Soft in the Head (7 page)

G
ARDINI
WAS QUICK
to get his feet under the table. He would come for two weeks, disappear for three days, then come back again, and so on. He would stretch his size 11s farther and farther under the table, sink deeper and deeper into the sofa. He had decided to, as he put it, take me in hand.

He started giving me orders, Tidy your room, set the table, stop bugging me, go to bed. He started calling my mother by her first name and finding fault while he was at it, You’ve put too much salt in the stew, fetch me a can of beer, what’s keeping you with the coffee?

My mother may be a fine filly, but don’t go jerking the reins. In our family, we’ve got short fuses. I don’t know if I told you: I get my height from her. Obviously her height is a bit more feminine. But not much more, relatively speaking. Gardini just about came up to her ear.

Anyway, what is bound to happen, happens. That’s the law of fate, and I’ve noticed that it’s a law that also means shit happens.

One night, I don’t really remember why, he gave me a clout. Now, my mother might not have had an ounce of maternal fibre, but she had a sense of propriety. Only one person was allowed to wallop her son and that was her. She said:

“I won’t have you hit that child!”

“Shut your hole!” Gardini said.

“What?” my mother said, “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me! And stop busting my balls, I’m watching the match.”

My mother turned off the TV. Gardini roared:

“Turn the fucking TV back on!”

“No,” said my mother.

Gardini lost his head, he leapt to his feet and said: “Jesus H. Christ! You’re asking for a slap too!”

He lashed out at my mother, whack whack, and gave her a box round the ears. Now that, that was a mistake.

My mother went completely white, she walked out without a word, she went straight to the garage.

She came back with a pitchfork. And my mother waving a pitchfork is not something you laugh at. Especially when she’s pointing it at your belly and saying in a patient voice:

“You’re packing up your bags and you’re leaving.”

Gardini tried to come on like gangbusters. He stepped towards her, raising his hand, really threatening as if to say, What, you want a second helping, haven’t you had enough?

My mother stabbed him—
tchak
—right in his blubbery thigh. A quick, fast jab, like a torero in a bullfight. The guy started bleeding and screaming:

“Ow-shit-fuck-shit! You’re a bloody lunatic!”

My mother said:

“Looks that way.”

Then she added:

“I’m going to count to three. One…”  

Gardini grabbed the keys to the Simca off the sideboard, stumbled backwards towards the door, saying:

“Think about it, Jacqueline, think carefully! If I walk out this door, you’ll never see me again!”

“I’ve already thought about it. Two…”

“I forgive you!”

My mother lifted the pitchfork, aiming an inch or two higher. She said:

“Three.”

Gardini said Ow-fuck-shit-fuck! a couple more times—varying the order—then legged it down the garden.

He climbed behind the wheel of his car, waved his fist, screaming, This isn’t the end of it! and took off at top speed leaving the caravan behind since, that particular morning, it was unhitched.

A few days later, Monsieur Saunier—he was mayor at the time—came by to see my mother.

“Listen, the reason I’ve come to see you is because we’ve had a call at the office from a man named Gardini about a caravan that is apparently parked on your property.”

“That’s true.”

“He wants it back.”

“Let him come round,” my mother said, “I’ll give him a warm welcome.”

“You sound hostile, Jackie,” said the mayor, “Do you have some grievance against this man?”

My mother said:

“He’s been beating my lad.”

“Oh…” said the mayor.

“And me.”

“Really?”

“What are you planning to do? Send the police round?”

“And why would I do that?… You’ve assured me that, if he should show his face, the gentleman will get a warm welcome, haven’t you?”

“That’s what I said.”

“You have not made any threats against him in my presence, have you?”

“No.”

“In that case, it is a personal matter that does not concern the local police. You have every right to give a friend a
warm welcome
.”

“Damn right,” my mother said, “It’s a free country!”

“In that case, I believe we’re done. Oh, no, while I think of it… I don’t suppose you have a pitchfork by any chance?”

“In the garage.”

“Would you lend it to me for… let’s say two or three months?”

The chicken-shit bastard phoned to threaten my mother every night for a few weeks. Then the calls became less frequent. Eventually they stopped.

“But Jackie, what will you do if he comes back?” the neighbours would ask.

And my mother would say:

“A mischief.”

She always was a woman of few words.

I
N THE BEGINNING
, I used the caravan as a playhouse, later as a shag pad, and it was really practical. Eventually, one day, I decided to make it my primary residence.

It has to be said that my mother was getting to be unbearable.

She was getting to be completely batshit crazy, which was sad since she was only sixty-three. She’d got to where she only talked to the cat, and even then it was just repeating the same old things. She wasn’t interested in anything any more except her magazines; she would spend all day cutting out photos of American actors and pasting them over photos in the family albums. I don’t have much in the way of memories, and I don’t really give a toss, but it scared the crap out of me—to put it politely—seeing Tom Cruise or Robert De Niro pasted over my grandfather or my uncle Georges.

When I asked her why she was doing it, she said:

“I’m tired of looking at his ugly mug.”

“Are you talking about Grandad or Uncle Georges?”

“Both. They’re as bad as each other.”

I came to the point where I thought that with parents, the only thing is to get out as early as you can. I hope the Good Lord can forgive such ingratitude, but He had it easy, His mother was a saint. So He can’t really compare the two.

I’m talking about normal people, crazy people like my old lady.

You don’t get this sort of problem with animals. When sparrows leave the nest, they don’t come back for lunch every Sunday as far as I know. And their parents don’t go round saying, What sort of time do you call this? Where have you been? Wipe your feet before you come in! Beasts are cleverer than us, even if they are dumb animals.

Obviously, it was down to me to move out, to leave my mother. But seeing as how her health wasn’t too good, I hung around a bit longer. In case the house became vacant. And besides, like I told you, I had the vegetable garden to think about. And if you haven’t experienced it, let me tell you: a garden has a greater hold on you than a scraggy bit of umbilical cord. If I’m allowed to say such a thing about something that is a family tie—and therefore sacred—I hope God won’t chalk it up on my slate.

Then again, Julien is always saying: “No matter what you do, Germain, she’ll always be your mother. In this life, we only get one mother. You’ll see, when she’s gone, you’ll be the first to shed a tear.”

And that really hacks me off. Me, shed tears for my mother? Over my dead body, I thought. All she ever did was bring me into this world, and then only because she couldn’t get rid of me, because once I was inside her I had to come out somehow. And I’m supposed to cry for her?

Where’s the justice in that?

These days, I know that it’s not possible to explain everything.

Emotions, for example, are often irrational—
see also: unreasonable, unwarranted, senseless
. My mother was like a stone in my shoe. Something that isn’t really serious, but still manages to ruin your life.

So, one day, I decided to leave home. The last straw was when I saw her on her own in the kitchen screaming at the ants because they were leaving footprints all over the sink.

That was the point when I thought, right, now she really has gone too far.

Let her die, I thought, I don’t care, this time, I’m definitely out of here.

It came to me like a sudden urge, like when you desperately need to take a leak, with much the same result—a huge feeling of relief once it’s done.

That night I talked to my friends down at the bar. I was happy. I said:

“I’ve left home.”

Landremont threw his hands up to heaven and said:

“Praise Jesus! It’s a miracle! So you’ve finally made up your mind?”

“Yeah, it’s done and dusted.”

“So where are you going to sleep?”

“In the caravan.”

“In the caravan?” Julien repeated. “Yeah… it’s not a bad idea, I suppose. I didn’t realize it was still roadworthy… So where are you planning to park it? At the camp site?”

“I’m not planning to park it anywhere, I’m leaving it where it is.”  

Jojo laughed and Landremont buried his head in his hands.  

Julien said:

“Oh… Let me get this right, you’re saying that you’ve left home and moved to the bottom of the garden, is that it?”

“Yeah, why?”

Julien shook his head slowly. Marco said:

“He’s a certified bona fide grown-up now, our Germain.”

Landremont sniggered. He said:

“Certified, I’m not sure;
certifiable,
definitely.”

Everyone laughed, especially me. That’s what I always do when I don’t get the joke. But to be honest, I thought about it that night while I was cooking some grub, and I still couldn’t see what the wankers were laughing at. What was the problem with me leaving home and moving into the Eriba Puck? Distance is all in your head. Moving to the bottom of the garden was
symbolic
, so to speak. That’s what I would have told them if I’d had the word handy at the time. That’s exactly what I would have said.

The caravan was symbolic.

And besides, being nearby, it was practical.

O
NE TIME
—I can’t quite remember why—Margueritte asked me:

“Have you still got your mother, Germain?”

“Oh yes, still…” I said.

I could have added “Worse luck!” but I figured that Margueritte probably wouldn’t understand that kind of thing. Especially since, right then, she heaved a big sigh.

“Oh, you are so lucky.”

What could I possibly say to that?

Given her age, Margueritte probably lost hers long ago. I thought maybe she still misses her. Maybe old people feel like orphans too, when they lose their mother.

It must have been something like that, because she decided we were going to start another book “that beautifully describes a mother’s love. You’ll see, it is terribly moving…”

Promise at Dawn
, it’s called.

At first I didn’t really understand all the stories of gods with strange names. Totoche and I don’t know who all. A bit later, I really got into it, when the hero talks about how he found his vocation when he was thirteen, except for him it wasn’t rose windows, it was wanting to be a writer, but as jobs go, it’s no stupider than any other.

Margueritte read a bit to me.

I said, It’s not bad for a made-up story.

She shook her head and said:

“Actually, it’s autobiographical!”

“That’s what I said.”

“In other words, the author is writing about his own childhood, his real mother, about himself, about being a pilot during the war. He is telling the story of his life.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, I assure you. He is describing what he experienced, what he felt…”

“Even when he talks about howling like a dog over the grave?”

“Like a dog?… I’m not sure what—ah, yes, I think I remember. Indeed, I think he may have used those very words. Just a moment, just a moment, let me check…”

She flicked the pages with the edge of her thumb—
zzzzip
—like a dealer shuffling a pack of cards.

I was thinking, she’s showing off, no one can read that fast without even opening the book the whole way. But apparently they can, because suddenly she screeched to a halt and said:

“Ah, I’ve found it!
You constantly return to howl at your mother’s grave like a lost dog
. Well, well, Germain, I’m impressed, you have excellent auditory memory.”

“Well, actually, I mostly remember things that I hear…”

She began rereading the passage silently, selfishly. I said:

“Couldn’t you read it out loud?”

“I would be happy to! All the more so as it is so poignant, listen:
It is not good to be so loved so young, so early. It leaves you with a fatal flaw. You believe that love is possible. You believe that it exists elsewhere, that it can be found. You stake your life on it. You watch,
you
hope, you wait. Through a mother’s love, life makes a promise at dawn that it can never keep… And so, to the end of your days, you are destined to be disenchanted.
”

“So that’s where it comes from, the title?”

“Hmm?”

“The writer called it
Promise at Dawn
because life makes promises that it doesn’t keep? It’s about a mother’s love.”

“Of course, absolutely! It’s astonishing to realize that I never noticed that crucial detail in all the times I read it!”

“Could you keep going a little bit, just as far as the dog?”

“As far as the end of the chapter would be even better.”

“OK.”

“
Thereafter, each time a woman takes you in her arms and clasps you to her breast, it is merely a condolence. You constantly return to howl at your mother’s grave like a lost dog
.”

“There: ‘like a lost dog’, see!”

“…
Never again, never again, never again. Beautiful arms twine about your neck, the softest lips speak to you of love, but already you know the score. You have drunk from the source early and slaked your thirst. When, later, you grow thirsty, though you search high and low, you will find there are no more springs, only mirages
.”

“Does he say that because he was a pilot?”

“Say what?”

“You did tell me he was a pilot, the guy who wrote this?”

“Yes, yes absolutely.”

“So, it’s because he was a pilot that he mentions Mirages in the story?”

You’d think I was speaking Chinese.

“I’m sorry, Germain, I’m not quite sure what you’re saying…”

“I was saying that a Mirage is a type of fighter plane.”

“Is it? I didn’t know that.”

“I suppose even you can’t know everything.”

“Very true. And it’s fortunate, for otherwise I should be terribly bored. That said, in the novel, I believe the author is using the word
mirage
in a different sense. Its other meaning, if you prefer. A mirage is an optical illusion. You know the sort of thing, when you think you can see pools of water on the road when it’s hot in summer.”

“Oh, yes, of course, now you mention it… I knew that.”

“This is why, on the subject of love, Romain Gary writes:
there are no more springs, only mirages
… You think it is love, but in fact it is not. It is only an illusion.”

“That’s a figure of speech, isn’t it?”

She set the book down on her lap and said:

“Yes, exactly, it’s a figure of speech. It’s what’s known as a metaphor.”

“A me-ta-for?”

“Yes, a metaphor. An image, if you prefer…”

Then she brought a finger to her lips and whispered
shh!
with a smile, then she carried on reading.

“
I am not saying that mothers should be forbidden from loving their children. I am simply saying that it is best that mothers have someone other they can love. If my mother had had a lover, I would not have spent my life languishing and thirsting next to every spring. Unfortunately for me, I know how to recognize a true diamond
.”

I thought to myself that Monsieur Gary and I had had very different life experiences, even if we had at least two things in common: a father who’d gone AWOL and a mother who smoked a bit too much.

I also thought he was laying it on a bit thick. No one could love their mother as much as he claims.

Margueritte had a faraway look in her eyes, she seemed happy. She whispered softly:
there are no more springs, only mirages
…

“What if it’s the other way round?” I said.

Margueritte raised an eyebrow.

“The other way round?”

“What if the spring had dried up, what if there was no well. Well, you know what I mean…”

“You mean what if one was not loved as a child?”

“Supposing. What would happen?”

She thought for a moment. Then she said:

“Well, if you… I mean if someone did not receive enough love as a child, one might say that they have everything still to discover.”

“So, actually, it would be better. Because I have to say, Gary sounds really dismissive, the way he talks about women. All that stuff about the dog howling over the grave… You don’t think that maybe the guy was a depressive?”

“He committed suicide…”

“Well, there you go, then. That’s what I was saying. I think that if his mother had brought him up the hard way, it would never have come to that.”

“Was your mother strict?”

“Mine? She didn’t care one way or the other.”

Margueritte put away her book, she sighed, she said:

“I feel sorry for you. There is nothing worse than indifference. Especially from a mother.”

“Well, what can you do? She didn’t have the fibre.”