Читать книгу Island of Point Nemo - Jean-Marie Blas de Robles - Страница 17
Оглавление“Hello, Charlotte, how are you?”
“Alright, and you?”
“I’m a little . . .”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, everything’s fine, but I’m always tired. You know, with my old bones and all, it’s normal . . . And you?”
“I’m fine, fine.”
Marthe is in her usual place, on the landing, in front of her open door, just across from Charlotte Dufrène’s studio apartment. She looks like she has just escaped an assassination attempt; wide, bloodshot eyes, her hair stiffened into three plumes by the strength of the blast. She is a fright to see.
“And, well, sometimes I talk real loud, because Chonchon is deaf and can’t hear. But he’s going to get into trouble. He was at the clinic, but he didn’t want to wait for his appointment. He’s out of medication. What’s going to happen to him?”
“I have no idea. And you, what about your doctor, and your benefits?”
“Who, me?”
“You have to move.”
“Oh, there’s no rush, the city does all that . . .”
She slumps a little. Dirt stains have merged with the garish pattern of her dress, which she has been wearing for several weeks. She enunciates every syllable when she speaks, with a tic that makes her close her eyes tightly each time, as if the slightest word could trigger a catastrophe.
“Gotta look for a piece of a man’s glasses.”
“What?”
“Wait, come here . . . Look, look a little.”
She brings Charlotte into her hallway and shows her a shard of glass.
“Do you think that’s a lens from a pair of men’s glasses?”
“It’s possible. Yes, it does look like it. Whose glasses, though?”
“Well, it’s just, I found them on the floor, in my apartment. I’m worried they’re Chonchon’s . . .”
“Does he wear glasses?”
“Yes . . .”
“And would he have stepped on them?”
“I dunno. I found this after he came home. But tell me, is it a tinted lens?”
“It’s dirty, sure. Hard to say. Maybe it’s just from a broken jar?”
“Oh, so you think it’s from a broken jar?”
“Possibly.”
“Not from a pair of glasses?”
“I don’t know. I’m not an eye doctor.”
“But still, you don’t think it is? It’s such a little shard.”
“Yes, you have to find the rest of it.”
“I didn’t think to look. But d’you think he’ll be able to . . .?”
“Of course he’ll make it home.”
“You’re sure he’ll make it home? ’Cause with just one lens . . .”
“If he’s still got one lens, it’s fine. Anyway, it’s not like he’s totally blind.”
“You think he’ll still be able to read his name?”
“On the buzzer? He’s been pushing the same button for thirty years, he doesn’t need to read it, he knows where it is.”
“Even if his lens is broken, you think he’ll still be able to see?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, you think he’ll still be able to see? Even if it’s small?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You think I shouldn’t worry about it?”
“No.”
“Mustn’t cry, then?”
“Oh, no, crying doesn’t help anything. Not right now, at least!”
“You say he’ll still be able to see his name to get back here?”
“Yes, to ring the bell.”
“I’m gonna cry . . .”
“There’s no need to cry, Marthe. Well, good night, I have to get some rest.”
Charlotte goes into her apartment and quickly shuts the three-bolt lock that protects her from the horrors of old age. She undresses, pulls her flannel shirt over her head, slides under her comforter, eagerly starting to visualize Fabrice’s handsome face. They started to have a conversation over break today, she tries to remember the exact scene, but nothing appears, either in her head or on the ceiling. Her eyes settle on the phosphorescent stars glued above the bed by a previous tenant. Tiny ones, big ones, arranged any which way; the spittle of a consumptive Martian. Their luminosity gave out ages ago. They are dead stars, Charlotte has never seen them shine.
She concentrates on the idea of a lovely house in the country; she would be there with Fabrice, surrounded by children. On the front of the house would be a climbing vine and bougainvilleas. Words, just words that do not manage to bring a single image into her head. For a moment, she thinks she hears shouting, like kids at play, but it’s Chonchon coming home, piss drunk, and Marthe scolding him. And just like every other evening, the wallpaper falls away, panel by panel, as if stripped off by an invisible hand, the walls pucker, become porous, melt away. Marthe’s face appears to her, immeasurably magnified, dotted with bristles on her chin, her forehead wrinkled with oily arches. The bedroom is nothing more than an aquarium, Charlotte a breathing axolotl.
