The sun has not yet reached its zenith, and already it burns the skin. Rémi wipes his forehead with the hand holding the cultivator, then continues clearing the slope. The sunscreen meant to protect him leaves him instead with the unpleasant sensation that he is roasting in his own juices.
Saturday. Victor has gone to work. A notary’s duties are demanding. Rémi is used to it. Their lives are all the more parallel for it.
Early this morning, the men woke the neighbourhood with their lawn mower. Not that there is much for them to mow: the sky has given no water for two weeks. The grass is almost hibernating and turning yellow. City authorities have not yet imposed water rationing, and the bourgeoisie is sprinkling away with abandon to preserve the proper colours of suburbia. Rémi’s pool occupies nearly the entire backyard. The remainder has been landscaped as a rock garden dotted with flowering shrubs and bushes. No lawn, thank God.
He observes his shadow. His straw hat distorts his silhouette, his bent back making him look like an old Chinese man sowing his rice paddy. Where will he be in forty years? Under the sun? Sweating? He returns to his weeding.
Crouched near the hedge at the back, he can hear and glimpse what is happening on the other side. The neighbour—the Cobra from the Internet—is sunbathing. White swimsuit, body immobilized by suntan lotion. A few words would be enough, and the heat would do the rest, but Rémi keeps weeding. He begins to hum, to keep his composure.
To his right, his neighbour Émile is sitting on his porch, drinking a beer. A thin trickle of music from the house cannot quite make it through the wall of hedge. Rémi hears only a vague, dull boom, boom. He can, however, hear Émile burp and laugh at his accomplishment perfectly well.
Nothing else is happening in the neighbourhood. Several houses have been abandoned for the construction holiday. Those who stayed in the city have probably fled to shopping centres and movie theatres. Or they are like Rémi’s immediate neighbours across the street, who keep their blinds closed. The old woman hates the light; the retinas of her eyes can no longer bear it. She has probably forgotten why, since she suffers from Alzheimer’s. Her husband likely cannot remember either; they are so old. Only on rare occasions does Rémi notice any movement in the still waters of their daily lives: mostly a nurse who speaks very loudly, an infrequent relative visiting—unless it is a salesman peddling graves—and their only son, single and unadorned, already grown quite round from idleness, who comes once a week to mow the lawn and put out his comatose parents’ little bag of garbage.
Rémi hears a door open behind him. He turns around. The blind woman, a glass in her hand, steps out onto the patio. He gets up to greet her, then thinks better of it, since there is no point. He hesitates. The woman advances slowly, feeling for the railing. Her foot catches on a protruding board; she panics and drops her glass, which shatters.
“Shit!”
“Wait, I’m coming!” Rémi calls, rushing towards the hedge where he knows it is thinnest. “Don’t move. You’re barefoot, and there are large shards.”
“I’m made of salt.”
She strikes a comical pose.
He silently picks up the pieces of glass.
“Such good whisky. How clumsy of me…”
“There… I’ve picked up the large pieces. It should be swept before you walk around. Do you have a broom? Sandals?”
“Don’t go to the trouble. I’ve got tough hide.”
She shows him the sole of one foot.
“They look like horse’s hooves…”
She laughs.
“I’ll take that as a compliment!”
He can make out her wide-open eyes behind the tinted lenses. They distort the harmony of her features, so completely do they seem not to belong to this world. The woman suddenly frowns.
“Tell me, am I bleeding?”
He examines her.
“No, you’re fine.”
“Good… Would you fetch me another whisky? The bottle and the glasses are on the counter. Don’t mind the mess. Obviously, nothing has been put away. No need for ice; there isn’t any, anyway.”
“I have some, if you’d like.”
“No, no, this will be fine,” she says, patting him on the shoulder.
“I’m still going to sweep.”
“That would be better, actually. I’m not bleeding?” she insists.
“No… Not that I can see,” he says after a cursory examination.
She leans against the wooden railing. He enters the house. It is indeed a mess. Boxes everywhere, several of them open. The house is laid out exactly like his, though perhaps a little less well maintained.
“Some decorators are coming today to see what they have to work with!” the woman calls, as though she can guess what Rémi is doing.
On the counter are glasses, the barely opened bottle of whisky, and numerous vials of medication. He cannot help reading their labels. He recognizes the disease instantly.
Ouch, he thinks, looking at the woman, who is still leaning against the porch railing, her head tilted back so the sun can reach her very pale neck. He pours her a glass. Fortunately, the broom is in plain sight. He returns to the patio.
“Thank you.”
She takes the whisky without raising it to her mouth. Instead, she sets it on the railing and smiles. He sweeps carefully around her. She holds out a hand.
“Allow me to introduce myself. Irène.”
“Am I supposed to kiss it or shake it?”
She bursts into genuine laughter.
“Kiss it if you like…”
He takes her hand and shakes it lightly. She chuckles, retrieves her glass, and immediately raises it to her lips. He resumes sweeping. Any debris that might have remained is quickly brushed through the gaps between the boards.
“There, everything’s clean. My name is Rémi.”
“Delighted, Rémi. Was I dreaming, or did I smell good bread coming from your place last night?”
“Oh, that’s right! Wait!”
He goes down the steps and crosses back through the hedge, which scratches his skin.
“Is the hedge really a sieve?” she calls, amused.
“No, I just know its weak spots,” he answers from his own porch.
He goes inside, first to fetch himself a tank top, then descends to the kitchen, grabs the bread from the counter, and retraces his steps.
“Here, for you—a welcome to the neighbourhood!”
He takes Irène’s hand and makes her touch the bread.
“Oh, that’s kind!”
Using both hands, she draws Rémi’s arm towards her so she can feel the bread.
“There’s basil in it, and cornmeal.”
“Got it!”
“I adore bread. Are you a baker in your spare time?”
“By profession.”
“Mmmmm, looks like I landed in the right place!”
“People often tell me that, actually.”
“What? Do your neighbours move often?”
“No, no. But making bread seems so magical in itself that people immediately take an interest in you…”
“It’s the staff of life… Make your own bread and survive.”
“Provided you can afford the flour…”
She laughs.
“True, I’m being silly. May I?”
She runs her hands over Rémi’s body, moving up towards his face. Delicately, she explores its angles, lightly pinches his skin.
“I’m blind, but I’m also a writer. I write erotic novels for women readers. Knowing the feel of men’s skin…”
Rémi says nothing, lets this woman’s strange antennae plunge into his hair, trace the arc of his eyebrows, circle the base of his neck. Rémi casts a quick glance at the fat neighbour with the beer, who, as expected, is not missing a second of the scene. Irène giggles.
“I really did land in the right place…”
“You haven’t explored below the waist.”
Once again, she bursts into her great sunlit laugh. Rémi carries the bread to the counter. He examines the vials of medication again. Some are familiar to him: Kaletra, three capsules morning and evening, with food. A label in red catches his attention: “KEEP REFRIGERATED.” She has not paid attention. Combivir. Two tablets morning and evening. He takes it upon himself to put the Kaletra where it belongs. In the refrigerator are other bottles, potions made from natural products.
He returns to the patio. She has not moved. He stands beside her.
“Wasn’t there another woman here?”
“Yes, Marie, my sister. She’s a flight attendant. She had a flight to catch.”
“So you’ve been left to fend for yourself.”
“I’m used to it, you know. And an entire crew will be arriving soon. In a week, this house won’t be the same! Nicole, my housekeeper, should be here any moment. I can certainly survive a few more minutes like this! Describe the place to me, please.”
“Well…”
He takes the time to look around the neighbourhood, to observe his house. What can he say? She seems to sense his hesitation.
“Is it so difficult for sighted people to see things as they are?”
“No, of course not. There are so many details, that’s all. I don’t know what interests you.”
“It doesn’t matter, you know. I’m accustomed to decoding other people’s interpretations. And then… my senses already tell me a great deal.”
“And what have they told you so far?”
She adopts a very serious tone.
“That my neighbour to the right is sexy, that he doesn’t wear cologne, that he makes good bread, and that he snoops around other people’s houses. As for the rest, I obviously haven’t had time to find out. The air smells good in this neighbourhood. There are many trees. That’s what appealed to me when I came to see the place. You can hear them talking to one another…”
A pause. She breathes in.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“Your neighbour to the right indeed does not wear cologne. He makes good bread; it’s his profession. Most of the houses date from the 1950s. They aren’t especially beautiful, but the architect at the time—since this was one of those first modern developments where houses were built in series—thought about families, and the rooms are large, cool, and well oriented. It was a family neighbourhood at first, but most of the properties have now been bought by gays or the new bourgeoisie. Everything has been renovated, except for a few houses occupied by valiant Gauls resisting the invader. On the other side, there’s a big truck driver who’s not a bad sort; his name is Émile. In fact, he’s sitting on his patio spying on us right now.”
“Is he handsome?”
“He could be, I think. Anything can be refined, you know.”
“I understand…”
“And… I wasn’t snooping around your house. I simply put your medication in the refrigerator…”
“I like you.”
“You’re direct.”
The doorbell rings.
“Ah, that must be Nicole. She’ll bring some order to this mess!”
“I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure we’ll talk again.”
“I hope so. And give me a kiss. I won’t tolerate a shake-hand.”
Salad: pieces of orange, tomato, raisins, flaked tuna, tamari almonds, feta cheese, hard-boiled egg, a few blanched vegetables. He covers both plates with plastic wrap.
He places a bottle of red wine on the table. The dry wine will be good with the salad. Victor arrives.
“Good evening!” he calls from the front entrance.
“Dinner is served!”
“I’m hungry!”
Victor enters the kitchen. He has opened his sweat-soaked shirt. He kisses Rémi on the cheek. Once again, Rémi notes the distance, even if the intensity is there.
“Do I have time for a shower?”
“Of course. Dinner isn’t hot, believe me!”
Victor lifts the plastic wrap from his plate and raids it for a few morsels.
“Mmmmm, with raspberry vinaigrette!”
Victor’s good mood intrigues him.
“I had a good day today. A new client, an art dealer—yet another one—who’s moving here. And a nice encounter, a friendly notary…”
“Go on, take your shower—or better yet, plunge into the pool.”
“Good idea!”
Victor returns a few minutes later in his swimsuit. He remains a handsome man despite his softening belly. Too many restaurants.
Victor dives quickly into the pool with a cry of relief. Rémi smiles and decides to join him. Fully dressed.
“But…”
Victor does not have time to finish his sentence before Rémi cannonballs beside him.
“You bastard!”
Rémi is proud of himself. Victor approaches and sets to work removing his clothes, his tank top and West Indian trousers. It is seven in the evening, too light for them to frolic in the pool where everyone can see, but that does not stop Victor from taking off his swimsuit and pressing himself against Rémi.
Eleven o’clock. It is not unusual for Victor, after one of Rémi’s infidelities, to come and unconsciously reclaim his stake. Happiness always seems possible in this house. Rémi is not sleepy. Happiness, then, lies in hiding, amusing itself by playing mercenary. The blind guerrilla warfare of desire.
As usual, Rémi sits on the steps leading into the pool. He studies the water that, a few hours ago, was clouded by their laughter and caresses. Happiness must be drunk in tiny sips; one must be thrifty, store it away like a good camel.
Which of their neighbours might have heard? Cobra? Irène? The thirtieth neighbour to the left?
He removes the few clothes he is wearing and walks around the pool, searching for the spot. In the night, the water seems infinite, tending towards black, which reminds him of a childhood dream in which he saw himself wandering through an old sewer or the murky conduits of an imaginary morgue—he does not know which. He walked along a narrow corridor that ended at a perpendicular canal. Leaning over the water, he saw corpses floating just beneath the surface towards an unknown destination.
He dives. The water protests, then closes over him. At once, the stifling heat disappears. Here, in this spot, Rémi had come in Victor’s hands. Happiness had offered itself easily, and Rémi had taken the bait. A short-lived happiness, since Victor had shut himself in the office to finish solving the puzzles in his game. He had only two worlds left to discover, he had announced. Rémi had smiled as neutrally as possible. Why not spend the evening together? He had not even opened his mouth to suggest it.
Now Victor is dead to the world in his sleep, drifting on the waters of oblivion. He did not come to wish him good night, or even thank him for this happiness so possible, so fleeting, so… condescending? On reflection, his friend’s hands were cold compared with Stéphane’s; his lips were flavourless, unlike the other man’s saliva. Rémi no longer likes the way Victor tastes.
He climbs out of the water. He would like to make love again, recapture that climax, that dictatorial blinding of the senses. Kill the boredom. Victor sleeps. Stéphane hovers in his mind.