This is Life (26 page)

‘Ah yes, I’ve been meaning to ask – so why
is
this all my fault?’

‘Well, maybe it’s not
all
your fault. The shooting Herbert part I managed completely by myself. But how I got Herbert in the first place . . .’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, do you remember our tutorial?’

Professor Papavoine nodded. He remembered aspects of it very well, particularly the extraordinary feeling he had experienced when she had walked into the room, and the way he had almost been
blinded by her smile.

‘So you remember my proposal?’

‘Er . . . no. That part, I’m afraid I don’t. Not really.’

‘You don’t?’

‘Well, maybe some dribs and drabs . . . something about archery? Or darts?’ He ran his fingers across his stubble. ‘I have a confession to make, Mademoiselle Renard: I never
pay a great deal of attention to my students’ proposals.’

‘What? Why not?’

‘Because they’re irrelevant. A piece can have the highest concept known to man, but still be total rubbish. Or an artist can have an idea that they can’t even articulate, but
which turns out to be a work of beauty. It’s all hot air: all that matters is whether or not the work they produce is any good.’

‘So when someone sits in your office and tells you they’re going to throw a stone into a crowd to find a random subject for their project, you just wave it through as if it’s a
perfectly reasonable idea?’

‘Ah, that was why you were throwing the stone?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not history’s most sensible idea, is it? But if you say I approved it, then I must have
done.’

‘I remember exactly what you said. You said,
That sounds fine
. You told me, in your capacity as professor, that throwing a stone into a crowd in the name of art would be
fine
.’

‘That’s what I say to everybody.
Fine
, I say. Everything is
fine
. But I see your point.’ He puffed his cheeks out, then made a kind of clicking sound with his
tongue. ‘I did give you
carte blanche
to hurl a projectile at a baby, didn’t I?’ He sighed. ‘All this has happened under the watchful eye of the department. I shall
probably lose my career over this, Mademoiselle Renard, but that’s no more than I deserve. I should have done my job. I should have listened more closely.’

‘No, you won’t lose your career. I’m not going to tell on you, and as long as I get Herbert back to his mother safe and sound at nine twenty-two on Wednesday morning, which I
will, everything’s going to be OK. Who’s going to know?’

They sat in contemplation for a while. So,’ said Aurélie, ‘come assessment time I could have presented you with any work at all and you would never have known whether or not
it had anything to do with my proposal?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK then, I’m going to change my project.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.’

‘Would it be OK for me to scrub the mixed-media aspect of it?’

‘Please, for God’s sake, get rid of it.’

‘My heart was never really in it, to be honest. All I really wanted to do was draw pictures. I only came in with a big concept because I heard the other students outside your office, and
they had all these fancy ideas, and I thought you would laugh at me or kick me out of college if I just said I was going to draw some things that took my fancy, even though I wanted to draw them
really well. And that’s when I came up with the stone idea, right at the last minute.’

Professor Papavoine laughed. That was the second time in as many days that he had heard something very like this. ‘That is all I ever want to hear from my students,’ he said,
‘that they want to do something really well. I hear such nonsense sometimes that it makes me despair.’

‘Then despair no more. I now know what I really want to do. I’m going to do an enormous drawing of Herbert. A really huge one, on a really big piece of paper, three metres square.
And if anyone ever asks me what it’s all about, I’ll look at them as if they’re stupid and tell them it’s just a giant drawing of a baby.’

‘Excellent news. That sounds fine. I mean it
actually
sounds fine this time. Just one thing . . .’

‘What’s that?’

‘This picture . . .’ He looked at her intently. ‘Don’t just do this drawing really well. I want you to do it really, really, really well. I want you to make it brilliant
– the best thing you have ever done.’

‘It’s a deal.’

‘Oh, and one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘You and Herbert are staying with us until Wednesday.’

‘That’s so nice of you. But I didn’t bring any spare clothes. My bag was full of Herbert’s stuff.’ She had been staggered by just how filthy clothes can get when
there’s a baby around. ‘I’ve got to go back to my place to do laundry and that kind of thing.’

Madame Papavoine came to the rescue. ‘We’ll wash the clothes you came in, and I’ve got plenty that will fit you. And while you were sleeping I went out and got a couple of
outfits for Herbert.’

Aurélie felt like crying. They were so nice.

After dinner, Liliane told Aurélie that if she called her Madame Papavoine one more time she would shoot her in the neck, then she took her to her enormous walk-in closet, and together
they picked out some outfits for her stay. Liliane was determined that Aurélie would not look older than her years, and between them they picked out a pile of clothes that suited her.

Meanwhile, at Euro Disney, the Thibodeaus had finished their second ride on
Indiana Jones et le Temple du Péril
.

‘That was most exhilarating,’ said an unsmiling Monsieur Thibodeau. ‘Your friends cancelling on us at the last minute turned out for the best. We would never have come here
otherwise.’

‘
My
friends? They’re
your
friends.’

‘
My
friends? I find them quite exhausting company, with all their joking, and their talk about cultural matters. To be honest with you, I’ve only ever put up with them for
your sake.’

‘But I’ve only ever put up with them for
your
sake.’

‘Well, there you are.’

They both gazed into the middle distance for a while as they contemplated their situation.

‘Do you remember Bavaria?’ asked Monsieur Thibo-deau.

Madame Thibodeau shuddered at the recollection of their week in a cabin with the Papavoines. Their continual attempts at lifting the atmosphere with conversation and games had tested both the
Thibodeaus’ patience to the limit, but neither had said a word at the time, each not wanting the other to think they were intolerant of their friends.

‘Oh well,’ said her husband, ‘it’s over now. We’ll never call them again, and if they call us we’ll just tell them we’re too busy to meet up. Would you
like one more go on
Indiana Jones et le Temple du Péril?
’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Let’s move on. I want to dance with Mickey Mouse.’

Aurélie emerged from Madame Papavoine’s large closet in a grey knee-length dress. She felt as if she was about to go to a fancy restaurant, rather than spend an
evening sitting around indoors, but she didn’t mind. Apart from her little black number the night before, which didn’t really count, she hadn’t worn a dress for ages. It fitted
her perfectly, and she felt as if it had transferred some of Madame Papavoine’s elegance to her. It was a good feeling. She decided to wear dresses more often, like Sylvie.

Herbert was stirring from his nap. Aurélie picked him up, and they all went through to the living room, where Professor Papavoine was watching the final item on the news. It was the art
show that everybody was talking about.

Television cameras were not allowed inside
Life
, so for visuals they had to make do with footage of the queues at the venue’s box office and a montage of promotional photographs of
Le Machine. The newsreader reported that the night before, Le Machine had ordered wine after he had finished his beer, and that after a six-hour sleep he had woken with what appeared to be a
hangover. Then he had lifted some glass weights, and used a special cloth to collect his sweat, which he then dripped into a bottle. He had a breakfast of cereal and milk, walked up and down a lot
with a thoughtful expression, and had a salad for lunch. The very latest reports suggested that he had ordered a medium-sized portion of spaghetti Bolognese for his evening meal, but no alcohol to
go with it. The consensus of opinion seemed to be that he was on a health kick following his binge of the night before.

The report kept the big news, what everybody really wanted to know, until last: Le Machine had now done nine wees, but had yet to do a poo. The newsreader delivered this last fact in a critical
manner, as if Le Machine had assured everyone who had bought a ticket that they would get to see him evacuate his bowels, and that he had reneged on this deal. He was using the tone of voice he
normally reserved for surrounded gunmen who had agreed to give up their weapon, but had so far failed to do so.

Professor Papavoine found this all very amusing. He looked away from the television, and saw his wife and Aurélie standing together, with a very lively Herbert in Aurélie’s
arms. They could have been three generations of the same family.

His eyes seemed to mist up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, quietly, and he left the room.

Aurélie watched the concluding summary of the headlines. She had been in a bubble for days, and it was disorientating to be reminded that there was a world out there, and everything was
going on just as it always did, as if she had never thrown a stone at a baby. Furious farmers were blocking roads with their tractors, the police were searching for a killer, and President
Bruni-Sarkozy had felt the need to call yet another press conference to deny that he was planning a full-scale invasion of Spain.
As much as I would love to invade Spain
, he was saying,
I
have had a long conversation with my Finance Minister, with whom, incidentally, I am not having an affair, and she has told me that with the current economic climate and the doubt hanging over the
future of the euro, it is not a viable option for France at the present time.
The assembled reporters groaned with disappointment, and he gave his trademark
What can I do?
shrug. His
wife was by his side, wearing a perfect dress as she smouldered into the cameras.

A few moments later Professor Papavoine was back, just as upbeat as he had been before, and clutching a Monopoly box.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘as soon as the boy’s down for the night we’re playing this. So who can remember the rules? I know I can’t.’

T
he boat had moored after its trip up and down the river, and the diners were disembarking. Sylvie’s final table was clear, and her double
shift was over at last. As always on a Saturday, she had made a small fortune in tips, and she had decided that this would be one of the jobs she kept on as she took her certificates in child care.
She was hoping to hang on to her apartment, and in a good week this day alone would cover most of her rent. With all her tables clear, she joined the Akiyamas and Lucien. She fervently embraced
Madame Akiyama, and then Monsieur Akiyama, who didn’t know quite how to respond. Then she kissed Lucien and, at their invitation, sat down with them.

Toshiro’s parents had been served by one of her colleagues, and as she had watched them from across the room she had decided that they needed to know everything about her. She didn’t
want them to be shocked by finding out her history at a later date. She was going to give them a crash course in Sylvie Dupont, the good and the bad, and then she would see if they still wanted her
to marry their son.

An hour later they were still there, the last diners left on the boat, as the cleaners were starting to put chairs on tables. Madame Akiyama was weeping into her napkin. She
had heard about Sylvie’s parents, about her stealing and her drinking, and about her army of unhappy exes, and how hard she had worked to overcome her difficulties. Sylvie had finished with
the tale of the two young men who had died. If they wanted to keep Toshiro away from her, she told them, she would be heartbroken but she would understand.

At Madame Akiyama’s request, she sang the song she had sung at the unfortunate boys’ gravesides. It was a simple tune that was believed to date from the fifteenth century. As she
sang, Lucien did not translate the words, which were about a bird that had hurt its wing, fallen from the flock and perished slowly on the ground, but the Akiyamas were touched to their cores by
the purity of Sylvie’s voice and the melancholy beauty of the melody. Even Monsieur Akiyama looked close to tears.

She hoped with all her heart that her potted autobiography hadn’t put them off her. Then she realised something, and felt ashamed. She had been so wrapped up in her own love story that she
hadn’t been doing nearly enough to help Lucien’s cause. She steered the conversation away from herself, and asked the Akiyamas what they had been doing that day. She made sure every
comment she made reflected well on their interpreter, so they might see him as a potential match for the lovely Akiko. She had grown very fond of Lucien, and was really hoping that he would one day
be her brother-in-law.

But Lucien had as good as forgotten about Akiko Akiyama. With every tale of heartache and triumph from Sylvie’s life, the girl from Funabashi had drifted further and further from his
heart. He knew he was staring into the abyss, but he couldn’t find the strength to look away. Nobody who was watching him as he interpreted the conversation would have thought that anything
was amiss, but in the back of his mind a song was going round and round: a song about a bird that had hurt its wing, fallen from the flock and perished slowly on the ground.

DIMANCHE

A
urélie had no idea what the time was. She had gone to bed shortly after storming to victory at Monopoly at around midnight. The baby had
been tucked up in a travel cot behind a screen in the corner of the Papavoines’ bedroom, and Liliane had told Aurélie she could sleep as long as she needed to, that they would take
care of Herbert until she rose. She found her phone, and saw that it was half past eleven. Until Herbert had come into her life she hadn’t realised it was possible to be so tired.