Читать книгу Thirty Days - Annelies Verbeke - Страница 9

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30

He drives through the hot, clear weather, through a landscape that remains foreign to him but that he’s hesitantly starting to love. Sometimes he still misses the city, the colours, the sounds, the distractions. Here it’s different, not worse. The blossom and buzz of spring turned into a promising summer that fled an excess of rain before coming back to confound the approaching autumn. The fields are still sodden. As if not growing dull and blotchy, the crowns of the trees nod with restrained bravura at the sky, incessantly: bring it on. Hop poles bear fat baubles, drunk on themselves, ready for harvest. Lonely dust whips up and catches in puddles. Roundabout art plumbs the depths. He’s not sure whether all of this strengthens or stupefies him.

In a village shared by France and Belgium he sees two men with flat caps and baskets, of pigeons, perhaps. Apart from that, many ponies and a farmer, his glistening tractor circled by seagulls. The other people are hard to see. They’re behind front walls, or, like him, in cars, between front walls.

Today he’s expected in a nice neighbourhood. In this region the houses are fewer than in the other scraps and patches that make up this small country. With its liking for red brick it keeps things simple. Just the occasional Spanish hacienda among the mock farmhouses—he’s yet to spot any pagodas from the Brussels Periphery. The cacophony of building styles, so frequently written off as tasteless, has always cheerily endeared him, the way the houses stand next to each other like twelve-year-olds on their first day at high school, thrown by pure chance into long-term togetherness, adrift in their desperation. It pleases him to see the two modern houses where he parks his van leap out of the monotony.

He lifts the tub of sponges, cloths, rollers, and brushes out of the back of the van and selects one of the pots of paint he’s put ready. Pick Nick, from the Joie de Vivre collection, for the largest of the kitchen walls: his suggestion; their approval.

‘Alphonse!’ he hears as he crosses stone slabs in trimmed grass to the front door of one of the houses.

It’s the woman who lives here, a beautiful woman with a confident voice. He met her the evening they chose the colours. Her sportswear looks new, the fabrics showing no trace of exertion, and the sweat has beaded only at her temples, in the margins of her hair, which is held in a ponytail. She gives an awkward wave. He puts down the paint pot to shake her cold hand.

‘Not been here long, I hope?’ she asks. ‘My husband’s taking our daughter to school and I thought I’d just have time for a run, but part of the route was under water and I missed a turning.’

‘Only just got here,’ he says.

He’s come to repaint their kitchen and living room. He estimated three days, but now he suspects he’ll have it done sooner; they’ve made meticulous preparations. The curtains and socket covers are off, the furniture is in the middle of the room, draped with sheets, and the long kitchen worktop is empty.

A black dog runs at him in ecstasy, skidding and banging its head on a table leg before continuing with undiminished bounce on its original course.

‘Björn!’ the woman shouts.

‘Hi Björn,’ he says. Tail wagging, the dog snuffles at his outstretched hand, then farts and turns round to investigate, shocked.

The woman joins in his laughter, until Björn’s frenzy reignites and she drags the animal by the collar to the neighbouring room, where she shuts him in. ‘I think he’s got a multiple personality!’ she shouts above the distraught howling behind the door. ‘And he misses the cat. Benny. Benny and Björn! As in ABBA?!’

The dog bears more resemblance to a late-1970s hard rocker, thinks Alphonse.

‘They were inseparable. When dogs and cats grow up together they can get to be friends!’

‘Cats mostly live longer than dogs!’ he shouts back.

‘She was murdered!’ and because Björn ends his dirge while she’s saying it, she repeats: ‘Our cat was murdered.’

It’s the denouement of a story she’s eager to tell, a long story that smoulders behind her lips, but this is too soon—she swallows it on hearing her husband’s car.

The husband too has an athletic build. A swimmer.

‘Hey, the Fons!’ he says, as if they’ve known each other for years, and raises both thumbs. His master’s voice reactivates Björn.

He’s forgotten their first names. He must look them up in a moment.

‘Ready for the big job? I wish I could help, but there are plans that need finishing.’

He’s an architect, Alphonse reminds himself. He works from home.

‘I’ve shut him away,’ the woman says as her husband strides over to the door behind which the howling and scratching increase.

‘Shut away?’ the husband asks in a childish voice. ‘Is my very best buddy shut away?’

Wrenched back and forth between mixed but extreme emotions, Björn skitters across the floor, trembling with irresolution.

The man picks him up. ‘He’s a Portuguese Water Dog,’ he says, while the dog attempts to insert its tongue between his moving lips. ‘Our daughter’s allergic to most other breeds.’ He turns his attention and that piping voice back to the thrashing dog, setting it down on the floor: ‘And who else has a Portuguese Water Dog? What am I saying, two?’

For an answer he looks at Alphonse, his hands making a graceful, proffering gesture that transmutes into two pointing fingers, two pistols. ‘Obama!’

‘Well, anyway,’ mumbles the woman. She gives Alphonse’s forearm a brief, feeble tap, announces she’s off for a shower, and hurries out of the room.

The man tickles Björn’s head, then kneels in front of the dog, lifts its front paws, looks deep into its round eyes and whines: ‘You know I didn’t mean anything wrong by that, don’t you?’

‘I’ll get started,’ says Alphonse.

Els and Dieter, they’re called. It’s written on the estimate. Els left after making him a cup of coffee and Dieter has been working upstairs for some hours now, in his study on the other side of the house. He makes frequent trips to the toilet.

In the absence of their inhabitants, houses often inform Alphonse about the kinds of stories they’re going to tell. Or they mislead him. That happens too. A wastepaper basket with children’s drawings torn into tiny pieces, or shrines, or holes in the plasterboard, recently kicked.

Els and Dieter’s house gives little away. They’ve tidied their things into sleek fitted cupboards and drawers. On the walls are pictures of the family in the snow, the family in swimming gear on a slide; the series runs thematically through the four seasons.

One of the living-room walls is made up of large glass doors that look out onto the garden at the back of the house. In contrast to the orderly interior and the front garden’s manicured lawn, it makes an unkempt impression. The ladder against the wooden fence reminds him he’s forgotten his own. He can make do with a chair, removing his shoes to stand on one, but it’s not easy working like that.

Björn keeps Alphonse company, silent but watching his every move. For a long time he believed the barking of dogs came down to one of two messages: ‘Don’t do that!’ and ‘Hey!’ They had nothing else to say. Björn isn’t the first dog to have caused him to doubt this, even yawning along with Alphonse as he stretches after applying the masking tape. Coincidence, he thinks, but it happens again.

He mentions it when Dieter comes down to check there’s nothing he needs.

‘That means he likes you,’ says Dieter. ‘Dogs have a lot of empathy. Just lately I read that they don’t bark to communicate with each other. It’s a language they’ve developed for talking with us.’

‘I thought only humans found yawning contagious.’

‘We don’t know very many people who yawn when we yawn, do we, buddy?’ Dieter pipes at the dog. No further explanation is forthcoming.

‘I’ve forgotten my ladder,’ says Alphonse. ‘I could go home and fetch it, but I notice there’s one in the garden.’

‘Can you get it yourself?’ Dieter heads off upstairs.

Outside it’s even hotter now. Alphonse does his best to avoid stepping in dog mess as he crosses the garden. Isn’t Björn ever walked? In attempting to remove the ladder he sees there’s another on the other side of the garden wall. They’re linked by a worn purple swimming board with M AND L FOR EVER written on it in felt-tip pen. It’s a rickety structure, easy to dismantle. He props the board up against the garden wall and resolves to tie the whole lot together again more securely later.

As he cleans the living-room walls, the sound of the hard brush sends Björn to sleep. The ammonia Alphonse uses to tackle the greasier surfaces in the kitchen wakes him up again, though. He sneezes and slinks away to the hall with a look of alarm. Then claws tick on the stairs. Alphonse opens the glass sliding door to dispel the stench.

When his master comes down to make himself a sandwich, the dog isn’t with him.

‘Like anything?’ Dieter asks, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Alphonse has his own sandwiches, but he accepts a cup of coffee.

Dieter looks past him, at the ladder, then out of the window. He walks over and slowly shuts the sliding door.

‘Mila put that ladder there,’ he says. ‘Children.’ He smiles apologetically, then signals his habit of eating at the computer.

Mila is about thirteen and resembles neither of her parents. With a dramatic sweep she throws off her backpack.

‘Hello,’ she says. Then, dismayed: ‘What’s my ladder doing here?’

‘Perhaps you could say hello to Alphonse first?’ Her mother has come in behind her.

‘I just did. What’s my ladder doing here?’

‘I borrowed it for a bit, because I forgot mine. I’ll put it back shortly. I’ll tie the swimming board nice and tight. Promise.’

‘But I need it now.’

‘Homework first,’ says Els.

‘Haven’t got any homework.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

Mila storms out of the room the moment her father comes in.

‘Hello!’ he says crossly. Without responding, she runs up the stairs.

‘Puberty. We won’t be spared,’ Dieter chuckles. ‘You don’t think of that when you’re in it yourself, how your own children will subject you to it eventually.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ says Els.

She asks whether he has any children.

‘I don’t think so.’

They find that funny and something gleams in their eyes, a slight curiosity, slight suspicion. Alphonse resolves not to make that corny old joke any more.

He fetches the cable ties from the van. On the other side of the house he attaches both ladders to the swimming board.

‘I’m calling on your neighbours shortly, by the way,’ he says, back in the kitchen.

Els and Dieter stare at him as if he has a hatchet embedded in his skull. Why the neighbours? He explains that he’s taking them some colour swatches, so they can choose a colour. As soon as he’s done here, he’ll make a start there.

Dieter wraps his arms around his head. Els slaps a painted wall with the flat of her hand. ‘Damn,’ she says, looking first at her Pick Nick-pink hand and then at the skeletal fingers on the wall. ‘Sorry.’

Alphonse presses a cloth to the mouth of a bottle of turpentine and holds her hand in his to clean it. For a moment she stands there like a crestfallen child, her fingers wide open so that his resolute, fatherly strokes can find all the paint. Then her rage flares again. ‘Really, what are they playing at?!’

He takes a small, new roller out of its packaging and skims it breezily over the handprint like a lightweight steamroller. It works.

‘Everything we do, they copy,’ Dieter explains. ‘No idea what’s going on in those people’s heads. They see your van out front and before you know it, their kitchen’s in need of a new colour too.’

‘Their bedrooms.’ They haven’t heard him.

‘It’s been going on for years. We buy a house, they buy a house. We have a baby, they have a baby. We get a new car or travel across the United States and they do too.’ Els glumly removes traces of paint from under her fingernails. ‘What are we supposed to do? Move?’

‘We’re not moving.’ It’s Mila who’s spoken. They didn’t hear her coming downstairs and as she crosses the living room to slide open the glass door they stand motionless next to the granite worktop and stare at her.

Els waits till she’s outside before going on: ‘It’s even got to the point where they’ve started interfering in our lives. They think they can make certain adjustments to our lives.’

Dieter wants to interrupt. His mouth points in her direction and his lips purse several times, backed by an index finger describing the path of a powerful insect.

‘We don’t know that,’ he says eventually.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ says Alphonse.

They thank him, somewhat startled by the abrupt ending and slightly dismayed at how much they’ve divulged, but they haven’t told him the whole story yet.

Before he steps into the hall, he sees them, floating on a flying carpet above the garden wall: two thirteen-year-old girls, flinging their smiling faces forward and back.

He catches another glimpse of the girls through the window in the rear wall of the neighbours’ house before he’s led to an armchair. His clients sit in two separate chairs to his left, each with one leg thrown over the other. They’re slightly shorter and rounder than Els and Dieter. Between him and the couple, bubbles tinkle in the glass of tonic they’ve put on the coffee table for him. At his feet pants a small, attentive dog of an indeterminate breed. When Alphonse picks up the glass and puts it to his mouth, the animal seems to hold its breath.

‘Where are you from?’ the woman wants to know.

‘From Brussels,’ he says. ‘I’ve been living here for almost nine months now.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the woman enunciates. ‘But where are you really from?’

‘From Brussels, he said, didn’t he?’ Her husband stands up nervously. ‘Would you like an olive, Mr, er?’ he asks. ‘Cheese?’

‘No, thank you. And just call me Alphonse.’

‘We’re Sieglinde and Ronny. I’ll go and get some anyway,’ says the woman after her husband has sat down again. She goes to the kitchen, which is walled off from the living room. It sounds as if she’s emptying all the cupboards.

‘How did you get on next door?’ the man asks. He’s obviously trying to make the question sound neutral.

‘I think I’ll be finished there by tomorrow evening.’

‘Didn’t she say anything, Els, when she heard you were coming to see us?’ Sieglinde lays out little bowls of olives and cheese, putting cocktail sticks and a napkin holder beside them.

Alphonse isn’t immediately sure how to answer. ‘It seemed to interest them,’ he says.

Ronny sniffs. ‘No doubt!’ exclaims Sieglinde. ‘She’s crazy, Alfredo.’

They’re more forthright than he was expecting.

‘Alphonse,’ Ronny corrects her before he can.

‘Sorry. For years she’s been telling anyone who’ll listen that we’re copying them. We could say the same about them, but we don’t, because we’re still in command of our faculties.’

‘It all came out one evening, at a party,’ Ronny goes on. ‘A party right here in our house, actually. They were our guests. First they sulked in a corner for some reason or other … ’

‘Well. She did.’

‘Then they had too much to drink as usual and suddenly it was “another coincidence” that we had a dark-blue Peugeot. It’s not even the same model! And over there, didn’t that chandelier seem familiar to them, and that shrub at the bottom of the garden and I don’t know what else.’

‘Well, okay, but the idea that we brought Lana into the world purely because they’d just had a baby. Tell me, Albert, who would ever think that way?’

‘Alphonse.’

‘Pardon me. Who would think that way? I was in my late twenties. Everyone around us was having their first baby then. I was four months gone before I realized she was pregnant too. But no, we were copying them. How full of yourself do you have to be to think something like that is even within the bounds of possibility?’

While speaking, Sieglinde and Ronny have stood up to perform an angular dance that for Ronny now ends with a punch to his thigh and in Sieglinde’s case is still ebbing away in one index finger, which taps the centre of her forehead like a woodpecker’s beak.

Alphonse settles into the backrest of the chair. When a confession starts as energetically as this, it usually lasts a while.

‘If it’d stopped there, well … But no, no, it gets even more absurd.’ Sieglinde is now bending down onto the coffee table like a she-ape, weight on her fists, buttocks in the air, nostrils wide, like her eyes, magnified by her glasses. ‘Did she say anything about her pussy?’

Alphonse has to give the question time to sink in. ‘It’s dead, I believe?’

‘She said a bit more about it than that, I’ll bet. Her story is that we killed their cat.’

‘Yes, and the reason why is even more interesting. We killed it because our own cat was run over and because they think we think they did it—we, incidentally, don’t ask ourselves who was responsible, we assume it was an accident—and that’s why we, eye for an eye … ’

‘Cat for a cat!’

‘ … killed their pet—get this—by impaling it with a dart! A dart from a blowpipe! We shot a poisoned dart at it!’

‘Because that’s what we’re like, Alphonse! That’s the kind of thing we get up to!’

‘Alphonse,’ says Ronny.

‘That’s what I said.’

For the bedroom ceilings he recommends Balanced Mood, from the Colores del Mundo collection. They agree that the pale bluish-green he slides out of the colour swatch will do perfectly.

On his way home Alphonse crosses wide fields on narrow roads. The low sun gilds the stalks of tall grain and an indefinable longing. No one else knows that in the mornings, still brittle and directionless after the embrace of sleep, he rarely listens to music because he finds the immediacy of it almost impossible to bear. Now he puts on the radio and when he looks up there’s an oncoming vehicle, making no attempt to slow down. He drives right up to the edge of a maize field and stops the car to listen.

Duke Ellington’s ‘Caravan’, in a version by Dizzy Gillespie. He knows every note. Camels trek through the desert, but the trumpet sets fountains playing. The water flows over his shoulders, down his back. That strange violin solo, too. When the track finishes, he turns off the radio.

He eats the remains of yesterday’s pasta. Does it seem peaceful or merely quiet without Cat? He hopes the yoga retreat has given her what she expected from it, even if he doesn’t quite know what that was.

She’s not answering her phone. He needs to return Amadou’s call. Why does he keep putting that off? His friend getting in touch again after all these years made him so happy he immediately invited him to come and stay for a short holiday, bringing his new girlfriend with him. In a large part of his memory, Amadou walks at his side. There’s no reason to avoid him now.

Or he could start up Skype and see his mother. She’s always there, in a full house, surrounded by people who need her advice or just want to be with her, some of them feeding on the fruits of her goodness.

He’s tired and can’t seem to shower away the fatigue. What he feels is getting harder and harder to name. He knows what it isn’t. It’s not anything that hurts. Not at all. But it’s some kind of waiting.

The bleep of the phone, the landline this time, cuts through the water in his ears. He turns off the tap and wraps himself in a bathrobe. His guess is Dieter.

‘Alphonse?’ It’s Sieglinde.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘I just wanted to call you. Because we got rather carried away today and because we’re not proud of it. We’d also like to thank you for listening.’

‘That’s all right. Don’t cry.’

‘It’s out of our control, know what I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. Sorry to disturb you. Have a good night.’

‘Sleep well.’