Marc looked at his hand. Mud and blood mixed in the gashes left by Florian’s teeth, and this pink and brown liquid streamed from Marc’s hand and was swallowed by the grass. He walked across the courtyard and towards the farmhouse, where he found Christophe standing in the doorway, looking at him.
You went and put yourself in the pond, said the old man.
Marc looked at him and said nothing.
Do not enter the house. Do not move. Stand right where you are.
The boy did as he was told. There was anger in the old man’s voice and Marc knew to be afraid of the belt. He watched the old man walk across the courtyard and pick Florian up by the collar and drag him snarling and snapping towards the farmhouse. Florian attempted to bite Christophe, and when he did, the old man stopped walking and slapped the boy across the face, and Florian stopped struggling and let himself be dragged. Christophe dropped Florian’s limp body next to Marc.
Both of you stand up, he said.
Marc was already standing and Florian rose uncertainly to his feet. They were dripping with mud and Marc’s hand was bleeding. Both looked at the old man and said nothing. Christophe walked along the farmhouse and unraveled the hose and turned it on. A cold hard jet of water shot forth from the nozzle. First he used it to wash his hands of mud. Then he walked back towards the boys, keeping the hose pointed at the wall of the farmhouse, against which the water exploded into a rough mist.
Step away from the house, he said.
The boys did so. He sprayed them with cold water and they grimaced and blinked and attempted to protect their bodies with their hands. The jet stayed one step ahead of them, and the old man barked at the boys to turn around, keep turning you little idiots. Then he pointed the hose downwards and watched the two boys dripping in the courtyard, and told them again to turn until he was satisfied.
Take your clothes off, he said.
Marc and Florian stripped slowly until they stood naked and shivering in the courtyard, illuminated by the pale yellow moon, its craters plainly visible against the dark blue sky. Both of them were streaked with mud in strange patterns and Florian’s long hair covered his eyes. They are going through changes, thought the old man. They are barely boys any longer.
Why in god’s name would you play in the pond when you know it to be full of mud, said the old man.
He flicked his wrist and the jet of water lifted, striking Florian in the face and the boy lifted his hands instinctively but Christophe whipped down the jet so that it struck Florian’s belly, which caused the boy to lower his hands again, allowing the old man to finish his work.
Turn, he said.
And Florian did. This will teach the boy to ruin perfectly good clothes, thought Christophe. Do I remember giving him those clothes. That white shirt and those loose pants and that belt. I do not. Surely I do. But I do not. No matter, they were his clothes, and he ruined them in the pond, and now he is being punished.
When Christophe had finished with Florian he turned the jet to Marc. This boy’s behavior is surprising, thought the old man. I do not know him to be a fool. He is sometimes brutal, and often cruel, but rarely foolish. Look at him shivering with his teeth clenched and his muscles braced. He turns like a soldier when I instruct him to do so.
When he could see no mud on their naked bodies Christophe turned the hose to the wall and walked alongside the farmhouse again. He closed the tap and coiled the hose. Then he turned to make sure the boys had not moved. Neither had. Florian was hunched over, arms folded across his chest, hands tucked into his armpits. His teeth chattered loudly and his hair had fallen in front of his eyes again. Marc also had his arms folded, but his teeth did not chatter. His jaw was clenched so tightly that its muscles twitched. He stood straight and stared defiantly at Christophe. But he would never dare, thought the old man. Still his eyes are indomitable.
Do not move, the old man said, and disappeared into the farmhouse.
Marc’s hand ached terribly but the boy did not look at it. His blood dripped onto the dirt, forming there a shapeless stain only slightly darker than that of the water. It could have been the shadow of a fly cast from the windowpane. Florian looked at his own feet, the oversized articulations and the black toenails grown long through the winter. Then he looked at Marc. Florian could smell the blood. It seeped from the hand responsible for pulling him back into the world.
Christophe reappeared in the doorway with two clean towels. He threw one over his shoulder and wrapped the other around Florian, who clutched the fabric to his chest with skeletal hands. Christophe looked at him in the eyes and held the boy’s jaw between fingers and thumb until Florian’s teeth stopped clacking. Then he wrapped the second towel around Marc.
Do not let them touch the ground, he said.
Christophe fetched a rag from under the sink in the kitchen, and laid it carefully down across the bottom step.
You first.
The boy said nothing but stepped forward onto the rag. Christophe gripped Florian’s left ankle and lifted the boy’s foot, using the rag to wipe the mud from beneath it as Florian held onto the old man’s shoulder for balance. Christophe then pulled the rag from under Florian’s left foot and made him stand on the cold dry stone while he cleaned the boy’s right foot. Once this had been accomplished he ushered Florian into the farmhouse. The old man then flipped the rag and repeated the same actions for Marc, who also held the old man’s shoulder for balance. When he was finished Christophe rose and pressed his hand to Marc’s naked back and gently pushed him up the remaining steps and into the farmhouse, where from the dining room the boy could see the other children gathered in the kitchen. Lea had carried a blanket down the stairs and wrapped Florian in it. The girl was sitting on the sofa holding him in her arms. She smiled and wept. The boy’s eyes were closed. The others stood around them keeping vigil in the dim orange candlelight.
19.
With the first rays of spring Christophe carried a wooden chair out into the courtyard and sat facing westward, enjoying the sunlight on his skin. The wind blew stray cumulus across the sky, none of which obscured the sun, and between gusts, when the sun beat continuously, Christophe warmed to the point of comfort. He wore no shoes or socks and was dressed in filthy grey slacks and a stained white undershirt. His stomach had grown round from inactivity. Christophe’s skin was more flaccid than before and jowls hung from his once sturdy face. No matter. He held his back straight, and beneath the drooping exterior he was made of steel. She would not bend him. She would not break him. It had been a week now since she had disappeared, and Christophe had almost called off the wedding despite the flimsy note she had left behind.
I WILL BE THERE, the note said, BUT I HAVE SOME THINGS TO TAKE CARE OF FIRST. I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND.
So she would open her legs one last time for the world before she committed to mediocrity. Surely among her squatting friends in the suburbs she would find a mattress to lie on. There she would find bottomless, irresponsible pleasure.
When the phone did ring it was always the florist, the owner of the pavilion du lac, or some other commercial representative preoccupied with logistics or payment. Isabela had few friends, having traveled so often and given so many people a piece of her mind, and he did not have much of a social life either, finding the presence of others distracting and preferring the straightforward structures of work, literature, and museums. The wedding would be a low-key affair held in the Buttes-Chaumont. Not many guests. Some fellow Belleville storeowners. An estranged uncle. No parents, long dead. The joining of two only children.