complaining. Henriette, he says, why do celebrities never come to your news-stand? But now those days are gone. This is a new beginning. Please, please, would you sign a copy of the paper for him? Right now he’s suffering from an appalling bout of haemorrhoids; if you were to see his anus, even from a distance, you would weep with pity for the man, and I just know that a kind word from you would do more to relieve the pain than any medicine. I can see him now, bouncing up and down with delight on his special cushion.’
The woman handed her another copy of the paper and a pen, but her hands were shaking so much that Aurélie had trouble taking hold of them. When, at last, she had both the newspaper and the pen in her hand, she couldn’t think of a word to write. She stared out at nowhere from behind her enormous sunglasses.
‘Hurry,’ said the newsagent, ‘before you have a chance to change your mind. His name is Alphonse.’
Aurélie found a blank spot near the photograph, and wrote: Dear Alphonse, I hope your unfortunate condition improves in the near future. Best wishes from Le Machine’s mystery blonde.
The newsagent saw what she had written, and was speechless with emotion. Aurélie handed her the money for her copy of L’Étoile, and with a gesture she refused to take it. Mumbling through her scarf, Aurélie thanked her, and she pushed Herbert back the way they had come, wondering all the way how many other people had seen through their disguises.
Back at the Papavoines’ apartment, she spread the newspaper on the dining table and had a proper look at it. It could have been worse. She could have been described as a mousy-haired mystery girl. And while pretty single mum wasn’t particularly accurate, at least they had said she was pretty, and they seemed to have no idea that Herbert’s presence in her life was in any way questionable.
The story inside didn’t add much to the front-page caption; it was just a bit of lightweight filler. All they had to say was that their embedded reporters had seen her twice, once apparently calling out to him, and another time sharing a fleeting romantic moment. They had clearly sent a photographer on her tail too, but they chose not to go into details about that. They said that sources close to the controversial artist had reported that he was smitten with her.
She knew well enough that newspapers are inclined to invent such sources to suit their needs, but after everything she had heard from Professor Papavoine she was sure they had got this right. Léandre really did seem to be smitten with her, and she had even seen some very solid evidence to back this up.
She read on. They used the rest of the piece to give their daily update of what he had been up to, mainly cataloguing what had gone in and what had come out. They finished with an interesting observation: they had been the first ones to report that he seemed to be holding his breath twice a day, at one o’clock in the morning, just before going to sleep, and again at one o’clock in the afternoon. He lies down, they noted, and appears to turn purple for a while.
The main article was accompanied by another photograph, of Aurélie standing on the front step of the cinema, confiding in a close friend. Sylvie looked aglow with love for Toshiro. She wondered whether the photographer was still following her. If they were, she would have to shake them off before handing Herbert back. The last thing she needed was someone lurking in the shadows and capturing the mother and child reunion on film.
She still hadn’t got around to changing her horrendous ringtone, and when it went off she almost jumped out of her skin. She jumped again when she saw who was calling. It was her dad. She had a feeling she was in trouble, and for a moment she thought about not answering, but she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bring herself to send her own father to voice mail.
‘Hello, Dad.’
—Hello, Aurélie.
‘How are you?’
—I’m fine. How are you?
‘Fine. How are you?’
—I’m still fine. Nothing much has changed in the last two seconds.
‘That’s good.’
He got straight to the point.
—So are things still going well with your new boyfriend?
‘Yes, they’re going very well, thanks.’
—So tell me all about him. What does he do for a living?
‘Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that.’
—And while he’s doing a bit of this and a bit of that, does he wear any clothes?
So he had seen the newspaper. ‘As a matter of fact, no. No, he tends not to during working hours.’
—And if he needs to, say, go to the toilet, does he discreetly withdraw to a private place, or . . .?
‘No, Dad. He just does it in front of everybody. I know it doesn’t sound very good on paper, but there’s so much more to it than just taking his clothes off and doing a poo. He’s doing something beautiful.’
—If you say so. It all sounds a bit unusual to me, but I only have myself to blame. I guess this is what happens when you encourage your daughter to go to Paris to be an artist. She starts hanging around with people who . . . well, who do things like that.
‘He’s nice, Dad. You’ll like him.’
—Are you absolutely sure he’s not just a pretent
ious idiot?
‘I’m sure.’ It was good of him to ask. If he had posed the same question about Sébastien he would have been on to something.
—Well, if you say so. Just make sure he treats you well. You know what famous people can be like.
Herbert, who had been slithering up and down, chose this moment to make some quacking sounds.
—Oh yes, that’s next on my list. What’s going on with this baby? Since when were you a ‘pretty single mum’?
Aurélie braced herself. She was going to tell her dad a big fat lie. He seemed to be taking things in his stride so far, but she knew he would be on the next train to Paris if he found out about the stone, and if he ever found out about the gun it would break his heart. ‘I’ve been looking after him for a friend.’
—How’s that going? I have to say you look like a natural. At least you put his shoes on the right feet – I never quite got the hang of that with you two.
She silently thanked the nosey old woman for her interference. ‘It’s going fine. She’s back in town tomorrow, so I’ll be back to full strength with my project.’
—It sounds like you’re busy. I’ll call again in a few days to see how you’re getting on. For now I’ll trust your judgment over the naked man. Say hi to him from me.
‘I will, when I get a chance. He’s quite busy with work at the moment.’
—Oh, and there’s one last thing on my list: what’s that in your hand in the second photo?
It was a cigarette. The last time she had seen him she had assured him that she was going to give up. It was only now she had Herbert that she realised how awful it must be for a parent to see their child do something that had a good chance of making them very ill. Her father had watched his wife’s slow decline, and he had told her that he was kept awake at nights with worry at the thought of his daughter volunteering to go down the same route. She had felt a bit guilty when she heard this, but it was only now that she could begin to comprehend the depth of his concern. She felt awful.