C'est la Vie, page 7
‘You’re trash!’
‘So? What dustbin had you crawled out of when you came crying for my help? And Agathe, do you know what kind of rubbish dump she comes from? You know nothing about us and here you’re no one. Now it’s me writing the script; you’re only one of my characters.’
‘That’s where you’re mistaken, Billot. If you had been a writer you would have known that it’s the characters who control you, not the other way round.’
‘That’s enough. You’re not on one of your culture programmes now. Let’s talk business. Here’s what I propose: a hundred thousand francs and no one will ever know about your acts of abuse and your son’s drug dealing.’
‘You’re out of your mind!’
‘You’re wrong to take it like that. I was a witness to your attack on this young woman. Your son is a notorious dealer. I only have to say the word and—’
‘You’ve no proof; I’ll deny everything!’
‘Look at your scratched cheek! And think of The Barber of Seville: “Calumniate, calumniate, there will always be something which sticks.” An incident like this would ruin your life and the life of your nearest and dearest for years. It’s true that I’m an ugly little runt, but if you refuse my offer, I’ll never let you forget it wherever you are.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on it, I have connections!’
‘So do I. All these favours I’ve done in a provincial town. And then Agathe is how she is, but she is very well liked here, including by some very influential people!’
I turned towards her. Salvation could only come from her. ‘Agathe, I need an assistant. I could put you up and give you work. You could escape all this!’
‘Who do you think you are? I’m not going to be anyone’s maid! And why are you suddenly speaking respectfully to me – because you need something from me? Go fuck yourself! Anyway, I don’t like working.’
‘Agathe, for goodness’ sake! He’s the one who beat you up, you can’t possibly take his side!’
‘I’m not taking any sides! Leave me alone! Go and get the money and bugger off!’
A lock of her red hair fell over her eyes like a curtain. No one at home. I could expect nothing more from her. I felt sick. I had never had a very high opinion of humanity, but this was worse than my darkest imaginings. The poor were no better than the rich. There was no more goodies and baddies; everyone was bad. I flopped into a chair, my hands dangling between my legs, my head lowered. ‘What you’re doing is disgusting.’
‘You’re not in a position to give any moral lectures, Mr Scribbler. When you act like trash, you find yourself hanging out with trash. Do you think your son has any scruples when he scatters his powder all around?’
‘Damien’s not a drug pusher! And anyway, where is he?’
‘He’s where you left him, happy on his little cloud, but if you’re not willing to be reasonable, I can promise him a dizzying descent.’
‘Scum!’
‘For such an important writer, your vocabulary seems rather limited. Come on, a hundred thousand francs and you’ll get back your wallet, your offspring and your nice little life. It’s not much to pay and you’ll have the satisfaction of making Agathe happy. Look at the poor girl – don’t you think she deserves her fifty thousand francs? I may be a villain, but I’m fair, fifty–fifty with all my clients! You’d have paid that much to screw her, wouldn’t you?’
I had only ever been fishing once in my life. The image of my first fish wriggling about in the keepnet came to mind. I looked at it without daring to touch it. When I could finally bring myself to, the bleak was floating belly up on the pond, dead-eyed.
‘I don’t have my chequebook.’
‘No problem, the banks open at nine.’
‘They’ll be suspicious if I draw out such a big sum all at once.’
‘You think so? Someone as famous as you who has just acquired a masterpiece – this one, for example!’ He pointed at Sergeant Billot with the cocktail sausage that passed for his index finger. ‘I’ll give him to you as a souvenir. I’ve seen enough of him.’
As the lawyer applauded with one hand against the armrest, I remembered the gun that had pierced the officer’s eye. From where he was sitting, Billot would not have been able to see the touching up the painting had received. What I did next was mad and out of character; I was acting as if I were in a novel. I took a few steps towards the cupboard, and, pretending to retie my shoelace, grabbed the gun and pointed it at Billot. ‘This is the end! Hand over my wallet!’
The lawyer, his mouth in an ‘O’ and his little arms raised, looked at me, his eyes popping out of his head. Agathe let her ash fall into her lap. I had never aimed a gun before, apart from a shotgun ages ago. I felt strong, unassailable. The trigger trembled under my finger like a clitoris. I was no longer myself, but someone other, who would know how to extricate me from this affair.
XII
Recovering from the shock, the lawyer rallied. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Monsieur Colombier; it doesn’t suit you at all to play cowboys and Indians.’
‘My wallet!’
‘Obviously, I don’t have it on me! Put the weapon down, you look ridiculous.’
‘Agathe, tell me where it is. I promise I’ll give you your fifty thousand francs, but nothing for him!’
‘Don’t listen to him, Agathe, he’s not one of us, he’s faking it.’
Agathe looked like one of the unemployed watching regional news after a heavy beer session. With the tip of her finger, she scratched a scab on her nose.
‘Sort it out yourself. I’m tired, I’m off.’
‘Agathe!’
I turned to her, brandishing my revolver like the bouquet of a spurned lover. She sighed and rose from her chair, and stubbed her cigarette out on the carpet with the toe of her shoe. She was like seaweed, long and gleaming, a washed-up mermaid. ‘You both disgust me equally. I’m not taking anything from either of you.’
As she was about to walk out of the door, it opened, revealing widow Billot dressed all in black, with a veiled hat, holding a suitcase. Agathe recoiled. For a few seconds, time stood still. All the old lady was missing was an hourglass and scythe. The lawyer took advantage of the hiatus to throw himself at me. We rolled on the ground. It was like wrestling with an animal, a pit bull. His little sausage fingers sought my eyes, and his teeth tried to bite the hand holding the gun. He stank of garlic and bad cigars. I could hear his obscene breathing, like a rutting animal, whistling in my ear. I felt as if I were being raped. Close-ups of his skin, his teeth and his hair alternated with views of the chair legs and the fringing on the carpet. Then suddenly the gun went off, deafening us. Billot arched his back, his mouth open. The bullet had pierced the same eye as his father’s. Propped on one elbow, out of breath, I saw his body twitching, like ducks that continue to run after their heads have been cut off.
The old woman looked astonished, that was all, astonished. Her vacant gaze went from the body of her son to the revolver that I had just thrown far from me as if it were red hot. My arm was still vibrating all the way up to my shoulder from the shot. The widow calmly picked the gun up as if it were a dead leaf on her parquet. Then she stepped round the body of her son to get to the record player which she plugged in again. Once more the sour notes of ‘Roses of Picardy’ droned out in the stale air of the room as she took her place in the armchair her son had just quit for ever.
‘I wanted to say goodbye to him, but he left before me. Perhaps it’s better that way. I have lived without his love for so long …’
On all fours, I was trying to get my breath back. From that position, I had a dog’s-eye view of humanity. I saw a pool of blood spreading from a shattered skull, which the unicorn on the carpet was having trouble absorbing. I saw the matchstick ankles of the poor woman swinging in the air, and Agathe’s slender legs rising from a pair of bright-red Doc Martens.
‘Get up, Jeff, we’re leaving!’
‘I can’t.’
‘Get up, damn it!’
I let myself be dragged onto the landing like a rubbish bag the morning after New Year’s Eve. The refrain from ‘Roses of Picardy’ stuttered in my ears … ‘keep in my heart … keep in my heart …’ Agathe pushed me towards the stairs. It’s difficult to walk without knees on legs that are like socks filled with sand. I thought I heard a detonation but perhaps it was the echo of the earlier one. There was no way of knowing. There was no way of knowing anything any more, everything was happening so fast.
The icy air of the night rushed into my lungs, making me cough.
‘Hurry up for God’s sake!’
‘But I killed him. Did I kill him?’
‘Serves him right. Shit, walk, will you?’
Someone must have coated everything in tar. It would never be daylight ever again. Agathe put her arm around my shoulders. A shooting pain gripped my chest, stopping me breathing.
‘What’s wrong with you? You’re not going to die on me, are you?’
‘I’m OK …’
‘Hold on to me.’
Agathe’s voice seemed to come from a long way off, like someone talking behind glass. When we got to Grand-Place, I had to stop; my legs would carry me no further.
‘Try to keep going, we’re nearly there.’
‘Nearly where?’
The pavement was shiny and undulating like an eel. A group of youths taunted us, thinking we were drunk. You know you can die anywhere but you are still surprised that it will be here and now. Every house front looked like the sole of an enormous shoe about to crush me. What vanity to want to look death in the face … I closed my eyes and let myself fall forward onto the ground.
XIII
It was the same night, but everything was white. White walls, white rectangle of window, white shadows that I could see between my eyelashes, spotless white light drenching my pale hands as they lay on the sheet. All that the scene lacked to convince me I was in heaven was an old bearded man surrounded by plump cherubs.
‘I’ve seen cases like this before. You know, when you are so afraid of dying, you end up dying of fear.’
The voice was also white like the odours I could smell. Something, an instinct for preservation perhaps, instructed me not to move. As long as I was inside my body, amongst the mechanics, pistons and cogs that made it function, I felt safe.
‘Try to talk to him.’
‘Papa, can you hear me?’
I had to make a big effort not to start at the sound of Damien’s voice.
‘Papa, you’ve had a stroke; someone found you in the kitchen. Do you remember that?’
No, I didn’t remember or rather I didn’t want to remember. There were too many things pressing against the door of my memory. The whole world would collapse on top of me if I opened it.
‘The doctors say you are out of danger now.’
Poor little Damien. It is life that is the danger. And life was returning to me. A flood of images, each one more incoherent than the last, and in no sensible order, were transforming my brain into a turgid, misshapen cauliflower. So I hadn’t arrived? Was I going to have to start again, explaining the whys and wherefores of a world so complicated that God could not find his way around it?
‘I don’t think it’s working. Come back later.’
I heard footsteps receding. Someone knocked into a chair. The returning silence was like a warm bath, a bath of purple ink which I sank back into.
‘Move your fingers, Monsieur Colombier. Move your fingers, I know you can …’
Talk all you like! Little finger and the eyes, and the mouth, et la tête, alouette, alouette! I could also go to the police and turn myself in for having beaten up Agathe and bumped off Billot! I’m not as stupid as all that! As if I didn’t know that they were waiting for me in the corridor. Where I am now, no one can get to me. My body is my best hiding place, my safe!
‘This makes no sense, Monsieur Colombier. There’s nothing wrong with you, all your tests show that. Don’t you want to see life? It’s beautiful weather today.’
And then? It must be horrible to see a blue sky from behind bars. I prefer a thousand times the security of my inner night. No beginning, no end, it is as blank as the first page rolled into the typewriter carriage. I have never suffered from writer’s block. As long as one has nothing to write, one has nothing to fear. It’s afterwards that everything is ruined. I can spend hours staring at a blank page; that is the ultimate masterpiece … Dear devoted nurse, I would like to obey you, but I know what awaits me when I open my eyes: two policemen and a pair of handcuffs. Your voice, so soft and comforting, is all I need. Besides, one is often disappointed when one discovers the face that goes with a beautiful voice. That happened to me once when I was buying a train ticket over the phone. Seduced by the sensuality of the voice asking me, ‘Smoking carriage or non-smoking? First or second class?’ one thing led to another and I ended up arranging a meeting. We were supposed to meet in a big café in Paris the next evening at seven o’clock. She was to wear a blue coat and a red scarf. I didn’t sleep the night before because I was happily fantasising about the subtle range of her vocal cords. I spotted her as soon as I entered the revolving door of the brasserie. She was so ugly that I let myself be carried right round by the door until I was out on the street again running towards the closest metro station, red-faced with shame. It was one of the most painful memories of my life. Never venture behind the scenes. The green rooms of performers are crammed with terrifying disappointments. Look, I’m the proof, I, who let myself be moved about like a parcel, cleaned, washed and wiped. I am ashamed, I feel pathetic, but it’s better than going to prison.
‘This is not good, Monsieur Colombier, a gentleman like you … Well, I’m going to try to make you presentable anyway; you have a visitor.’
That’s how it was. I was visited, like a haunted castle. I didn’t move so much as my little finger. I was prepared to do anything to cling on to the little bit of liberty left to me. True, my body was no better than a prison cell, but it was my body; I was alone in it. I didn’t allow overcrowding. What frightened me most about prison life was not the solitude – far from it, I was used to that – but the presence of the other prisoners. I prefer being bored on my own rather than in company. I had made my choice. And why were all these living people bothering to come and see me? I should have been dead! It had been so easy to die in Grand-Place in Lille in Agathe’s arms … What had gone wrong? For heaven’s sake, it was as humiliating as receiving a rejection letter from an editor. All that effort for nothing … starting again … starting again … that’s not a life! It’s not a death either. I had become a closed oyster and I defied anyone to open me!
‘Darling, it’s me, Eve. Do you recognise me?’
The bastards! They had made her come to the hospital! Even with my eyes closed I could make out her aura, like a cloud of pink talcum powder. They were trying all the right methods to make me crack but it was never going to work. I would hold out, frozen, immobile in my shackles of flesh. I was a rebellious oyster! The Vercingetorix of oysters.
‘If you can hear me, darling, raise your hand …’
And tell the whole truth, nothing but the truth? I was not going to fall for that. If only I could have told my beautiful love how much I would have liked to jump out of the icy sheets, take her in my arms and cover her in kisses … But it was a trap; they were just waiting for me to do that and then they would pounce on me and lock me up! Of course, she was innocent, and did not know that they were everywhere – in the drawer of the bedside table, under the bed, behind the curtains … They were spying on me, ready to jump on my first error. How hard it was not to hug her … but I could not, no, I could not. I couldn’t stand the idea of seeing her through the bars of a visiting room. I could not tell my darling how annoyed I was with myself, for having ruined everything. I did not even have the right to cry.
‘Are you sure he can hear me?’
‘In theory. Physiologically speaking there is nothing wrong with him. But as for the rest …’
‘It’s in his head?’
‘Our psychiatrist will be coming to see him.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as possible; tomorrow or the day after … We’re very busy at the moment. I think it will be better if you come back later. If you don’t mind, there are some forms to fill out.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Who was it who wrote ‘Don’t shake me, I’m full of tears?’ I couldn’t remember, but I felt as if I was going to overflow.
XIV
It takes a long time to play dead, almost as long as actually being dead. You go eternally round and round in circles; there’s nowhere to go; everywhere’s the same. There’s not even the possibility of marking the days off on a wall; there is no wall. The menu is always the same, through a feeding tube in my arm, no coffee, no bill. I had to wait for the lights to go off so that I could move about a bit to avoid bedsores and open my eyes on a darkness that was a bit less dark than the inside of my head.
One day at La Châtre, I had set out in the early hours to walk on my own in the fields. The mist was so thick I could not see my hand. I walked along a narrow path. On either side, layers of mist lapped the clods of earth. Seconds seemed like hours. I had become invisible or else the one remaining survivor of a world war, floundering through waves of mustard gas. It was there that I had an intimation of my immortality, of my outrageous resistance to all the bad things that can happen: plague, cholera, falling rocks, falling from a horse, car or plane accidents, prolonged immersion at a depth of two hundred metres – I avoided them all. I roamed the earth like an insistent refrain. I should have been elated but curiously all I felt was a profound melancholy. The countryside was soothing but rather boring. Being the only upright thing moving in a world as flat as that was only mildly entertaining. The silence was so loud I felt deaf. I made myself cough just to prove that I existed, the way you pinch yourself to prove you are not dreaming. It was like a cannon shot. The echo was immediately absorbed by the dense fog so the proof of my existence lasted no more than a quarter of a second. The acrid odour of damp ash reached me. To my left, half a dozen bales of straw were still smouldering, adding their stringy smoke to the grey cotton wool of the sky. I felt, at that moment, convinced that I had reached the end of the world. The reign of nothing at all was about to commence and something told me that it would last a good long while. Of course, I was alive, but afterwards? When there was no more afterwards?
