Mme Durebex pushed two fifty-franc notes into my hand.
– I don’t care if the film’s started; just go in, and if they don’t understand the story explain it to them afterwards DEPECHE-TOI LAURENT!
Madame Laplanche screamed when she broke one of her long red nails putting the car into gear. Her son Hugues, a thin, whiny, whey-faced boy, sat on one side of the back seat with his face pressed against the window. Laurent stared out the window on the opposite side. At each traffic light Mme Laplanche checked her face in the rear vision mirror. She chatted to the bored silence in the back as we drove to Odéon.
– And what did you get in maths Laurent? Oh, il est fort, ce Laurent! Oh, c’est bien! And in French? Oh, mais c’est formidable!
I steered the boys through the Saturday crowd on Boulevard St Germain to the cinema where Astérix chez les Bretons was playing. They insisted on buying a big block of chocolate each, and vats of popcorn and Coke. I watched them consume everything out of the corner of my eye, primly hoping they would be sick, scared I would get the blame if they were.
An hour later on Boulevard St Michel the effects of the chocolate were showing. They pushed each other along the footpath, they jeered at passers-by, allies without alternative.
We passed two clochards and Laurent flicked some change at them. Hugues hesitated, then went and gave them some of his money, panting as he caught us up.
– C’est gentil, ça!
Laurent ran back and gave them a five-franc piece. The clochards grinned and tried to talk to him. Laurent turned away in surprise, and we walked on.
– But why? Hugues wrinkled his nose. Why don’t they have any money?
Laurent spread his palms.
– They don’t work. They’re drunks.
He twisted his fist in front of his nose, a French gesture for drunkenness. Hugues giggled. We sat down at the bus-stop. Something was nagging me, things looked wrong.
– They just live on the streets, I said, they’re not necessarily drunks.
Laurent groaned in exasperation.
– Oh écoute! You work, you earn money. C’est simple.
I realised we were waiting on the wrong side of the road, about to get a bus in the wrong direction. I hurried the boys across to the other stop, hoping they wouldn’t notice my mistake. They skipped along, accepting it as part of the adventure. From the other side of the road I saw one of the clochards was now gently vomiting into the gutter. I kept talking.
– It’s not that simple, Laurent. Some people work and are still poor. Some don’t work, and they’re rich.
– But my father, he work very very hard, all the time, sans arrêt, for his money.
Nadenne had told me that M. Durebex owned clothing factories in four third-world countries.
– I’ll bet there are people working just as hard as him who aren’t rich. You have to be lucky as well, you know, Laurent, I said.
Laurent looked nonplussed, and I was glad. I was trotting out that line from my childhood. Just remember how lucky you are. The adage was lost on these children. I was still trying to lose it.
– My father, Laurent went on righteously, work all the time. He work the weekend, and he come home late, tired. He never play.
I bet he did. Just like mine. Oh yes, work work work. Our father was gone before we left for school, he was rarely there for dinner. Sometimes he reappeared on weekends. Have you boys mown the lawn? Would one of you girls be so kind as to sew this button on – your poor mother … How did the footy go, boys? Good-oh.
But mostly Dad was out, working on hearts in the hospital, the hearts of his family beating away at home like so many dinner gongs. What about his own heart? I wondered. Was it there? Maybe I just couldn’t see it through the shirts and ties and copious body hair that blesses us Elliotts. Or maybe he gave a bit of it to each transplant performed, so there was not much left.
The snowball of work – you must get the best, you have it and you must keep it, and you must be it to deserve it.
Was it enjoyment? It’s a challenge.
Was it money lust? It’s for the children.
I could never take mass seriously – all those sermons about love and poverty.
It’s the nature of the job, Mum used to say, all doctors work hard.
But Dad played too. Dad played tennis on Monday evenings, before he got tennis elbow.
The bus wheezed to a halt.
– How much money do you have in the bank, Hugues? asked Laurent.
– A thousand francs. No, six thousand, I think.
– And you, Shona?
Taken aback, I said I hadn’t counted. Laurent stared at me, fascinated by my awkwardness. Then he asked how much his mother paid me. I didn’t want to tell him; the amount would seem paltry. On the other hand, I worried he would calculate the sum against the work I did with him, and be dissatisfied with the equation. Talk of money made me feel ashamed.
I told them my wage. The naked sum impressed them.
– You could buy three masques with that, Hugues remarked.
Masques were futuristic vehicles manned by vicious creatures, all black metal and spokes. They were very popular; they were the main attraction in the toy department at Bon Marché. Laurent would soon have the complete set. He looked at me, resentful, admiring.
– So, that’s a lot!
– It’s not. It’s for a whole month. It covers rent, and that’s all.
They probably didn’t even know the meaning of the word.
Hugues pointed out the window.
– Look, there’s Opéra.
– It’s not Opéra, I said, it’s Saint Sulpice.
– Do you have money in the bank, Shona? Laurent fixed his large eyes on me.
– Yes, a bit.
– Where did you get it? Your parents?
– No. I have an inheritance.
– Un héritage! they crowed. Elle est riche!
A family from the provinces took up all the seats in front of us. They had been passing bread and cheese to one another from a plastic bag. Now they turned around and began to examine us. I shrank into my seat.
– I’m not rich. My inheritance is running out. It’s just enough to get by.
This had no effect on Laurent and Hugues. They jumped around me.
– And what did you spend it on? Laurent asked me excitedly.
– Living here. I shrugged. Travelling.
Laurent waited a few seconds for me to redeem myself from dullness, then shook my arm.
– Grrrr!
– Mais arrête!
Hugues tapped Laurent on the shoulder.
– You know, there was a man who was a multi – multi-multi-multi-millionaire, and do you know what he did with his money?
– What?
– He bought his grandmother a washing machine.
– C’est gentil, ça!
– Yes, but I don’t like being rich. You know my father, he’s—
– You know my father, he’s—
We turned a corner and the grinding of gears drowned them out. The mother of the family broke another piece from the stick of bread in her bag. She dragged a thumb down its length then tucked a sheet of ham into it. The older sister took the sandwich and mouthed a word in our direction: Idiots. The way her mouth moved, she could have been saying Elliotts.
Hugues languished back in his seat, glancing at me then Laurent.
– Shona, he said, if we’re not home by the time we count to twenty, we’re going to … One, he began, without telling me what they would do. Laurent joined in.
– One, one and a half, one and quart … My own language never sounded so obnoxious.
To their rhythm, an image of Mme Durebex paced into my mind, finger to the corner of her mouth, anxiously peering through the kitchen window.
– Fiff-teen, nine-teen, nine-teen and quart …
Mme Durebex was waiting on the street with Monsieur Laplanche when we arrived. Hugues ran up to them.
– Guess what! She has an inheritance!
– Ah bon?
Laurent sauntered up behind us.
– But it’s running out, he said.
M. Laplanche winked at me and bundled his son into the car.
– Oh là là, Laurent beat you in French, eh Hugues?
– Seeing as you need money, Shona, Mme Durebex said to me rather presumptuously one day, I have a friend who is looking for someone to teach her two girls English. You could go on the afternoon Laurent has chess. She will pay you forty francs for two hours.
I looked at my feet. I was tempted, and insulted. I looked up.
– It’s not enough.
– Indeed, Mme Durebex nodded quickly. How much do you charge?
I thought of the amount I had quoted in my as yet unanswered ads, and then I knocked it down.
– Sixty.
This encouraged me.
– Forty? For two pupils? That’s exploitation. The going rate for one is twice that much.
Mme Durebex lowered her voice to a confidential tone.
– I have a friend who was looking for a jeune fille. She was offering a room and one thousand two hundred francs a month, and the girl would have to do five hours housework a day!
– That’s terrible, I said. But Paris is full of girls who have no choice.
– That’s right! Mme Durebex said with vehemence. And I told her, You won’t get anybody for that! But she found someone. Fancy that!
She watched to see the effect this would have on me.
We were like actors improvising a text. We had come to the end of a scene and were tentatively confident we worked well together, but each of us was unsure of exactly what the other meant and so unsure of what we meant ourselves. This issue of exploitation shadowed our dealings, and now, I thought with relief, we had both recognised its irrelevance to us.
– Ah yes. We shook our heads. Isn’t it terrible?