This is Life (11 page)

Aurélie had felt awful for poor Guillaume, but it was only when she related the story to Sylvie that she finally allowed herself to see the funny side. Soon the girls were crying with
laughter, and the thirty-minute coffee turned into six hours. By the end of it Sylvie had allowed herself to become as enamoured of Aurélie as Aurélie was of her.

Aurélie grew closer to Sylvie than she did with anyone from art college, and this was why she had been the one she had called when she found herself in trouble, and she was the one whose
apartment she was in, surrounded by shopping bags as she scooped purée into the mouth of a small boy whom she had, as Sylvie gleefully pointed out, sort of abducted.

Sylvie lent Aurélie her backpack to help her get everything home, and together they filled it with nappies, bottles of special milk and all the other things they had
bought for him at the supermarket, mainly duplicates of what had been in the bag. They had needed a spare set of clothes too, but hadn’t been in the best of neighbourhoods for that kind of
shopping. The rubberwear emporia weren’t much use to them, so they had found themselves with little choice but to go to a souvenir shop. They picked out a T-shirt with a picture of the
Eiffel Tower on it, and some trousers made from Mona Lisa fabric.

The owner, a gruff and gigantic man with a walrus moustache, came over and asked them what size they were looking for. Aurélie had no idea how to answer.

‘What do you mean
what size
?’

‘I mean how large or small would you like the clothes to be?’

‘Oh. I see.’

After a long silence, the man took the initiative. ‘Are they for your baby?’ He nodded in Herbert’s direction.

‘Er . . . yes, he’s my baby. And it’s all for him. He loves his home city. He’s very proud to be a Parisian.’

Herbert confirmed the extent of his civic pride by blowing a raspberry.

‘So,’ the man continued, ‘what size is he?’

‘Well,’ she pointed at him, ‘he’s that size.’

‘But how old is he?’ His face was beginning to betray extreme impatience.

‘Oh. That’s a good question.’ She had no idea. ‘Thank you for asking.’ She thought back to what Herbert’s mother had told her: ‘He’s . . . er . .
. Aquarius.’

The owner raised his hands into the air, and clenched his fists. His face lit up with delight. ‘A-ha!’ he cried. ‘A puzzle! I love puzzles. As my wife always says to me,
If
there is one thing you love, Théophile, it’s puzzles
. So, Aquarius . . .’ He bunched his enormous fists over his eyes. ‘He must be about . . .’ His fists unfolded
to reveal delighted eyes. ‘. . . nine months old?’

Aurélie supposed he was right. ‘Yes, exactly.’ She applauded, and jumped on the spot. ‘He’s exactly about nine months old.’ It sounded close enough, and she
was glad to know.

‘And what’s he called?’

‘Herbert.’

‘
Air-bear?
’

‘No –
H
erber
t
. H-H-H . . .’ She pulled the mirror from her bag.

The backpack was crammed with baby stuff. Aurélie couldn’t believe how much she had spent. The money she had saved from working over the summer, money she had
hoped would last her until at least Christmas was evaporating fast. She wondered how anybody could afford to have one of these things all year round. She had cancelled her regular weekend shifts to
give her time to concentrate on her project, so that would mean even less money coming in than usual. She was going to have to ask her boss for any work going once she had given the baby back. She
was about to buckle the backpack closed when Sylvie stopped her.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘One more thing.’ She raced into her bedroom, and came back out with something in her hand. ‘It’s a mean world out there,’ she said,
‘and you might need this.’ Smiling, she held her offering out to Aurélie.

It was a gun.

Aurélie froze. It took a while before she could speak again. ‘What’s that?’

‘Er, it’s a gun. I know it’s small, but it’s still a gun. It works just the same as a big one.’

‘But . . . what’s it for?’

Sylvie looked at her as if she had just asked her why Spain was so full of Spaniards. ‘It’s for shooting people.’

Aurélie still didn’t reach out for it.

‘Well, if you don’t want it, that’s up to you. If you think you can take care of Herbert all by yourself. It’s fully loaded and ready to go.’

Aurélie stared at it. ‘Have you ever used it?’ She dreaded the answer.

‘Yes. I’ve waved it around a bit. I’ve not shot anyone with it, though. I’ve not had to, they generally just run away. It’s got me out of quite a few difficult
situations. I carry it around quite a lot of the time, just in case, but I can live without it for a few days. And don’t look at me like that. If you were on your own in the world you might
want a bit of protection too. It’s my security blanket.’

Aurélie looked at the gun. She had always had a feeling that there were sides to her friend that she would rather not know about, and she had uncovered one of them right here. She
wondered how many times Sylvie had been armed when they had been out and about together. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘From some guy. He was the protective type. When I told him I was leaving he tied me up for a while, but he was a big softie underneath it all and after a couple of days he let me go. It
had finally sunk in that I really wasn’t going to stay with him, and he gave it to me then. He said he would feel he was always taking care of me if he knew I had it, that if anyone ever
tried anything funny I would be able to pop a cap in their ass. It was quite sweet, really. Apparently it’s a
ladies’ gun
. That’s what he told me, anyway.’

It was small enough to fit in a handbag, and it had a blue finish.

‘I don’t know . . .’ Aurélie could feel herself shaking.

‘You don’t have to shoot anyone with it. Just point it at them and they’ll go away. If anybody bothers Herbert . . .’ She released the safety catch, and finished her
sentence with a chilling clunk.

Aurélie still didn’t look convinced, and Sylvie continued her pitch. ‘If you really have to use it, which you won’t, just point it in the right direction and –
blam
. Just make sure you only use it on someone who deserves it. You don’t even have to kill them if you don’t want to. Just hurt them. Go for the knees if you really want them
out of action. I’ve tried it out in the countryside, so I know it works. I shot a few tree stumps.’

Aurélie hated guns. She had never wanted to be around them, let alone carry one. But she thought of how ill equipped she was to protect Herbert from the world at large, and all kinds of
improbable but petrifying scenarios flashed through her mind. It struck her that she hadn’t been joking about keeping Herbert alive for a week. It really was an urgent responsibility. The
following Wednesday she was going to hand him back to his mother in one piece, and she wasn’t going to let anybody get in the way of that.

She reached out and took the gun, and the moment she did her apprehension melted away. She felt a surge of power and excitement, and it was not an unpleasant sensation. Nobody was going to come near Herbert now. She put her finger on the trigger, to
get a feel for it. The gun fitted her hand perfectly: seven hundred and fifty grammes of cold blue steel.

JEUDI

N
early twenty years earlier two boys of eight, best friends and next-door neighbours, had been allowed out by their mothers on two conditions: that
they stay together at all times, and that they keep out of trouble. They had not hesitated in accepting these terms. Trouble was the last thing on their minds. Being out in the city alone was
enough excitement for them, and they set off through the streets to the Canal Saint-Martin to watch the boats go by.

The boys, Dominique Gravoir and Léandre Martin, knew the canal well,
having walked there with their families for as long as they could remember. Léandre Martin liked that it shared his name, and he had always thought of it as
his
canal. They threw
stones in the water, stood beside locks as barges made their way up and down the waterway, and when the canal disappeared underground they walked through the streets until they got to the point
where it re-emerged, at Port de l’Arsenal, where the boats, owned by rich people, were bigger, and were there to be stared at. Dominique Gravoir and Léandre Martin identified the one
they liked above all the others, and agreed that one day they would sail a boat just like it along the Seine to Le Havre and out on to the open sea.

From the Port de l’Arsenal, they walked by the river, along the Quai Henri-IV, and watched the big tourist boats go by.

It was Léandre Martin who first saw the cormorant. He watched it dive, then waited for it to come back to the surface. After a while, it reappeared. Léandre Martin said nothing,
but he kept his eyes on the bird. It dived again, then, after a long while, rose once more to the surface. It gave him an idea for a game.

Dominique Gravoir liked games. If anything, he liked them a little too much. He was a personable child, but whenever there was a challenge before him he would rise to it with a
single-mindedness that was absolute. People had noticed this about him, and had often commented on his
determined streak
. It wasn’t the kind of determined streak that would ever result
in a display of bad temper, but on the rare occasions when he was not victorious in whichever game he was playing, he would quietly and seriously reflect on his performance, and work out ways to do
better the next time. Nobody knew until it was too late quite how deep his determination ran.

When Léandre Martin told him his idea, Dominique Gravoir accepted the challenge straight away. Léandre Martin had thought carefully before mentioning the game,
and had only decided to tell his friend because it wouldn’t pit them against one another, and their day, which had been such a success so far, would not be blighted by competition. Instead of
boy against boy, it would be boys against bird.

The challenge was simple: they would watch the cormorant, and when it went under the water they would each hold their breath until it rose again. The aim was for them to beat the cormorant every
time. They would work as a team, and as long as one of them beat the bird, they would both consider themselves victorious.

The cormorant dived, and the boys held their breath.

It was too easy. The dive was short, and disappointing, and they wondered whether it would be much of a game after all. They kept their eye on the bird, hoping for a tougher round, and soon it
went down again. This time it was under for longer. Their eyes scanned the water, waiting for it to reappear. It seemed to be staying down forever.

When at last it popped back up, a few metres from where it had gone down, the boys finally breathed again, and were elated at having beaten the cormorant again, this time in a closely fought
battle. As they regained their breath they kept their eyes on the bird, waiting for the next round. Before long it went underwater again, and again Dominique Gravoir and Léandre Martin held
their breath.

Their eyes scanned the surface of the river as they waited for the bird to reappear. Léandre Martin often thought back to this third round of the game, and when he did it was as if he was
still there, standing on the quay with Dominique Gravoir by his side. He felt the pressure building inside him as he willed the bird to return to the surface, and this pressure turning to pain in
his lungs, and his head. It felt as if his eyes were about to pop out, and the veins in his temples were ready to burst open. The bird remained resolutely underwater as Léandre Martin fought
his instincts. His body was crying out for breath, and he knew that he needed it, but he would not let the bird beat him. He crouched into a foetal position, hoping this would help him, but it was
no use. He could stand it no longer. His mouth opened, and air flooded back into his lungs. Dizzy, he stood up, accepting defeat.

He looked over to Dominique Gravoir, and saw that he was standing still, with a familiar look of complete determination on his face that told him that while Léandre Martin may have given
up,
he
was not going to let this bird beat them. The boys were as close as brothers, and Léandre Martin knew that his friend would never cheat. There was no way he was secretly
breathing through his nose, as other boys might have done. Every day since then, Léandre Martin had wished he had somehow stopped him right then. If only he had playfully bumped him, or
tickled him under the arms, or even punched him in the belly. Anything to get him breathing again. It might have put him in a bad mood, but he would have got over it and they would have been
friends again by the end of the day.

Dominique Gravoir’s skin turned a shade of purple that Léandre Martin had never seen on a face before. His eyes were almost closed, staying open just enough for him to survey the
surface of the water. His fingers clenched into fists. Léandre Martin started to worry.

‘Well, you’ve beaten me,’ he said. ‘You and the cormorant have won.’ Dominique Gravoir gave him an angry look, and Léandre Martin understood why. They had
gone into this as a team, not in competition with one another. Dominique Gravoir had not beaten his teammate; he was now holding his breath for both of them.

His face betrayed the pain he was experiencing. ‘I think you should stop now,’ said Léandre Martin.

Dominique Gravoir shook his head.

‘I expect the bird’s surfaced downriver.’

Again Dominique Gravoir shook his head.

Léandre Martin knew that the bird hadn’t surfaced. There was an expanse of water before them, and the cormorant was nowhere to be seen. He was worried now. ‘Is that it over
there?’ He pointed. ‘I think I can see it.’

Dominique Gravoir was not fooled. There was no cormorant. With a horrifying mixture of determination and panic on his face, he fell to his knees. It was as if he had known what was going to
happen.

‘Give up,’ said Léandre Martin. ‘We can’t win every time.’ By this point he was shouting. He looked up and down the quay but it was quiet. The nearest
passers-by were a long way away, and walking in the wrong direction. ‘Breathe. Just breathe.’ At least he had said this. At least when he looked back on this day he knew he hadn’t
stood silently by and let it happen. He had done as much as an eight-year-old boy realistically could. He looked helplessly around him, wishing he had never thought of this game.