‘You are an intelligent boy, Jonas,’ he retorted, unmoved. ‘You were brought up in the right place. Stay here. The fellagas do not know how to build; if they were given paradise they would reduce it to rubble. All they can bring to your people is misfortune and disappointment.’
‘You should take a look at the villages around you, Monsieur Sosa. Misfortune holds sway here since you reduced free men to the rank of beasts of burden.’
With that, I left him standing there and walked back to my car, my head whistling like a desert wind.
17
JEAN-CHRISTOPHE showed up unexpectedly in the spring of 1957. It was Bruno the policeman who gave me the news as I came out of the post office.
‘So, how was the reunion?’
‘What reunion?’
‘You mean you don’t know? Chris is home, he got back two days ago . . .’
Two days ago? Jean-Christophe had been back in Río Salado for two days and no one had told me? I had seen Simon the night before; we had even talked a little. Why hadn’t he told me?
Back at the pharmacy, I phoned Simon at his office, though it was only a stone’s throw from the post office – I don’t know why I decided to phone him rather than call and see him. Maybe I was afraid of making him feel embarrassed, or afraid of seeing in his eyes what I already suspected: that Jean-Christophe still bore a grudge against me and did not want to see me.
Simon’s voice quavered on the other end of the line:
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Really?’
‘I swear, I thought you knew.’
‘Did he say anything to you?’
Simon cleared his throat. He was embarrassed.
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘It’s okay, I understand.’
I hung up.
Germaine, who had just come back from the market, set her basket down on the floor and gave me a lopsided look.
‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘Just some customer complaining,’ I reassured her.
She picked up her basket and went upstairs to the apartment. When she got to the landing, she stopped for a second, then came down a few steps and looked at me.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘No.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you . . . Oh, by the way, I’ve invited Bernadette to come down for the end-of-season ball. I hope you’re not going to let her down too. She’s a fine girl; she might not look it, but she’s clever. Not educated, I’ll grant you, but you won’t find a better match than her. And she’s pretty, too . . .’
I had met Bernadette when she was a little girl, at the funeral of her father, who had been killed in the attack on the naval base at Mers-el-Kébir in 1940 – a skinny child who’d stood a little apart while her cousins played with a hoop.
‘You know perfectly well that I don’t go to balls any more.’
‘Precisely . . .’
And she went upstairs.
Simon called me back, having had time to think.
‘What did you mean, you understand, Jonas?’
‘I find it strange that you didn’t tell me that Chris was back. I thought we were still friends.’
‘Nothing about our friendship has changed; I’m still as fond of you as ever. I know my job hasn’t left me much time off, but you’re always in my thoughts. You’re the one who’s been distant. You’ve never come to visit us at the new house, not once. Every time we run into each other in the street, you’re always in a hurry to get off somewhere. I don’t know what’s got into you, but it’s not me who’s changed. And I swear I thought you knew Chris was back. Actually, I haven’t seen much of him, I left him to his family. If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t even phoned Fabrice to tell him the good news. I’ll do it now. The four of us can get together, just like the good old days. I know a great bistro in Aïn Truck. What do you say?’
I knew he was lying. He was talking too quickly, as though rattling off something he’d learned by heart, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He promised to pick me up after work so we could go to Jean-Christophe’s house together.
I waited, but he didn’t come. I closed up the shop and waited a little longer. When it got dark, I sat out on the steps of the shop, watching shadows moving in the streets, trying to pick out Simon’s. He didn’t come. I decided to go to Jean-Christophe’s house on my own . . . Which was a mistake. Simon’s car was parked outside the front door, beneath an avalanche of mimosa; next to it was André’s car and the mayor’s car and the grocer’s car for all I knew. I was furious. Something told me to turn around and go home, but I didn’t listen. I rang the doorbell. Somewhere a shutter creaked then slammed shut. It was a long time before someone opened the door. A woman I didn’t know, probably a visiting relative, asked what I wanted.
‘I’m Jonas, I’m a friend of Chris.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s asleep.’
I felt like barging past her, storming straight into the living room where everyone was holding their breath and surprising Jean-Christophe there with his friends and relatives. But I did nothing. There was nothing to be done. Everything was crystal clear. I nodded, took a step back, waited for the woman to close the door, then drove home. Germaine did not ask me where I’d been; it was kind of her.
The following day, Simon showed up looking tight-lipped.
‘I swear I don’t understand what’s going on,’ he stammered.
‘There’s nothing to understand. He doesn’t want to see me, that’s all. And you’ve known that from the beginning. That’s why you didn’t say anything when I ran into you two days ago.’
‘Okay. You’re right, I did know. In fact it was the first thing he said to me, that I wasn’t allowed to mention your name. He actually insisted I tell you that he didn’t want you to come by and see him. I refused, obviously.’
He lifted the hatch and came behind the counter, wringing his hands. His forehead was slick with sweat; his receding hairline glistened in the light.
‘Don’t hate him. He’s had it rough. He fought on the front line in Indochina. He was captured and wounded twice. He was demobbed when he got out of hospital. You have to give him some time.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Simon.’
‘I was going to come by and pick you up yesterday, like I promised.’
‘I waited . . .’
‘I know. I went round to see Jean-Christophe first, to try to persuade him to see you. I could hardly just bring you round; he would have been furious, and that would just have made matters worse.’
‘You’re right, there’s no point forcing his hand.’
‘That’s not what I mean. He’s unpredictable. He’s not the same. Even with me. When I invited him round to meet Émilie and the kid, he flew into a rage. Never! he screamed at me. Never! You’d think I’d suggested taking him to hell. I don’t understand. Maybe it’s because of what he went through in the war. Sometimes I look at him and it’s like he’s a little crazy. If you saw his eyes – empty as the twin barrels of a rifle. I pity him. Don’t hate him, Jonas. We have to be patient.’
When I did not reply, he tried another tack:
‘I called Fabrice. Hélène told me he’s in Algiers on account of what’s happening in the Casbah. She doesn’t know when he’ll be back. Maybe by the time he gets home, Chris will have come round.’
Resentment prickled in me, insistent and biting, and I lashed out.
‘You were all there last night.’
‘Yes,’ he admitted with a tired smile.
He leaned towards me, watching every twitch of my face.
‘What happened between the two of you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on, you can’t expect me to believe that. You had something to do with him leaving in the first place, didn’t you? It was because of you that he signed up and allowed himself to be torn to pieces by those slitty-eyed bastards. What the hell happened? I didn’t sleep a wink for thinking about it. I thought of every possible scenario, but it doesn’t make sense.’