We stopped on the way. Accompanied by Léonard, Catherine Vandrecken literally plundered an Asian delicatessen. It was a no-parking zone, and I stayed in the car. I had plenty of time to watch her as she pointed to what she wanted to buy. She was wearing a turtleneck sweater and pants. She was a different person than the doctor at that moment. They both got back in the car, as excited as if they’d left without paying.
When we got home, I warmed up the containers and Léonard laid the table. He hardly hesitated. Compared with a penalty, it was easy. Catherine sat down at the table, without waiting for us, and started jabbing at one of the dishes.
“Sorry if I’m rude, but I’m very hungry.”
Léonard, who was bringing water in a jug, suddenly froze. “You took my seat,” he said in a very serious voice.
“Léonard, there are no allocated seats.”
“No, he’s quite right,” Catherine said, and moved.
Léonard got his usual seat back and Catherine continued eating.
“When I was a child,” she said, “I had my seat at the corner of the table, to the right of my father, and wouldn’t have changed it for the anything in the world. Whenever friends of my parents were invited over, I’d sit down at the table, sometimes half an hour before the meal, to be sure that nobody would take my seat. Even now, I have my favorite seat in the hospital canteen, right at the back, the last chair next to the window. If it isn’t free, I get upset, and, depending on my mood, I can even go so far as to take my tray to my office, rather than sit somewhere else.”
Catherine turned to Léonard and pointed to me with the tip of her chopstick.
“This man says there are no allocated seats, but I’m sure he has his habits and doesn’t like departing from them.”
By the time I took the spring rolls from the oven, my nephew had started speaking, and it was as if nothing could stop him.
“He puts his bag down in the hall before leaving for training, always in the same place, under the clock. Then he goes around the house, turns off the water, and picks up his bag again. In the evening when he comes back, he puts on a sweat suit with holes in it, always the same one . . . ”
“Léonard, this is of no interest to anyone.”
“I don’t agree. Go on, Léonard.”
“He has three toothbrushes, but only uses one.”
“Are you done yet?”
“When he goes to his car, he always walks in front of the hood, never behind.”
“I’ve never even noticed . . . ”
“Always in front of the hood, I checked. And when he laces his shoes, he always starts with the left. Never the right.”
“Have you been spying on me?”
“He’s just very observant, that’s a great quality. Aren’t you going to sit down?”
I joined them. All three of us forgot about the plates, and ate straight from the containers. Catherine asked me to explain to her what offside meant in soccer. The anesthesiologist in her department was a supporter of Paris Saint-Germain, and every Monday morning he’d tell her about the achievements or disappointments of his favorite club, using technical terms she didn’t understand. I used our glasses and the salt and pepper shakers to position the defenders and the striker, and the cork from the bottle as a ball. As I was applying myself to this learned presentation, Léonard fell asleep. His head slowly came to rest on his arm, and he closed his eyes. He was exhausted after that penalty session that had forced him out of his comfort zone.
“I’ll put him to bed.”
I took my nephew in my arms and carried him to his room. I was surprised by how light he was. How old was he? Thirteen. If he continued with soccer, he’d have to do develop some muscles. I laid him in his bed and tucked him in.
Catherine had left the table and opened the little door that led from the kitchen into the backyard. Now she was leaning against the wall and smoking.
“He’s already changed.”
“Léonard, you mean?”
“Yes. It’s obvious. Compared with that evaluation in the hospital. He’s getting more confident. How many kids do you train?”
“It varies. Around twenty.”
“They must love you.”
“Oh, no, they’re scared of me. I don’t particularly like children, you know.”
“You’ll never make me believe that. You’re a teacher.”
“I used to be a player, but my knee gave up on me. When you’ve been kicking a ball since you were a teenager and you have to retrain, there aren’t a whole lot of options.”
“You could have coached adults.”
“The job here attracted me. It just happened to be with young people.”
She looked at me as she blew out smoke. There was a tinge of irony in her eyes. “Not easy to catch you out, is it?”
“I’m just giving you a straight answer.”
“My friends liked you. They’re a couple, by the way.”
“I thought they were mother and daughter.”
“The younger woman was one of my patients before she became a friend. Her mother was a manic-depressive. She lived in fear all through her childhood, but it was only when she grew up that she started having nightmares. She’s much better now. She illustrates children’s books. She draws monsters, but acceptable ones.”
“You must see all kinds in your work.”
“Pretty much.”
It was early afternoon, and the neighborhood was totally quiet. The only sound was the birds in the gardens. We stood there for a moment without moving, in that corner of the yard, listening to them. Catherine was very close to my shoulder, and I was aware of it. It wouldn’t have taken much for our skins to touch.
“Why did you choose a profession that’s so . . . ”
“So dark? You mustn’t think that. There’s also a lot of light. And besides, I needed to understand. I was, how can I put it . . . terrified, when I was small, by a feeling of absurdity. Understanding is my shield.”
“And does it work?”
“It depends on what it’s for. Shields protect you, but they also isolate you. Do you see what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“I also have a sweat suit with holes in it.”
“That must be the one thing we have in common.”
“Do you think so?”
“I usually say what I think.”
“You see me as a middle-class intellectual who goes to the theater after work.”
“Isn’t that true?”
“So what am I doing in this yard?”
“Taking an interest in a boy who suffers from Asperger’s syndrome.”
“I’m interested in people who are alone.”
“Everyone’s alone.”
“Some people hide it less well than others. I feel more at ease with those people.”
“You’re going to burn yourself.”
“I’m sorry?”
“With your cigarette.”