Soft in the Head (3 page)

T
HAT NIGHT
, I didn’t hang out with them. When Julien showed up about ten o’clock and said, So what about it, shall we carry on where we left off last night? I said no, I had some shopping to do.

“At ten o’clock at night? Or maybe you’re not buying, maybe you’re making… a delivery?” said Landremont, grabbing his balls through his trousers. “If it’s the shop I’m thinking of, don’t worry, it stays open all night. Oh, and give Annette my love, will you?”

“Fuck off.” I said.

He laughed. He was acting the smartarse, said I was right, women are like bottles of booze: to be sampled, savoured, and slung out!

He can be pretty crude sometimes.

I said:

“You’d know all about… bottles of booze.”

Jojo whistled from the kitchen:

“Ho ho! You scored a direct hit there, Germain! And a good one, too!”

“You just got bitch-slapped,” said Marco, turning to Landremont.

Landremont just shrugged, but he was angry and that made me happy.

Francine, in the middle of wiping down the bar, chuckled and said:

“What do you expect? Germain is the smartest of the lot of you. And the kindest, too! You don’t pay them any heed, they’re just jealous. Isn’t that right, Germain?”

I said yes and went over and kissed her on the cheek. Francine always stands up for me, I think she’s fond of me. I think it might be more than that, but just in case I’m mistaken, I’ve no intention of finding out. Besides, Youssef is a nice guy, I’m not about to do the dirty on him behind his back, it’s just common decency.

And anyway, she’s a bit old for my taste.

I went over to Annette’s place, obviously. And not just to do it. Annette relaxes me. Though in a manner of speaking: when we meet up, it’s not to play Ludo.

I remember the first time for her and me was after a May Day festival. The two of us had danced together, then a thunderstorm broke. It started bucketing down. The wind started howling, the temperature dropped suddenly. Annette had parked her car next to the square, she suggested she could drive us all back. We said yes. Given the weather, we weren’t going to pass up a lift. Besides, it was sensible, given the state of Marco, who was drunk as a skunk.

We dropped off Marco and Landremont first, just outside the village. Then we made a U-turn to drop off Julien and his girlfriend Létitia, who’s not his girlfriend any more, but he didn’t lose on the deal dumping her for Céline. Because his old girlfriend was a complete bitch. We’re allowed to say it now, there’s a statue of limitations.

So, we ended up outside my place. And Annette said:

“Doesn’t that caravan of yours leak in weather like this?”

“No, never. But I’ll be freezing my arse off tonight, I can tell you. The radiator is banjaxed and I didn’t get round to buying a new one. Why would I? It’s the beginning of May…”

“Do you want to spend the night at my place?” she said.

And seeing as how she put her hand on my thigh as she said it, and I was horny as hell from all the slow dances, I said yes. What would you have done in my position?

I’d never been to Annette’s place before. I thought it was nicely decorated, but I wasn’t here to take the grand tour. Annette made us some coffee, then she came and sat next to me. I was wondering how I was going to lead up to things, but she made the first move. I wasn’t even shocked. Still, it’s something I don’t really like—girls whose way of saying hello is to throw themselves at you. It’s not very feminine in my opinion. Then again, I have to admit it’s very practical. Well, that’s the way I used to see things. I was pretty rough around the edges back then. There’s been a lot of polishing since. I don’t see things like I used to, and that goes for sex too. My brain is up here and my balls are down there and I don’t get the two mixed up any more.

Annette is small and she looks really skinny. She’s thirty-six, but she really doesn’t look it. It’s stupid, but I was afraid of hurting her. I’m a big lunk, and I was worried about whether I’d suffocate her if I got on top, whether she was big enough to take me inside her, whether I’d tear her or I
don’t know what. It was all in my head, but it worried me all the same. Overthinking ruins your performance.

There are times when it’s best to be spontaneous.

She’s really weirdly built, Annette: she’s got a tiny waist I could circle with my hands, and breasts pumped up with helium that are round and firm and fill your whole palm and can’t be squashed, you can take my word for it. And she’s got long legs for her height, a little arse as firm and round as a cabbage. She’s not pretty exactly, what with the dark rings round her eyes, her thin face and that hangdog look, but there’s something about her. Landremont says she’s got an arse that could make a fortune and a face that could lose one. He’s in no position to talk, given that his own wife was a horse-faced bitch. God rest her soul, may the Good Lord gather her to Himself, she was a hell of a decent woman.

So, anyway, that night, Annette made the first move and I didn’t smother her or crush her or do anything else unforeseen. When I found myself inside her, it was all cotton, silk and feathers. So warm and soft, so perfectly snug I could have spent my whole life there. A bit later, we did it again. She devoured me with her eyes. She was gentle with me, she did everything she could to please me. She told me she had been dreaming of me for a long time. It’s weird, when a girl says that, especially if she says it with tears in her eyes and a quaver in her voice as her hand is gently taking care of you.

It was almost embarrassing. But nice.

W
HEN I FIRST
knew Annette, I’d never really taken much of an interest in women. I either thought of girls as friends and I didn’t touch, or I thought of them as Kleenex and I didn’t care. I’m not proud, but I’m not ashamed, that’s just the way I was. The Germain I was back then is gone, and good riddance.

I’ve changed. Since I met Margueritte, I’ve been exercising my intelligence. I ask myself questions about life, and then I try to answer them, concentrating without cheating. I think about existence. About what I had when I started out, and everything I’ve had to work out for myself since.

Of the words I’ve learned, there are two I particularly remember:
innate, acquired.

Without looking them up in the dictionary again, I’d be hard pushed to give you a precise definition, but I remember the gist. “Innate” is what people have when they’re born, and it’s easy to remember because it’s
in
your
nature.
“Acquired” is what we spend the rest of our lives struggling to learn. The stuff we’re supposed to pick up from other people along the way. But from who?

For example, emotions are not innate, not at all. Eating and drinking, yeah, sure, that’s instinct. If you don’t do it, you die. But emotions are an optional extra, or you can do without. I should know. It’s a poor excuse for a life, you’re half-witted, not much different from a dumb animal, but
you can go on living a long time just the same. A very long time. I don’t want to be always using myself as an example, but when I was starting out in life, I didn’t get much in the way of affection.

In a normal family—from what I’ve seen—people cry sometimes, and they scream, but there are moments of tenderness, people ruffle your hair, they say things like, Would you look at the state of him, he’s the spitting image of his father! And they pretend like they’re angry but they’re just teasing because really they’re proud they know where you come from. I’ve seen it when Marco talks about his daughter or Julien talks about his two sons.

Me, I don’t come from anywhere, that’s my problem. Obviously I had to come from some guy’s balls, it’s not like there’s an alternative. And from some woman’s pussy, like everyone else on this earth. But in my case, as soon as I was born, the good part was over. Done and dusted. That’s why I say that emotions are
acquired
, they’re something you have to learn. If it took me longer than it took most people, it’s because I didn’t have a role model in the beginning. I had to find everything out for myself. And it’s the same with speech, I learned to speak on building sites and in bars mostly, which is why I have trouble explaining things—I use too many swear words, and I don’t always explain things the right way round like educated people: first
a
, then
b
, then
c
.

When Landremont, or Devallée, or the mayor (who’s also a secondary school teacher) talk about something, you can tell they’ve got a firm grasp on the idea. After that, all
they need to do is reel it in, keep following it until they get to the other end. It’s called not losing the thread. You can interrupt them, you can butt in with
From what I’ve heard…
or
By all accounts
…, it makes no bloody difference, they still steer a steady course!

Me, I always stray from the point. I start off with one thing, that leads to another and another and another, and by the time I get to the end of the sentence, I don’t even remember what I was talking about. And if I get interrupted, I get even more confused and end up in a complete muddle.

When educated people lose their way while they’re explaining something, they go pale. They put a finger to their lips and they frown and they say, Damn it, where was I? What was I saying again?

And everyone around them looks worried, they hold their breath as though this was something serious…

The difference between them and me is that, when I lose the thread, no one gives a toss.

Including me. In fact, especially me.

B
EFORE
, I used to be functionally illiterate—
Being unable to read or write; see also: ignorant
—but I’m not ashamed. Reading is something that’s acquired. You don’t even need to go looking: when you’re little, you’re sent to school where they force-feed you, like they do with geese.

Some teachers are good at it, they’ve got the skill, the patience, that kind of thing. They gradually fill up your memory until it’s chock-a-block. With others, it’s gobble or die! They stuff you full of information without bothering to worry where it’s going to end up. And what happens? A crumb of information goes down the wrong way, and you choke on it. All you want is to spit it out and starve rather than feel this way again.

My teacher, Monsieur Bayle, was a vicious force-feeder. He scared the crap out of me. There were days when he only had to look at me and I’d nearly piss myself. Just the way he said my name:
Chazes
! I knew he didn’t like me. He must have had his reasons. For a teacher, having a halfwit pupil must be a pain in the arse. I can understand that. So, he took out his frustration by making me come up to the blackboard every day. I had to recite my lessons.

I had to recite my lessons in front of the arse-lickers, who elbowed each other and jeered with their hands in front of their mouths, but also in front of the dunces, who were relieved to see that I was dumber than them. Monsieur
Bayle never helped, in fact he did the opposite, he made things worse. He was a real bastard. I can still hear him now, I don’t even have to try, his voice is permanently drilling into my ear.

“What’s the matter, Chazes? Your brain still in bed?”

“What’s up Chazes, too cool for school?”

“It seems that young Chazes is up excrement creek!”

This would make my classmates laugh.

Then, he would add:

“Well, Chazes? I’m waiting, we’re all waiting, your friends are waiting…”

He would shift his chair just a little to turn it towards me. He would fold his arms and stare at me, nodding his head. He would tap the floor with the toe of his shoe, saying nothing. Tap, tap, tap… was the only sound I heard, that and the tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock on the wall. Sometimes it went on for so long that the other boys finally shut up.

The silence engulfing the tick-tock and the tapping of the shoe was so great that I would hear my heart pounding in my head. Eventually, he would sigh and wave me back to my seat, saying:

“Decidedly, my dear Chazes, I fear you’re a few cards short of a deck.”

The other boys roared with laughter, enjoying the spectacle. Me, I wanted to kill myself. Or to kill him, if I could have. Killing him would have been better. Grinding the bastard’s head under my large boot like the chalk-dusted cockroach he was. At night, in bed, I would revel in these
murderous thoughts, it was the only time I felt happy. If I didn’t grow up to be violent—or no more violent than necessary, anyway—it’s no thanks to him. Sometimes, I think that thugs learn to be brutal because people have been cruel to them. If you want to make a dog vicious, all you have to do is beat him for no reason. It’s the same with a kid, only easier. You don’t even need to beat him. Jeering and mocking him is enough.

In primary school, there are kids who learn their conjugations and their multiplication tables. Me, I learned something more useful: the strong get off on walking all over other people, and wiping their feet while they’re at it, like you would on a doormat. This is what I learned from my years at school. It was a hell of a lesson. All that because of some bastard who didn’t like kids. Or at least he didn’t like me. Maybe my life would have been different if I’d had a different teacher. Who knows? I’m not saying it’s his fault I’m a moron, I’m pretty sure I was one even before that. But he made my life a misery. I can’t help thinking that other teachers would have given me a hand up. Something I could use to grab on to, instead of sliding down to the bottom of the hole. But unfortunately there were only two classes in the school back then, one for the babies and one for the bigger kids. We were stuck with Bayle from age eight to age ten. (Eleven, in my case.) I know I wasn’t the only one who got it in the neck. There were other kids whose lives he ruined with his meanness and his cruelty. He was full of himself just because he was a teacher. He looked down on us, which
wasn’t exactly hard since we were only kids and didn’t know anything. But instead of being proud, of being happy about all the things he could teach us, he humiliated the weak, the dunces, all those who really needed him.

To be that much of a bastard takes talent, I think.