A Long Way Off Page 2

  The click of the nail clippers cut through the silence. He swept the clippings into the bin. What if he went to see Anne today? This was not their usual day, and a change in routine might unsettle her. Besides, with this rain, it was not the weather for it. Nevertheless, he put on his coat and armed himself with an umbrella.

  ‘It’s not your day, Monsieur Lecas. It’s not the 14th.’

  ‘I know, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make the usual day.’

  ‘Anne’s having occupational therapy. There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘She’ll be taken by surprise. You should have phoned.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, since you’re here … I’ll send someone to get her.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  A man in pyjamas was sitting with his legs wrapped around his chair, playing with his fingers, mumbling and drooling. Two nurses could be seen sniggering behind the screen at reception. The recently mopped checkerboard floor was drying in patches and the smell of bleach hung in the warm air. Anne appeared at the end of the corridor. She had put on even more weight. She had inherited a solid frame from her mother, but unlike Édith, who was always dieting to improve her figure, Anne had let herself go. She was wearing a shapeless sweater and black trousers that sagged at the knees. Her slippers made no sound on the tiled floor, as if she were gliding on roller skates. Without saying a word, she sat down beside her father, head bowed, her bobbed hair screening her face.

  ‘Hello, Anne.’

  ‘Who died?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Are you going to die?’

  ‘It’s not on my immediate to-do list. I’m fine.’

  ‘So it’s me then?’

  ‘Of course not! Don’t be silly. I came today because …’

  He wasn’t sure why. Because of the pen game he had played with Boudu? ‘Because I wanted to see you. I bought a cat.’

  Anne was looking at the man playing with his fingers.

  ‘How much was it?’

  ‘I can’t remember … forty or fifty euros?’

  ‘That’s a lot. Give me a cigarette.’

  Marc did as he was asked. Anne lifted her sweater and tucked the cigarette inside her bra.

  ‘That guy over there kills cats. Birds as well. He says it’s his hands that do it, not him.’

  ‘Shall we go outside so you can smoke that cigarette?’

  They sat under a sort of canopy. Water droplets clung to the edge of the roof, a kind of pearl curtain hanging between them and the gardens beyond. Anne had only taken a couple of drags on the cigarette she was holding, which had now gone out.

  ‘Have you seen your mother recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She talks too much.’

  Édith always had been a blabbermouth. He wondered how time had treated her. Since their divorce twenty years earlier he had only seen her once, when Anne had gone into Perray-Vaucluse. She was as beautiful then, and as much of a pain in the arse, as she had ever been. All he knew was that she was still living alone in the same apartment and worked in the property business. They had never made any effort to get back in touch.

  ‘You didn’t bring my Rocher Suchard?’

  ‘I did! Sorry, I forgot. Here.’

  The chocolate had melted a little in the warmth of his pocket. Anne got it all over her fingers as she unwrapped it. She shoved the whole thing into her mouth in one go and chewed loudly, breathing through her nose. Marc handed her a tissue.

  ‘Wipe your mouth and fingers.’

  All this achieved was to spread the chocolate further over Anne’s lips. She had the same look on her face as Boudu after lapping up his milk: satisfied, but disappointed it was over so quickly.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost five.’

  ‘I’m going back. My programme’s on.’

  They parted outside the games room. To avoid getting his cheeks mucky, he kissed his daughter on the forehead. She was the same height as him.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be back?’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ll be here on the 14th, as usual. Today was just … a little extra.’

  ‘Oh. What’s the name of the cat?’

  ‘Boudu.’

  She repeated the word, furrowing her brow, before turning on her heel and disappearing inside the games room. As he left, Marc heard the monotonous pitter-patter of a ping-pong game.

  ‘Twenty euros isn’t too much, is it?’

  ‘Not if you like it.’

  After Chloé’s ‘trunk period’ – her collection of cabin trunks with curved lids, having outgrown the house, now filled half the attic – she had moved on to a particular style of bedside table: 1920s and ’30s nightstands with marble tops, a drawer and a door to conceal a chamber pot. She picked these up at flea markets and restored them lovingly. They already owned eight, spread about the house. This would be number nine.

  ‘I’m sure I can get it for fifteen.’

  Marc turned away and lit a cigarette to hide his embarrassment. He could not stand haggling, even when it was Chloé doing it. The piles of assorted objects before him made his head spin, just as it had when he had sat on the footstool and failed to recognise his living room. Things were mutating here too. Watering cans were jumbled together with Voltaire chairs, cattle yokes, china dolls, old wireless sets with lights on and porcelain vases in a scene of such indescribable chaos it was hard to remember what the objects were meant for, now that they had been reduced to abstract forms, morphing together into something truly monstrous.

  His hands and feet were cold. This Sunday was already rendering him numb. The insidious stench of chip fat had infiltrated his lungs and the cries of stallholders felt like cuffs to his frozen ears. Browsers rummaged from row to row carrying everything from floor lamps to beaten-up picture frames, tinplate horse heads and bizarre utensils Marc could not even name. All these thingamajigs, whatsits, gizmos had passed through so many hands, been recycled so many times, it was as if they would last for ever. It had been a long time since they had truly belonged to anyone. They were just passing through, take them or leave them. They were sanded down, repainted, given new handles, and off they went again. He had been in a similarly transient state when Chloé had picked him up after his divorce. She had stripped him down, polished him up and found a cosy place for him in her home. After seventeen years of purgatory with Édith, it was a miracle to find himself so refurbished, and he thanked his lucky stars every day. Still, he had resolved to let bygones be bygones and put any resentment of his first wife behind him. His memories of her were mixed, evoking the same combination of dread and fascination as a natural disaster. When Anne was born, Édith handed the baby over to him like a cumbersome gift, something wished for but now surplus to requirements, and ran off with an absolutist Chilean poet. Having never wanted children, Marc cared for the little one out of duty more than love, while Édith flitted moth-like back and forth according to her romantic whims. He approached his fatherly responsibilities in much the same way as his nine-to-five, ploughing on like an ox without complaint. Anne, who was endowed with a temperament as unpredictable as her mother’s, had in turn put him through the wringer until both women eventually left home for good, devoting themselves to dubious experiences somewhere else, somewhere he was not. Marc had been thrown by the wayside, rusted, dented, put out for recycling, just like the curious objects that now surrounded him.

  ‘Done! Fifteen euros! It’s in great nick. A bit of a polish, a new knob on the door and … what’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s a bargain.’

  They walked away, she holding him by the arm, he clutching the ninth nightstand to his chest.

  The house was still filled with the aroma of Sunday lunch. Wearing dungarees and rubber gloves, Chloé had disappeared into the garage to work on her bedside table. Boudu was snoring in the corner.

  Lying on
the sofa with his eyes closed, Marc saw himself leaning against the railings of the motorway bridge as the cars roared towards him. His whole body was shaking. It was exhilarating. The sound of the cars whistled in his ears, coming at him in bursts like gunfire or meteor showers. Sometimes, when a passing lorry made the bridge shudder, he felt as if he were lifting off, being propelled into space at such speed that the cars seemed to stand still. Far away … was a place he had never been. He wondered what it looked like there. Like nothing, he supposed – why else would it be so far away? Far away, everything is different, incomparable, a new discovery every second. A flaming red Ferrari came flying out of nowhere. The whoosh of air took his breath away. That guy must be going somewhere far, far away …

  Boudu lay at his feet, a soft ball of dough. He was dreaming. From time to time his lip quivered and he let out sharp little cries. He had such long whiskers, they spurted from his face like a fountain. They would have to get him some more cat biscuits; they had almost run out. He must have put on several pounds since he got here. Before long he would be enormous.

  Looking at an atlas, Marc found the very tip of the Tierra del Fuego. Anyone who wanted to go a long way away must eventually end up there. There was nowhere further. This was where land ended, dipping its beak into the water. He imagined sitting on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, his bare feet pedalling in thin air. The furthest point on the map must look a bit like parts of Brittany. This struck him as rather disappointing, however pleasant Brittany might be.

  Marc closed the heavy book on his lap, puzzled. ‘That’s a long way away, sure. But how are you supposed to get there? Finding the end of the world on a map is one thing; finding the time to get there’s quite another …’

  *

  ‘It’s the 14th tomorrow. Are you going to see Anne?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’ve bought her a shawl. Will you remember to give it to her?’

  ‘That’s kind of you. It’s lovely. I’ll tell her it’s from you.’

  ‘You know she couldn’t care less. Just give it to her, that’s all. Listen, I’ve got a week’s holiday to take later this month. What do you say to a mini break, somewhere like Bruges or Florence? It’s ages since we went away together.’

  ‘Yes, great idea!’

  ‘Here, have a look. I went round the travel agents this morning. Budapest looks nice too, and it’s not far …’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A shawl.’

  ‘They’re for old ladies.’

  ‘Not really. It’s pretty, don’t you think?’

  ‘It doesn’t smell good. It doesn’t smell of anything.’

  ‘That’s because it’s new.’

  Anne plied the embroidered fabric between her fat red fingers. She had the hands of a labourer: big, strong and without fingernails to speak of. Hands like tools.

  ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘A walk round the gardens? A Rocher Suchard? A cigarette?’

  ‘OK. I’ll put my boots on; the ground’s wet.’

  Trees stretched before them, creaking into the void. Engine noise from some distant piece of farm machinery carved the silence into regular chunks. From time to time, Anne strayed off the gravel path to trudge across the boggy grass.

  ‘Welly boots are good. You can go anywhere in them.’

  ‘Where’s anywhere, for you?’

  ‘Right here.’

  She put her feet together and jumped into a muddy puddle.

  ‘Careful, Anne! I’m right next to you … Listen, how about going for a drive?’

  ‘With you? Outside?’

  ‘Yes, with me, outside.’

  ‘I’m not allowed.’

  ‘You are if you’re with me.’

  She looked up at him suspiciously, arms buried elbow-deep in the pockets of her parka, hopping from side to side like a dancing bear.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You needn’t worry, I’ll be there with you. We could go and see the sea?’

  ‘The sea?’

  ‘Yes. We could walk on the sand, look at things moving about in rockpools, just like when you were little.’

  Anne shrugged several times and sniffed, her eyes darting from left to right and up and down like a cornered animal.

  ‘Which sea?’

  ‘Whichever’s nearest. How about Le Touquet?’

  ‘Le Touquet …’

  Doctor Soyons, who was falling asleep at his desk in a wine-scented fug, did not take much persuading. As a formality, he informed Marc of the risks he was taking and asked him to sign a discharge note. Then he saw him off with a limp wave of the hand.

  *

  ‘Put your seatbelt on. There. OK?’

  ‘Yes. It’s tight. Who’s that in the back?’

  ‘Boudu. He’s coming with us.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Through the bars of his cage on the back seat, the cat wrinkled his nose and fixed Anne with a stare as glassy as her own.

  They arrived about seven in the evening and Marc had no trouble finding a hotel by the beach. At this time of year, Le Touquet was a ghost town. Closed shutters lined the seafront. Knowing his daughter’s behaviour could be unpredictable, he had thought it wise to have dinner delivered to their room rather than eat in the restaurant. Anne did not seem best pleased.

  ‘Why not in the restaurant?’

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, fine. Mademoiselle, we’ve changed our minds, we’ll be eating in the restaurant.’

  The bedroom was spacious with French windows overlooking the sea, of which the only part visible at this hour was a slim roll of foam dissecting the darkness. Anne pressed her forehead against the black glass.

  ‘We’re not by the sea. It’s miles away.’

  ‘It must be low tide. It’ll come back in.’

  ‘What would you know?’

  ‘It goes out and comes in again. That’s how it is.’

  ‘That’s how it is … That’s how it is … It might not always be.’

  ‘We can go for a walk along the beach tomorrow. You’ll see it then. Ready?’

  The few other diners in the restaurant were couples, retirees or businessmen with their secretaries, all speaking in hushed tones. Contrary to Marc’s fears, Anne’s table manners were exemplary: she held her knife and fork correctly and refrained from stuffing herself or making inappropriate noises. Occasionally she threw furtive glances in the direction of the other tables or stared intently at the chandeliers, their sparkle reflected in her eyes. Looking at her, Marc was reminded of long-ago Christmases when Anne was five or six, wide-eyed, soaking it all in.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  Anne turned towards the mirror to her left, shrugged, and plunged her spoon back into the île flottante she had just started eating.

  ‘I’m ugly.’

  It was just an observation. Nothing in her face suggested the slightest emotion. She said, ‘I’m ugly’, as one might say ‘That’s a pebble’, or a bike or tyre.

  ‘If you like, we could buy you some clothes tomorrow and go to the hairdresser.’

  ‘If you like.’

  When they left the table, the bowl which had held the île flottante was as clean as if it had just come out of the dishwasher. Anne let out a loud, clear burp. This was her one misstep. When they reached the bedroom, she took a napkin from her pocket containing some leftover fish and offered it to Boudu. The cat’s eyes misted with eternal gratitude, and he spent the night curled up against her.

  Despite the stick-thin shop assistants laughing behind her back, Anne would not be swayed in her dubious choice of clothing.

  ‘The red trousers. The yellow jumper. The green coat. The shiny boots.’

  She didn’t hesitate for a second before the rails: ‘That, that and that.’ Her pointing index finger brooked no argument.

  It went much the same at the hairdresser.

  ‘Frizzy.’

  ‘Yo
u mean you’d like it curled?’

  ‘No, frizzy. Like an Afro.’

  ‘Oh … but you have lovely natural hair.’

  ‘Frizzy and yellow.’

  Marc felt as if he were watching an island emerge.

  There was no one on the beach, but thousands of footsteps had pummelled the sand. Anne pointed them out.

  ‘Where are they all?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’ve gone.’

  ‘They were in a hurry. Always rushing to keep going. Because if they stop, they’ll die.’

  Anne turned around and began walking backwards, keeping her eyes on her father.

  ‘It’s weird – I’ve always felt like I’m on my own whenever I’m with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why? It’s good to be on your own with someone. You don’t feel you have to talk. You should walk like this.’

  ‘Backwards?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw it in a western. It tricks the people running after you.’

  ‘No one’s running after us …’

  ‘You can’t see them; they’re hiding. But I can see them.’

  The wind flattened her hood against her head, the fur trim framing her face like a chestnut burr.

  ‘You came to pick me up from Gare Saint-Lazare once. I’d been to Trouville with Aunt Judith. We almost lost each other at the station. You had the same look on your face as you do now.’

  ‘What look is that?’

  ‘A look of “What the hell am I doing here?”’

  For the first time in years he watched his daughter burst out laughing as she walked away, motioning towards the line of foam separating the grey sea and sky. Except for Anne, dressed in her new polychrome outfit, everything around them was a shade of grey as subtly differentiated as the waves of mother-of-pearl inside an oyster shell. Marc had always been fond of grey: it was the perfect compromise between black and white and its variations were endless. Why was there no grey-like word between yes and no? Something like ‘maybe’, only subtler.

  It was strange how the rows of closed shutters along the beachfront resembled a craggy cliff face that mirrored the pattern of footprints in the sand. There had been life here once, but it was hard to say when exactly … He had not phoned Chloé the night before. When he set off, he had left a note on the coffee table telling her he was going away for a couple of days with Anne, without mentioning where they were going (he didn’t know himself before opting for Le Touquet at random). He had signed off with a promise to ring her as soon as they arrived. He had thought about it but had not done it. She would certainly be worrying, but he could not call her – to do so would almost be in bad taste. Chloé was not in the script; there was no part for her, not even on the telephone. Excluding her was not a conscious decision; it was just the way it was, like the invisible presences on the beach and the empty apartments. It was true it felt good to be on your own with someone.