Читать книгу Fresh Water for Flowers - Valérie Perrin - Страница 28

W e arrived at the Malgrange-sur-Nancy level crossing at the end of spring 1986. In spring, everything seems possible, the light and the promises. You can sense that the trial of strength between winter and summer has already been won. That the dice are loaded. A game decided in advance, even if it rains.

“Girls in care are happy with very little.” That’s what a caseworker had said to my third foster family when I was seven years old, as if I couldn’t hear, as if I didn’t exist. Being abandoned at birth must make me invisible. And anyhow, what is this “very little”?

As for me, I felt I had everything: my youth, my desire to learn to read L’Oeuvre de Dieu, la part du Diable, a dictionary, a child in the belly, a house, work, a family that would be my first family. A rickety family, but a family all the same. Since my birth, I’d never had anything, apart from my smile, some clothes, my doll Caroline, my LPs of Daho, Indochine, and Trenet, and my Tintin books. At eighteen, I was going to have a legal job, a bank account, and my very own key. A key I’d load with jangly charms, to remind me that I had a key.

Our house was square, with a tile roof covered in moss, just like nursery-school children draw. Two forsythias were in bloom on either side of the house. They made the little white house with red windows seem to have blond curls. A hedge of red rosebushes, still in bud, separated the back of the house from the railway line. The main road, crossed by the tracks, twisted around two meters from the landing, where a tired doormat lay.

The level-crossing keepers, Monsieur and Madame Lestrille, were leaving for their retirement two days later. They had two days to train us. Show us the ropes of the job: lowering and raising the barrier.

The Lestrilles were leaving their dated furniture, their linoleum, and their blackened bars of soap. Picture frames that had hung on the walls for years had just been removed: the flowery wallpaper was left with lighter rectangles in places. They’d left a canvas Mona Lisa beside the kitchen window.

In the kitchen, no kitchen. Just a greasy room boasting an old gas cooker and three units held together with rusty screws. When I opened the tiny fridge, seemingly forgotten behind a door, I found some badly wrapped, rancid butter.

Despite the decrepitude and dirtiness of the place, I managed to picture what I’d do with it. How I’d transform these rooms with a lick of paint. I managed to smile at the color of the repainted walls hiding behind the faded flowers of this pre-war wallpaper. I was going to put everything right. Especially the shelves, which would help me to support our future life. Philippe Toussaint promised, in my ear, to repaper all the walls as soon as the Lestrilles’ backs were turned.

Before leaving, the old couple left us a list of emergency phone numbers in case the barrier got stuck.

“Now that we don’t raise the barrier with a crank anymore, the circuits can get jammed, and this sort of nonsense comes up several times a year.”

They left us the train timetables. Summer timetables. Winter timetables. There wasn’t much more to add. On public holidays, strike days, and Sundays, there were fewer crossings and fewer trains. They hoped we’d been warned that the hours would be hard and the rhythm of work tiring. It took at least two people to do it. Ah, yes, they almost forgot: we would have three minutes between the start of the signal sounding and the train passing through to lower the barrier. Three minutes to press the switch on the control panel that activated the barrier and blocked the traffic. Once the train had gone through, regulations demanded a one-minute waiting period before raising the barrier.

As he put his overcoat on, Monsieur Lestrille said to us:

“It’s possible that one train might conceal another, but we, in thirty years at the barrier, have never seen that happen.”

On the doorstep, Madame Lestrille turned around to warn us:

“Beware of vehicles trying to cross when the barrier is down. There’ll always be nutters. And drunkards, too.”

In a hurry to get going on their retirement, they wished us good luck and added, without a smile:

“It’s our turn to take the train.”

And we never saw them again.

As soon as they had gone out the door, instead of repapering all the walls, Philippe Toussaint put his arms around me and said:

“Oh, my Violette, how comfortable we’ll be here once you’ve arranged everything.”

I don’t know whether it was L’Oeuvre de Dieu, la part du Diable, which I’d started the day before, or the dictionary I’d bought that very morning, that gave me strength, but, for the first time, I felt brave enough to ask him for money. For a year and a half, my wages had been deposited into his account, and I’d managed on my waitress tips, but right then, I no longer had a penny to my name.

He generously gave me three ten-franc notes, which it pained him to take from his wallet. A wallet I never had access to. Every day, he would count his money to be sure nothing was missing. When he did this, he lost me a little. Not me, but the love I was made of.

In the mind of Philippe Toussaint, everything was simple: I was a lost girl he’d picked up in a nightclub, and he made me work in exchange for board and lodgings. And I was young and pretty, easygoing, good-natured, quite plucky, and he loved possessing me, physically. And in a more devious part of his mind, he had picked up that I was scared stiff of being abandoned, so I would never leave. And now with his child, he knew he had me stuck right there, at his beck and call.

I had an hour and a quarter before the next train. I crossed the road with my thirty francs in my pocket and went into the Casino store to buy a bucket, mop, sponges, and detergents. I bought whatever I found and whatever was cheapest. I was eighteen, I knew nothing about cleaning products. Normally, at that age, you’re buying yourself music. I introduced myself to the checkout girl:

“Hi, I’m Violette Trenet, I’m the new level-crossing keeper, from across the road. I’m replacing the Lestrilles.”

The cash-desk girl, whose name, Stéphanie, was on her badge, wasn’t listening to me. She was mesmerized by my round belly, and asked me:

“Are you the daughter of the new level-crossing keepers?”

“No, I’m the daughter of nobody. I am the new level-crossing keeper.”

Everything about Stéphanie was round, her body, her face, her eyes. She might have been drawn for a comic strip to personify a not very bright heroine, naïve and kind, with a permanent look of surprise. Forever staring wide-eyed.

“But how old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Ah, I see. And the baby, when’s it due?”

September.”

“Right, nice one. We’ll see each other often, then.”

“Yes, we’ll see each other often. Goodbye.”

I started by washing the shelves in the bedroom, then put our clothes away.

I looked under the grubby carpet, there were tiles. I was in the middle of pulling it away when the alarm for the barrier started ringing. The 15:06 train was on its way.

I ran to the level crossing. I pressed the red switch that lowered the barrier. I was relieved when I saw it going down. A car had slowed down and stopped alongside me. A long, white car whose driver gave me a dirty look, as if I were responsible for the train timetables. The 15:06 went by. The tracks shook. The passengers were Saturday ones. Gaggles of girls off to Nancy, to spend the afternoon shopping or flirting.

I thought: Maybe girls in care, the ones who are happy with very little. As I pressed the green switch to raise the barrier, I smiled: I had a job, keys, a house to repaint, a child in my belly, a carpet to remove, a rickety man, to whom I mustn’t forget to give the change from the shopping, a dictionary, music, and L’Oeuvre de Dieu, la part du Diable to read.