Soft in the Head (15 page)

O
NE MORNING
I found my mother standing in the middle of the lettuce patch in the rain talking to a hose pipe.

“You’d be better off going back inside,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s raining.”

“Oh, I can see you coming, you and your tricks,” she said.

“All right, fine, it’s not raining. It’s just water falling. Just look at the state of your slippers.”

I walked her back up to the house. She fought me every step of the way, screaming for me to let go, calling me a thug and an ungrateful little brat and saying how I should be ashamed, manhandling a poor woman like her. I thought to myself, One of these days, the neighbours will call the cops, we’ll be declared a national disaster and a human rights violation and then we’ll be royally screwed.

I pretty much had to carry her, and she weighs a ton.

In her bedroom there was a black dress hanging on the door of the wardrobe.

“Are you going to a funeral?” I said, “Has old man Dupuis finally kicked the bucket?”

“No,” she said, “The dress is for me. For when I die. I want to be buried in that dress, it’s the only decent one I have.”

“What are you on about?” I said, “You’ve got twenty years in you yet.”

Probably thirty, you old hag, I thought to myself.

Since she seemed a bit under the weather, I made her some coffee and put her to bed.

Then I went round to Landremont to ask him to help me fix my ignition.

She died that night.

It’s funny, I was so sure she’d be the death of me.

She passed away from something or other I didn’t really understand; an attack, I think. Something clean and quick, in any case. I filed her death certificate at the town hall and dealt with everything else, the undertakers and all that.

Everyone came to the funeral. Landremont was completely rat-arsed given that, by free association, funerals always remind him of his poor departed Corinne.

But the drunker he gets, the more dignified he is, so in the circumstances, he fitted right in.

Jojo, Julien and Marco helped me carry the coffin.

Francine lent us her place for the reception, which was mostly just us—and gave us a chance to give Jojo a send-off. Annette and Francine had made beautiful centrepieces and they had even made place cards, writing people’s names on leftover sympathy cards.

On the family side, given the hecatomb—a word that contains
tomb
and means everyone is dead—there was only my grandmother, who spent the meal making uncalled-for
remarks—
see also: unjustified, unreasonable, unfair, inappropriate
—about the coffin, the flowers, my friends, the meal, such a waste, such a waste! Spending all that money, and for what?

“Give it a rest, Mémé!”

“Oh, you, you’re a shiftless layabout. You’re no better than that slut of a mother of yours!”

“Yes, Mémé.”

“Germain, who’s that fat woman sucking the face off the young man in the kitchen?”

“That’s Francine, Mémé.”

“Has she not noticed he’s an Arab?”

“For God’s sake, Mémé, please shut up.”

Since it was getting to be a pain in the arse, Landremont nipped behind the counter to make her a cocktail. Taste that, Madame Chazes, it’s good for what ails you.

“It’s very nice,” she said, “Would you make us another one?”

I said to Landremont: “Go easy, will you? She’s eighty.”

“Don’t worry. I gave her the kiddie dose.”

Not long after that, we tucked my grandmother into Francine’s bed and we finally got a bit of peace.

M
AÎTRE
OLIVIER
phoned me on Wednesday, for condolence purposes: What a tragedy, Monsieur Chazes, such a wonderful woman! And so young! And so sudden!

“I’m afraid so,” I said, “We’re just dust in the wind.”

“While I’m about it, Monsieur Chazes, I wanted to suggest you might come by my office so that we can discuss the provisions of your late mother’s estate.”

And it was at this point that he told me that I was going to inherit the house and the land.

“That must be a mistake,” I said, “My mother was a tenant.”

“No, no,” he said, “not at all, she bought it more than twenty years ago and you are her sole heir.”

That was not all, he added, she had left something else, but on the phone, well, it would hardly be discreet…

He wanted to enquire about my availability, in order to arrange a convenient time to meet.

“I’ve got nothing but availability, so every day is convenient,” I said.

I’d finished my fixed-term contract at SOPRAF a week before.

I went in on Friday morning. In addition to her house, where I can’t really see myself living since I haven’t got a
single good memory of the place, my mother had left me a fat wad of cash.

For years, she had scrimped and saved for her son—for me, in other words.

It was unbelievable. When I was a kid she treated me like a stray dog under her feet. The minute I said an angry word,
whack,
I’d get a slap faster than a chair in a cop’s face. And while all this was going on, she spent every bloody day the Good Lord gave her putting money aside for my old age?!

Go figure.

At the lawyer’s office, there was a big envelope with my name on it. It was full of rubbish, a couple of Babygros, a hospital wristband marked
Germain
and a bit of plastic cord that was all purple and shrivelled.

“What the hell is that shit?” I said.

Maître Olivier gave me a funny look.

“Um… I think I remember… obviously I did not pry into your late mother’s affairs, but as it happens she told me… so, well, I believe it is a piece of the cord.”

“What cord?”

“The umbilical cord. It is a piece of your umbilical cord, I think… so I believe…”

In the envelope there was also a photograph of her as a young girl on a merry-go-round with some guy with pale eyes, and on the back of it she’d written
Me and Germain Despuis, 14th July 1962.

So this was my old man, then, at the famous carnival a couple of hours before he put a bun in her oven.
Jesus H. Christ on a bike, I thought, so he was called Germain too?

Turns out Margueritte was right all along…

Before I left I said to Maître Olivier:

“So, I was wondering… when someone writes a will and they put in a last wish…”

“Yes? How can I be of service?”

“The person who opens the will, they have to do what it says, don’t they?”

“No, no. Not at all. It is entirely a matter of personal judgement. If the deceased includes a wish that is impossible to fulfil, or one that would entail a legal or moral transgression, they are not obliged to blindly abide by his desiderata.”

“?…”

“Do you understand?”

“So… you’re saying they can’t be forced to carry out his last wishes?”

“They cannot be compelled to do so in any circumstance. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, forget about it.”

All the same, I was hacked off, on account of the war memorial and Jacques Devallée turning out to be right again as per usual. But as I was thinking this, it occurred to me that for a while now I hadn’t been writing my name.

I think maybe, deep down, I don’t care any more about being indelible.

T
HE LAWYER
gave me the envelope and shook my hand twice.

I went home with all this crap and dumped it in the middle of the table.

When Annette came round to see me, she said, What’s that?

“Keepsakes my mother hung on to,” I said.

She picked up the photo and sat next to the window and asked me:

“Is that your mother?”

I said yes.

“How old would she have been?”

“I don’t know, but given my age she would have been eighteen. Well, not quite. It was taken the day my father got her pregnant. With me.”

“She was really pretty, wasn’t she? It’s amazing, you’d never have thought it to look at her… So the man in the picture, he’s your father?”

I said uh-huh.

“Have you seen the photo before?”

“No, never.”

“It must be strange, seeing what he looked like.”

I said yeah.

“He looks a hell of a lot older than your mother.”

I said, No, not that much really.

He was twelve years older than her, he fucked her at the Bastille Day dance.

Annette is nine years younger than me, I fucked her at the May Day dance.

Maybe my eyes aren’t the only thing I get from my father.

Annette cupped my face in both hands and, as if she could read my mind, she said:

“Let me see your eyes.”

“Stop…”

“Come on, let me see. You take after him, don’t you? You do, honestly, look for yourself. And he was a big man too. But he wasn’t as good-looking as you.”

“Like hell.”

“You’re the handsome one,
chéri
.”

“Oh, shut up and don’t talk rubbish.”

“You know how to shut me up, don’t you?” She gave me a wink and then kissed me the way only she knows how.

It’s weird, but sometimes I think Annette hasn’t got a bone in her body. You can hug her as hard as you like and she’s soft all the way through.

She’s like a duvet, except she’s a woman.

Later, she asked me:

“What are you going to do with all these mementos?”

I had no idea. This was one more stupid idea of my mother’s, leaving her old tat to me. Out of sheer spite.
Because I knew her like she was my own mother. She knew perfectly well I’m not the kind of guy to go throwing out umbilical cords and photos of my anonymous father—especially when there’s only one of them.

Annette said:

“You know what you should do? Put it all in a nice little box, and that’s that.”

“And what am I supposed to do with the box? Put it on top of the TV?”

“You bury it.”

Given that nearly all my relatives were already six feet under, it didn’t sound like a stupid idea.

“Or maybe…” Annette said. And she stopped.

“Or maybe what?”

“Maybe you keep it for your own kids… The photo, at least. It would be good for them to have at least one photo of their grandparents.”

“Sure, it would be good, if I had any kids.”

“…”

“Really?”

Annette’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. She said:

“Only if you want to, darling. We’ll only keep it if you want to. Do you?”

I said, Well, yeah, obviously.

What can you do?

She wound her arms around me and laughed.

She said, My love, my love.

And then: I’m sure it’s a girl.

And after that: We’ll be happy, you’ll see.

I think I can already see.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, I told Margueritte about my mother. She put her hand on mine and said:

“Your mother? Oh, Germain, I’m so sorry! That’s dreadful news.”

“Well, you know, me and my mother…”

I didn’t say any more, she wouldn’t have understood. Margueritte comes from a world where mothers have fibre. I didn’t want to tell her all the stuff I’ve told you, about the screaming matches, disturbing the neighbours, the fucked-up photo albums, the slammed doors, all that shit.

The day I spilled my guts—when she gave me the dictionary—I saw that she was upset for me. She’s got enough worries without me adding to them.

When you love people, you hide things from them.

The thing between my mother and me is closed owing to bereavement. There’s nothing more to add, best to leave well enough alone.

Margueritte probably thinks I’m sad. But I’m not, and I’m not even ashamed. How could I explain that, sitting with her on this park bench, we’ve talked more than I ever did with my poor mother—I say “poor” out of respect, not feeling, believe me. And that my mother kicking the bucket doesn’t cause me any grief at all? And that I don’t even feel grateful about the will and the inheritance, just a
bit pissed off that she cared about me but she never bloody bothered to tell me?

I think with kids, it’s best to get them to love you while you’re still alive. That’s how I see things. That’s how we see things, Annette and me.

I changed the subject, that was all I could do. I said:

“Would you like to come round for lunch one Sunday if I come and pick you up?”

“To your house?”

“Well, to the caravan. There’s a table that seats four, and it’s not like you take up much room… And if the weather’s nice, we can set up the table outside. You can see my garden.”

She laughed and said:

“Why not? It would be a pleasure…”

We talked about the menu, she said she would bring the dessert.

I’ll go round and pick her up next Sunday at eleven o’clock sharp.

And then she said:

“In return, I would very much like to invite you to lunch at Les Peupliers, Germain. I do hope you’ll come.”

“Well, yeah, of course, but I don’t really know if I’m allowed,” I said.

“Of course you are: the residents are allowed to invite family members one Sunday a month. I’ll tell them you’re my grandson.”

Hearing her say that, I thought we’d adopted each other vice versa which was handy from a feelings standpoint.

“Your grandson? Me? You think they’ll believe you?”

“Oh, I think we bear more than a passing resemblance to each other, don’t you? Especially as we’re both so tall…”

I laughed.

“I suppose we do look a bit alike,” I said.

ALBERT CAMUS

The Plague / La Peste

JULES SUPERVIELLE

The Child of the High Seas / L'Enfant de la haute mer  

ROMAIN GARY

The Promise of Dawn / La Promesse de l'aube

LUIS SEPÚLVEDA

The Old Man Who Read Love Stories / Un viejo que leía novelas de amor

excerpt from the translation
by Peter Bush, (Souvenir Press 1993)