Each afternoon Laurent made me carry his satchel and dawdled home behind me, stuffing his face with pain au chocolat. He usually demanded two, and he got them, until one afternoon when I didn’t have any money. He chewed with his mouth open and the flaky pastry went into it like a clod into a propeller. On the crowded métro, he enjoyed the disgust this elicited; he seemed to enjoy humiliating himself. I stood far enough from him to not be associated, close enough to get vicarious delight from the offence he caused.
Laurent dragged his feet, stuck out his belly, picked his nose constantly, shoved through the crowds in the métro as though he were in a hurry to get home. But the closer we got to rue de Babylone, the more sullen he became. His footsteps slowed.
Nadenne let us into the apartment and I hung my shabby coat over the pure wool and soft leather of the Durebex’. Mme Durebex’ voice preceded her rapid steps from the kitchen.
– How did you go today, Laurent? No bad marks I hope. Did you see Hugues? What did Hugues get in his maths?
Then, seeing him at the bottom of the stairs, she would swoop.
– Look at you! Filthy! Look at how filthy he gets, Shona! Look at your shoes! Oh là là là là!
Laurent lounged on the white pile, lifting his feet one at a time so his mother could remove his shoes and socks. Over her shoulder, he watched my contemptuous face with amusement, while Mme Durebex bellowed.
– Plein de sable! T’as pas honte? Why do you have to play in the sand?
– But there was sand EVERYWHERE!
That insolent boy sprawled across the stairs – that was me. Hidden in a swarm of heartbeats, my mother’s pained sighs descending, I waited in the nook just below the landing.
I was older than Laurent. I was ten. My mother was in plaster up to her thigh after a skiing accident. Blood from the pin that bolted her ankle together seeped through the plaster in a beautiful, horrifying pattern. I made her cups of tea and sat on her bed with her, just so I could look at it.
But she wouldn’t let me go to Palm Beach with Jane McCaughey that Sunday. I’d been grounded because I’d wagged mass. I wanted to do some damage, I wanted to hurt someone. I waited for my mother to reach the landing, then I stuck my leg out across the staircase.
– You dreadful girl! Do you want to break your mother’s leg again?
– You dreadful boy! screamed Mme Durebex. You’ve got stains all over your brand new trousers!
Laurent laughed and did a big fart. I’d skulked to my bedroom and felt guilty for the next few years.
After the first few days of scrutiny in the kitchen, Mme Durebex sent us to work in Laurent’s bedroom at the foot of the stairs, opposite the little bathroom next to the front door. Like estranged members of a family, these two rooms seemed to have nothing to do with the rest of the household, though they were connected to the same hot water system and the same electrical wiring. Upstairs I never went further than the kitchen, so I had no sense of the apartment as a whole, only a sense of some of its functions.
French was our language when out of earshot of Mme Durebex. Laurent didn’t have the patience to try and express himself in English, and I didn’t have the patience to try and discipline him in a language he did not, or pretended not to, understand.
Very early on I learnt that language was my weapon. And I needed it.
We sat opposite one another at a collapsible card table. Books, pencils, rubbers, everything ended up on my side to prevent Laurent from fiddling. He would use anything to create a diversion. After the usual struggle Laurent settled down to Punch and Judy.
– The, I interrupted his reading.
– Ze.
– No. The. Touch your top teeth with your tongue. Comme ça: the.
– The, said Laurent perfectly.
Then he enhanced the sound to a raspberry across the table, splattering his books and me with spit.
I looked at him with disdain.
– MAIS J’ARRIVE PAS A LE DIRE!
I felt like one of Hergé’s characters being bellowed at by Captain Haddock; one of the Thomson Twins, my hairpiece flying to the back of the room. Laurent gripped a pencil in both hands, baring his teeth at me.
– You managed to say it before, I said in English, and my monotone dampened any hopes Laurent had of a reaction from me.
The smirk sidled off his face.
– You’re not as strict as Brenda, he said, adding slyly, I don’t like Brenda.
He began to peel a label off his book.
I looked up with interest.
– Why not?
I heard a key turning in the front door. A thin man, bent with age, appeared in the entrance. He put his briefcase down to extract the heavy circular key from the lock. He couldn’t get it out; the door squeezed shut against his foot and he began to curse. Laurent switched quickly to English.
– I don’ know. I jus’ don’ like.
With fear and hope he watched the man, who paused in the doorway of our room to peer at us through thick glasses, glasses so thick the eyes behind them loomed and blurred like fish eyes. Without a word, the man continued up the stairs. Laurent flushed, putting his head in his hands to conceal it from me.
– Her, I corrected, you don’t like her.
Laurent ignored me. He was listening to the harsh words between his mother and the man that were filtering down from the kitchen.
When I pulled my coat off the rack that evening, a postcard from the Louvre fell out of a side pocket. I turned it over. It was dated a month before.
Dear Mum and Dad
I’ve come back to Paris. I’m sorry, but I decided in the end to cash in my return ticket. My friend Chantale is subletting a room to me, so I’m going to get a job and try to stay here for a while. Beautiful clear days – it’s getting cold.
Love, Siobhan
P.S. Letter to follow.
There was no letter to follow. I hadn’t even remembered to send the card. I had addressed it to the Elliott family, even though Paul was the only one left in Sydney. But my parents’ address was the heart of the family, and the family was like a starfish – six children, two parents, eight legs – spread across the globe. Starfish don’t die when they lose a leg: another one eventually grows in its place. My family would be functioning as ever, minus a few appendages.
I felt guilty as I walked to the métro. My mother would be worried. The last time she’d heard from me I was crying on the phone after breaking up with Matthew. But they had never liked him much anyway.
I poked my ticket into the turnstile and hurried down the stairs. The métro was coming in. They could wait. I would write to them in due time.