Malavita Page 13

  “You OK, Ben?”

  “Fine, Fred.”

  “I was remembering that weekend in Orlando, with the children.”

  “I remember.”

  “We had such a great time. I think we even went to see Holiday on Ice.”

  “We did.”

  “Hope we can do that again one day.”

  “Me too.”

  “You know what I miss most? It’s a good bagel from the Deli in Park Lane, my favourite, with pastrami, fried onions, raw onions and those funny sweet peppers. And some pepper vodka.”

  “There are two different sorts, the red and the white.”

  “The red.”

  “That’s the best one.”

  “Apart from that, everything OK, Ben? Anything particular to tell me?”

  “No. Oh yes, I kept your cassettes. All your Bogarts.”

  “Even Dead End?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep them. Do you still go to the races?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, next time, in memory of your old uncle, play eighteen, twenty-one and three for me.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Big kiss, my boy.”

  “Me too.”

  Fred hung up, and turned to Maggie.

  “My nephew Ben is coming in two or three days to spend a weekend with us.”

  “How does he know the address?”

  “I’ve just given it to him.”

  “You’ve just given him the address?”

  “Yes, I’ve just given him the address.”

  “Quintiliani’s going to kill you.”

  “It’s done, he’ll just have to shut up.”

  “Hey, Gianni, is that story about ‘collateral damage’ true?”

  “Yes.”

  They switched out their lights at the same time. The day was ending as it had begun, with a transatlantic telephone call.

  “Ben can make us his polenta with crayfish,” she said. “The kids’ll be pleased.”

  Fred didn’t go down to the veranda that night. Maggie snuggled up in her husband’s arms and they went to sleep straight away.

  5

  Sandrine Massart stood silently in her dressing gown, with her arms crossed, watching her husband preparing for his trip to the Far East. For Philippe, nothing was more delightful than this series of studied little movements, refined over the months: packing the laptop into its black canvas case, picking out shirts according to carefully worked-out parameters, checking the weather in South-East Asia on the Internet, wrapping up the Hermès squares to give to his clients, not forgetting a book that wouldn’t be read, something connected to his destination. The simple act of changing the batteries on his Walkman, or clipping his vaccination certificate to his passport, gave him the added satisfaction of knowing the departure was imminent. Sandrine was resigned to him going away so often, but she resented the fact that he was unable to hide his happiness at leaving the house. At these moments, Philippe felt he was already in transit, far from the house in Cholong, nearly there – there, meaning anywhere else.

  They had got married fourteen years earlier in Paris, where he had just landed an office job in a sewing-machine factory and where she was finishing her law degree. Two years later, Philippe was offered a position as sales manager for a new company starting up in the Eure, just at the moment when Sandrine had the chance to join a law firm specializing in employment law: a choice had to be made. Little Alexandre was about to arrive, and so Sandrine didn’t feel too bad about abandoning the bar and the robes and moving the family to Cholong so that her executive husband could pursue his career.

  “It’s just a matter of three or four years, darling. Maybe you can find a law firm in the area?”

  But she couldn’t find anything in the area, and once Timothée was born, she gave up the whole idea. She never regretted her decision for a moment; giving up her career for such a good reason wasn’t a real sacrifice. Sandrine found a new kind of happiness in this big house which would shelter them all for ever.

  Until the day a French engineer in her husband’s company invented a crafty process which knocked twenty or thirty seconds off the assembly of the zip fastenings, and which, by saving time and manpower, could be worth huge sums to the manufacturing industry.

  Most of the Asian countries had bought the patent, and the brilliant Philippe Massart was given the job of finding new markets all over the world. Unable to delegate, Philippe was in the habit of personally finalizing each contract. And so these days he went away three or four times a month for stays of three full days in each place, sometimes more if he decided to combine two destinations reachable in less than three flights. What Sandrine found worse than the absences were the effects of the jet lag, which lasted just long enough to meet up between journeys.

  That morning he was leaving for Bangkok, to finalize an agreement which would allow his company to invest with the manufacturer himself, opening up new sectors – in other words the culmination of a long-term strategy that would promote him in the hierarchy without the slightest risk of demotion, and thus the preparations for this departure felt even more delightful than usual. Watching all this, Sandrine felt only silent resignation at the thought of the sad outcome of their common story.

  “Darling? You haven’t seen my guidebook, have you? The new one, I mean.”

  He had been swotting up the night before, unable to sleep, excited. The days of the Rough Guide and Lonely Planet were long over, now it was all Michelin, luxurious hotels and palm-fringed beaches. He had had the time to try one out on his last trip, and he couldn’t wait to go back.

  “I’ll see you on Tuesday, darling. If there’s a change of plan, I’ll ring.”

  All he had to do now was put on his grey flannel jacket, put his ticket in the inside pocket and kiss his wife.

  “A change?”

  “Perseil hinted that it might be a good idea to do a trip up to Chiangmai to sort something out with one of the suppliers. Anyway, I’ll let you know.”

  With a gesture that was still affectionate, Sandrine straightened her husband’s collar and smiled at him for the first time that morning. At the doorway, he gave her a peck on the cheek and went out to the waiting taxi.

  “Darling! I nearly forgot!” she lied, grabbing a magazine from her dressing-gown pocket. “Alex has been writing for the school magazine this year, a poem they chose from a whole lot of others. He’d love you to read it. If you’re bored on the plane. . . .”

  Caught out, he took the Jules Vallès Gazette, without quite knowing what to do with it, and put it in his briefcase.

  *

  His plane took off on time, the weather was good, business class was almost empty and the air hostess was pretty enough to eat. Bored on the plane? If Sandrine only knew . . . If she could only imagine . . . No, it was better if she didn’t imagine anything. Late discoveries are often the most intense, and Philippe Massart had only just discovered, at the ripe age of forty-four, that he was made for this life, the flights, the transits, the business, the interpreters, the “fluent English speakers,” the brief stays in Hiltons, the countries just flown over, the dinners just picked at – all that mattered was the speed, the distortion of time and the distances. Philippe Massart could think of nothing finer on earth than an attaché case open on the bed of a suite in the Sydney Sheraton. Indeed, everything in his new life seemed beautiful to him, starting with all the little actions associated with travel, there were so many – those of the departure were only a start, others followed in good time, and time passed quickly between the time zones. At lunchtime, he looked at the menu, holding a glass of champagne, unable to decide between a cod steak or a rack of lamb; he spent as long as he could on this pleasant dilemma with his forehead against the porthole. As he waited to be served, he leafed through the Air France magazine, pausing
for a moment to be moved by the sight of an Indian beauty in traditional costume illustrating an article on the textile industry in Madras; he remembered Sandrine’s silhouette in her flannelette dressing gown. He loved her, no question about that. In their fourteen years of marriage, they had lived through a lot and surmounted a lot of obstacles. Yes, I love her. He hung on to that statement for a moment, trying to find the evidence for it. He loved her. That was a given fact. He couldn’t possibly doubt his love for her. And anyway, how did one go about doubting love? What were the signs? In any case, if he found signs, he probably couldn’t trust them. What couple didn’t suffer some sort of erosion of physical passion? How could affectionate gestures remain the same after fourteen years? Getting erections at the mere sight of her choosing a brassiere, kisses for no reason, public embraces which verged on the indecent. That was all over, but it had happened, that was the important thing. Yes, he still loved her, but differently. He still admired her figure, despite the passing years, indeed he found it almost more affecting than before. He loved Sandrine, no need to go on about it. I love my wife. Even to ask the question was absurd. He loved her, it needn’t be put into question again. He loved her even if there was no longer any desire. Even if he sometimes thought about other women. Just thought about them. He had never been unfaithful to Sandrine. Or only abroad, which didn’t count. He loved her, that must mean something, even nowadays, didn’t it? He loved her, the problem was elsewhere. Paradoxical as it might seem, he found her somehow less present in his life. He might travel the world for the sake of his company; it was Sandrine herself who no longer seemed to be at his side. Ever since his career had taken off, she seemed to watch what was happening from afar, and seemed less and less to play the part of the partner who looks after the home base. Their team was no longer a winning one. Recently he had sensed that Sandrine was more preoccupied with Alex’s and Timothée’s futures than his. It was as though he had been forgotten, now that he was away so much. It would be amazing if it were true, but it was also the most obvious explanation. And he had worked so hard, purely for the happiness of his family. As he finished off his pear charlotte, he was struck by a sudden insight: those who go off to the front are condemned to loneliness.

  “Would you like a little liqueur, Monsieur Massart?”

  The air hostess had already seen Philippe on a previous flight, and she remembered serving him two poire liqueurs as they came down to Singapore airport. It was nothing to do with fear of landing, he just needed a little burst of alcohol to launch him into his stay and to get him into the right rhythm. In Bangkok it was all a matter of timing. As soon as he was out of the airport, a taxi would take him to his hotel, the Grace, on Sukhumvit. He would take a long tepid shower, put on clean clothes, have a dry Martini on the bar terrace, in the rococo patio surrounded by fans, while he waited for Perseil and the director of FNU Thailand Ltd, whose name Philippe could never remember. They would have dinner in a bamboo pavilion at Krua Thai Law – Laotian chicken with strange spices – in order to go through current business, study the latest figures, and consider a proposal to increase the capital through the agency of the company. Then, to reward themselves, they would go and have a traditional drink in a bar in Pat-Pong, without overdoing it – they had to be fresh for the next morning. Philippe, with his poire in his hand, gazing out at the dark skies of the Siamese kingdom, daydreamed about the rest of the journey – a much more exciting film than what was being shown on the plane. What happened next was a light breakfast the next morning, and then down to Chitlom for a massage by Absara, if she was free, if not, one of the others, although none of them was as good as Absara. Last time she’d told him he had beautiful eyes. She had a particular way with him, a way of putting him completely at ease the minute he arrived, manipulating his body until all resistance gave way to ejaculation, after a delicious penetration. Then would follow another massage which took in every single joint and vertebra, until the next erection and the “happy ending,” as it was called in the establishment. After being in Absara’s hands, all the physical and nervous exhaustion of jet lag disappeared, and he could at last enjoy his stay in Thailand. At the thought of this little moment of happiness, he leaned back in his seat and swallowed the last drops of the liqueur. Then, getting ready for landing, he closed his diary and put it back in his briefcase. In its pocket he noticed the dog-eared corner of the magazine that Sandrine had forced on him, which he had completely forgotten about. Curious, he pulled it out and unfolded it, fastening his seat belt at the same time.

  The Jules Vallès Gazette . . . What was this? . . . Oh yes, the school magazine . . . Alex’s poem . . . His little Alex, who had suddenly become so grown-up after the appearance of his little brother Timothée . . . He had written a poem . . . How was he going to deal with the now inevitable divorce? He’d understand. He’d have to, anyway. A poem? Well, why not. A bit old-fashioned, but touching all the same. Philippe idly leafed through the Gazette, not really concentrating – perfect reading matter for the landing. He passed an editorial he had no desire to read, skimmed through a strip cartoon by the pupils of the fifth form, and found himself looking for Alex’s poem, so as to save himself the trouble of reading it during his stay. He started planning some little compliment he could make to his son about it, so as to recapture some of the intimacy that had faded in the last few months. He found it in the contents list:

  ‘A Hundred Ways My Father Died,’ by Alexandre Massart.

  Philippe smiled, surprised. He felt strangely proud to be mentioned as a father, but oddly worried about the title – the word “died” leaped out at him. He turned quickly to page twenty-four, where his son’s long poem was printed vertically on the page and covered a two-page spread.

  A HUNDRED WAYS MY FATHER DIED

  My father died without leaving an address. He didn’t

  have one.

  My father died a hero’s death, on the battlefield,

  shot by an enemy only he knew about.

  My father died stupidly last week.

  My father died because he never told anyone he was

  going to die.

  My father died when he came home, like an

  exhausted salmon.

  My father died because he watched too many

  different channels at once.

  My father never got over having made me an orphan.

  It killed him.

  My father died because he got a memo telling him

  to die.

  My father died so many times that nobody believed

  it the last time.

  My father, who was terrified of ridicule, was found

  dead in a cupboard.

  Death knocked on the door with his shroud and his

  scythe, and my father went without a murmur.

  My father died to clarify things he found unclear.

  My father died because he wanted the moon.

  My father died for no reason.

  My father died thinking that only God would

  understand what he had done.

  My father died on the other side of the world, like a

  bird blown off course by the wind.

  My father died the way he lived, without noticing

  anything.

  Anything new? Oh yes, I’d forgotten: my father died.

  I would prefer to say he was dyed.

  My father died like a dog on his master’s grave.

  Philippe pressed his elbows on the armrests, trying to block off a strange sense of oppression in his chest and catch his failing breath. A second later he was pierced to the stomach by a stab of pain. He put his hand on his forehead and rubbed it; he can’t have read this right, his son couldn’t have written this, it was a bad-taste joke, and Alex was too young . . . too young, too . . . or not young enough, and anyway, it was absurd, he wasn’t the sort of boy to . . . He was normally hopele
ss at French, there must be some mistake, Alex wasn’t . . .

  My father died just outside the house, where Fate

  had waited patiently for his return from the Galapagos Islands.

  My father regarded life as forced labour and he died

  of it.

  My father died without asking any questions about life.

  My father died too young; wherever he is, he probably

  agrees about that.

  Alex . . . is that you, my little boy? Tell me, it isn’t you . . . what did I do, Alex?

  My father died without any show.

  My father died and they spelled his name wrong in

  the death notice.

  My father died so that people would mourn him.

  My father died without my consent.

  My father died and it doesn’t even make a spoonerism.

  Since my father died, everybody agrees about him.

  “Monsieur Massart? We’ve landed, Monsieur Massart . . .”

  And Philippe, hardly taking anything in, followed the crowd onto the bus to the main building of Bangkok International Airport.

  My father died without seeing the shaft of light which

  they say takes you to the other side.

  My father died without ever having done anything

  forbidden.

  My father died the way he wanted to: in his sleep.

  Carried along in the crowd as far as the transit zone, he suddenly felt weak, and stopped to let the main body of passengers spread out by the passport desks.

  My father died too young to be worried about me

  having to bury him one day.

  My father died a hundred times, or thereabouts.

  My father died and it won’t be front-page news.

  My father died, anyone who loved him can follow him.

  Philippe collapsed on a bench, exhausted, crumpling the magazine in his fists, and then, with his hands on his face, he burst into tears. His whole body shook with childish sobs.