The Islanders Read online

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because they’re the ones who give you hope, and there’s nothing more dispiriting. Just around the corner, it’s always just around the corner, heaven and all that jazz! It’s one big hoax. Why not right now, huh? Why? Come on. They’ll palm you off with some old rags even the abbé Pierre wouldn’t be seen dead in. He gets given tons of them every day and he’s never wearing them when you see him going on about Emmaus on TV. At your age, you should be wearing fashionable stuff. Come on, let’s get something to eat. Stuff your face; everyone else is!’

  Roland was in two minds. Although mildly disgusted by the chubby little hand resting on his knee, he had a feeling he would get more out of this one than the priest. When the latter returned with his three threadbare jumpers and a fifty-franc note, there was no one to be seen. The poor were not what they used to be.

  Rodolphe dragged Roland to a bar in the marketplace where they consumed copious amounts of cheap charcuterie and white wine amid the butchers’ stalls. By ten o’clock they were drunk. The blind man kept on and on talking while Roland gobbled up everything on his plate, nodding along at random points in the monologue. It was best to stay on the right side of mad people.

  ‘Destiny, Roland, destiny! The wheel of fortune never stops turning and it’s me giving it a push every morning when I open my dead eyes and see nothing. Place your bets, the chips are down!’

  ‘Can I finish off the rillettes?’

  After barging their way through the crowds, none of whom dared to say anything to the disabled man, they ended up in Monoprix where Roland was treated to a pair of jeans, a jumper and a bright-red down jacket. Next door at André he completed the outfit with a pair of walking shoes he had been eyeing up for months. He could feel the snow crunching under his grooved soles. He could have walked for days on end without getting tired. The sun was dusting the wide avenues with gold; the city looked fit for a king. In spite of the extreme cold, he felt on fire.

  ‘You ever taken cocaine, Rodolphe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it’s just like this. You feel totally clean, brand new, invincible. Shit, when I think I almost pegged it last night …’

  ‘Destiny, Roland, it’s destiny!’

  They found themselves at the gates of the park leading to the Bassin de Neptune. Roland grabbed the bars with both hands. The kings lived on the other side of the fence.

  ‘Can we go in? You don’t have to pay to get in?’

  ‘No.’

  The frozen pond reflected the sky back at itself. Around its sides, statues draped in khaki-coloured tarpaulins revealed the occasional outstretched arm, a hint of knee, shoulder or buttock. In the middle of the mirror, Neptune and his chariot appeared set to take off for the heavens. Such beauty was painful to behold.

  ‘You know what, Rodolphe? I could really do with some sunglasses, and also some gloves.’

  ‘No problem. Is there a bench? I’d like to sit down.’

  Good dog that he was, Roland led Rodolphe to a stone bench where he sat down, gasping for breath. Roland took the opportunity to run around, stomping the virgin snow under his heavy shoes, buzzing like a climber at the summit. He sent snowballs sliding over the icy surface of the pond, grenades of happiness exploding in the dazzling light.

  Light … Rodolphe could feel it but he couldn’t see it. What was it like? A sound echoing on for ever? How could he know what anything was like? He had no points of reference. He could only touch the stone of the bench, the hard ground at the end of his stick, and touching was not enough. Others at the Institute for the Blind accepted the way they were, found compromises and positives in their situation … He never could. At the very beginning, he had been able to remember shapes, vague colours, light and dark, and then it had all gone. Just enough to make his mouth water before the plate was snatched from under his nose.

  ‘Roland, I’m cold!’

  In spite of Roland having assured him he wasn’t hungry, Rodolphe insisted on going for lunch at the little restaurant next to the Théâtre Montansier.

  ‘I swear, Rodolphe, after the amount we stuffed ourselves with this morning, I really don’t need any more to eat.’

  ‘Who cares? ’Tis the season to be wasteful.’

  It was more of a liquid lunch; Rodolphe sent all the dishes back to the kitchen practically untouched, claiming they were either too hot or too cold. Roland didn’t know where to put himself.

  ‘You’re going too far now. Why are you acting like such an arsehole?’

  ‘Listen. The other day, I was waiting for the bus. It were chucking it down. I was standing on the edge of the gutter. I heard a lorry coming. Everybody behind me stepped back. Not one of them thought to take my arm. I was soaked to the skin. And you’re asking me to like these people?’

  They spent the afternoon at the Cyrano, which was showing One Hundred and One Dalmatians. The usher had to shake them, they were snoring so loudly.

  Right from the first mouthful, the brandy had got the pump going again. The lava was flowing deliciously through his veins, spreading from his heart to the tips of his fingers and toes and into every follicle, even the tiniest nasal hair. Olivier felt as if he were coming home after a long, long time away. As the liquid in his glass went down, the molten metal pouring into him formed an internal suit of armour, making him a chrome-plated, invincible man of steel. His first drink and here, in front of him, his first love. Jesus, what had he been thinking, dying so early? He was just beginning to come back to life.

  ‘Jeanne, do you remember the island?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  The island was everywhere: under the dining-room table or the tree in the yard, in the patch behind Madame Stasi’s corner shop, at the line B bus stop. They carried it with them wherever they went; they were the island, a mound of sand with a palm tree and Jeanne and Olivier standing under it like the model bride and groom on a wedding cake. There was no way to take them off it.

  ‘I went there, you know. To Réunion, Mauritius … I missed you so much …’

  ‘I went too, in books.’

  ‘Do you still believe in it?’

  ‘I’ve never stopped believing.’

  Olivier poured himself a third glass. If he kept topping up the old furnace he would never be cold again. Three loud knocks shook the door.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The knocking intensified. On the other side of the oak panel someone was bellowing.

  ‘Jeanne! For fuck’s sake, open up! I’ve forgotten my keys.’

  Jeanne got up, letting out a sigh. It was as if a stone had smashed through the window.

  ‘It’s Rodolphe. Excuse me.’

  Olivier sank deeper into the sofa. His iron armour had turned to lead. His feet felt huge, as if attached to a concrete plinth. From the hallway he could hear raised voices.

  ‘Here she comes, about fucking time!’

  ‘Stop shouting, I’ve got company.’

  ‘So have I! Come on in, Roland. This is my sister, Jeanne.’

  Olivier would have liked to sit up normally, perhaps with his legs casually crossed, but he could not do it. His muscles refused to obey him. Rodolphe entered the living room, snapping his white stick shut like a switchblade. He was scarlet, like a fat Chinese lantern. He staggered over to Olivier, holding out his hand.

  ‘Hi, Rodolphe.’

  Jeanne and a tall guy in a red jacket followed close behind him. Olivier managed to scramble to his feet.

  ‘Evening, Olivier.’

  ‘Olivier, as in olive tree? Well, why don’t we call you apple tree or Christmas tree instead. ’Tis the season, after all!’

  He fell back onto the sofa Olivier had just vacated, laughing heartily. His stick rolled under the sideboard.

  ‘Rodolphe, please!’

  The tall guy was shuffling his feet awkwardly in the doorway.

  ‘Monsieur Christmas Tree! It’s got a ring to it, hasn’t it? How do
you do, Monsieur Christmas Tree?’

  The blind man’s belly was shaking. The bulb hanging from the ceiling was reflected in his black glasses. He appeared to have lemur eyes. Suddenly he calmed down and his face turned serious.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve had a bit to drink. You know how it is at this time of year, you let yourself go.’

  ‘No harm done.’

  ‘See, Jeanne! No harm done!’

  Jeanne shrugged.

  ‘Right then, let’s not stand around. Make yourselves comfortable, everyone. Can I get you a drink, Monsieur …?’

  ‘Toutin, Roland Toutin. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I was just bringing your brother home …’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all. Olivier?’

  ‘Please.’

  Rodolphe looked lost in thought. He had never known his sister to have people round. Only once, when one of her colleagues drove her home after her car broke down.

  ‘Are you a colleague of Jeanne’s?’

  ‘Um, no. I’m the son of your neighbour who has just passed away.’

  ‘And you’re already on first-name terms?’

  Jeanne stepped in, while handing out the glasses.

  ‘We met a long time ago. Olivier is the brother of a friend of mine from boarding school.’

  ‘Ah! A school friend … Small world, isn’t it?’

  ‘We met again by chance. I came to borrow a phone book and—’

  ‘By chance, that’s right …’

  The ensuing silence made the room’s already stuffy atmosphere even heavier. Olivier had the urge to rush at the window and fling it open.

  ‘Your mother’s name was Verdier?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you’re Olivier Verdier?’

  ‘You guessed it!’

  Jeanne lit a cigarette. Rodolphe could not have been aware of what happened. He had been too little when it was covered up and no one had talked about it since. But she knew her brother and his talent for finding weak spots.

  ‘Why don’t you leave Olivier alone now, Rodolphe? He’s come back to bury his mother. Can’t you be a bit more sensitive?’

  ‘You’re right. Forgive me, Olivier, I can’t help myself, I’m pathologically nosy. It must come from my disability; I always feel as though I’m missing out.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  Roland’s hangover was already setting in. He felt as if he had landed in the middle of a play without knowing his lines or even what role he was acting. He was torn between the urge to get back into the open air and the fear of losing the chance of a warm place to sleep. Rodolphe had promised to put him up for the night.

  ‘Honestly, where are my manners? I haven’t introduced you to Roland. We met this morning in God’s house, at Notre-Dame.’

  ‘What the hell were you doing there?’

  ‘Confessing, Jeanne, confessing, seeking forgiveness for having hurt you last night. Either that or I had to pee. Whatever, one way or the other I had a pressing need to go inside. Roland is … “without fixed abode”, that’s the expression, isn’t it? He was waiting for the idiot priest to dole out some old clothes and a few francs. Not likely! You know what a big softie I am and everything … Anyway, we had a brilliant day together. He’s going to sleep at my place tonight.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Thanks, Jeanne. Ooh, now here’s an idea! Four lonely hearts: why don’t we all have supper together?’

  Olivier had not phoned Odile, or the lawyer, still less Emmaus. He had forgotten. He had decided to forget everything, and the rest. It gave him a pleasure akin to that of a child skipping school. Ever since his treatment two years ago, he had got into the habit of writing a list of everything he had to do the next day, and derived a slavish satisfaction from seeing it through to the end. This now seemed like the stupidest thing imaginable. He had failed to complete a single one of today’s tasks and would put his mind to keeping up the same record tomorrow. Rid of the burden of his chores, he felt lighter, freer. Tomorrow was the perfect cupboard in which to shelve what had not been done today. The medals awarded to good little recovered alcoholics seemed to him to be made of the same chocolate as the ones they gave to the war wounded, whichever war it was this time. To hell with them, to hell with the lot of them. He no longer had any wish to be prim and proper, to set a good example, to be praised for his hard work. He had done enough hard work. Now he just wanted to enjoy life, to take advantage of things that normally passed him by. The jack-in-the-box had sprung out, the genie had emerged from its bottle. Of course there would be a price to pay; what did it matter? What was the point of scrimping and saving? So what if his mother had died in the bed he was now stretched out on? Dead people were toothless; there was nothing she could do to stop him. She was cold, frozen stiff like a breaded fish fillet. He, on the other hand, was burning with fever, like Jeanne across the hall. He had been building up to this moment for years. No one could take it away from him. It had been a long, painful slog, but he had walked that road, searched for the Holy Grail and he had found her again; they still loved one another, it was still the same …

  Olivier hauled himself up by holding on to the side of the bed. He weighed a ton! Emotion, that was it, all the emotion. He had one last drop of Negrita, just a drop. The Negress on the label gave him a wink.

  ‘None of that, love, I’m spoken for!’

  He put his hand over his mouth and exhaled. The problem with rum was that it stank something awful.

  He would go out and buy a bottle of champagne and tell them in the shop he had just had a rum toddy for a cold. It would hardly be surprising, in this weather. Actually, you know what, fuck it, he had nothing to apologise for, he wouldn’t say anything to anyone. His key, where had he put his key? The flat was all lopsided, it was impossible to tell the floor from the ceiling. It was dark everywhere, narrow, gut-red … his key, damn it!

  He knocked over a frame, which fell and broke. It was a picture of himself with his hair brushed to one side and his arms crossed, a school photo. He slid down the wall, ignoring the blood on his finger.

  ‘What are you looking at me like that for, huh? She’s back; Mathilde est revenue!’

  He seemed to hear the kid in the photo reply, ‘You poor old thing, you poor old thing …’

  He dropped the picture and reached the bathroom just in time to vomit all that was left of himself.

  Jeanne was peeling potatoes and tucking them into a tin around a pallid chicken dotted with curls of butter. Rodolphe was sitting on the other side of the kitchen table, his eyes directed towards the ceiling. He was rolling pea-sized balls of soft bread between his fingers and lining them up on the oilcloth. The scene looked every inch the domestic idyll, a cosy snapshot of everyday life.

  ‘What do you make of Roland?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve only just met him. Shy?’

  ‘Yes, he is. He’s young and hasn’t had much luck in life. It’s terrible being unlucky. There’s no way of treating it, it’s incurable; people avoid you like the plague. Take me, for example, even without my eyes, I’m better off than him. I’ve got a roof over my head, I can eat what I want when I want, and above all I have a sister to look out for me. He, on the other hand, has nothing, nothing but his unlucky self. Imagine that for company!’

  ‘He had a stroke of luck today, meeting you.’

  ‘That wasn’t luck. He’s part of a carefully crafted plan.’

  ‘Planned by you?’

  ‘Oh, no! I’m just a humble cog in the magnificent machine.’

  ‘Well, for the time being, he’s got a warm bed for the night and a roast chicken dinner.’

  Jeanne stood up, wiped her hands on her apron and pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. She looked like a person with a song in her head, a little tune with a calming effect. As she opened the oven door to slide in the tin, a puff of hot air engulfed the small kitchen. Rodolphe jumped.

  ‘The breath of hell! So you don’t
believe a word of it?’

  ‘A word of what? Hell?’

  ‘No! The plan, the cogs, all the jigsaw pieces slotting into place. You think it’s all perfectly normal, this reunion with Olivier?’

  Even though Rodolphe could not see the blood rising in her face, Jeanne turned away and ran her hands under the tap.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer me?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? It’s chance, it’s life, it’s really not that unusual. A friend’s brother who—’

  ‘What kind of idiot do you take me for? Do you think I don’t know your little story?’

  Jeanne turned off the tap and gripped the edge of the sink.

  ‘Jeanne Mangin and Olivier Verdier, aged fifteen and sixteen respectively, suspected of the kidnap and murder of two-year-old Luc Flamand, for whom Jeanne babysat. Hastily drawn-up ransom note, five days of anguish for the parents ending in the discovery of the little body in Fausses-Reposes forest. Of course, it was never proven, and it was a poor unfortunate tramp who got the blame because the Mangins had friends in the right places and something had to be done to put an end to the whole business …’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Using the flat of his hand, Rodolphe swept the dozen little bread balls off the table, sending them scattering and bouncing on the chequered tile floor. It was no longer a little ditty going round in Jeanne’s head, but the blades of a helicopter whipping up the black clouds of an impending storm.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck whether you killed the kid or not, whether the tramp was innocent or not, what sticks in my mind is “Jeanne and Olivier”, like “Romeo and Juliet” or “Héloïse and Abélard”. Your little love affair was all anyone talked about, cooing over “the little married couple”! Since nursery school! The whole world revolved around you. They put you on a pedestal, so well-behaved, so polite, so perfect, so revoltingly self-obsessed. As for me, I had no eyes, I held out my hand to you and when you didn’t take it, I strained my ears instead, and I heard everything!’

  Jeanne had let go of the sink and sat back down at the table. Her legs no longer held her. She placed her hands flat against the oilcloth and closed her eyes. The black space inside her head was being bombarded with phosphorescent images from long ago: a pram, a cabin in the woods, a postcard of an island covered in palm trees, letters cut out of a newspaper, a pillow so soft and malleable you would never believe it capable of killing …