The next morning, they found Nicolas huddled beneath the open window, through which snowflakes swirled into the hall. He was awake, and his teeth were chattering, but he didn’t say a word. Once again, as though he no longer had any other choice, Patrick carried him to the couch in the office. This time the teacher seemed more irritated than concerned. All right, Nicolas was a sleepwalker and you couldn’t blame him for being upset after such a trying day, but she was upset, too, and worn out. She had no intention of going along on the big excursion Patrick had planned for the boys; she had hoped to get some rest, alone in the chalet, and could have done without having to take care of a sick and moody child. Since Nicolas clearly didn’t seem able to be up and about, however, he was allowed to reclaim his place on the office couch for the time being, and the teacher retired to her room. The class left with Patrick and Marie-Ange. Only Nicolas and the teacher stayed behind.
Hours went by. Nicolas had pulled the covers over his face, and without moving, almost without feeling anything, he waited. He would have liked to experience once more the delicious warmth of a fever, his cocoon of obliviousness, but he wasn’t feverish, just cold and scared. The teacher didn’t bring him anything to drink or come to talk to him. There was no lunch. She was probably asleep. He didn’t even know where her room was.
He must have been drowsing, too, because he was awakened by the telephone. It was already dark, but the others hadn’t come back yet. The receiver jiggled slightly in its cradle. It rang for a long time. It stopped, then began again. The teacher came in, and telling Nicolas that he might perfectly well have answered it himself, she picked up the receiver. Her face looked sleepy, puffy, and her hair was mussed.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Yes, it’s me … Yes, he’s right here.’
She glanced at Nicolas without smiling. Then she frowned.
‘Why? Has something happened? … I see …’
She set the receiver down on the desk. ‘Would you mind leaving me alone for just a minute, please?’ Nicolas got up and slowly left the room, keeping his eyes on her. ‘You should go downstairs, you’ll be more comfortable,’ she added when he’d reached the hall, and she shut the door. Nicolas went as far as the stairs and sat down on the top step, hugging his knees to his chest. He heard nothing of what was being said in the office, but perhaps the teacher was simply listening silently to her caller. At one point he thought about standing up, tiptoeing over … but he didn’t dare. When he leaned against the railing, the wood creaked sharply. A few yards away, a band of orange light gleamed beneath the office door. Nicolas thought he heard a muffled sound, as if someone was trying to stifle a sob. Although the conversation lasted a long time, he couldn’t manage to hear anything else. Everything was drowned in a well of silence. Deep down, water glimmered darkly.
Finally he heard the receiver clatter softly into its cradle. The teacher did not come out of the office. She was probably standing in the same position, her hand still resting on the receiver; she was squeezing her eyes closed, trying not to scream. Or else she had lain down on the couch and was biting the pillow that still bore the imprint of Nicolas’s head. A few days earlier, when he had imagined her learning over the phone about his father’s accidental death, she had first sent him away, as she had just done, but afterward she had left the office, come toward him, taken him in her arms. She had wept over him, saying his name again and again. It was a wrenching scene, but a touching one, infinitely sweet, and now it could never take place. Now she was afraid to come out, afraid to see him, afraid to speak to him. She would have to come out, though – she couldn’t stay in that office for the rest of her life. Cruelly, Nicolas imagined her distress, the unbearable anguish that had overwhelmed her after she’d hung up the phone. She was perfectly still; so was he. She must suspect that he was there, quite near, that he was waiting for her. If he were to knock on the door, she would call to him not to come in, not now, not yet … Perhaps she’d turn the key – yes, she’d lock herself in rather than show him her face and see his own. If he wanted, it would be easy to scare her. Simply speaking would be enough, out in the silent hall. Or humming. Humming something light, innocent, relentless, like a counting rhyme. She wouldn’t be able to stand it, would start shrieking behind the door. But he didn’t hum, didn’t budge, didn’t say a thing. It was up to her, not him, to take charge of the course of events, since events would have to follow their course. Gestures would have to be made, words spoken. Harmless words, at least, useful only for keeping up pretenses, for acting as if nothing had changed, as if the phone call had never taken place. Perhaps she was going to get out of it that way, by pretending it hadn’t happened. By waiting for another phone call, waiting for someone else – someone braver – to answer it. It would be Patrick. The policeman who had phoned earlier wouldn’t understand – he’d say that he’d already spoken to the teacher, told her all about it, but she would shake her head, close her eyes, swear in the face of all the evidence that someone else must have answered instead, someone pretending to be her.
It grew dark. Snow fell on the fir trees outside the window where Hodkann had spoken to Nicolas. There was noise downstairs. The class was back. Lights, shouts, hubbub. The long walk must have brought a glow to their cheeks, and for a few moments, perhaps, the class had forgotten the horror of the previous day. For them it was yesterday’s horror, which would recede with each passing hour, soon fading into a memory their parents would take care not to revive. The mothers would speak of it among themselves in hushed voices, with knowing, pained expressions. But for Nicolas it would always, always be like it was now, at the top of the stairs, waiting until the teacher found the courage to come out.
On his way upstairs, Patrick found him sitting on the steps in the gloom of the hallway.
‘What are you doing here, buddy?’ he asked kindly. ‘You’d be better off in your office.’
‘The teacher’s in there,’ mumbled Nicolas.
‘Ah, really? And she doesn’t want you around?’ Patrick laughed and whispered, ‘She must be phoning her boyfriend!’
He knocked on the door, for form’s sake, and as Nicolas had foreseen, the teacher asked, ‘Who is it?’ in a strange voice. Since it was Patrick, she opened the door, but closed it immediately behind him. Now the two of them were holed up inside, thought Nicolas. Soon they’d all be in there, everyone but him, each one trying to shift onto someone else the burden of having to go see him and talk to him. To tell him the truth? No, they wouldn’t be able to. No one could tell that truth to a little boy. Someone would have to, though. Nicolas waited, feeling almost curious.
Patrick stayed in the office for a long time, but he, at least, was brave enough to come out and sit on the steps next to Nicolas. When he took the boy’s wrist to see what kind of shape the bracelet was in, his hands shook.
‘It’s holding up fairly well!’ he said, and then, unnerved by the silence, he launched into some story about Mexican generals and Pancho Villa that Nicolas didn’t understand at all, that he didn’t try to understand, but that must have been meant to be funny because Patrick kept making these fake-sounding chuckles. He was talking for the sake of talking, doing his best, and Nicolas thought it was nice of him. If he could have, Nicolas would have interrupted him and said, looking him straight in the eye, that all this stuff about Pancho Villa was fine but not really necessary and that he wanted to learn the truth. Patrick could sense this and suddenly stopped telling his story, even though he wasn’t anywhere near the end. Without trying to cover up his failure, he gulped like someone drowning and said very quickly, ‘Listen, Nicolas, there’s a problem at home … It’s too bad about ski school, but the teacher thinks – and so do I – that it would be best if you went home … Yes, that would be best,’ he added, just to say something, anything.
‘When?’ murmured Nicolas, as though that were the only thing he needed to know.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ replied Patrick.
‘Someone’s going to come get me?’
Nicolas wondered whether or not he’d rather the police came for him.
‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m the one who’s taking you. Is that okay? The two of us get along pretty well.’
Grinning weakly, he ruffled Nicolas’s hair; the boy bit his lips to keep from crying as he thought about the kings of the road. It must have been a relief to Patrick that Nicolas had questioned him only about practical details, not about the reasons behind their trip. Perhaps he found it peculiar that Nicolas didn’t seem all that astonished. Still, the child did ask, in a barely audible voice, ‘Is it serious, what happened at home?’
Patrick thought a moment before replying, ‘Yes, I think it’s serious. Your mother will tell you about it.’
Nicolas began to descend the stairs with downcast eyes but Patrick held him back, squeezed his shoulder hard, and, trying to smile, said, ‘It’ll be okay, Nicolas.’