The Front Seat Passenger (6 page)

‘Now you suddenly want to dance?’

‘I feel like it.’

‘Great! What about me?’

‘Martine, it’s not very nice just leaving Madeleine—’

‘She doesn’t like dancing. Do you, Madeleine?’

‘True. But neither do you. Until this evening apparently.’

‘Yes, but this evening I want to. Shall we go?’

Fabien had risen, murmuring excuses that Madeleine had batted away with the back of her hand, as if waving off flies.

The orchestra consisted of a bald organist in a worn-out dinner jacket, a platinum-blonde singer squeezed into a lamé sheath, which looked more like a survival blanket than a dress, and a slouched bassist with few notes. Four or five couples were swaying beside the pool, elderly people mainly and maybe a grandpa with his granddaughter. The repertoire was hopelessly
old-fashioned, favourites from the fifties, brought up to date with sometimes infelicitous electronic tones. Luckily they were almost all slow numbers, and Fabien could hold Martine close without looking ridiculous.

‘We haven’t been very nice to Madeleine.’

‘She’ll get over it. She’s a pain in the neck at the moment, don’t you find?’

‘It’s because of her ankle. That was bad luck.’

‘Yes, perhaps, but she’s annoying. She always wants to control everything, she always knows best. Sometimes she gets on my nerves.’

‘Have you known her a long time?’

‘Six or seven years.’

‘I thought it must have been longer. It’s as if you’re part of the same family.’

‘Well, that’s almost how it is. We were both married to the same man.’

‘That’s quite something. Would you like to go and sit down?’

The sangria tasted like lipstick but it was cold and there was a lot of it. He needed a lot of it to take in her revelation.

‘Yes, Madeleine was Martial’s first wife. It was she who introduced me to him.’

‘And she stayed friends with you? Wasn’t she angry with you?’

‘With me, no; with Martial, yes.’

‘But Martial – I mean your husband – what does he think about all this?’

‘Nothing. He died two months ago in a car accident. I’m a widow too. Isn’t that funny?’

‘That’s not exactly the word I’d use!’

‘And your wife? When did she die?’

‘Three years ago. Of cancer.’

‘That’s horrible. Did you love her very much?’

‘Um … yes, I’d say so.’

‘Well, now we’re both on our own.’

It was the first time he had seen her smile. For someone who didn’t practise often, she wasn’t at all bad at it. Fabien wanted to burst out laughing, to split his sides. That Martial – priceless! What talent! All the pieces of the farcical puzzle now fitted neatly together; everyone was interchangeable, no one was indispensable. The important thing was that the machine continued to turn; life ensured that defective cogs were replaced. There was something mystical about this revelation, a sensation of perfect harmony that left no room for chance. Everything, right down to this orchestra, to those doddery extras entwined on the dance floor, even to the turquoise reflections from the swimming pool, was part of an overall order.

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘Because I feel happy. Don’t you?’

‘Yes. Shall we order more sangria?’

He felt guilty. And it had nothing to do with his hangover, even though in hot countries the effect was worse. Yes, he felt guilty, but he wasn’t sure why. His arms outstretched on the rumpled, sandy bed, he was putting off the moment when he would have to get up, and trying in vain to untangle the jumble of knots that passed for his thoughts. They had drunk too much. After the dancing he could remember going back to the beach. They had fallen over several times. They hadn’t known which way was up. His mouth full of sand and stars, he had told her that they were part of a large wheel moved by gigantic hands which never stopped turning. Martine was laughing. Judging by the state of her trousers they must have splashed about in the water. Martine had found a swimming hat which he had put on and kept on his head until they reached the hotel where he had joked about with the hapless boy on reception. But that wasn’t what he felt guilty
about. The hotel staff were used to the escapades of
borrachon
tourists. No, it was what had happened later in the room, when he was exploring Martine’s body.

He had never fucked a blonde. Almost, once, also on holiday – he must have been about twenty – with a girl called Isabelle. To him eroticism was black – hair, suspender belts, etc. – like the devil: black. The discovery of the blond thatch under the parachute skirt had paralysed him, as if he were about to walk on a forbidden lawn. Under the white cotton shell was all the innocence of childhood that he was about to desecrate. The girl had been first astonished then annoyed by this unexpected respect. The next day she had gone off with a big lunk called Franck. But last night it had not been like that, far from it. He had trampled the forbidden lawn, ploughing away with a frenzy he didn’t know he was capable of. Martine had let him have his way; like a drowned woman, not a sound came from her parted lips, and there wasn’t the least spark of pleasure in her eyes. The exercise was as futile as trying to pump up the night sky with a bicycle pump, but that was exactly what excited Fabien beyond reason. ‘I’m killing death, goddamn it! I’m killing death!’ And if he had not managed to hold himself back he would certainly have been capable of killing her, strangling her, suffocating her, raining blows down on her. He had come three times and it was the stale smell of this unaccustomed pleasure that was causing his troubling malaise. He had to make a huge effort to wrench himself from the bed and get under the shower.

Madeleine was alone, the remains of her breakfast in front of her.
In spite of his dark glasses, Fabien found the sunlight bouncing off the whitewashed walls of the terrace painful. She greeted him with a smile.

‘Good morning. How are you?’

‘It’s still a bit early to say.’

‘I see. Tea or coffee?’

The first mouthful of coffee instantly made him want to vomit.

‘A roll?’

‘No, thanks.’

There was something suspect about Madeleine’s demeanour, all that solicitude, the little smile that presaged nothing good.

‘Is Martine not down yet?’

‘Yes, she is. She’s already gone to the beach. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to eat something, maybe some fruit? It would do you good.’

She was like the wicked witch from Snow White with the poisoned apple in her hand.

‘No, nothing at all.’

‘All right, then. I hope you’re going to leave us alone now.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Now that you’ve got what you wanted and the holidays are over, you’re going to disappear, aren’t you?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not really following you.’

‘Alcohol obviously doesn’t agree with you – you’re normally quicker on the uptake. Let me spell it out. You’re not planning to continue your affair with Martine, are you?’

‘I don’t see how that’s anything to do with you. Martine’s a grown-up.’

Madeleine’s lips quivered. ‘Of course, and so are you – at least
I hope so. But Martine’s had a bad time recently. Her husband was—’

‘Killed in a car accident.’

‘Ah … she told you.’

‘Yes. She also told me that you’re the ex-wife of her deceased husband. That really is fine with me.’

‘Well, since you’re so broad-minded, perhaps you can understand my point of view. Martine is a very fragile person, much more than you might imagine. I’ve known her for a long time and I’m very fond of her. The fact that I stayed friends with her even after Martial left me for her proves it. She needs me, she needs my protection. She is completely defenceless on her own.’

‘But defenceless against what? I’m not going to eat her!’

‘Fabien, I’ve been watching you for a long time. You’re not straightforward. You’re not who you say you are. If you had been just after a holiday flirtation, you would have slept with Martine ages ago. You’re up to something. And I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before – I’ve been sure ever since the first day.’

‘That’s nonsense. You’re mad with jealousy, that’s all.’

‘Yes, and what if I am? I don’t think you get it. Jealousy’s not an emotion you’ve ever experienced. Your heart is shrivelled. I don’t like you. I’m not going to let you do it.’

‘But do what, for the love of God?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘It’s a shame, Madeleine; I like you a lot.’

‘Let her go then.’

Fabien didn’t reply. The woman seemed to know him better than he knew himself. She was attributing schemes to him that he hadn’t fully formulated yet. His criminal impulses of the night
before came back to him like a sudden flush of fever. There was no one else left on the white-hot terrace.

‘Did you have a row this morning?’

‘I told her what I thought.’

‘And she told you to keep your nose out of her business.’

‘Yes.’

‘So she’s not as fragile as all that. Excuse me, I have some postcards to write. See you later.’

The two days before their departure were stormy. The sea was swollen with enormous waves, which came and slapped against the rocks. Bathing was forbidden and no boats were allowed to leave the port. Without the sun, the little town was even bleaker than the suburbs of Saint-Nazaire in November. Lost tourists in trainers and pac-a-macs trailed between souvenir shops and bistro-restaurants. There was something oppressive in the air, like when the metro stopped between stations. Even the bread at mealtimes was limp. Martine, Madeleine and Fabien exchanged banalities when they were all together, which was rare since there was always one of them who stayed in their room. Martine had not been back to Fabien’s room. It looked very much as if Martial’s ex-wife had taken charge again. She seemed very sure of herself, even going as far as to make a few little jokes about
their bucolic existence. Fabien could happily have stamped her face into a manhole, but he did his best to let nothing show other than a dignified melancholy. It was like that all the way to Orly. He thought that he had definitively lost the game until, as they parted, Martine slipped a piece of paper into his pocket.

‘Well, all good things come to an end. Goodbye, Fabien.’

‘Goodbye, Madeleine, it was a pleasure to meet you.’

They went off in one direction, he in another. Without even looking at the paper, Fabien knew perfectly well that what he would find there would be: ‘45 Rue Charlot’ with a telephone number.

He felt as if he’d been away for a very long time. The walls of Paris were covered with posters for new films, new adverts. Some people were still in shorts whilst others were already in corduroys and woollens. Rust-coloured patches were beginning to appear in the leaves of the plane trees. It was almost as if you could smell the new school bags. It had been years since he had seen Paris from this angle. It was worth leaving if only to come back. He climbed the stairs at Gilles’s four by four, whistling ‘Revoir Paris’.

‘Here you are! Shit, like the tan! You’ll be able to hook up with Laure now; you look like a real Californian surfer!’

‘How are you?’

‘Good, good. I’m not kidding, you look great.’

‘Is Léo not here?’

‘No, I’m going to collect him soon; we’re going out for supper.’

‘Fantastic! I’ll join you.’

‘Mmm … it’s just that we’re going with Fanchon,
en famille
, you know?’

‘I see. You’re back together?’

‘Sort of … But we’re still living separately. It’s better for the kid. I’ll explain it later. But what about you? How was the holiday?’

They leant on the windowsill and Fabien produced a string of picture-postcard images, landscapes, the sea, the sun, spiced up with anecdotes like his sea rescue. He described the two women, but without giving them any more importance than the price of paella or the impressive measures of Ricard that were served in all the bars.

‘But you did screw one of them?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good on you. I was beginning to worry about you before you left. You were behaving really strangely. Never mind, back on track now. I’ve also made some back-to-school resolutions. I’m not going to get stoned any more. Fanchon has calmed down. Anyway, I can’t be bothered with that shit … God! I’d better get going. There must be some leftover chicken in the fridge. If I don’t come back tonight, it’s because I’ll be at Fanchon’s. See you later.’

Fabien was a bit disappointed. The housework was done, Léo’s toys tidied away in red, blue and yellow plastic crates, no clothes trailed on the beds. Gilles had capitulated. Fabien showered, drank a glass of wine and dialled the number on the piece of paper.

‘Martine?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me. Are you alone?’

‘No.’

‘Tomorrow then?’

‘Two o’clock. All right?’

‘That’s fine.’

They hadn’t even said goodbye to each other or ‘love you’. Fabien had finished the bottle of wine and nibbled on the chicken while sitting in front of the telly, watching a film he’d already seen.

Gilles had come home during the night. In the morning, as he came to and drank his coffee, he had told Fabien about his evening. Everything had gone fine in the restaurant with Léo. They’d been a real little model family. Then back to Fanchon’s, everything still going well. But after making love like gods, for some reason they began to talk about money again and: ‘Who does she think she’s kidding! She’s just got herself an office for five thousand a month, and she claims money for Léo from me! And it was me who paid for dinner!’

Fabien was happy to have his friend back in his dressing gown, hair all over the place, embroiled in his marital and money problems. He felt at home again. Had he not made that arrangement with Martine, he would happily have spent the day playing Lego with Gilles.

The Celtic was open again. Fabien stopped off there just long enough to have coffee at the counter. Loulou was back at the spot
he would occupy for eleven months, hanging like an umbrella from the bar. He shook Fabien’s hand like an old friend and the
patron
was obliged to do the same. Perfectly at ease, he exchanged a few words about the holidays and sun, and concluded, as he was paying, with his father’s magic formula, ‘When you got to go, you got to go.’ The sensation of being exactly where he ought to be made him euphoric. He skipped up the stairs at 45 Rue Charlot.