The Islanders (6 page)

‘Come in, come in, Olivier. Not too much the worse for wear? You hit it hard last night!’

‘I’m sorry, I …’

‘Ah, don’t be silly, we’ve all been there. Come on in – the coffee’s still warm, it’ll do you good.’

There was no trace of the previous night’s battleground on the table; it had all been swept away, scrubbed clean, as if nothing had happened. The room was filled with an aroma of fresh coffee and toast that could make you believe in the possibility of contentment.

‘Take a seat. I’ll get you a bowl.’

Unconsciously, Olivier chose the same place he had occupied the night before, as though trying to take the scene from the top and play it differently this time. Rodolphe returned from the kitchen and set a steaming bowl of coffee down in front of him. Olivier took a sip and almost choked when the blind man asked, ‘Is Roland not up yet?’

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘He didn’t sleep in his room so I guessed he must have crashed at yours. You left together last night – don’t you remember?’

‘Um …’

‘Well, you did! You started having a go at him at one point. I can’t remember what it was about … Oh, yes! You told him he didn’t know what love was after he’d made some smutty comment about women. You made up a while later and seeing as we’d finished all the wine, you asked everyone back to yours for a nightcap. Personally, I’d had enough, so I didn’t come. I like a drink too, but as soon as I hit a red light, that’s it! Off goes the engine.’

Olivier’s head was filled with a thick liquid which sloshed
from side to side like the contents of a shaken jar. The smell of coffee was making him queasy.

‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it, Olivier? I can tell … Oh, I know what it is! He’s gone, hasn’t he? He’s stolen your wallet and done a runner. The little bastard! You can’t trust these people. Only … it’s weird he left his jacket and bag behind. They were on his bed when I went into his room this morning …’

Without his dark glasses on, Rodolphe’s cross-eyed gaze was directed towards a point just above Olivier’s head. He was slowly running his fingertips over the oilcloth, pleating the edges between his fingers. Olivier was on the verge of going crazy. He leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair.

‘No, dammit! It’s not that … Where’s Jeanne?’

‘She’s gone shopping. What’s the matter, Olivier? Calm down! How about a drink? I managed to save a bottle of brandy from last night’s carnage. It’s a good one; it would have been a waste. It’ll perk you up. Have a seat in the armchair and tell me what’s up.’

Olivier slumped into the chair with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. Rodolphe may not have been the person he was hoping to confide in, but better this than be left alone with his thoughts.

‘There you go. Get that down you.’

Olivier downed the brandy in one. A rush of warmth ran from his head to his feet and the tremors racking his body abruptly ceased. Rodolphe poured him another glass, which he drained in the same way as the first. He was starting to breathe almost normally. He sat back and closed his eyes, arms dangling either side of the chair.

‘He’s dead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘He’s in the bathroom, dead.’

‘Dead how?’

‘Strangled.’

‘What! You mean hanged? Is that it, he’s hanged himself in the bathroom? Committed suicide?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know anything about it! I found him slumped against the bathtub this morning with sick everywhere and my tie round his neck. I can’t remember any of it! This is a nightmare!’

A wave swept over him. Olivier curled up, tears streaming over his hands, his back heaving with sobs. Rodolphe pulled up a chair alongside him, holding the brandy bottle in his hands. He had put his black glasses on and kept repeating, ‘With your tie … with your tie …’ until they heard a key in the door.

Jeanne appeared holding a basket with a bunch of leeks sticking out of it, emanating a haze of chill carried in from outside. Olivier kept his head down.

‘What’s going on here? Rodolphe?’

‘It seems our friend here has a problem. A very big problem.’

Jeanne put her basket on the table, took off her coat and knelt down in front of Olivier.

‘Olivier? … What is it? Is something wrong? … Olivier, answer me.’

Olivier went on hiding his face and shaking his head. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Besides, even if he tried to speak, no words would come out, as his Adam’s apple appeared to have swollen to the size of a pétanque ball.

‘Rodolphe, what’s happened? Tell me!’

‘When he woke up this morning, he found Roland dead in his bathroom, strangled with his tie.’

‘What are you talking about? What do you—?’

‘Calm down, Jeanne, I’m only repeating what he’s just told me. The two of them left here last night pretty well pissed and
went across the hall for one final drink. That’s the last thing he remembers. Total blackout.’

Jeanne stood up and took a few steps over to the window, parting the curtain slightly. It had snowed during the night but the road was already dirty, covered in crossings-out. She slowly made her way back across the room, sat on the arm of Olivier’s chair and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

‘Is it true, Olivier? Is that what happened?’

With his hand covering his mouth, he lifted his head and nodded. His eyes and nose were streaming. The hair slicked to his forehead made him look as if he had been pulled from the sea.

‘Can you really not remember anything?’

‘No, nothing. I don’t understand …’

He didn’t recognise the sound of his own voice. It was breaking like that of an adolescent, veering from low to high from one syllable to the next. Rodolphe poured himself a brandy and cleared his throat.

‘Maybe he hanged himself and the tie came unhooked. We should go and have a look.’

‘No! I don’t want to go back there!’

Olivier’s hand gripped Jeanne’s knee beside him on the armrest.

‘Rodolphe’s right, Olivier. That’s bound to be what happened. The guy was clearly at the end of his rope. He must have been feeling low after a few drinks … And anyway, why on earth would you have killed him? It’s ridiculous!’

Olivier was slowly coming round to this idea. It made sense. The mental blackout had made him panic. Roland had killed himself; that was the only possible explanation. A glimmer of hope had sprung from the depths of the abyss. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, sniffing.

‘OK, let’s go over there. Rodolphe, can I have another glass?’

As they went deeper into the flat, the smell of vomit intensified until, approaching the bathroom, it became unbearable. Olivier pushed open the door but could not stand to look.

‘Oh my God!’

Jeanne froze in the doorway, her shoulders shuddering as she retched. Then she took a step inside. She struggled to turn her eyes from Roland’s broken-doll body in order to study the ceiling. There was nothing remotely like a hook, not even a light fitting. The room’s only illumination was provided by a strip light on the wall above the cabinet. The two ends of the tie were hanging either side of the neck, and there was no slipknot to be seen. Hovering just outside the door, Rodolphe was becoming agitated.

‘What can you see, Jeanne?’

‘Nothing. Nothing that helps. Olivier, was he like this when you found him?’

‘No, he was kneeling against the bath with his head and arms dangling into the tub.’

‘Did you undo the tie?’

‘No, I didn’t touch anything. I thought he was asleep so I pulled him backwards. I let go when I realised he was dead.’

Jeanne scoured the walls for clues that might back up the theory of suicide, but she drew a blank. Rodolphe kept pressing her.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing on the ceiling?’

‘I told you, there’s nothing there!’

‘Well then, he can’t have hanged himself.’

Olivier went back out into the corridor, threw himself against the wall and slid to the floor. The tiny flicker of hope had been extinguished. Clenching his jaw, he muttered, ‘It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!’ but even he was not convinced. He would almost prefer to have killed the man and remember doing it than not know either way. He could slap himself as many times as he
liked, nothing was coming back to him. Jeanne and Rodolphe were trying to calm him down when two rings at the door made all three of them freeze.

‘Shit! It’s Madeleine … I can’t, I can’t!’

‘You have to, Olivier. Tell her you’re ill, make her go away, but you must answer the door.’

His legs could barely hold him. They seemed to be working independently of one another and he could not get them to move in sync. The door seemed to be miles away. The little old lady looked even more wizened than she had done that morning.

‘Ah, you’re in, jolly good. Oh, but I must say you’re not looking any better! Would you like me to call a doctor?’

‘No, thank you, Madeleine. I’ve taken an aspirin. I just need to keep warm.’

‘Suit yourself, but you must be careful in this deathly cold. Personally, I get the flu jab at the first sign of winter. If you like, I could warm up some broth for you. I’ve got some left over from—’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’

‘OK, OK. Right then, I did as we discussed, I’ve got a lovely wreath with the message “To my dear maman”. It’s more affectionate, don’t you think? I picked up a chrysanthemum to give from me, just the one but it’s a good size and—’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m very tired. How much do I owe you?’

‘Yes, yes, I understand. Here’s the receipt then … They had cheaper ones, but for your maman …’

‘Just a second, I’ll write you a cheque.’

Olivier was filling in the amount when he heard Madeleine entering the flat.

‘Goodness, there’s a funny smell in here …’

‘Don’t come in! I’ve been sick and I haven’t had a chance to clean up. Here’s your cheque, thanks again, goodbye.’

Before the old woman could draw breath, Olivier had closed the door on her. He heard her muttering to herself before hobbling off down the stairs. Hundreds of tiny stars were dancing before his eyes. He was thirsty.

Times like these called for leek soup. In fact, perhaps making soup was the best thing to do. Olivier’s snores travelled from the armchair where he was slumped in the lounge to the kitchen where Jeanne was peeling vegetables. The alcohol and sleeping pills had finally overcome his nerves. Rodolphe had gone for a walk around the block, calm was restored and she felt at home again.

After leaving the flat opposite, Olivier had gone through every stage of hysteria, from absolute dejection, convinced his only option was suicide, to almost mystical bursts of elation which made him want to run naked through the streets, banging his fists against his chest, blaming himself for all the wrong in the world and briefly hearing the voice of reason telling him to hand himself in at the nearest police station. Only after the two Mogadon pills had kicked in could a more pragmatic solution be considered. With Olivier out for the count, Rodolphe had stretched out his limbs and sighed.

‘Well, here we go again!’

‘What?’

‘The two of you, with the body of an innocent victim on your hands. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t suppose you’re planning on calling the emergency services, are you?’

‘No more than you are.’

‘Ah, but it would suit me just fine to see the back of that arsehole. One quick phone call and it’s timber for Olivier the olive tree!’

‘You wouldn’t do it.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because you love playing the game, and it’s not over yet. And because there’s nothing to say you didn’t go with them last night or decide to join them later.’

‘Ah, come on! Have pity on a poor blind man! Would you really point the finger at your own brother? Anyway, what makes you so sure you’d escape the blame?’

‘I’m not pointing the finger at anyone. I don’t care who did it. The police, on the other hand … You’re the one who brought the guy home. People will have seen you together all around town.’

‘So what? It’s not my flat he died in.’

‘No, the one directly opposite. Give it a rest. I know exactly where you’re trying to go with this, and you can stop it now.’

‘Fine. So what do you suggest? Fausses-Reposes forest?’

Jeanne had gone back to the flat. She had a hell of a job getting Roland’s already stiffened limbs to lie straight against his body. It was like grappling with a partially defrosted chicken. Then she got on with cleaning the bathroom. Later on, when it was dark and Olivier had woken up, they would take the body down to the car and dump it in the woods. Just another settling of scores between rough-sleepers …

Jeanne undid her apron. The pressure-cooker valve was beginning to whisper, puffing out steam which condensed in fine droplets on the dirty windowpanes. It smelt good, like sweat after making love. She and Olivier had only done it once, in the cabin deep in the woods. It was in August when everyone was away on holiday. They had made love because it needed to be done, like getting a passport or a vaccination. They were both virgins. Nature had done its best to help things along. It wasn’t good or bad; they didn’t know what it was. The air was heavy. Pulling their underwear back on afterwards, they felt damp, sticky and strangely sad. Later, when they brought little Luc there, they recognised the
small brown bloodstain on the makeshift sofa, formed of the back seat of a Peugeot 203. It looked like an official seal.

From the moment she opened the door to Olivier, she had known for certain their destinies would be entwined again. It was like opening a book on the page it had been left at the night before. They had been asleep for twenty-five years and now they were waking up again, side by side, the stuff of fairy tales. Never mind that he had aged, that he was an alcoholic; their real life had always gone on in parallel to the life other people led. They had their own ways, their own language which made them constant. This deep conviction gave rise to a quiet strength that nothing in the world could undermine.

The valve began to whistle loudly: the soup was ready.