The next day the chalet was quiet with hangovers. I woke late and lay in my room, reading, writing, thinking. I took a long bath. It wasn’t until the afternoon, prompted by hunger, that I went upstairs. The kitchen was scattered with the debris of snacks. I had just started to wash up when someone came in.
– Et vous, M. Laplanche said close behind me. Why didn’t you go out today?
– Too lazy, I replied.
The camembert glued to the plate would only come off with a knife.
– Too lazy, hey? he laughed. What, by nature? Or because of Christmas?
– Both.
– Both? You don’t seem like a lazy girl to me. Work work work! Why don’t you have a little rest?
I waited till he’d moved away before I turned around. He was standing by the open fridge, pouring himself a glass of white wine. I was wearing jeans and a denim shirt, two buttons done up over a T-shirt. I was always conscious of my clothes with M. Laplanche, conscious of their hypothetical absence, the way he looked right through them. He poured a second glass of wine and offered it to me. I shook my head, and he laughed again, his eyes disappearing beneath their fleshy lids.
I walked through to the salon, hoping to find more things to wash up. Cleaning, it was all I could do. Clean up the mess, make things look nice. M. Durebex was up near the fireplace demonstrating ski turns to his wife. His body snapped from side to side, feet and knees together. I’d never seen him so active, and my presence seemed to encourage it. Pointing at his wife, he said to me, I taught her to ski, you know.
– Yes, I nodded. She skis very well.
– Ah no, he said. No no. She skis badly.
And smirking at me, he began to whip the air in front of her face. The hair around her temples fluttered and she stood there, allowing him to do it. I stood there too, wondering if his hands would meet her cheeks, knowing I was part of all this, an audience, a voyeur, not knowing what else to do but watch. I could not just walk out before intermission. M. Durebex laughed, patted his wife on the cheek, then hobbled over to the leather couch.
– What’s this? It’s all sticky! Mireille!
I went back into the kitchen. I finished the washing-up then left the room. I hesitated at the top of the stairs. M. Laplanche was at the bottom, smiling up at me. It was too late to stop.
When we passed one another he pressed my arm.
– I find you speak French very well, he said softly. I hadn’t realised at first, but you speak very well.
I would have liked to agree, but today I was speechless.
I went into the study, where Françoise was watching television with Claudine. The quick steps of Mme Durebex approached, followed by the bellow of her husband.
– Mireille! Mireille! We’re hungry! Mireille!
She made it to the door, raised her eyebrows at us, then turned to go back upstairs. Françoise said one word.
– Méchant!
Claudine waved dismissively.
– Bof.
– Sometimes he is mean, I said.
– Tu souffles, il tombe, she said. Anyway, he’s getting old.
– He’s always been violent, said Françoise.
– It’s all in jest, said Claudine.
And she went upstairs to help Mme Durebex. I turned to Françoise.
– How can they—
– Oh je m’en fous! she cried. They’re always like this and I don’t care! I’ve come here to be with Laurent, and I don’t care what they’re like!
I shrank back into the couch. I was premenstrual. The moon was almost full. I was a nicely brought up Australian girl in a Latin country and everything that was happening was quite normal. It was just that I couldn’t cope with it. M. Laplanche came into the study. He sat on the couch next to me, legs akimbo, smiling.
– Isn’t Shona’s hair cute like that? he said to Françoise. In a little chignon on top of her head.
– It’s to avoid brushing it, I said curtly, not taking my eyes off the television. An ad for Libra tampons came on. The beautiful woman said she felt fresh and clean all day long, and could do whatever she wanted, then ran down to frolic in turquoise waves.
Françoise left the room and I followed her. Laurent was stumbling about the chalet, fixated on the computer game in his hands, which emitted a noise like a vacuum cleaner. Hugues followed him, whining.
– I want a go! Give me a go!
The mothers were in the kitchen, shrieking with laughter as they cooked crêpes. Mme Durebex spooned the mixture onto a broad flat pan and swiftly spread it. Claudine sliced a block of emmental. I stood by the table, hands hanging at my sides, while they laughed at a joke I hadn’t heard.
– Can I help? I said.
Claudine handed me a plate. The crêpe was folded twice, into an acute triangle. Cheese oozed out the curved edge.
– Can you take this down to Rufus? she said.
My mood made an immediate comparison with Laurent’s prodigious yellow secretions, and I wished he were still my ally, and that we could cook cheese crêpes together.
When I gave it to M. Laplanche he winked at me.
– Merci, ma petite.
– It’s not me that made it, I said, and walked back out.
I stayed in my room till I heard the Laplanches leave, then I went up to the kitchen and ate leftovers. Françoise had gone to bed. Except for last night, she kept her farm hours, going to sleep no later than ten and waking at dawn. I went down to the study where Mme Durebex and Laurent were watching television. M. Durebex tottered past on his way to bed. He stopped in the doorway. Hand on his stomach, he said, It makes me ill, the stuff you feed me, Mireille.
Laurent let out a whoop and jumped on me for a wrestle. He had eaten too many chocolate crêpes. I submitted my body to be poked and sat upon. He seized his Christmas cap gun. The noise of it drove Mme Durebex from the room. Ping! Ping! The bullets flew about the study. One hit me on the neck. Nervously, I watched bullets bouncing off the ugly, priceless ornaments. Uselessly, I asked Laurent to stop. He screamed with laughter.
– Je vais te tuer! Je vais te tuer! Pan! Pan! Pan-pan-pan!
I began to retrieve the bullets and put them in my pockets. Laurent punched me for each bullet confiscated. I said I wouldn’t give them back until he calmed down and said please. He gnashed his teeth and went for me. The fists of a little boy are sharp. The fists of Laurent were full of hatred. I shuffled away. Passive resistance enraged him. He punched and kicked and yelled. I had to hold him down.
– You are a fool! You are a fool! He thrashed the gun about in front of my face.
I escaped to the hall. I tried to go up the stairs but Laurent wrapped himself around my leg.
– GEEV ME MY MUNITION, I WON’ SAY PLEASE! GEEV IT TO ME!
– Stop fighting, Laurent! Please!
I sounded pathetic. I managed to drag myself up the stairs, the boy manacled around my ankles. I begged him, Please let go, Laurent.
– NOOOON!
He pursued me into the kitchen, face bloated with rage. Desperate for something to do, I poured myself a glass of water. Laurent threw himself at me, spilling the water. This made him laugh and, relieved, I laughed with him. Then he said, I can do karate!
He set his face and concentrated on anger.
He hurled himself against me repeatedly.
– I DON’ SAY PLEASE! NON! GEEV ME MY MUNITION!
He punched me in the breast. Sensitive, I howled with pain and lost my grip on him. My fear sent him into a frenzy. I called out to Françoise and she called back sleepily she was in bed.
Laurent got his hands in my pocket but he no longer cared about the bullets in there. He curled himself up and swung like a demented yo-yo from the pocket. I could feel a rent beginning. His face was purple and terrifying. I bent with him to save my pocket, calling, Françoise, help! Françoise!
She came out onto the landing and called Mme Durebex.
The fanfare of order rang out through the foyer.
– ALLEZ! GET DOWN TO BED AT ONCE!
I was drinking tea, my hands shaking, when Mme Durebex came into the kitchen to make Laurent some supper. I looked at her fearfully.
– He just lost control. There was nothing I could do.
– It doesn’t matter, Shona, she said. Laurent is a hard child. He has his father’s character. My husband is very hard, but very generous at the same time. Françoise, you know, she can’t control Laurent at all.
She was looking me in the eye, she was completely calm. Her son had just gone mental and bashed me up, and she was calmer than I’d seen her in days. I wanted some sort of explanation, I wanted a reason, I wanted to know what was going on here and why I was being submitted to it. But there wasn’t an explanation, let alone a reason. All that was going on here was the Durebex family, with me an appendage.
Mme Durebex boiled two eggs and asked me to take them down to Laurent.
– He’s too embarrassed to come up to the kitchen, she said.
I found him sitting up in his parents’ bed, fiddling with a toy. His face was vacant and exhausted. When he looked at me, fear shot into his eyes and he flinched as though expecting a blow. The only visible part of his father lying beside him was a hand covering the eyes. Laurent took the plate, expressionless, and offered me his cheek. I kissed him goodnight.
The bruises appeared quickly. I sat up in bed examining them. A big one on my thigh beneath the pocket. Little smudges down my arms. A purple cumulus across my chest.
I bruise easily. My white skin retains evidence of anything that happens to me. The scar on my knee from the day I fell running for the school bus. The bald spot on my crown from a collision with a surfer at Palm Beach. At any time, anywhere on my leg, there’s bound to be a bruise.
The earliest marks would be the two pits on my bum from a baby bout of chicken pox. A mirror could never show me these – they’re shallow and the position is awkward. Still, I find my fingers searching them out from time to time, gaining blind reassurance from the irregularity that’s been there as long as I can remember.
I touched the bruises Laurent had given me, hoping sadistically he’d gotten some in return. But there was something beautiful about the bruises too. Pure white skin is boring.