The Islanders Read online

  ‘You took your time!’

  On the contrary, to Jeanne and Olivier it all seemed to have happened in the space of five minutes. Jeanne started the car and moved off slowly. The snowflakes were soundlessly pelting the windscreen, swept away immediately by the wipers. Olivier remembered that when he was little, he always used to volunteer to wipe the blackboard at school. He loved it. He was reliving that pleasure tonight. Everything was clean and tidy, the satisfaction of a job done. All mistakes had been erased, they could start anew.

  Back at home, Rodolphe had to face facts: he was the third wheel. The other two were united in silence, forcing him to retreat into himself. His quips, bad puns and snide remarks were like water off a duck’s back. He swiped the remaining Scotch before Olivier had a chance to pour himself a glass, and went and shut himself in his room. It was a petty thing to do, and made him feel no better. In fact, far from having the desired effect of knocking him out, the alcohol wound him up even further. He could not sleep. He tossed and turned under the duvet like a boar in its wallow. Too hot, too cold. They were bound to have sex. No doubt about it, the bastard was going to fuck his sister. He, whose knowledge of sex was limited to the subtle pleasures of the occasional quickie with a whore or, more frequently, with his right hand, refused to think of Jeanne with her legs open, pussy on offer, breasts full. Little by little, the imagined sensations of soft skin, moist hair and oozing fluids began to take hold of him. The picture inside his head was like a Hieronymus Bosch painting in which every figure had his sister’s face. His swollen cock was brushing against his flabby belly. He wanked furiously in a bid to escape the horror. It was not the first time he had done it while thinking about Jeanne, but it had never been brutal, bestial like this. He ejaculated, and it was like putting a knife through her heart.

  It was true Jeanne and Olivier had slept together, but contrary to what Rodolphe had imagined, they had not made love. After he went off in a huff carrying the bottle under his arm, the two of them had sat in silence for a while without touching, cut off from the world in a place that belonged to them alone. Things had moved on since their first encounter the previous day; there was no sense of surprise any more, no reference to the past, no doubts. What they had just done belonged to the realm of ritual, of solemn ceremony, and they were left feeling purified. Olivier poured himself a large glass of wine. He wanted more, even more. A surge of heat ran from his heart to his head and back again. Why had he ever given up drinking? Why had he given up believing?

  ‘It’s been a long time, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Did you think we would ever see one another again?’

  ‘Sometimes, but I tried not to think about it. Things never happen if you’re waiting for them.’

  Olivier drank another glass. It was his heart he was filling up; it had run dry so long ago. With every gulp, he felt himself blossoming like a flower after a day in the sun.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘No idea. We go to bed, sleep, carry on.’

  He let himself be guided to Jeanne’s room, bringing the bottle and glass with him. He knew he would not sleep until the bottle was empty.

  The bed was unmade, the sheets and covers bundled on the floor. He placed the bottle and glass on the floor and lay down with his arms behind his neck, his head resting on the single pillow. He could hear water running in the bathroom where Jeanne had gone. The light from the half-open door was like a lemon-yellow streak across the darkness of the room. To the left of it loomed the dark mass of a chest of drawers piled high with clothes and to the right of the bed, a desk could be seen laden with files, books and other miscellany. Compared with the rest of the flat, which was fairly tidy, the mess in the bedroom was surprising. Olivier emptied the last of the bottle into his glass and downed it in one. In a few minutes, Jeanne would come and lie next to him on the bed. She would snuggle up to him like a pussycat. He would wrap his arm around her shoulders, plant a kiss on her neck, smell the scent of her hair … In all likelihood this was going to happen, but even so he could not bring himself to believe it. He had run over this scene so many times in his head that he could not conceive of it happening in real life. He felt utterly unprepared and clumsy, just like the first time they made love, in the cabin. He had no idea what he would say to her, or how to do it without saying anything. His body was not obeying orders. He needed to move with the lightness of a dancer, but felt as heavy as an anvil. It was all he could do to wiggle his fingertips. He was sinking into the bed. The archive footage of the ‘bird man’ showed him jumping off the Eiffel Tower only to crash down seconds later. They said the impact of the body made a crater several centimetres deep …

  When Jeanne emerged from the bathroom, the bird man was snoring loudly with his mouth wide open and his limbs sprawled like a starfish across the bed.

  ‘Blimey, you’re getting into the Christmas spirit early, aren’t you?’

  Olivier could think of nothing to say in response and settled for a shrug. It was quarter to nine in the morning. He had ordered a coffee in the bistro and subsequently drank four glasses of calvados in quick succession. He needed to blow away the cobwebs that had formed in his head during the night. Now things were beginning to look up. He was waiting for the corner shop to open so he could buy a bottle of something to take back up to the flat, along with a few croissants to make him look respectable.

  Jeanne had still been asleep when he woke up. The only part of her that could be seen under the covers was the dark mass of her hair, among which he spotted a single white strand. He slipped soundlessly out of bed and headed into the bathroom. He did not shower, and had not changed his clothes in two days. He looked like an escaped convict with his stubbly chin, purplish bags under his eyes and cracked lips. He dared not run the taps for fear of waking Jeanne. In any case, there was no point trying to do anything before he had had a drink. Years of practice had taught him how to tackle the depression that hits the alcoholic the moment he wakes: block everything out until you’ve got the first drink down you. Wearing his socks and holding his shoes in one hand, he tiptoed out of the room, put on his coat, took the keys from the door and raced out onto the street.

  The bistro windows were decorated with fake snow and grotesque Father Christmases wreathed in holly as lethal as barbed wire. Stringy bits of tinsel on their umpteenth annual outing from the shoebox hung sadly along the walls. Full of festive cheer, in other words. Punters puffed like seals as they came in, tapping the crust of dirty snow from their shoes and peeling off layers of scarves and hats. Regulars greeted the owner by his first name, and ordered something hot.

  Olivier glanced at his watch: 9.10 a.m. He left a few coins on the table and walked out. He headed to the corner shop first. As the door opened, it set an old-fashioned bell tinkling and a little old woman emerged from the back room. Olivier asked for a bottle of vodka. The snow and white sky, evoking the atmosphere of a Russian novel, put the idea in his head, even though he was not especially keen on the spirit. The corner shop must not have sold very much of it because it took her an age to dig out a bottle. At the bakery, the customary hysteria was already in full swing. The owner was telling off each member of her staff in turn as they went to and fro carrying Yule logs bursting with cream and dotted with figurines of dwarves and toadstools.

  ‘Honestly, what a bunch of good-for-nothings! Today of all days! I hope you don’t have to put up with nonsense like this, Monsieur.’

  Olivier was tempted to reply, ‘As it happens, I’m an alcoholic and a murderer, so no, my problems are not of that nature.’ He ordered six all-butter croissants.

  He felt cheerful, happy and free, like a tourist visiting a parallel world. He didn’t wait until he was inside the flat to open the bottle. He took a good swig at the foot of the stairs by the letter boxes, at the risk of being caught by a neighbour. That made it even more thrilling. He tore up the stairs like a kid playing knock down ginger.

  Rodolphe was sitting mo
tionless at the table with a face like a runny omelette. Jeanne could be heard moving pots and pans around in the kitchen.

  ‘Morning, warm croissants!’

  ‘Morning, Olivier. You’re a well brought-up boy. I’m not.’

  Rodolphe grabbed the paper bag, took out a croissant and stuffed half of it into his mouth. Olivier went into the kitchen to find Jeanne. She was smiling, brushing her hair back. Tiny wrinkles spread from the corners of her eyes. Olivier lightly kissed her lips.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m great. I’m going to have a shower and get changed. I look like a complete tramp.’

  ‘Why don’t you bring your bag over here? It would make life simpler.’

  He felt a vague sense of unease coming over him as he entered his mother’s flat and he had to resort to the bottle of vodka still in his pocket to overcome it. Alcohol was a miracle cure, cleansing the wounds of body and soul. The key was to make sure you never ran out.

  Roland’s ghost had left the bathroom and it was now just another bathroom, albeit a rather dingy one. He lathered himself up from head to toe, carefully shaved and put on clean clothes. He shoved all his belongings into his bag and shut the door behind him, determined never to set foot in the place again.

  Of the six croissants, Rodolphe had scoffed five, but he had said sorry. He was now getting ready to go out. ‘I’ve got shopping to do’, he had announced mysteriously. He and Jeanne had argued for half an hour over the evening’s menu. She would have preferred to keep it simple, but he was adamant.

  ‘Crime or no crime, it’s Christmas!’

  Olivier arrived towards the end of the discussion and volunteered to take care of drinks. Jeanne was happy to cook but categorically refused to queue up at the shops with every other Tom, Dick and Harry.

  ‘Fine, I’ll go then! It’s easy. I go in tapping my stick against the floor and yell, “Can anybody help me?” Does the trick every time. It’s not a stick, it’s a magic wand.’

  With Rodolphe gone and Jeanne getting ready, Olivier was suddenly besieged by annoying little questions: What should he do about Odile? The lawyer? Emmaus? The undertakers? His good mood was retreating in the face of this barrage of question marks. It took three good glasses of vodka to push them back, and even then he could not oust them completely. Every who, what, where, when and how was momentarily shelved in a corner of his mind, but they could come back at any time. He had to stay on his toes. It would all have to be sorted out at some point, but not now. He had already drunk three-quarters of the bottle and it was only twenty to eleven. He put it away in his bag and zipped it shut.

  In order to avoid the crowds already thronging through the centre of town, Jeanne and Olivier had made their way to the park by the Saint-Cyr road, skirting the Orangery and the gates opposite the Swiss Pond. Apart from a few dedicated joggers in racing stripes who breathlessly overtook them, there was no one else out walking. At this time, normal people were massing outside shop windows by the dozen. The fresh snow squeaked beneath their feet like potato starch. The sky and earth vied with each other in their whiteness. As they reached the Grand Canal, whose huge cross-shape was chrome-plated with ice, Olivier recognised the Versailles he had always known: immovable, its proud geometry squaring up to the sky, defying time. It was beautiful, but as stiff as a corpse. They decided to walk around the lake, keeping the chateau behind them. Beneath trees sketched in big, wild strokes of charcoal, they heard creatures moving, a bird flying off a branch in a puff of white powder.

  ‘You’re not cold, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  They said nothing more until they reached the end of the canal, turning to look at the chateau whose black windows returned their stare. They were like Rodolphe’s eyes.

  ‘I wonder why the revolutionaries didn’t raze it all to the ground.’

  ‘Kill the father, keep the inheritance.’

  ‘Still, it’s like a big fat raspberry at the world. The only interesting thing about this town is that it makes you want to get the hell out as fast as you can.’

  ‘And then you come back.’

  Olivier picked up a branch and lobbed it onto the frozen surface of the water. The wood slid across the ice before wobbling to a stop like the needle of a compass.

  ‘What is it about boys that makes them have to hurl things? Stones, bits of wood …’

  ‘It’s a way of propelling yourself into the future, working out how far you can go. Shall we carry on?’

  Olivier must have come this way hundreds of times, most often by bike and in summer, when the banks of the canal were transformed into an impressionist painting with loved-up couples and families dotted about on the green grass, watching the boats leaving trails in the water like scissors cutting through a length of silk. The boys would pretend to try to capsize the skiffs while the girls clung on with both hands, shrieking. People ate ice creams …

  ‘Do you think the café by the jetty will be open?’

  ‘I doubt it. We’ll find out when we go past.’

  Olivier quickened his pace. He was regretting not having brought the bottle of vodka with him. Little by little as the alcohol wore off, the past was rising to the surface, bringing with it a host of black thoughts. As expected, the café was shut and they almost ran out of the park onto Boulevard de la Reine. They entered the first bar they came to. The noise, people and heat hit them like opening an oven door. Olivier ordered a double whisky and Jeanne a tea.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m fine! I was just thinking about all the stupid things I have to sort out. Emmaus, the lawyer, the funeral …’

  ‘Don’t think about it. You can’t do anything for the next two days anyway. You should call your wife.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know, to set her mind at ease, to set your own mind at ease.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Only I’m sick of telling myself I “must do this” or “should do that”. I want to just be here, in the now.’

  ‘But you are! I’m here, stop worrying. Ring your wife. We can sort out the rest later.’

  Jeanne took his hand, her fingers becoming entwined with his. He could feel her energy flowing into him, as warm and comforting as the alcohol pumping through his veins once more.

  ‘Sorry, bit of a blip. Want anything else? I think I’ll have another drink.’

  After leaving the flat, Rodolphe had gone straight to Arlette’s place near Gare des Chantiers. She was a respectable prostitute with her own property, where she worked for herself servicing a trouble-free, regular clientele of bachelors and retired men. He had brought her a box of her favourite liqueur chocolates.

  ‘Thanks, Rodolphe, that’s kind of you, but I don’t have a lot of time to give you seeing as I’m not dressed yet and I’ve got a load of shopping to do for our Christmas Eve meal; I’ve got to buy presents for my niece and nephew, plus I’m in charge of bringing the snails. And with the shops as busy as they are!’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve come for. I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas and chat for a little while.’

  ‘If you like, we can talk while I’m getting ready. Just come into the bathroom.’

  Arlette’s one-bedroom flat was furnished with the smell of detergent, bleach, polish, soap and perfumes as heady as they were cheap. Its cleanliness was the best possible advert for her services. Everything you touched was soft, silky, squashy, like her body. You got your money’s worth with Arlette: clean inside and out.

  ‘Go on then, what do you have to tell me?’

  Rodolphe could hear the water rippling in the tub and the wet slap of the bath mitt. She must be washing her bottom. There was no need to be embarrassed in front of him.

  ‘What would you say if I told you I’d killed a man?’

  ‘Have you done something stupid?’

  ‘No, just supposing.’

  ‘Well, I’d tell you it was none of my business. These things are best kept to yourself. Anyway, you
wouldn’t be the first. You know, before I moved here, I got around a bit! I’ve had a few tough nuts in my time! But the things they tell me after a few drinks go in one ear and out the other. I get it out, recycle it, otherwise I’d have become a public dumping ground in no time. Why are you asking anyway?’

  ‘No reason, just to see what happens when you say that to someone.’

  ‘OK … Well, you’ll have to ask someone else for your statistics, because I’m not your average woman in the street. Can’t you think of something more cheerful to talk about?’

  ‘Sorry. So tell me, what are you going to buy your niece and nephew?’

  ‘He wants a video game, I don’t know what, it’s got a Japanese name, and she wants a metronome because she’s learning to play the piano. Weird presents for little kids, don’t you think?’

  A streaming sound followed by a sucking noise let him know she was getting out of the bath. The talk after that was limited to banal chit-chat about the weather, all this money everyone was spending on Christmas when there were so many starving poor people but, even so, there was nothing wrong with having a bit of fun once in a while, and so on and so forth.

  They went their separate ways at the corner of the road. Arlette planted a smacker on his lips before climbing onto the bus. People tittered as they passed the fat blind man with the serious face and a streak of bright-red lipstick across his mouth.

  On their way back upstairs with their arms full of bottles (several days’ worth of champagne, wine and spirits), Jeanne and Olivier bumped into Madeleine. She was standing on the second-floor landing with one hand on the banister, blocking their way.

  ‘Ah! I’ve just been to your flat, as it happens. I said to myself, “Poor Monsieur Olivier, all alone for Christmas. Even if he’s not in the party spirit, it’ll still be nice to ask him round for a drink.” Hello, Mademoiselle Mangin.’