Zenith Hotel (2 page)

They were out to kill him. He didn’t know exactly who, he didn’t know exactly when, but he did know it was coming, that one of them – Father, Mother, the maid, the neighbour or Aurélie – would shove his head in the piano and crush his cheeks between the keys and the wooden lid. That’s definitely how they were going to do it. They were going to crush his head in the piano in the living room.

Dominic didn’t know much, but of that he was certain. The keyboard would be splattered with bits of his brain. The blood would spurt on to the wooden floor. At his funeral they’d play a Purcell march on the evil piano. The maid would have cleaned the keyboard thoroughly and flushed the bits of his brain down the toilet to avoid blocking the kitchen sink. He wouldn’t even have had the privilege of the waste disposal unit. His encephalon would have vanished down the toilet like a big, cumbersome turd.

Now it was floating in the septic tank, the
keyboard had been cleaned, white as snow, his sister Aurélie was learning to play on it. The family no longer thought about little Dominic; he’d been expelled from their minds the way shit comes out of our arses and is sucked into the septic tank.

Dominic’s childhood was kind of sad. He notched up each day as a little victory, but his anxieties soon came back to torment him. Perhaps they’d kill him tomorrow. It was a crime novel in the making. They behaved as if they loved him, as if their son were the most important thing in the world to them. But Dominic was no fool. He knew very well that beneath the veneer of the ideal family lurked a big monster full of hatred.

Since he didn’t go to school, a private tutor came to the house three times a week. His name was Joncourt and he had a moustache. He carted all sorts of books around in his briefcase – algebra, geography, hundreds of typed pages, in French, in Latin and in figures.

Joncourt wasn’t much fun, but at least he wasn’t out to kill him. You could trust him – he wore glasses. Father wore glasses too, but it was a trap, a disguise, to gain his son’s trust, a clown’s mask on a villain’s face.

Don’t ask Dominic why they wanted to kill him. He had no idea. He could have done without it. It’s not pleasant living in fear, with the expectation of being murdered.

This situation wasn’t his choice, but here he was, in this evil family bent on crushing his head in the piano in the living room. If he’d said
anything
, they’d have thought he was mad. Aurélie seemed so sweet, so studious. As for his parents, they were the image of propriety, their place in heaven guaranteed. But they were out to get him and Dominic couldn’t forget it. That was his only certainty, a very sad certainty.

He prepared himself for it. He wrote notes explaining the circumstances of his death and hid them alongside the footpaths in the hope that one day an eager hiker would avenge him, savagely mowing down the murderous family with an axe or a machine gun. Justice would be done; there must be a God for that. The murder of a child cannot go unpunished; Joncourt’s moral
philosophy
teachings would confirm that, no question. Only evil people like Father, Mother, the maid, the neighbour and Aurélie would wish the opposite.
Oh, they were very cruel beneath their pretence of being the perfect family! Killing their own son, their own flesh and blood, by jamming his head in a piano! A heinous crime, yes, it would be a heinous crime. Compared with them – with what they were planning to do sooner or later – Pierre Rivière, that guy in the nineteenth century who hacked his family to death, was a model of respectability. There was nothing worse than what they were going to do. If Dominic were able to rely on an epidemic, a war or an earthquake, he might have a hope of surviving, of not ending up with bits of his brain floating around in the toilet bowl, floating in the septic tank like a common turd. Only the deaths of Father, Mother, the maid, the neighbour and Aurélie could free him from his tragic destiny, save his life, keep his head intact – yes, only all their deaths. If he ran away, they’d be bound to catch him and drag him back to the house by the scruff of his neck, to the piano, the torture instrument on which his very last tears would fall. A few drops would plop on to the shiny keys, his final ordeal. Bang, suddenly, the lid strikes his head. Once, twice, three times, until his skull explodes like a watermelon, until his brains are splattered all over the walls.

They’d have a good laugh, Father, Mother,
the maid, the neighbour and Aurélie. They’d all laugh in unison, then they’d link hands and dance around Dominic’s lifeless little body, pale and thin, his head crushed, unrecognizable.

He could just picture the little party they’d have over his corpse, the morbid celebration they’d long been anticipating.

It was very cowardly of them. Dominic was only twelve, unable to defend himself. What had he done to deserve such a fate? Nothing, strictly speaking, he’d done nothing wrong. He had been born, and as soon as he was old enough to grasp the fact, he knew in his heart that one day they’d kill him with that evil piano.

He must be imagining it. Sometimes he tried to convince himself he was, but to no avail; he felt it in his bones as being the only certainty he had ever had. It was his intuition speaking. It was an obvious fact. They were going to kill him. He even knew how they were planning to do it.

No one has ever understood him. They’d locked him up decades ago for his own safety. Now, he’s
protected within these four walls. Here at least no one will kill him. Only a bit of dealing, the
occasional
rape. But that doesn’t bother Dominic. It’s not packs of cigarettes or anal sex that’ll make him regret what he did. It was self-defence, their deaths were his only way out. And if people can’t understand, then that’s their problem. The judges, the screws, opinion – public opinion, that is – he’s not bothered. Here, he’s at peace. He has his room, they bring him food, he can borrow books from the library. If he’s well behaved, he can even watch television. Here, he’s free; no one’s going to kill him. No, truly, he feels no remorse. He’d taken his destiny into his own hands.

He’s even made a friend called Georges. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s really cool. He and Dominic take their shower together.

Georges has saved up a bit of money. He’s the one who buys the cigarettes and medicines, coffee and a bit of dope sometimes. Life’s pleasant here. You don’t want for anything. You have enough to eat, in winter they give you blankets. It’s a bit dirty, of course, but you get used to it. No truly, Dominic has no regrets. It was that or death.

Today’s his birthday, his forty-eighth spring as Georges says. Dominic really doesn’t like
celebrations
. Georges promised him a surprise at
lunchtime
, in the visiting room. Good old Georges, what the hell’s he got up his sleeve? He’s a nice guy, thinks Dominic. He pays for the cigarettes and shower gel, medicines and instant coffee. And he gives me surprises! I’m really lucky to be banged up with him. Lucky to share his room. The guy before wasn’t half as decent. He was a thug and he snored. Sharing a cell with him wasn’t a life. But Georges is nice. All he asks for is a little blow job from time to time. Dominic doesn’t like that,
especially
when it all spurts out. But hey, it’s soon done and he’s happy to smoke and drink coffee for free. Georges is a good mate, he won’t let him down.

This morning, Georges has made some little cakes for Dominic’s birthday and has even found a candle. Dominic’s pleased, he blows on the flame; he’s going to see his forty-eighth spring.

‘They were trying to kill me. That’s why I’m here. I promise you I’m not bad. They were out to kill me. I had no choice.’

‘I know, sweetheart. Tell me, was it Georges who sent you?’

‘Yes, it’s for my birthday. Forty-eight springs, as he says.’

‘What a lovely present Georges has given you.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know how to do it. I’ve never been able to.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you. We’ve got twenty minutes. Now try and relax a little.’

‘OK, lady.’

Good old Georges! You never know what he’ll come up with next. But this is a first. Dominic, poor Dominic. Really sad, really hard done by. And completely bonkers to boot.