Laurent took me down to the study, a dark room at the far end of the foyer. There was a wall of encyclopedias and all the French classics, leather-bound, untouched. A large desk, like an altar from which you would keep a respectable distance, loomed at the back of the room. Behind the desk, ceiling to floor, hung dark blue drapes.
Laurent opened a cupboard, pressed a button and Robin Hood burst onto the biggest television screen I’d ever seen. We sat on the carpet and played chess. Between each move Laurent got up and performed the turns and jumps he would do tomorrow, describing to me in loving detail each ski run at Megève, while a dubbed Robin Hood dashed through fake woods in the background. Laurent spoke only in English and it barely contained his excitement about skiing, but I had the impression that skiing was only the vehicle for conversation. Laurent was pacing his English-speaking self and he was keeping up, and this was what was really making him excited.
He was an aggressive chess player. He planned only one move ahead, and that move was always to take one of my pieces.
– I take your fou!
– Bishop.
– Okay, le fou, c’est beeshop.
– Fou really means madman, I said slyly. Did you know that? Bishop, c’est un évêque.
– My oncle is a beeshop! Laurent exclaimed. He wear a big ’at like zis!
– Really? So is mine. I like the hats they wear.
I didn’t like the uncle under it. He was a pious old fool, always in black, who used to come to Sunday lunch after saying mass all morning. He didn’t have much left to say to us children. Keep your elbows off the table. Don’t talk with your mouth full. One day Tom put gold powder from an old stash of Mum’s theatrical makeup on Uncle Gordon’s seat. Uncle Gordon went back to the Bishop’s Palace with a golden bum; not even my parents dared tell him.
Laurent narrowed his eyes suspiciously; I realised I was smirking.
– But we are Catholic, he said huffily. We don’t eat meat the Friday. Just today because my father want.
What sort of Catholics were they? I heard my father’s thinking. Not sticking to the rules. Softies, that’s what he would have called them. What’s the point? he would have scoffed.
– I know, Laurent. I’m a Catholic too, I mean, I was brought up a Catholic, but …
I hated having to say this. Surely it was as evident as my country of origin. My little scrap of Catholic pride suffered when I wasn’t included in the flock; my other scraps of Catholic disgust got indignant when I had to explain I didn’t run with it any more and hadn’t for a long time. That had to be made clear. At times like this I wished there were more obvious ways of being a Catholic without having to be one. Asian eyes, for instance, idiosyncratic pigmentation. A Semitic nose wouldn’t go astray.
Laurent frowned at me.
– But you are vegetarian, so it’s more easy.
I rolled my eyes. This only made me want to become a carnivore again. I could remember no sinful pleasure in eating meat. Meat was just meat, and I’d always looked forward to Fridays.
– We used to have fish and chips on Fridays, I told Laurent enthusiastically. It was the only time we were allowed to have junk food.
Laurent let out one of his brusque, guttural sighs. I felt the cultural gap widen. What was the point in trying to tell him anything?
I moved my pawn to threaten his king.
– Check!
He breathed fast through his teeth and glared at the board.
– I get your prawn!
– Pawn. Prawn means crevette.
Laurent swept his queen across the board in a move I hadn’t anticipated. Then he put the captured pawn into his mouth.
– I EAT your prawn!
– Pawn, Laurent.
– No! Prawn! It’s Friday!
I laughed and Laurent expressed his pleasure by cramming all the captured pieces into his mouth, then jumping on me for a wrestle. The door opened and M. Durebex hurried into the room wearing a silk dressing-gown of regal purple. Quickly, we disentangled ourselves. M. Durebex went to the television and switched channels, cursing he had missed the news.
We sat quietly and contemplated the board. Laurent’s face still bulged with my pawns, my bishop and my knight. M. Durebex turned up the volume. He was so close to the television that half the screen was hidden from our view. Glancing at his father, Laurent put his hand over his mouth. The chess pieces plopped onto the carpet, one by one, glistening with spit. Silently, I applauded him.
I moved my castle; once again I had Laurent in check. He did an outlandish move with his king.
– Laurent, the king can’t move like that!
Sullenly, Laurent put the piece back.
– Why not?
– I didn’t invent the rules of the game, I replied wearily.
There was footage of student demonstrations on the television and M. Durebex’ hearing-aid let out an authoritative whistle. Laurent regarded the board crossly.
– But it’s stupid! Why can not the king move better if he is the most strong?
M. Durebex turned around suddenly.
– Shut up! I’m watching the news!
I realised at that moment I was in danger. Laurent thought he was. He jabbed my spitty bishop into the carpet. He looked as though he were going to cry and I softened.
– Laurent, I whispered, look hard, there’s a good move you can do.
His face cleared and he moved his bishop with a shriek.
– Check!
– SHUT UP! shouted M. Durebex.
I looked glumly at the board. It was actually checkmate. I hadn’t realised. Stupid of me to assume Laurent needed help.
I put the pieces back into starting position.
– Shall we play again?
Nadenne did not arrive the next morning as expected, nor on Sunday. There had been train strikes, but my train had gone and at lunch-time on Monday Claudine Laplanche arrived with Hugues. They had taken the train too. I was ordered to ring Nadenne in Paris more than once, and conducted one-way conversations with his wife, who spoke only Tamil. Over and over again I said, Where is Nadenne? Où est Nadenne? while Mme Durebex rushed about preparing lunch and her husband raved at the table to no one in particular.
– Claudine has managed to get here, but not Nadenne. I don’t see why he couldn’t get the train. Fool! Moron! Idiot! Il est con! Con! Con! What did he say? What did he say?
I realised M. Durebex was addressing me. I said I’d only managed to get hold of Nadenne’s wife and I couldn’t understand her as she spoke only Tamil.
– What? What? What language is that?
– Tamil.
– J’ai horreur de ces gens, he spat. Musulmans!
I didn’t think Tamils were Muslims, but I didn’t say anything.
We sat down to eat. Claudine told us about a friend of hers who taught French as a foreign language. She said he played practical jokes on his students by giving wrong meanings which sounded right.
– For example, he would say poire – pear, singular. Poireau – pears, plural. When of course poireau really means leek!
We all laughed. Mme Durebex stopped herself.
– I hope you don’t do that with Laurent, Shona, she said sternly.
– Bien-sûr que, I began, only to be bulldozed by M. Durebex.
– How many times have we rung Nadenne, Mireille? Eh? MORONS! This idiot understands nothing. Strike? What strike? This strike is nothing but a manipulation of the leftists. They’ve been putting up posters for over a month at the universities, telling them to go on strike. They want to create a REVOLUTION!
His fist crashed to the table. Laurent looked at his father as though he were a stranger.
– Il sont tous des cons! Morons, the lot of them! Ninety per cent of people are morons!
Mme Durebex was constantly up from the table, as her husband demanded his plate be changed for every course. Claudine was occupied with the boys’ eating habits. So I, opposite M. Durebex, was his captive listener.
– And he works like a PIG!
I nodded dumbly, watching the smoked trout wobble as his fist came down again. He told me his telephone was filthy because Nadenne hadn’t touched it for two weeks. Again and again he asked Nadenne to clean it. Finally, Nadenne obeyed. He washed it. The appliance flooded with so much water and broke. Claudine and I looked at one another and bit back smiles. M. Durebex’ cheese was placed before him and he growled at it.
– I only like right-wingers. I’m very sectarian, I am. Que la droite.
I had to clear some plates to hide my expression. Laurent saw it and smiled triumphantly.
– And Shona, is she on the right or the left?
– Neither, I said.
I liked to think I was on another plane altogether, a plane where such divisions were obsolete. I put the plates in the sink and turned on the hot water. It gushed out fiercely, scalding me.
– Ouch!
Everybody looked at me.
– The leftists are evil. M. Durebex said.
– All your friends are right-wingers, Victor, said Claudine in her sweet voice, so how would you know? You don’t know any leftists, so how can you say they’re evil?
M. Durebex said nothing. I removed the salt and pepper with my unburnt hand. Claudine crooned at him.
– Pass me the cheese, please Victor.
– No.
– Can you please pass me the cheese, cher Victor.
– No, he smiled. No.
– Victor, I’ll never come and see you again.
– Oooh, what must I do for you to keep seeing me, chère Claudine?
– Pass me the cheese.
Then they joined hands and began to sing old French songs together. I wanted to share my amazement at this scenario with someone, but Laurent was peeling the skin off his piece of camembert and Mme Durebex stood by the window, finger to the corner of her mouth, staring out at the weather. It had snowed non-stop for the last two days. The chalet was getting smaller. The ski slopes would be getting better and the roads worse.