That evening, it was Hattie who answered.
‘Charles here, everything all right?’
‘No.’
It was the first time he’d ever heard this scatty little miss complain.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Big Dog is dying.’
‘Is Kate there?’
‘No.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know.’
He cancelled his appointments, borrowed Marc’s car and found her, in the middle of the night, curled up in front of her ovens.
The dog was one long death rattle.
He came behind her, put his arms around her. She touched his hands without turning round: ‘Sam is about to leave, you’ll never be here and now he’s abandoning me too . . .’
‘I am here. It’s me, just here behind you.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
She paused, then said, ‘We’ll have to take him to the vet’s tomorrow.’
‘I’ll go.’
He squeezed her so tightly that night that he hurt her.
It was deliberate. She had said she didn’t want to cry over a dog.
Charles, thinking of Anouk, watched as the syringe drained, and he felt the dog’s dry muzzle breathe its last in the palm of his hand. Then he let Samuel carry him out to the car.
Samuel was crying like a baby, telling him the story about the day Big Dog had saved Alice from drowning . . . And the day he ate all the confits de canard . . . And the day he ate all the ducks . . . And all those nights he’d watched over them and slept outside the door when they were camping in the living room, to protect them from the draughts . . .
‘It’s going to be hard for Kate,’ Sam murmured.
‘We’ll look after her.’
Silence.
Like Mathilde, this young man did not have too many illusions about the adult world . . .
If he had not been so sad, Charles would have told him: he was both a natural person and a legal entity, subject to the yoke of decennial liability. He would have said this with a laugh of course, and would have added that he was prepared to restore their bridge every ten years to prevent them from drifting away without him.
But Sam kept turning round to check whether the great totem of his childhood was comfortably settled in the rear before blowing his nose in the shirt that had once belonged to the father he had hardly known.
Out of a sense of decency, therefore, Charles held his peace.
*
They dug the hole together while the girls wrote poems.
Kate had chosen the spot.
‘Let’s have him lie on the hill, that way he can go on protec . . . sorry,’ she wept, ‘sorry.’
All the kids from the summertime had gathered. All of them. Even René, wearing a jacket for the occasion.
Alice read a very moving little piece which said, more or less, you gave us a run for our money but we will never forget you, you know . . . And next to speak would be . . .
They turned round. Alexis and his children were climbing up the hill to join them.
Alexis. His children. And his trumpet.
. . . next to speak was Harriet. Who didn’t manage to get to the end of her tribute. She folded it up and between two sobs she spat, ‘I hate death.’
The children tossed lumps of sugar into the hole until Samuel and Charles filled it up and, while the two of them were bent over their spades, Alexis Le Men played his trumpet.
Charles, who up until that point had respected and understood their emotion without sharing it, paused in his grave-digging work.
Lifted his hand to his face.
Drops of . . . of sweat blurred his vision.
He had forgotten that Alexis could cry like this.
What a concert.
Just for them.
On a late summer’s evening.
With the last swallows in flight . . .
On top of a hill overlooking luscious countryside on one side and, on the other, a farm that had survived the Terror.
The musician kept his eyes closed and rocked gently back and forth, as if his notes were restoring his own breath to him before fading into the clouds.
The bras d’honneur, the final fuck-you. The ballad. The solo piece of a man who had not played, not since the era of little spoons heated in a flame; and now he was using an old dog in order to mourn all the deaths in his life.
Yes.
What a concert.
*
‘What was it?’ asked Charles as they were heading back down the hill, one after the other.
‘I don’t know . . . Requiem for a stupid mutt who ruined two trouser legs . . .’
‘You mean you –’
‘Oh, this time, yes! I was way too jittery not to improvise!’
Charles, thoughtful, followed him for a few more steps and then clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Yes?’
‘Welcome, Alex, welcome . . .’
Alexis thumped him in his fragile rib.
Just in order to teach him: don’t break out the violins when you’re so utterly tone deaf.
‘You’ll stay for dinner, the three of you, won’t you?’ asked Kate.
‘Thanks, but no. I’ve got to –’
His gaze met his former neighbour’s, and he made a little face and continued in a jollier tone, ‘I’ll have to ring, first!’
Charles recognized that smile, it was the one he used to make when he was about to throw all his ammunition into the ring, to get Philippe Lerouge’s prize marble . . .
He played again that evening, for the red-rimmed eyes. All the daft nonsense of their childhood, and the thousand and one ways they had found to pester Nana.
‘And La Strada?’ asked Charles.
‘Some other time.’
They stood by the cars.
‘When are you leaving?’ asked Alexis anxiously.
‘Tomorrow at dawn.’
‘Already?’
‘Yes, this time I just came for . . .’
He was going to say an emergency.
‘. . . the revelation of a young talent.’
‘And when will you be back?’
‘Friday evening.’
‘Could you swing by the house? I’d like to show you something.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right, ducks, shoo!’
‘You said it.’
Kate did not understand the last words he murmured in the hollow of her ear.
You are very? Something merry? You’re a fairy?
No, it must have been something else. Fairies don’t have such ugly hands.
14
THERE HE WAS, once again standing by the entry phone at 8 Clos des Ormes . . .
God, it pissed him off to spend even a second of his precious time away from Les Vesperies, in this bloody place . . .
‘Coming!’ shouted Alexis.
Good. At least he wouldn’t have to wear felt slippers and put up with the careful figure skater.
Lucas jumped up to hug him.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Charles.
‘Follow me.’
‘Here.’
‘Here what?’
The three of them were in the middle of the cemetery.
And since Alexis did not reply, Charles gestured to him that he had understood: ‘Look, it’s perfect. Here, she’ll be exactly midway between your house and Kate’s. When she needs peace and quiet, she’ll come to your place, and when she’s in the mood for something more exotic, she’ll go to Kate’s.’
‘Oh, I know where she’ll go . . .’
Charles found his smile a bit sad, and returned it.
‘No problem,’ continued Alexis, looking up, ‘as for me, I’ve had my share of exotic . . .’
They went to find Lucas, who was playing hide-and-seek with the dead.
‘You know I . . . I meant what I said when you called me the first time. And I still think that –’
Charles gestured to him th
at it was all right, that he didn’t need to justify himself, that . . .
‘And then when I saw everything they were doing for their dog, I . . .’
‘Balanda?
‘I’d like you to make the journey with me.’
His friend agreed.
*
Later, walking along the road: ‘Tell me, is it serious with Kate?’
‘No, no. Not at all. I’m just going to marry her and adopt all the kids. And the livestock, while I’m at it . . . I’ve asked the llama to be maid of honour.’
Charles recognized that laugh.
After they had walked for a moment in silence: ‘Don’t you think she resembles Mum?’
‘No,’ said Charles, to protect himself.
‘Yes. I think she does. Just like her. But more solid.’
15
CHARLES MET HIM at the station and they went straight to the waste depot.
Both were wearing a white shirt and a light-coloured jacket.
When they got there, two heavy-set men were already pulling her up.
Their hands behind their backs, without exchanging a single word, they watched as the coffin came up to the surface. Alexis was weeping, but not Charles. He remembered what he had looked up in the dictionary the night before:
Exhume, verb [trans.] Recall from oblivion, bring back.
The suits from the funeral director’s took over the next stage of the operation. They carried her to the van and closed the doors on all three of them.
They were sitting facing one another, separated by a strange coffee table in pine . . .
‘If I’d known, I’d have brought a deck of cards,’ joked Alexis.
‘Have mercy, no . . . She’d be perfectly capable of cheating as usual!’
Over the bumps and in the curves they instinctively placed their hands on her, despite the fact that she’d been cinched round and round to prevent any sliding. And once their hands were where they were, they left them there for a long time, feeling the gnarls in the wood, as if they were gently caressing her.
They did not talk a lot, and only about topics of no interest. Their jobs, their back problems, their teeth, the difference in cost between a city dentist and a country dentist, the car that Charles ought to buy, the best used-car lots, the cost of a car park season ticket at the station, and the crack in the stairwell . . . What the assessor had said, and the form letter Charles would give Alexis for the insurance company.
Neither one of them, that much was clear, felt like exhuming anything other than the body of the woman who had loved them so much.
At one point, however – and of course it had to be about him, because he was always the one who set the mood and lowered the lighting – they evoked memories of Nana.
No. Not memories. His presence, rather. His vitality, the energy of a little fellow all covered in jewels, and who had always had their chocolate croissant waiting for them when they got out of school.
‘Nana . . . we’re sick of your chocolate croissants . . . Can’t you get us something else, next time?’
‘And the myth, duckies, and the myth?’ he replied, dusting off their collars. ‘If I get something else, you’ll end up forgetting me, whereas like this, you’ll see, I’m leaving crumbs behind for your entire life!’
And now they saw.
‘Some day, we ought to go and see him, with the children,’ said Alexis, a more cheerful note in his voice.
‘Pfff . . .’ sighed Charles, exaggerating the ‘pfff’ somewhat (he was a very poor actor), ‘do you know where he is?’
‘No . . . But we could find out . . .’
‘Find out how?’ retorted Charles, fatalistic. ‘Ask the Association of Friends of Old Queens?’
‘What was his name anyway . . .’
‘Gigi Rubirosa?’
‘Shit, that was it. And you remembered that?’
‘No. In fact I’ve been hunting for it since your letter, and it came to me just now.’
‘And his other name . . . his real name?’
‘I never knew.’
‘Gigi . . .’ murmured Alexis thoughtfully, ‘Gigi Rubirosa . . .’
‘Yes. Gigi Rubirosa. The great friend of Orlanda Marshall and Jacquie the Jam Tart . . .’
‘How can you remember all that?’
‘I don’t forget a thing. Alas.’
Silence.
‘Well that is, when it’s things that deserve to be remembered.’
Silence.
‘Charles . . .’ murmured the erstwhile junkie.
‘Shut up.’
‘It’ll have to come out someday . . .’
‘Okay but not today, all right? We’ll each have our turn. Hey, what is it with you,’ he said, pretending to get annoyed, ‘you piss me off in the end you Le Mens with all your psychodramas! It’s been going on for forty years now! What about some respite for the living, no?’
He lifted up his briefcase. After a split second of hesitation he placed it before him, pulled out his files, and proved to Anouk, leaning on her, that no, you see I haven’t changed, I’m still that diligent little old schoolboy who . . .
Nana would have loved that song . . .
And instruction leaflets, just like autumn leaves, can be shovelled into piles. Memories and regrets too. When autumn leaves . . . na na na . . .
Yves Montand, that was something else. Nana had known him well.
‘What are you humming, there?’
‘Rubbish.’
*
It was nearly one o’clock when they arrived in the village. Alexis invited the undertakers to lunch at the grocery-store-bistro.
They hesitated. They were in a hurry, and didn’t like leaving the merchandise out in the sun.
‘Go on . . . just something quick,’ he insisted.
‘Just a boxed lunch,’ joked Charles.
‘With a good stiff hot dog,’ added Alexis.
And they had a good laugh, still the two young jerks they had always been.
Once they’d swallowed the last of their beer, they went back to their ropes.
*
When she was once again in the cool earth, Alexis approached the edge of the grave, stood still, lowered his head and . . .
‘Excuse me, Sir, would you mind getting out of the way?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Well, we’re really in a rush now. So we’ll put the other one in right away, that way you’ll have all the time you need afterwards to meditate –’
‘The other what?’ he said, startled.
‘Well, the other . . .’
Alexis turned round and saw a second coffin waiting on a trestle near the Vanneton-Marchanboeuf family, raised his eyebrows, then saw his friend’s smile.
‘What . . . what’s all this about?’
‘Come on . . . Make an effort . . . Can’t you see it – the boas and the pink ruffles around his wrists?’
Alexis broke down and it took Charles forever to console him after the added shock.
‘How . . . how did you manage it?’ he stammered, while the experts were packing up their gear.
‘I bought him.’
‘Huh?’
‘To start with, I actually did remember his name. I have to admit I’ve had time to think about it over these last months . . . Then I went to see his nephew, and I bought him.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There’s nothing to understand. We were sitting round having a drink, having a chat, and this Norman bloke wasn’t going along with it, it was shocking, he said, and it made me laugh to see that these people, who’d had nothing but bad things to say about him when he was alive, had suddenly got so mindful of his maggots . . . so I brought myself into line with their vulgar behaviour and pulled out my cheque book.
‘It was grand, Alex . . . Grandiose, even. It was like . . . something out of a short story by Maupassant. There was this stupid fool trying to pass off his crass stupidity as some kind of dignity, but after a while his wife came over
and said, “Oh, all the same, Pierrot . . . The boiler wants replacing . . . and what’s it to you whether Maurice has his final rest here or elsewhere, huh? He’s had his last rites . . . Huh?” Last rites . . . Sublime, isn’t it? So I asked how much it cost for a new boiler. They told me some amount and I copied it out without batting an eyelid. For that price, I reckon you could heat the entire Calvados region!’
Alexis was lapping it up.
‘And the best is yet to come: I’d filled everything out – the stub, the date, the place, but just when I was about to sign the cheque, up went my pen: “You know . . . given what this is costing me, I need at least . . .” Long silence. “Pardon?” “I want six photos of Na— of Maurice,” I said, “it’s that or nothing.”
‘You should have seen the way they went into action. They could only find three! They had to call Aunt Whatsit! But she only had one! But maybe Bernadette, well she ought to have a few! So the son goes rushing over to Bernadette’s place, and in the meantime we went through all the albums, going berserk with all that fiddly transparent paper. Oh, it was a fine moment . . . For once, I was putting on the show for Nana . . . Well, anyway . . .’
He pulled an envelope out of his pocket.
‘Here they are. Look how sweet he was . . . Of course, the one where you recognize him best is the baby photo, naked on an animal skin . . . Yes, there you can tell he really is in his element.’
Alexis leafed through the photos and smiled, ‘Don’t you want one?’
‘No . . . you keep them.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s your only family.’
Alexis was silent.
‘And Anouk’s too, actually . . . That’s why I went to get him.’
‘I –’ he began, rubbing his nose, ‘I don’t know what to say, Charles . . .’
‘Don’t say anything. I did it for myself.’
Then he bent forward all of a sudden and pretended to be tying one of his shoelaces.
Alexis had just taken him by the shoulders, ‘brothers in arms’, and the embrace upset him.
He’d done it for himself, the purchase. As for the rest – their complicity – that was no longer part of this world.
Alexis was astonished to see Charles heading off towards the van, and he called out, ‘Where are you going?’