To begin with, I was playing with them and they did not realize. In the little game of ‘How long can you live without talking to your parents?’ I was capable of holding out for a long time. They would give in before me. But then I was rather pleased to discover an unsuspected power within me. I would never have believed how unsettling silence could be. Néron paid the price and, starved of communication, he deserted me and found refuge in Juliette’s bedroom; she was delighted to have him back. After a fortnight had passed, I began to sense signs of weariness. My mother and father had rows about me, though never in my presence. I loved hearing the sound of them arguing. My mother was not ready for this insidious warfare. I ignored her covert overtures and her peace initiatives. I watched them getting worked up, giving me sideways glances, talking about me as if I were crazy – ‘Perhaps there’s a problem that’s not obvious?’ – and wondering whether they should consult a psychologist. Franck was the only one not to be taken in. He urged me to stop ‘arsing around’.
Grandfather Delaunay asked one of his friends to intervene, a professor of medicine, whom they invited to lunch one Sunday. He observed me from a distance for two hours. I heard via Juliette that he had considered me tired and depressed. He advised some sporting activity and a course of vitamins. After that I was entitled to a glass of squeezed orange juice every morning. But I refused to join the football team. And still, to every question that was put to me, I waited, shrugged my shoulders, unable to make up my mind, and returned to my bedroom to read.
Juliette sometimes came and joined me. She sat at the side of the bed and Néron placed himself between us. She told me about her life in detail. I continued with my reading. I didn’t listen to her. Only Néron looked as though he were following her. After an hour or two, I stopped her: ‘Juliette, I’m going to sleep.’
She stopped, gazed at me sympathetically and gave me a kiss: ‘It’s nice when we talk to one another from time to time.’
One evening, over dinner, my mother raised the possibility of going to the cinema on Sunday afternoon to see John Wayne’s The Alamo, the film everyone was talking about. I was longing to go. Several months before the film was released, I had declared my admiration for Davy Crockett and my father had given me the cap with the fox tail made of artificial fur. My mother knew I would find it hard to resist. My father pretended that he had not been expecting this suggestion and declared that it was a wonderful idea. Before the showing, we would go and have lunch at the Grand Comptoir. He wanted to go to a cinema on one of the central boulevards. The film would look splendid on its giant screen. They looked at me and waited for a response that never came. I stood up without saying a word. I left the table. As I was going out of the door, I had an inspiration. I turned round. I opened my mouth as if about to say something. I held back so as to make the pleasure last. I only had to say yes for hostilities to cease and for life to go on as it had before, with an exciting film into the bargain, but I had developed a taste for masochism and provocation. I rammed the point home: ‘Next year, I’d like to go to boarding school.’
My father appeared bewildered. My mother sat open-mouthed, unable to understand. Franck looked surprised. I said nothing more. I couldn’t give a damn about their response, positive or negative. Had they agreed on the spot, it would have been all the same to me. They looked at each other without knowing what to say. My mother asked me: ‘Why?’
I paused in order to produce the maximum impact: ‘So that I won’t have to see you any more.’
I left the dining room. And that is why I missed seeing The Alamo on a panoramic screen. It immediately made me feel sick. My only consolation was that they did not see it either. I stayed in my room, hesitating. I came within a hair’s breadth of admitting my errors. I was on the point of giving in. With my ear glued to the wall, I could hear a more than usually fierce quarrel going on between my parents. It was the first time my father had gone out, slamming the front door violently behind him. My mother came into the bedroom. I pretended to be immersed in reading La Condition humaine. My cheeks were ablaze. My heart was thumping. I was doing all I could not to show how upset I was. She sat down at the side of the bed. She gazed at me in silence. I went on reading without taking in a word.
‘Michel, we have to talk.’
I put the book down.
‘Haven’t you gone to the cinema?’
She gazed at me intently, trying to understand me. But how could she when I reacted without thinking? Her confusion was palpable. I pretended to go on reading.
‘You frighten me. If you go on like this, you’ll find yourself on a slippery slope. You’ll ruin your life. I won’t be able to do anything for you.’
I looked up from my book as if surprised to see her there.
‘About boarding school, you weren’t being serious?’
I replied that that was what I wanted. She shook her head several times: ‘What’s the matter with you, Michel?’
I almost burst out laughing and told her that it was a bad joke and that I didn’t mean it. But something stronger urged me on: ‘I’d prefer it. It would be better, wouldn’t it?’
I turned away from her. I began reading again. I sensed her get to her feet. I did not hear her leave the room. She must be waiting. I turned around. She looked at me. We remained there, face to face. I knew instinctively that the first one to speak would have lost. I held her gaze without arrogance or insolence. The telephone began to ring in the dining room. No one picked it up. They had gone out. There were just the two of us. The ringing went on endlessly. We looked at one another without a word. The ringing stopped. The silence between us was restored. I saw her raise her arm. It remained in suspension with a slight quivering. I did not move. She hurled it with force. It was Malraux who bore the brunt. My book hurtled against the wall. She rubbed her hand and left the room. The front door slammed. I heard her steps growing fainter as she went downstairs. I was alone in the empty flat. The telephone rang again. I let it ring. That evening, Néron decided that our separation had lasted long enough. He returned to my bedroom and reclaimed his position at the end of my bed.
The following morning, Maria announced that I would be going to school on my own. My mother would not be coming to collect me any longer. During the afternoon, Sherlock, the head supervisor summoned me. He was a cold, sharp-featured man, with a natural authority. At the mere sight of him, you stopped talking. You stopped running and you bowed your head when you passed him. He had a way of scrutinizing you that made you feel guilty. And yet he had never been heard to raise his voice or mistreat a pupil. Pierre Vermont liked him very much and swore that he was one of the most cultured of men, a philosophy graduate who had given up teaching to go into administration. Sherlock asked me for my pupil’s pass. He looked at it suspiciously. He had my school record open in front of him. He glanced back and forth between his figures and me, while I shifted from foot to foot.
‘Marini, your results are not up to the mark. Especially in maths. If this continues, you’re going to have to repeat a year. You’ve got the final term to pull yourself together. You’re a year ahead, it would be a pity to waste it.’
He tore up the yellow card and replaced it with a pale green one, signed it, removed my photograph, which he stapled on, and rubber-stamped it. The green card indicated that I was free to leave after the last class. He handed me the pass. Just as I was taking it, he kept hold of it.
‘I don’t want to see you hanging around in bars any more. Is that clear?’
At five o’clock, I waited. Nobody came to collect me. For a moment, I felt like going to see my mother at the shop to tell her that I was sorry. I hesitated. I decided to go home. Nicolas was the first to be surprised at my change of attitude when I refused to go with him to the Balto or the Narval. I did not mention Sherlock, just said I had to get down to work or else… Nicolas was a realistic boy who spoke without any ulterior motives: ‘You and maths, it’s a hopeless case. But don’t worry, there are masses of jobs that don’t
require maths.’
If God exists, he’s my witness that I tried. Truly. I applied myself. I spent ages at it. So did Franck. He did everything he could to knock the wretched syllabus into my head. In my mind, it was worse than a blockage, it was emptiness. I would feel that I’d understood and was making progress, but as soon as he left me on my own, I plummeted. He persisted: ‘It’s not complicated. Don’t get worked up. Any idiot is capable of solving these problems! You must get there and you will.’
We spent entire evenings, Saturdays, Sundays and holidays at it. We didn’t succeed. When he explained a theorem to me, it all seemed obvious, but I was incapable of working it out on my own. A couple of his pals did their best but then gave up.
‘Don’t worry. It’s a matter of time and work.’
One day, even he gave up. He had his own exams to prepare for. I didn’t blame him for stopping. He had done all that a brother could do. Maths and me, we just didn’t get along together. There was nothing anyone could do. It wouldn’t be the first time inexplicable things occurred on this earth, nor the last time. I preferred not to think about what would happen if I had to repeat a year. I put the maths book back on the shelf and set off to meet Nicolas. Blow the consequences. We began to play baby-foot once more. We were given some drubbings and we handed out even more. That’s life, after all.
One evening, Nicolas wanted to change venues. Because he was so insistent, we went to the Narval. I had not been back there since Pierre left, three months ago. I did not want to come across Franck, who was convinced that I was racking my brains over Euclid, harmonic beams and quadratic equations. When he saw me at the baby-foot with Nicolas, he muttered ‘I see’ in a way that spoke volumes. I behaved as if nothing were the matter. My bad mood affected my opponents, who were given a thrashing. A group of spectators congregated around the baby-foot table. When we swapped teams, I glanced over hurriedly at Franck’s table. He had left the bistro without a word. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned round. Cécile was smiling at me.
‘Did you go missing?’
I realized that Franck had not told her anything about my family tribulations. I did not reckon it was worth expanding on the matter and adopted an evasive air: ‘I’ve had… a lot of work to do.’
Her eyes sparkled. I felt like I was melting into a warm puddle. I was dripping with sweat. For the first time in my life, I skipped my turn at baby-foot. The incredulous expression on the face of Nicolas, who had acquired a new attacker, increased my discomfort.
‘What’ll you have?’
We found ourselves at the bar. I had a café au lait, like her.
‘You know Pierre has left his records for you. I’m not going to cart them over to your place.’
Even though I protested and came up with a string of excuses, it was to no avail. I promised to come round one Saturday to collect them. As she left, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. I caught the smell of her lemony perfume. That night, I slept badly. Maria told me one should not drink café au lait late in the evening.
7
For some time, I kept a low profile. I could sense my mother holding back. The business was going through its tax audit and the inspector was asking awkward questions that she could not answer. Her smile had disappeared. She spent a huge amount of time plugging the holes and she feared a harsh penalty. My father, who worked as a sales director, knew nothing about management. She never missed an opportunity to remind him that she could not rely on him and had to cope with the unrewarding task of managing the business on her own. She spent hours on the telephone to Maurice, who gave her useful advice. For Mother’s Day, my father arranged for an enormous bunch of thirty-nine red roses to be delivered, and he booked a table at La Coupole. When my mother returned home in a hurry, shortly before midday, I wished her a happy Mother’s Day and showed her the wonderful bouquet. She scarcely glanced at it, she was so preoccupied about getting back to the shop to resolve some details with the chartered accountant before a meeting she was due to have with the inspector the following day. She left us without a word and rushed off without saying thank you for the flowers, which remained on the table. My father behaved as if nothing were the matter and cursed the sadistic officials, who had no consideration for wives and mothers whom they obliged to work on Sundays. He put the flowers in a crystal vase without removing the wrapping. We set off for lunch without her. Her absence ruined our appetites. When she came home in the evening, she never touched the bouquet, which remained in its cellophane paper. After two days the roses withered and Maria threw them away.
‘How could Franck have liked such a load of rubbish?’ he moaned.
I acted dumb. Deep down, I knew why Franck had liked the film so much. And I loved it for the same reasons.
Once the baccalauréat exams had started, school became less important. Nicolas and I spent our days in the Luxembourg gardens, reading, dawdling or rescuing boats that were stuck in the pond. When evening came, we went to the Balto for our daily game of baby-foot. I still now and then noticed the door with the green velvet curtain at the back of the restaurant, behind the benches where the lovers sat. It was a place one did not enter. Odd-looking men, never women, came to the Balto and simply vanished behind the curtain. I often wondered where the door led. None of my baby-foot friends knew. Old father Marcusot fobbed me off with a ‘You’re not old enough’, which disheartened me. Jacky used to disappear in there with drinks. When I questioned him, he shrugged his shoulders. Nicolas had brushed me off, saying: ‘What the hell does it matter to you what’s behind that door?’
‘Come on now, you donkeys, are you playing or dreaming?’ Samy called out, cocksure as ever, and off we went for another game.
8
At the end of June, what I had been dreading finally happened. Cécile was walking towards me up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. I could not avoid her. She rushed over to me. She was excited and spoke without finishing her sentences. She talked at the same frenetic speed as her brother. She asked me to come with her to the Sorbonne in a voice that brooked no opposition. Without waiting for an answer, she took me by the arm and dragged me into the university building. I was surprised by the continuous flow of students who walked up and down the stairs, amidst a pandemonium that required you to shout to make yourself heard. She hesitated, looking panic-stricken and ready to run away, then she gripped my hand very tightly. We went up to the first floor. She walked straight ahead, tense, head held high, pale, forcing her way through the dense mass of bodies with difficulty.
‘Michel, go and look over there, please,’ she said plaintively.
I turned around and saw a group of students congregated around some noticeboards on which the exam results were displayed. Some of them were cock-a-hoop and were waving their hands in triumph, others had collapsed or were in tears. I shoved my wa
y through and searched for her name among the endless lists. Sudden surges of the crowd moved me several feet away. I used my shoulders and elbows to steady myself with as much determination as if I were the one involved. Her name appeared: ‘Cécile Vermont: pass, with merit’. I struggled to extricate myself. Her eyes were closed. I yelled: ‘Cécile, you’ve passed!’
I rushed over to her. We fell into each other’s arms. She hugged me until I almost suffocated. I could feel her body, her panting breath on my neck, her smell, her shudders of joy. The embrace seemed to last for an eternity. My head was spinning. We remained pressed to one another for a few seconds longer than the mere explosion of delight at the results warranted. She took my face in her hands and murmured: ‘Thanks, little brother, thanks.’
It was the first time she had called me that. This new intimacy agreed with me wonderfully. When she kissed me on the cheek, my heart thumped. We walked back through the university in a jubilant mood. Up on her cloud, Cécile laughed, hopped from one foot to another, hugged everybody and cheered up those who had not got through. As if to emphasize her joy, she introduced me just by my first name. Several students gave me a puzzled look. I could sense them staring behind my back. I felt as light as a sparrow. We found ourselves on the Place de la Sorbonne once more among groups of students discussing their results. Cécile gradually recovered her natural calm. She spotted Franck before he saw her. As soon as he saw her looking so happy, he realized and took her in his arms. He whirled her round. They spent a long time kissing. Franck offered us a drink in a jam-packed café. Cécile began to talk about her exams and the traps she had known how to avoid. It was impossible to interrupt her. We didn’t want to. With her short hair and her tomboyish figure, she looked the spitting image of Jean Seberg. Just as beautiful, just as radiant, with the same grace and the same fragile intensity, except that Cécile had dark hair and large brown eyes.