Yvette and Stéphane were in the booth at the back of the Café des Vosges. Raymond had been sure he would find them there. The three of them went to the café almost every day after school. It was a humdrum place with metal tables and chairs that scraped on the grey tiled floor whenever anyone got up. The uninspiring view onto Avenue Général de Gaulle was obscured by voile curtains. Chipped gold lettering on the window announced the establishment as a Salon de thé. Inside, an air of gentility was cultivated by the bland watercolours adorning the walls. A large glass cabinet by the counter displayed an array of tarts and cakes. It was patronised in the main by elderly women. If the three friends frequented the place, it was for no other reason than it was on their route home from school, and perhaps also because the banality of the surroundings made them feel more unconventional than they actually were.
Stéphane broke off his conversation with Yvette when he saw Raymond approach the table.
‘Well, my friends, what news?’ said Raymond as he slid onto the banquette next to Yvette. ‘Did I miss anything at school?’
Yvette and Stéphane exchanged a glance and Raymond was pleased with the effect his entrance had had on them. Neither of them knew what to say. The waitress with the harelip appeared at the table and took his order.
‘Sorry about your old man,’ said Stéphane when the waitress had retreated to the counter. He had never referred to Maître Barthelme in this way before. The forced joviality of the phrase struck Raymond as phoney.
‘So you heard?’ he said.
Yvette was looking at him with a troubled expression.
‘It’s in the paper,’ said Stéphane. ‘Everyone knows about it.’
Raymond raised his eyebrows. His father would have hated that. He hated any sort of attention. He always refused to attend weddings or dinner parties and no one was ever invited to the Barthelme’s home.
‘What can I say?’ he said with a shrug.
Yvette leaned in towards him. Raymond thought she was about to place a comforting hand on his arm, but she did not do so. The waitress arrived with Raymond’s tea. The three of them sat in uncomfortable silence as she placed the smoked glass cup and saucer and the stainless steel pot of tea on the table.
‘And may I have some water?’ Raymond said, for no other reason than to continue his pretence that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He poured hot water over the teabag in the glass and watched the tea infuse. Nobody said anything until the waitress had returned with his water.
‘So how was old Peletière this morning?’ he said. ‘The usual cloud of dandruff and body odour?’ Peletière was their history master.
‘Raymond!’ said Yvette. ‘Why are you acting like this?’ It was the first thing she had said since his arrival.
He looked at her and spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘You know I couldn’t stand the old bastard,’ he said. ‘It’d be a bit two-faced to play the grief-stricken son, wouldn’t it?’
Yvette looked away. Raymond had the impression that she had tears in her eyes, as if it were she he had said he couldn’t stand. He felt bad.
Raymond and Yvette had met when they were eleven years old. Yvette’s family moved to Saint-Louis from a village in Bas-Rhin when her father got a job as a chargehand in a concrete factory on the outskirts of the town. From the beginning, the two of them were like an elderly couple, content to sit for hours watching the pigeons peck at the dirt in the little park by the Protestant temple. Raymond always assumed they would get married. After school, he would walk her home to the end of her street, before wandering slowly back to Rue des Bois. In their early teens, however, on Saturdays when school finished at midday, they would take the long way round by the canal and sit in silence on the bank, staring silently at the motionless green water. Sometimes they kissed, or rather, they pressed their lips together. At first, this was carried out in the spirit of a game, as if they were playing mothers and fathers, but later Raymond found it arousing. It never occurred to him that it might have a similar effect on Yvette, and he kept his hand strategically positioned to conceal his erection.
Once, on a hot afternoon during the summer holidays when they were fourteen or fifteen, Yvette placed her hand on the front of Raymond’s canvas shorts. She lightly clasped his penis through the coarse material, and he ejaculated immediately with a stifled groan. Yvette looked at him with a mischievous expression and gave a little giggle, but Raymond felt dreadfully ashamed, as if he had been caught committing an unsavoury act. He could not bring himself to speak. Yvette did not notice—or pretended not to notice—the dark stain that had formed on his shorts. In order to disguise it, Raymond suddenly threw off his shirt and leapt into the canal. He submerged himself in the opaque water and then bobbed up, his hair plastered to his forehead. The shock of the cold water on his body dissipated his embarrassment.
‘Why don’t you come in and cool off?’ he called. He had a sudden desire to see Yvette pull her dress over her head and dive in. She merely smiled indulgently, the way a mother might, watching her child totter round a play park. Raymond swam to the opposite bank in a few easy strokes, dived again and came up in the rushes at Yvette’s feet. He grabbed her by the ankles and playfully attempted to pull her in, but she drew up her legs and sat with her arms clasped around them. Raymond floated on his back for a while, feeling the sun dry his chest, then scrambled out.
After that, their amorous activities ceased for a while. When they did kiss, it was Raymond who broke it off. He did not want Yvette to think that her previous act was now expected of her. More worryingly she might expect him to reciprocate in some way. It was not that he was not curious about what lay between Yvette’s legs, but it would have seemed indecent to touch her there. More recently, however, things had moved on. Yvette’s body had matured and one evening in her bedroom, she had detached herself from their embrace and wordlessly unfastened the second and third buttons of her blouse. It was hardly the most wanton act, but Raymond could not fail to interpret it as anything other than an invitation to slip his hand under the fabric. This he duly did. He was not rebuffed, but he did not dare go so far as to push aside the material of her brassiere. Nevertheless, the presence of his hand elicited a moan of pleasure from Yvette. This sound was enough to cause Raymond to spend himself. He then said in a childish voice: ‘I think I’ve had an accident,’ and Yvette replied in a maternal tone that he was a very naughty boy. It became a regular occurrence for Raymond to fondle Yvette’s breasts while she pushed the heel of her hand in to his crotch. He began to feel guilty that their lovemaking—as he thought of it—was not reciprocal, but he had only the vaguest idea of the mechanics of pleasuring a woman. Yvette, for her part, betrayed no dissatisfaction with the arrangement, and afterwards would silently hand Raymond a handkerchief to mop up his emission.
Raymond had contemplated asking Stéphane for some advice. On account of the fact that his friend was nine months older and had lived elsewhere, Raymond assumed that he was a great deal more worldly. But no mention was ever made of he and Yvette’s activities. When they were in Stéphane’s company, they kept their hands to themselves. Similarly, at school, they behaved as if they were no more than friends. Raymond occasionally wondered if Yvette might share similar intimacies with Stéphane. He even found it arousing to think of his two friends together, but he was sure that nothing of that sort had ever occurred. In any case, the two of them were never alone together. As it was, the clandestine nature of Raymond’s activities with Yvette only gave them a greater frisson.
One afternoon, towards the end of the summer, the threesome cycled to the Petite Camargue for a picnic. They laid out a rug by the edge of the lake and sat eating the pâté and cheese they had brought with them. Stéphane was discoursing volubly on the absurdity of choosing to continue to exist in a Godless universe, but Raymond was not listening. He could not imagine anyone less likely to commit suicide than Stéphane. The trees around the edge of the water were already changing colour and he had a melancholic sense that something was coming to an end. Somewhere, a wood pigeon cooed in the trees. They would soon enter their final year at school and after that the threesome would be broken up. Yvette and Stéphane’s most frequent topic of conversation had become the relative virtues of the colleges they were considering. Yvette favoured Strasbourg, while Stéphane had set his sights on Paris. ‘Why would you choose to go anywhere else?’ he declared frequently. It was a conversation in which Raymond felt unable to participate, and he would continually disrupt his friends’ discussion with irrelevant remarks. He was a mediocre student. The recurrent allegation of his school reports was of an intelligent pupil who refused to push himself. Once a year Raymond’s father would invite him into his study for a discussion of his progress.
‘I am baffled by these reports,’ he told his son when he was eleven or twelve years old. ‘I myself see no evidence of this intelligence your teachers speak of. Certainly your grades do not support this assertion. Perhaps you could enlighten me?’
When Raymond failed to respond, Maître Barthelme shook his head and said: ‘I suppose it is a lesser crime to be stupid than to fail to make use of one’s talents.’
It was true that Raymond had made little effort with his schoolwork. It was a kind of listless defiance of his father. As he passed through his teenage years, the assumption that the firm of Barthelme & Corbeil would one day become Barthelme, Corbeil & Sons had receded. If Raymond buckled down enough to improve his grades, his father would insist on him studying law. Nevertheless, by indulging in this self-sabotaging behaviour, Raymond was wrecking his prospects of ever escaping Saint-Louis. He had no desire to end up working in a bank on Rue de Mulhouse and throwing himself under a train before he was forty. He had thus resolved to improve his performance. The process was not, however, as straightforward as he imagined. He had long since accepted the comfortable designation of underperforming student. But what if it transpired that he was not as intelligent as his teachers—and he—believed? What if his grades were an accurate reflection of his abilities? It was more humiliating to fail when one had made an effort. If one did not lift a finger, it was possible to preserve the illusion that one was lazy rather than dim-witted. Nevertheless, the prospect of being trapped in the stagnant backwater of Saint-Louis spurred him on. At first, he struggled. He had not acquired the habits of concentration and self-discipline expected of students his age. But his grades slowly began to pick up. He was careful to maintain his outwardly diffident attitude, but his teachers took notice of his improvement and encouraged him. Still, his prospects of passing the baccalaureate remained in the balance.
After they had eaten their picnic, Stéphane declared that he was going to take a turn around the lake. He had a surfeit of energy and was incapable of remaining inactive for any length of time. Raymond took off his shirt and lay back on the rug with his hands behind his head. He was happy where he was. Yvette, as Raymond knew she would, said that she would stay too. She tried to persuade Stéphane to remain, but her protests were half-hearted. Stéphane shook his head at their lethargy and set off at a brisk pace through the trees.
Raymond took out his copy of Zola’s La Curée, which they would be studying the following term. He had resolved to get ahead with his reading, but he had been unable to get past the first chapter. He complained to Yvette, who had finished the book in a few days, that the opening description of the carriages circling the Bois de Boulogne was interminable.
‘It’s five pages,’ she replied earnestly. ‘He’s introducing us to the milieu of the novel.’
‘It’s so tedious,’ Raymond groaned.
He started to read to her in an exaggeratedly monotonous tone:
‘The lake, seen from the front, in the pale light that still hovered over the water, became rounder, like a huge tin fish; on either side, the plantations of evergreens, whose slim, straight stems seemed to rise up from its still surface, looked at this hour like purple colonnades—’
Yvette lay next to him and placed her hand on his chest. She brushed her lips against his ear. Raymond continued to read aloud:
‘—delineating with their even shapes the studied curves of the shore; and shrubs rose in the background, confused masses of foliage forming large black masses that closed off the horizon.’
Yvette kissed his neck and traced circles on his chest with her fingers. Raymond laid aside the book and turned to kiss her. There was a new seriousness in the way they went about their business. Raymond placed his palm on the bare skin of Yvette’s stomach and pushed his hand inside the waistband of her denim shorts. Yvette made no objection and even undid the metal button to facilitate his progress. The tips of Raymond’s fingers reached her pubic hair, which until then he had not even seen. His middle finger came to rest on a slick nub of gristle. Yvette inhaled sharply. Raymond did not know what to do, so he merely left his hand where it was. Yvette gripped his wrist and pressed his hand against her sex. She slowly rotated her hips. Her breathing quickened. Her face was buried in the crook of Raymond’s neck. Sunlight flickered through the yellowing leaves on the branches above them. Raymond’s wrist was at an awkward angle and was becoming quite painful. Yvette gripped it more tightly and pushed it further between her legs. Her breath arrived in short gasps that reminded Raymond of a steam train picking up speed. Just then, they were distracted by a couple on the opposite side of the lake. It was not possible to hear what they were saying, but it was clear that they were arguing. Raymond raised himself onto one elbow to watch the scene through the trees. The woman slapped her companion across the face and stormed off into the woods. The man was left holding his face and looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the incident. Raymond removed his hand from Yvette’s shorts and massaged his numb wrist. He made a silly comment about what the man must have said to deserve such a slap. Yvette turned her back to him. When Raymond put his hand on her shoulder, she shrugged it away. He put his fingers to his mouth and tasted the salty residue that had been left there. Then he picked up his book and pretended to read. They did not speak until Stéphane returned, excited by the incident with the couple, which he had witnessed close at hand. Neither Raymond nor Yvette were interested, however, and they quietly packed up their things and returned to where they had left their bicycles.
Raymond took a sip of his tea. The harelipped waitress was watching him from behind the counter. Perhaps she also knew about the accident and was curious about his behaviour. There might even have been a photograph of his father in L’Alsace. Such articles often ended with a line such as: The deceased is survived by his wife and son.
Yvette started packing her things into her satchel. She stood up to go.
‘I don’t know why you have to act like that all the time,’ she said.
Raymond adopted an innocent expression. ‘Like what?’ he said.
‘Like you don’t care about anything. Or anyone.’ She put her bag over her shoulder.
If Stéphane had not been there, Raymond might have said something conciliatory. Indeed, if he had been alone with Yvette, he would not have acted as he had in the first place. His display of indifference had been entirely for Stéphane’s benefit. But he could hardly change course now, so he shrugged and said: ‘Maybe I don’t care about anything.’
Yvette shook her head dismissively.
Stéphane intervened: ‘He’s just upset.’
Raymond had no wish for Stéphane to speak up for him, but he regretted his behaviour. He did not want Yvette to leave.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Maman and I had to identify the body this morning.’
He had played his trump card. Yvette could hardly walk out after such a revelation.
‘Oh,’ she said. She sat down and placed her satchel on the floor.
‘That can’t have been much fun,’ said Stéphane.
Raymond described how he and his mother had passed his father’s car on the road to Mulhouse. There was, in truth, little to say about the process itself. He did not tell them how, as they had entered the mortuary, an image from Frankenstein had flashed through his mind and he had half-expected the body under the sheets to slowly rise from the slab.
‘It was all over in a few seconds. They tried to hide it but I could tell he was pretty smashed up. Maman didn’t faint or anything. The whole thing was pretty weird.’
Yvette nodded earnestly. ‘It must have been horrible.’
Raymond shrugged, but not maliciously. He gave her a little smile. He was glad Stéphane was there. He had no wish to go into more detail, to explain how, despite everything, he had had to choke back a sob when the sheet had been drawn back from his father’s face.
‘The funniest thing was the cop. I think he’s got his eye on Maman already.’ He patted Yvette’s arm in imitation of Gorski. ‘There, there, Madame Barthelme. I must apologise for putting you through this, Madame Barthelme.’ Then he wrung his hands in an obsequious manner and made a smacking noise with his lips.
Yvette and Stéphane laughed drily, but it was clear that neither of them found his comments amusing. Raymond noticed the glance that passed between his two friends. A silence fell over the table. Stéphane looked at his watch and said that he had to pick up a book from the library. Raymond expected Yvette to say that she would stay for a while, but she too said she had to leave. They calculated their share of the bill, as they always did, and placed the coins on the pewter salver.
They parted with Stéphane on the pavement outside. His statement was clearly untrue. If he had needed to visit the library, he would have done so before leaving school. Nevertheless, Raymond was pleased to be alone with Yvette. He was sorry he had acted as he had. He was about to say as much, but something prevented him. He felt a sudden resentment towards Stéphane, as though it was his friend who was responsible for his behaviour.
Raymond and Yvette walked slowly along Rue de Mulhouse. The longer they remained in silence, the more intractable it became. Now that he had missed his chance to apologise, he could only think of silly, flippant remarks to make, and that would only compound the callous impression he had made in the café. He thought of asking Yvette what she was thinking about, but it always annoyed him when she asked him that, usually in the moments after they had engaged in some sort of sexual activity.
A fat man with a rolling gait approached. He was wearing a Tyrolean hat with a little feather in the band. His face was florid and they had to step aside to allow him to pass. Normally Raymond would have passed some comment about his cauliflower nose. But things had changed. It was no longer appropriate to make fun of passers-by. Raymond wondered how much time would have to pass before it would once more be acceptable to do so. Or if, perhaps, they had entered a new phase of their lives in which they would have to behave at all times in a solemn adult manner.
Ah, yes, Raymond imagined people commenting of him, he never smiles. He’s never been the same since his father passed away.
He stole a glance at Yvette. He liked her profile. She had a small nose and long eyelashes. He mouth was naturally downturned, but her general expression was calm, rather than sad, as if she found the world around her vaguely amusing. He felt a surge of emotion towards her.
They reached the corner of Rue des Trois Rois, where they usually parted. Yvette offered him a sympathetic smile. She held out her hand and lightly touched his wrist. Raymond grasped the opportunity afforded by her gesture. ‘I’m sorry about before,’ he said. ‘I was an ass.’
Yvette shrugged in a resigned fashion. She expected little else.