‘It’s always the same thing. I’ve grown used to it. If my nerves weren’t strong, I’d be long dead or in a mental institution.’

  He hated the pair of them. Because he finally dared admit to himself that he hated his wife. She had brought in outside assistance. The battle was no longer equal. Who knows whether she’d pick up other Madame Martins in the street who would surround her with a flock of harridans?

  He was drinking too much. It was no longer to help him enjoy a luxurious little nap – he needed one or two glasses of wine every hour to boost his morale.

  His wife kept a close eye on him. It was all very well his locking the bottles in the dresser and keeping the key in his pocket, she saw how many he brought in every morning and she was not unaware of his increasingly frequent visits to the kitchen.

  Who knows whether she talked about his drinking to whoever was prepared to listen?

  Madame Martin acted as her witness. Perhaps, not having managed to kill him and not daring to provoke him more directly, Marguerite planned to have him locked up? He was scared. Even when they weren’t talking about him, he remained in the background of their conversations, punctuated by sighs and meaningful looks.

  ‘It can’t be said that life has treated you well, you poor deserving little lady.’

  ‘I have never complained. If God has decided thus …’

  ‘Luckily, you are a believer. I always say that so long as a person has religion …’

  ‘I feel sorry for those who don’t believe in anything.’ Her eyes rested on Émile Bouin.

  ‘Are they not debasing themselves to the status of animals?’

  ‘Worse! Animals aren’t responsible.’

  The tea. The silver tray. The little biscuits. Once, he went to fetch the bottle of red wine and a glass from the kitchen and started drinking in front of them.

  That was a mistake. He mustn’t do that again. His instinct warned him that no good would come of it.

  He had got into the habit of going out for a drink several times a day, to a little bar-cum-restaurant opposite the prison, the restaurant that served meals to wealthy inmates.

  The owner could be heard giving orders such as:

  ‘Two pork chops for the Freak. With lots of potatoes and lettuce.’

  ‘Coq au vin for the Notary.’

  Nearly all the prisoners had nicknames. No one was surprised that they lived behind bars, between four walls.

  ‘Have they kept My-Eye in the sickbay?’

  ‘He came out yesterday. The doctor realized that he was no more unwell than me.’

  He drank his glass of red at the bar. They didn’t know who he was yet, and they watched him.

  ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I thought you looked familiar.’

  ‘I live in Square Sébastien-Doise.’

  He felt the need to justify his presence, as if he were taking an entrance exam. Unlike at Nelly’s, here was a continual coming and going of customers, odd characters sometimes who sat in the corners and spoke in hushed voices, calling the owner, whispering in his ear.

  ‘You’re not the husband of the crazy old woman?’

  He nodded, as if this could only mean Marguerite.

  ‘Why didn’t she sell?’

  ‘Sell what?’

  ‘Her houses, of course. There was talk of demolishing the street to put up an enormous building. She was offered a fortune for her houses, but, because she dug her heels in, they had to alter all the plans.’

  He went back to Nelly’s too, but he didn’t suggest going into the kitchen. She understood at once that he was depressed.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘They’re doing their utmost to get me. That Madame Martin is a … a …’

  ‘A plumpish, dark-haired woman with charcoal eye shadow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The woman who was with your wife the other day? Two years ago, she was still telling fortunes. I don’t know what happened, but the police got involved. Now, she doesn’t do anything any more. Apparently she has savings.’

  ‘I can’t stand them any longer.’

  ‘Why do you stay in the room with them?’

  ‘Because if I left, they’d count that as a victory.’

  ‘You’re a funny man. At times, I could swear it amuses you. Are you sure you wouldn’t miss your wife?’

  ‘I hate her.’

  ‘Drink up, go on, and try to think of something else, nature, the little birds.’

  ‘I’m being serious.’

  ‘So am I.’

  There was even the smell: Madame Martin doused herself in cheap scent which pervaded the sitting room. Marguerite, who couldn’t stand perfumes, said nothing, which revealed a sort of complicity between them.

  He still occasionally followed his wife from a distance when she went to the shops. She was no longer content only to see Madame Martin in the afternoons but would bump into her at the Italian deli or at the butcher’s, where they’d queue together.

  By the morning of the fifth day, he could no longer resist and, when he walked into Nelly’s, she knew he hadn’t just come to drink a couple of glasses of wine or to spend a moment in the kitchen.

  ‘It looks as if your punishment’s getting you down, my friend. Now what have they done to you?’

  ‘I have to talk to you.’

  Embarrassed, he didn’t dare get to the point.

  ‘You understand, a man has his dignity after all.’

  She laughed to herself. She knew men better than he did and had learned from experience that when they talk about their dignity, it’s because things are going badly.

  ‘Pour me a drink.’

  ‘This is your fourth glass.’

  ‘You as well?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because my wife keeps track of what I drink. She watches me all day long. It’s worse than if I was still a child crawling around on the floor. When I get home, she makes sure to come close to me and sniff me. The bathroom is the only place I can lock myself in.’

  ‘Poor Émile!’

  She didn’t treat anything as dramatic. For her, these marital disputes were all the same.

  ‘So … you were talking about your dignity.’

  ‘How many bedrooms have you got up there?’

  She frowned, because she hadn’t been expecting this.

  ‘Two. Why?’

  He went on, shamefaced, in a quiet voice:

  ‘I’m an old man, I know. I’m not suggesting I live with you like …’

  ‘Like two lovers, right! And first of all, let me tell you that I’ve never been able to sleep with a man. It’s about the skin, the smell. Having a quick one’s fine, but lying beside one another sweating, banging into an arm or a leg in the night, no! I tried, at first, with Théo. He was my husband. Because of the business, we went to the register office.

  ‘Well! After a few days, I asked him to go and buy himself a bed. He used to sleep in the back bedroom. All the same, we were very fond of each other.’

  ‘He knew that you were unfaithful?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m sorry. What I’d like is to become a sort of lodger. I’d pay. It’s up to you to decide how much. I’d keep out of your way. I’m no trouble.’

  ‘Would I have to cook for you?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’d prefer it. But, if necessary, I could eat elsewhere.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe for ever.’

  ‘Does your old woman upset you that much?’

  She thought it over.

  ‘How much would you be prepared to pay?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, given the point I’ve reached. I receive a good pension. I’ve got savings.’

  ‘You won’t be hanging around in the café all day long? My customers don’t like that, you understand.’

  ‘I understand. I’ll do whatever you ask.’

  ‘What if male friends of mine come?’

  He glanced at the kitchen door.

  ‘That’s your business.’

  ‘You won’t get jealous?’

  ‘Why would I get jealous?’

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Give me time to think about it.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Let’s say until you come by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Couldn’t it be today?’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  He didn’t reply but appeared to be utterly exhausted and his gaze was entreating.

  ‘Fine! Come back in half an hour.’

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘May as well start a tab right away.’

  Like for the regulars, whose drinks she recorded in a notebook.

  ‘What time do you get up?’

  ‘At six o’clock. I can get up at any time. I’ll bring in the bins, open the shutters, sweep the café. I’m used to it.’

  ‘Go off for a walk for a moment.’

  He obeyed, more anxious than he recalled ever feeling. This seemed to be his only lifeline. At Nelly’s, he would no longer think about Marguerite, or Madame Martin, or about the threats hanging over him in the house. Nelly understood him. She understood everyone. She had no prejudices and saw only the good side of people and events.

  The bedrooms were on the mezzanine, from where you could see the semi-circular windows of houses opposite. They must have low ceilings, and probably, from upstairs, you could hear all the sounds from the café and the kitchen.

  Was it not the ideal refuge? He would almost be able to believe he was with Angèle. No one would spy on him. He would go out when he felt like it, without turning around to see if he was being followed.

  The two scheming minxes would no longer carp about him in his presence and watch for his reactions to use against him one day.

  He walked around the block, first in one direction, and then the other, checking his watch frequently, and at last he entered the cool, dark café.

  A customer was at the bar, a workman in plaster-stained blue overalls. His face was covered in plaster too, especially his eyelashes and eyebrows, which made him look like a clown.

  He was afraid of disturbing them. This was no time to annoy Nelly. He paused, was on the point of walking away, but she signalled that this wasn’t a customer for the kitchen.

  ‘What will you have?’

  ‘A small glass of white, as usual.’

  ‘Small or large?’

  ‘Large.’

  Self-deception, in other words. He was seventy-one years old and wasn’t accountable to anyone. Why ask for a small one, knowing that she would pour him a large glass?

  ‘We’ve got another week’s work here,’ continued the man with the clown face. ‘It’s not bad. There are three of us and we get along well. Can I have a bottle to take back to the others?’

  ‘Of the same?’

  She went to draw the wine from the cellar, opening the trap door and gradually disappearing. Théo had lived the good life, even if it had ended badly, because he’d died young, at sixty-two or sixty-three.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart.’

  The plasterer couldn’t help letting his gaze linger on her plump breasts. If he carried on working in the neighbourhood for another week, he would probably take advantage of her like the others. He had very fair hair, was barely thirty, with laughing eyes.

  ‘So?’

  ‘We’ll give it a try.’

  ‘When can I come?’

  ‘Whenever you like. I’ve just got to make up the bed. Since Théo’s death, no one has slept in it.’

  He didn’t ask about the price.

  ‘I’ll bring my suitcase straight after lunch.’

  ‘You’re not going to bring the kitchen sink as well, are you?’

  He was so relieved that, once outside, he felt like whistling. For him, this was a liberation, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of Nelly sooner.

  On entering the house, his eyes were gleaming with mischief. Marguerite was going to have the surprise of her life. Her victim was escaping her. She would end up alone, with no one to spy on, and he tried to imagine the conversation that the two women would have that afternoon over their tea.

  ‘Did he take everything with him?’ that viper Madame Martin would enquire.

  ‘No. Just a big suitcase.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s gone on a trip? Some relative in the provinces has fallen sick or died.’

  ‘He has no family left. He never receives any letters, only circulars.’

  ‘How did he behave?’

  ‘Taunting me.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be back.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Didn’t you follow him?’

  She must have blushed, because she had indeed followed him. He’d played a cunning trick on her, proving that he’d regained his composure.

  The suitcase was heavy. He’d lugged it as far as Place Saint-Jacques, where there were always a couple of taxis waiting.

  Marguerite didn’t hide but walked about ten metres behind him, and when he turned around he could read the consternation on her face.

  ‘You’ll see, old girl.’

  In her haste, she hadn’t thought to bring her handbag and so she had no money on her. He climbed into the first taxi and said to the driver:

  ‘Gare de l’Est.’

  The station from which, in 1914, he’d set off for the front.

  She was left there, on the kerb, dressed in mauve, unable to believe her eyes. Once at the Lion of Belfort statue, on Place Denfert-Rochereau, he leaned forward.

  ‘Drive around for a few minutes, it doesn’t matter where … then I’ll tell you where to go.’

  ‘What about the Gare de l’Est?’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘It’s your money.’

  Then he’d murmured, calculating that by now Marguerite had had the time to go home:

  ‘To the corner of Rue des Feuillantines.’

  ‘Which corner?’

  ‘Any corner.’

  The sun was beating down, hot, dazzling. Paris smelled good. For years, he hadn’t inhaled the odours of the city as he was doing now.

  Hadn’t he played a good prank on her? She would finally understand that he wasn’t a household pet acquired and trained to do her bidding.

  She was eating alone at the table, alone in the kitchen, alone in the house – with the look of someone who has no appetite, who’s never hungry. A pure spirit, soaring above bodily needs!

  ‘You already? You said …’

  Nelly was eating alone too but with a healthy appetite.

  ‘I’ll drop off my suitcase and then go out. I didn’t have the patience to wait and have one more lunch sitting opposite her. I’ll go to a restaurant.’

  She hesitated to offer to share her meal, which was appetizing – Toulouse sausages cooked in red cabbage, nice and fat and juicy, giving off a pleasant aroma of garlic.

  She preferred not to set a precedent. She was a practical woman, her feet firmly on the ground. She knew men. If she got along with them, it was because she didn’t ask them for more than they were capable of giving.

  ‘Bon appétit.’

  ‘You too.’

  He gave her a grateful smile and went off, rejuvenated.

  Throughout his life, he had unwittingly developed a series of habits, a more or less fixed routine.

  Each one would last for weeks, months or years and then give way, for no apparent reason, to a different rhythm, to new rules, another timetable or new obsessions.

  There had been life in his parents’ home, at first as a young man and then in the early years of his marriage to Angèle. With four of them in the house, it was not always easy, because his mother struggled to tolerate her daughter-in-law’s presence. As for his father, he avoided getting involved either through prudence or resignation.

  His mother especially was a stickler for mealtimes and when she was cooking, she didn’t want anyone else in the kitchen.

  ‘Go for a walk. That’s what young people should do. I’d rather you did that than have you under my feet.’

  As a result, they spent a lot of time outside the house. They walked. They knew the quays well, from Charenton to Pont-Neuf, and they sometimes went wandering late into the night.

  When they’d moved to a rented apartment above a café, they often ate out, either because Angèle had gone back to sleep, or because they fancied a special dish. They enjoyed discovering pleasant, affordable little restaurants where the regular customers kept their napkins in a locker.

  There was the period of Mélanie in the Halle aux Vins, that of Le Père Charles in Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Île, and others, with different colours for each one, like a particular smell.

  It had been the same for Sundays. One spring, he’d bought a motorbike, which took them to the forest of Fontainebleau, but after having narrowly avoided an accident, Angèle grew scared and he’d sold the bike. For two years, they’d regularly taken the train to Lagny and they knew all the good places in the area.

  They’d danced in the open-air dance halls. He’d started fishing and his wife had tried to do likewise.

  Then the hospital, where he arrived before visiting hour, sat on the same seat, skimmed the evening newspaper that he’d just bought, grumbling when the bell rang announcing visiting time before he’d read the headlines.

  His widowhood, his solitary life in the cul-de-sac, the novels devoured by the window, the baby crying down below, the games of belote, in the afternoon, in the café at Denfert-Rochereau …

  Marguerite …

  Now it was another new world he was trying to fit into, keeping an eye on his behaviour and his actions.

  Nelly’s bedroom looked onto the street, his didn’t. All he could see from the window was another window with panes so dirty that it was impossible to tell what lay behind it. Somewhere, in an invisible workshop, a hammer was beating metal with a slow, regular rhythm. He sometimes counted the strokes, waiting for the welcome break.

  He didn’t complain. He was happy to have escaped the atmosphere of the house.

  ‘How do you spend your days?’

  ‘I walk, I read.’

  ‘If you can’t see enough from your room, you can come and sit in mine, by the window, on condition you don’t smoke your nasty cigars.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14