Читать книгу This Little Family - Inès Bayard - Страница 13

A section of boulevard Voltaire is blocked because of a strike. The warm croissants will go cold. “You need to take rue Richard-Lenoir,” a policeman tells her, and she has an urge to retort that that was the street where she was raped and she doesn’t feel like walking along it, and, as an agent of the law, he should find another solution by way of compensation. She doesn’t say anything. The entrance to the car park isn’t all that wide, after all. It was dark, but Marie suddenly thinks it strange that no one saw anything. She pictures people turning away at the point where the deepest core of her parted company with the rest of her body, people happier to stare straight ahead than witness that disturbing sex scene. She doesn’t stop, quickens her step, gets away from the place by crossing the street. A furtive moment of suffering that stirs memories. She doesn’t remember the pain now.

Laurent is only just waking. He went to bed late last night after finishing his defense. The trial starts soon. He gets up to kiss his wife. “How lucky am I to have such a wonderful wife … She brings croissants for breakfast. I didn’t even hear you go out!” She didn’t want to wake him and run the risk of being subjected to his morning sexual enthusiasm. She sets the table meticulously, arranges the five croissants on the large silver dish her parents gave them as a wedding present, and pours freshly squeezed orange juice into a jug. Laurent starts cooking eggs and bacon, filling the room with the smell of frying. “Can you open the window a little, otherwise the whole living room smells of it.” She gets up. Her stomach churns again. How many times has she thrown up in the last few days?

Laurent looks at her. “Hey, are you okay? Are you sick?” She hurries to the bathroom and doesn’t have time to close the door. Laurent watches her through the half-open doorway and smiles.

“What are you laughing at? Watching me on all fours, puking?” Laurent comes over to her but she pushes him away. She finds the situation disgusting and asks him to go back to the kitchen and finish making breakfast. It hurts deep down in her stomach. She can’t take any more of this aching. It’s always in the same place, as if the pain has made up its mind to keep knocking at the same door, reopening the wound with the same determination. Marie has nothing left to throw up, she’s spitting bile. The green liquid dribbles down the inside of the toilet bowl. She drags herself back to join Laurent. He’s sitting on a chair, slightly offended that she banished him so harshly. He gets the picture before she does.

Marie sits at the table without a word, still wincing because of the acid that keeps rising up her throat. She can feel Laurent staring at her. She looks him right in the eye until he gives up and looks away. She doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking, doesn’t want to hear the words come out of his mouth. If she listens to his explanations she’ll scream, spit in his face, try to push him out the window at any opportunity or chuck the hot oil from the bacon in his face. “I’d rather stay at home today, I’m a little tired from the week I’ve had.” He was planning to go to an exhibition at the Musée d’Orsay, which Marie loves visiting on Saturday mornings before tourists get all overexcited about Paris. The light there soothes her; soft vaporous beams filter through the glass roof of this former train station, casting a heavenly protective halo over the large marble statues. He won’t go alone, he’ll get on with his work or go visit his parents in Melun.

Marie returns to the bedroom to get some rest, burrowing back under the unmade sheets contentedly. Some days aren’t worth the effort of being lived anywhere but in bed. She can just see herself in her pajamas, slumped on her plump comfortable mattress, receiving clients, friends, and relations. The nausea is back, stronger than before. “Do we have any medicine for this? Something to stop me throwing up?” Laurent brings a pack of small red pills and a glass of water. She’d like to tear the smile off his face, peel off his skin, blot out any trace of satisfaction in him. He needs to leave, and plants a kiss on his wife’s forehead like an encouragement for what lies ahead. She’s going to sleep all day. Sleep at last. For a few hours she just won’t be here.