besides I’m sure your mother’s death has hit you more than you care to admit. Even if you weren’t on the best of terms, she was still your mum. All the memories must be coming back … I understand, my love, but you need to look after yourself. You need to be strong …’
He let her build up a list of excuses he could never have come up with by himself and then she rang off, promising to call again that evening and sending love and strength at this difficult time.
It was still dark outside. The chrome lamp in the shape of a giant sprig of lily of the valley lit only one corner of the bedside table and a patch of the rug, which was decorated with swarms of red and green arabesques. Olivier closed his eyes again. For a moment he pictured Odile, immaculately coiffed and made up, emerging from Résidence des Mimosas at the wheel of her black Polo, jumping the stop sign she considered unnecessary before weaving her way through the traffic to reach the shop, where Mireille would be pacing up and down. In a lull between permed customers, Odile would tell her everything.
How far away she seemed – and not just geographically.
All he had retained of the previous day’s events was a collection of jumbled, fragmented images in no particular order: Rodolphe circling the table with the camcorder clamped to his dead eye like a monstrous prosthesis, indiscriminately filming the dinner, the ceiling, faces, a spoon falling off the table; Roland perching stiffly on the edge of his seat, constantly offering to wash up before the meal was even over; Jeanne, ghostly pale, chain-smoking cigarettes; and himself chain-drinking without even checking what was in the glass – champagne, wine, brandy, more wine. The room was immersed in gloom like a murky fish tank, with a shiny glint of cutlery or crystal here and there. It was bizarre, extraordinary, and yet Olivier felt as if he was attending a family reunion,
his own
family reunion. Rodolphe had even called him ‘my brother-in-law’ several times, until his sister told him to pack it in.
‘What? We all know how it is with friends’ brothers …! Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? Done and dusted, wiped clean, swept under the carpet …’
It was always hard to tell what Rodolphe was playing at. There were two sides to him: refined one minute and coarse the next. Light and shadow alternated on his moon-shaped face.
To tell the truth, Olivier didn’t care what Rodolphe was upto. The alcohol had numbed him; he was untouchable. Rodolphe was just a bit-part in this scene, like Roland, who was rushing to clear the table. Olivier only had eyes for Jeanne. He discovered her anew with every little gesture: the way she pushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead or rubbed her nose before snapping at her brother, how she rested her chin in the palm of her hand and glanced at him sidelong. Their gazes would meet in a kind of electric arc, a bridge leading from one to the other. At that moment, everything around them became a blur, all of life’s sounds, words and cries dissolved to nothing and the island, their island, emerged once more. Their lashes stopped blinking, their pupils dilated, they feasted on the sight of one another until tears filled their eyes. Several times at nursery school the teacher had panicked and been forced to shake them out of their growing state of catalepsy. ‘Stop that at once! Look at them, their eyes are all red!’
From that age, long before they were able to put it into words, they had sworn to one another they would never leave the island.
Olivier didn’t react until the third ring. He had heard the bell the first two times, but failed to connect it with himself. He almost broke his neck taking his first step out of bed. His foot had landed on an empty bottle of Negrita which was now rolling across the parquet floor, alternately revealing and concealing the dazzling grin of the West Indian woman in her headscarf.
The bell
He let her build up a list of excuses he could never have come up with by himself and then she rang off, promising to call again that evening and sending love and strength at this difficult time.
It was still dark outside. The chrome lamp in the shape of a giant sprig of lily of the valley lit only one corner of the bedside table and a patch of the rug, which was decorated with swarms of red and green arabesques. Olivier closed his eyes again. For a moment he pictured Odile, immaculately coiffed and made up, emerging from Résidence des Mimosas at the wheel of her black Polo, jumping the stop sign she considered unnecessary before weaving her way through the traffic to reach the shop, where Mireille would be pacing up and down. In a lull between permed customers, Odile would tell her everything.
How far away she seemed – and not just geographically.
All he had retained of the previous day’s events was a collection of jumbled, fragmented images in no particular order: Rodolphe circling the table with the camcorder clamped to his dead eye like a monstrous prosthesis, indiscriminately filming the dinner, the ceiling, faces, a spoon falling off the table; Roland perching stiffly on the edge of his seat, constantly offering to wash up before the meal was even over; Jeanne, ghostly pale, chain-smoking cigarettes; and himself chain-drinking without even checking what was in the glass – champagne, wine, brandy, more wine. The room was immersed in gloom like a murky fish tank, with a shiny glint of cutlery or crystal here and there. It was bizarre, extraordinary, and yet Olivier felt as if he was attending a family reunion,
his own
family reunion. Rodolphe had even called him ‘my brother-in-law’ several times, until his sister told him to pack it in.
‘What? We all know how it is with friends’ brothers …! Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? Done and dusted, wiped clean, swept under the carpet …’
It was always hard to tell what Rodolphe was playing at. There were two sides to him: refined one minute and coarse the next. Light and shadow alternated on his moon-shaped face.
To tell the truth, Olivier didn’t care what Rodolphe was upto. The alcohol had numbed him; he was untouchable. Rodolphe was just a bit-part in this scene, like Roland, who was rushing to clear the table. Olivier only had eyes for Jeanne. He discovered her anew with every little gesture: the way she pushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead or rubbed her nose before snapping at her brother, how she rested her chin in the palm of her hand and glanced at him sidelong. Their gazes would meet in a kind of electric arc, a bridge leading from one to the other. At that moment, everything around them became a blur, all of life’s sounds, words and cries dissolved to nothing and the island, their island, emerged once more. Their lashes stopped blinking, their pupils dilated, they feasted on the sight of one another until tears filled their eyes. Several times at nursery school the teacher had panicked and been forced to shake them out of their growing state of catalepsy. ‘Stop that at once! Look at them, their eyes are all red!’
From that age, long before they were able to put it into words, they had sworn to one another they would never leave the island.
Olivier didn’t react until the third ring. He had heard the bell the first two times, but failed to connect it with himself. He almost broke his neck taking his first step out of bed. His foot had landed on an empty bottle of Negrita which was now rolling across the parquet floor, alternately revealing and concealing the dazzling grin of the West Indian woman in her headscarf.
The bell
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