The Islanders Page 8

  ‘That’s kind of you, Madeleine, but …’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine, I understand! I can see you’re in good hands. The young with the young, the old with the old, that’s what I always say. All that matters is that you’re not on your own – it happens soon enough, after all!’

  The old woman made no move to get out of their way. She seemed to be enjoying watching them bending under the weight of their boxes of bottles.

  ‘That’s what’s great about being young: you make friends quickly. Is your brother well, Mademoiselle Mangin?’

  ‘Very well, very well. Please excuse us, Madame Lasson, but these are quite heavy …’

  ‘Of course! Come through, come through! What an old blabbermouth I am!’

  She left them just enough room to squeeze between her and the banisters. Her voice followed them like a yapping dog as they continued up the stairs.

  ‘You enjoy yourselves, and have a happy Christmas!’

  ‘Happy Christmas to you too, Madeleine!’

  As soon as they got in, Olivier poured himself a large glass of warm vodka. Jeanne started putting the champagne into the fridge.

  ‘The old bitch spends all her time on the stairs. It’s like she lives there.’

  ‘Oh well. One day she’ll miss a step and it’ll be bye-bye Madeleine!’

  ‘I doubt it. Creatures like her are indestructible.’

  Olivier sipped his drink while lapping up the sight of the bottles lined up on the kitchen table. There were enough to keep his spirits up for some time to come.

  ‘Jeanne, did you notice how the crowd parted in the street to let us through?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘But they did! Like the sea in The Ten Commandments.’

  ‘Maybe. We were walking quickly.’

  ‘That’s not the reason. It was as if they could tell we weren’t from here. There was a kind of respect. Think of the guy in Nicolas. You saw how much effort he put into helping us choose the wines.’

  ‘Given the amount of money you were putting his way, it’s hardly surprising.’

  ‘No, no, they can tell. They can tell there’s something special about us.’

  ‘You sound like Rodolphe when you talk like that.’

  ‘Rodolphe isn’t wrong all the time. He certainly picks up a lot more than he lets on.’

  ‘That’s for sure. A bit too much, even. Well, well, speak of the devil …’

  They could hear Rodolphe’s voice at the front door. It sounded as if he was in one of his moods.

  ‘No, not in the corridor! Put it all down on the table there.’

  A delivery boy was piling up an array of jars and packets bearing the logo of a smart deli. Rodolphe was red in the face. He took short shallow breaths as he unbuttoned his coat.

  ‘Ah, there you are! Jeanne, can you give this boy a tip? I’ve got no change left.’

  Jeanne did as she was asked and the delivery boy vanished. Rodolphe fell back into an armchair, mopping his brow.

  ‘Fucking idiots …. what a bunch of fucking idiots!’

  ‘What is it? What’s up? Show me … What’s that on your mouth?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lipstick. Geranium-red lipstick.’

  ‘Lipstick … Ah, so that’s why! People have been sniggering around me all day. Arseholes, not one of them pointed it out to me …’

  Rodolphe wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and continued grumbling.

  ‘Did you meet someone?’

  ‘Yeah, a friend. I’m allowed, aren’t I? Anyway, let’s get down to business. I bought all ready-made stuff; there’s only the snails to go in the oven. Let’s not wait till midnight to start the blowout! I’m hungry, and even more thirsty! Olivier, are we all sorted on that front?’

  ‘All set – we’ve got enough to last us through a siege.’

  ‘Let’s not waste any time then, we’ll get cracking. Jeanne, why don’t you put some music on, something jolly, like Fauré’s Requiem. I want to hear the voice of the angels. I like angels, me.’

  Rodolphe had insisted on getting out candles, a tablecloth, the good china, crystal glasses and silverware. He wanted a proper Christmas, especially since there were three of them this time instead of two, as in previous years. That had not stopped him stuffing himself like a pig and drinking like a fish. Like his shirt, the table in front of him was spotted with stains of various origins. Snail and langoustine shells and quail carcasses were piled up in fragile pyramids either side of his plate. He was making such a frantic effort to gorge himself, it was impossible not to look upon it as a kind of suicide. When his mouth was not full of food, it let out noises like rumbling pipework or told consistently awful puns. On the rare occasions he addressed Jeanne or Olivier, he never gave them a chance to respond. As soon as one CD stopped, he shouted for another. There was something almost moving about this desire to fill everything, his mouth, his stomach, his ears. He was like a bricklayer building a wall around himself, on the lookout for the tiniest cracks. By the end of the meal, he had cut himself off completely, and pretended to be pleased about the fact. Jeanne had only picked at her dinner and filled two ashtrays. Meanwhile Olivier nursed his drink and waited for it all to be over.

  ‘Ah, kids! Praise be to the little baby Jesus! This is nice, isn’t it? The three of us, all the family together. Because we are family, aren’t we? A real one, with skeletons in the cupboard and everything!’

  ‘Rodolphe, you’ve been a pain in the arse all through dinner. Can you give it a rest?’

  ‘What? We’ve got no secrets any more. I just say what I think. But what about you two – do you think what you say?’

  ‘And what is it we say?’

  ‘It’s all, “Good morning, good evening, please, thank you, you’re welcome”. But you don’t believe a word you’re saying! You don’t give a damn about anyone but yourselves. You’re unbearable to be around; you have no idea how excluded and ignored you make other people feel! You’ve only got one heart between the two of you. You’re a freak of nature, like those sheep with five legs or calves with two heads.’

  ‘You’re talking absolute rubbish. It’s you who does everything to cut yourself off by making yourself out to be worse than you really are. You’ve never come to terms with your blindness. You’re angry at the whole world.’

  ‘That’s not true! I’ve got a big heart, a heart in proportion to my body, a huge heart!’

  Banging his fist against the table, Rodolphe sent his plate flying off to smash on the floor. His baggy jowls were quivering and he was white with rage.

  ‘Do you think it’s fun playing blind man’s bluff all by yourself? Huh?’

  Olivier was enthralled, following the scene as if watching a film. The candle flames made stars dance around the rim of the glasses, on the blades of the knives, in Jeanne’s eyes and Rodolphe’s glasses. The performance was pitch perfect, the feelings expressed so realistically he almost broke into applause. It called to mind a Greek tragedy, leagues apart from the phone conversation he had had with Odile just before dinner, which was unfunny slapstick. Even the tone of his wife’s voice had sounded ridiculous to him. She was going spare with worry, what was he doing? Where was he? Why wasn’t he returning her calls? Why didn’t he ring her?

  He had felt like hanging up straight away. Out of the goodness of his heart he went to the trouble of thinking up a lie, telling her he had run into an old school pal who had been keeping him company.

  She could understand that, surely. No, of course he hadn’t done anything stupid, of course he still loved her and yes, he promised to call her more often. Putting the phone down, he wished he had never called. In Odile’s world, he felt dirty.

  Jeanne was picking up the pieces of broken plate. Rodolphe had calmed down. Now only his lower lip was trembling, as if he was about to cry.

  ‘Sorry, Jeanne; my apologies, Olivier. I don’t know what came over me. All those people today who couldn’t care less. Let’s start
again, shall we? … It’s time for some presents! Come on then, Olivier, pop the cork!’

  Rodolphe hauled himself up, supporting himself on the back of his chair, and zigzagged his way to his bedroom, emerging a few minutes later laden with packages tied with ribbon. Olivier filled the champagne flutes. Jeanne disappeared and returned with a large box of her own.

  ‘Right, let’s put this lot on the table. I’ll film you opening your presents. This one’s for my beloved big sister and the other’s for you, Olivier.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Rodolphe. I’m so sorry, I completely forgot, I haven’t …’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter! Just having you here is enough for us. Open it, open it!’

  Rodolphe turned the camcorder on, pointing the lens at the rustling paper. The box Olivier was opening carried the logo of an arms makerand contained a hunting horn.

  ‘So …?’

  ‘It’s a lovely horn, but I have to say I’m not quite sure I get it …’

  ‘Of course you do! It’s Roland’s cor, you know, the horn he blew at the Battle of Roncevaux Pass. Or is it Roland’s corpse? You have to admit it’s a good one, isn’t it?’

  Rodolphe burst out laughing. His fat belly wobbled, giving the camera a rocking motion. The shot itself would not be a good one.

  ‘What about yours, Jeanne? Do you like it?’

  In her palm she held a glass ball, which she set down on a mahogany pedestal table.

  ‘Is it a crystal ball?’

  ‘You guessed it! I bought it in a new-age shop. So, what can you see in it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean, nothing? It came with a guarantee. If you can’t see your future, I’ll take it back.’

  ‘There’s no need. It’ll make a very nice paperweight.’

  ‘Give it here. I bet I can see better with my hands than you can with your eyes.’

  Rodolphe put down the camcorder and took hold of the ball.

  ‘It needs warming up a bit … there, I’m beginning to make something out … it’s still a bit blurry but it’s getting clearer … There it is! It’s blue, lots of blue … the sky or the police? … The sea, perhaps … Nothing, emptiness, nothing but emptiness, a long, long drop …’

  ‘That’ll do, Rodolphe. Very funny. Why don’t you open your present?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There you go, have your ball back; it works fine. So … Oh, it’s big!’

  His podgy fingers tore at the paper and the sellotape holding the lid shut.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A set of bathroom scales.’

  ‘Bathroom scales? For weighing? Fantastic! I’ll try them out straight away.’

  He put the scales down in the middle of the floor, clambered onto them and struck a pose like a statue.

  ‘How much do I weigh?’

  ‘A hundred and fifteen kilos.’

  ‘Is that all? What does it go up to?’

  ‘One fifty.’

  ‘I should manage that within a month or two. Thank you, Jeanne, thanks very much. I’ll start work right away. Bring out the Yule log and let the champagne flow!’

  Olivier had reached the stage when he could just as easily stop as carry on drinking. The only reason he kept draining his glass was to prolong this state of grace. He did not stutter or stammer, there was just a certain slowness to his actions. Something like the woozy feeling divers describe on returning from the deep. Everything had a deep-sea look to it, in fact; objects seemed to glow from within, shining among the shadows which danced on the walls, and Rodolphe’s body was a humungous jellyfish which had washed up on the sofa, his chocolate-smeared mouth letting out regular snores. Olivier went to stand with Jeanne who was leaning her head against the window, smoking. As he placed his hand on her shoulder, he could feel she was shivering. It could be no later than midnight, and there were lights in most windows. Silhouettes flitted across the yellow rectangles like shadow puppets. Jeanne stubbed out her cigarette against the wet glass, unfazed by the ashes falling onto the floor.

  ‘This is my last Christmas here.’

  ‘Did you see that in your crystal ball?’

  ‘No, even better, I’ve decided.’

  ‘You want to go away?’

  ‘Yes, somewhere far from here.’

  They were holding on to one another and had unconsciously started to sway as if on the bridge of a ship, gently rocking from side to side.

  ‘I want to feel warm, all over.’

  ‘Come here.’

  The last candle went out as day began to break. Wrapped in a blanket, Olivier watched the blue slowly creeping into the room. Rodolphe was no longer on the sofa; he must have finally dragged himself off to bed. The scales were still in the middle of the carpet, directly beneath the light. The last few patches of darkness clung on around the ceiling rose. The table had not been cleared; the set had not been dismantled. Olivier was reminded of Pompeii, of mineralised life. He felt as if he were himself made of stone. A statuesque silence reigned over his body. His eyelids no longer seemed able to shut. He had not slept. They had made love without reserve or restraint, like two flailing swimmers dragging each other down towards the abyss amid the foam of crashing waves. Just like the people in the print of The Raft of the Medusa on the wall opposite him. He never imagined Jeanne’s body could unleash such a tempest. The truth was he had never given a moment’s thought to Jeanne’s body. She was not all mind after all; she had breasts, buttocks and a vagina, and this revelation left him as bewildered as the day he lost his virginity.

  Olivier took a swig of Williamine. The pear liqueur was just what was needed, a rush of white heat. He had started drinking when he was very young, almost as soon as he arrived in Réunion; rum, mixed with fruit juice to begin with, moving on to rhum arrangé with added grains of rice which fermented and took it up to almost 70 per cent proof. Since the age of sixteen, he had loved nothing and nobody but alcohol. No woman – and Lord knows there had been a few – had been powerful enough to defeat it. He only stopped drinking because his gamma GT levels had gone through the roof and clots in his legs were making it hard for him to walk. An enforced vacation, putting the tired old horse out to pasture for a few years. Now it was time to get back in the saddle. It was a long journey to the island. He knew that Jeanne would never say anything about his drinking. She didn’t view it as competition, or as a handicap. Olivier drank; he could just as easily not drink; it was all the same to her. The last trickle of pear liqueur felt like a teardrop, the kind that comes when you’re brimming with happiness.

  Over the next two days, Jeanne and Olivier left the bed only to carry out a limited number of rapid commando missions to the closest corner shop. Their timetable consisted of having sex, drinking and grazing on foods that required no preparation. Next door there lived a bear, Rodolphe, whom they could hear coming and going, growling, slamming doors, turning the TV and hi-fi up as far as they would go, who constantly howled his presence and yet didn’t dare knock on their door. They were unfazed; the sound of the waves they imagined lapping around them easily drowned out Rodolphe’s ranting and raving.

  ‘Lying in the shade of the filao trees fringing the white sand beaches of Mauritius is like sleeping under a fan of light feathers. There’s nowhere else like it. The sand foams at your feet and the silence rings in your ears.’

  ‘And the fish, tell me more about the fish!’

  This continued until the 27th, the day of the funeral. It had turned milder and the snow was melting, leaving patches here and there like bubbles on dishwater. A note slipped under the door marked for Olivier’s attention had coldly informed him of the time and place. Madeleine’s handwriting was just like the woman herself: jagged, pointy, sharp-edged. Olivier did not think it appropriate to bring Jeanne, still less Rodolphe, who had nonetheless done his best to twist Olivier’s arm.

  ‘Go on! It’ll get me out of the house, and besides I love cemeteries.’

  In the end he had gone alone to the church,
where he found Madeleine waiting. Since they were the only ones accompanying the deceased to her final resting place, Madeleine could not give free rein to her hatred of Olivier. Circumstances dictated that they share a kind of common spirit. The religious ceremony was over in no time and they soon found themselves sitting in the back of the hearse on either side of the coffin, from which the wreath tied with purple ribbon slipped at every bend in the road. The smell was nauseating. Olivier retrieved a hip flask from his pocket and took a long swig of whisky while the old woman watched, appalled.

  ‘On a day like this! Have you no shame?’

  Olivier shrugged. What was so special about today? For the people wading through sludge on the street, today was like yesterday in every respect, and tomorrow would doubtless be no different. It was just another day. What did they care about the long black car skidding past on the slippery tarmac? It meant no more to them than the sight of the binmen picking up rubbish. Olivier shared their point of view. There were no stars in life, only walk-on actors. They arrived at the cemetery in Gonnards, a suburban neighbourhood in miniature where pitiful or pretentious houses called ‘Mon Rêve’ or ‘Ça Me Suffit’ were set out in neat rows. The tomb where Antoine Verdier already lay was yawning. Two gravediggers stood beside it smoking a cigarette and leaning on their shovels. Once the coffin had been lowered into the bottom of the hole, Madeleine did something strange. She grabbed hold of Olivier’s arm and leaned so far over the edge of the grave that Olivier had to pull her back to stop her falling in. A few stones rained onto the oak lid of the coffin.

  ‘Can’t wait your turn, Madeleine?’

  ‘I … I just wanted to see.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She was not crying, but her eyes had misted over. They soon regained their evil glint and she let go of Olivier’s arm as if she had just touched a hot iron. The man from the undertaker’s offered to take them back into town. Madeleine agreed. Olivier opted to make his own way back. They parted without saying goodbye. He drained his flask while watching the cemetery workers shovelling. Not a single flower on the surrounding tombs had survived the frost.