Love, Anger, Madness

Paul into the first room, where two typists were at work.

“Come on through, please come on through.”

He saw his father at his desk. He was sitting in a rocking chair and was talking to a tall, very elegant man in a nicely cut dark suit. The man was bowing before him without daring to support himself and, not knowing what to do with his hands, ended up swaying back and forth as though he were walking.

Louis Normil tilted back in his chair, his crossed knees nearly reaching the height of his chest. From on high he looked at the man planted in front of him.

“My dear Monsieur Zura, how could I forget you?” he was saying. “Are you not my superior, rankwise? The key thing is to make an appointment so that we can meet at the notary. I am setting aside one of my best properties for you, I promise. It’s already well planted with trees and, believe me, the neighborhood is pleasant and clean. Trust me, this is an exceptional deal for you.”

M. Zura thanked him and went away without noticing Paul. Looking at the typist who was working across from him, Louis Normil saw that she was staring at something just behind his chair. He suddenly turned around.

“You!” he exclaimed, catching sight of his son. “What can I do for you?”

Paul looked at his father for a moment, then shrugging:

“Nothing,” he answered.

“But come here. Do you need me?”

“No, I was passing by, so I walked in.”

“Are you sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me, some bad news?”

He went pale as he uttered those words, and Paul saw him looking for a place to rest his hand or elbow on the table.

“No, Papa, no, really, it’s nothing.”

He suddenly left his father and made for the exit. He strolled until lunch and found the whole family home. The grandfather and the invalid mingled their mumbling voices in prayer. He took his seat and ate in silence.

“Claude, have you had your bath today?”

“Yes, Mama, Grandfather bathed me as usual.”

“What happened to your hands?” Rose exclaimed. “They’re covered with scratches.”

“I was playing with branches and they had thorns,” he said coldly.

“What branches, what thorns?” Paul asked skeptically.

The mother looked at the invalid’s hands at length and then at the grandfather. He was slowly chewing his food, distant and indifferent to what was going on around him. Indeed, he didn’t seem to hear the child who now turned to him.

“Grandfather,” he insisted, pulling on his sleeve. “Didn’t I get these scratches from the thorns? Grandfather?”

The grandfather came back to himself and, turning to the child:

“What, who doesn’t believe you?” he asked. “And why would you lie? We only lie out of fear. And who could you be afraid of at this table?”

“In any case,” the mother added, “it would make sense to dress these scratches before they get infected. Come with me, Claude.”

She rose and took the invalid in her arms. He sought the grandfather’s eyes, ready to protest at the least sign of encouragement.

The mother took the child upstairs into her room. She opened his hands and dreamily stared at the bright little wounds.

“Are there more, Claude? Do you have scratches anywhere else?”

“Anywhere else? No, Mama. Why would I have scratches anywhere else? I was just playing with the branches, not rolling around on top of them.”

He laughed nervously, resting his overly large, sleep-deprived eyes on his mother.

“There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m telling you, nothing.”

His deformed feet dangled lifeless at the bottom of his pants. He was dressed in white and the long sleeves of his shirt concealed his scrawny arms.

“It’s much too exhausting for you,” the mother gently said to him, “too much for a sick child who barely eats anything. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He frowned and his gaze suddenly became severe and distant.

Fearing a tantrum, the mother did not dare insist.

At that moment Jacob came in. He had brought a deck of cards that he cheerfully spread out on the table.

“So, shall we resume our game, old friend?” he said in a jovial stentorian voice that immediately filled the house.

“No,” the grandfather answered laconically.

“You don’t want to play with me?”

“Yes.”

“And what are your reasons?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Come! Come!” Jacob said in a conciliatory tone. “You’re not going to give me the cold shoulder just because my sciatica kept me home for a few days. It wasn’t for lack of wanting to see you, I swear.”

“Don’t swear.”

“Often I waved to you and you never bothered to wave back. And you’re the one who’s upset, really now, should you be the one to be upset?”

“Jacob,” the grandfather replied ominously, “take care lest God’s holy fury rise up in me, and get out.”

“But for what reason?” Jacob insisted.

“I tell you again that there is no reason,” the grandfather yelled. Jacob picked up the cards spread on the table and left without daring to say another word.

“Is it really true that there’s no reason why you’re chasing away your friend?” the child asked.

“There are reasons, little one, good ones, I’d even say very good ones. But never show blood to the person who wounded you. You would only be making him lie to absolve himself.”

The grandfather’s comments probably reminded the invalid of several unpleasant recollections about his mother, for he immediately sought her out and gave her an evil look. She forced me to lie to her, he was telling himself. She forced me to lie to her. He leafed through his picture book, then lifted his head. Transfigured, he stared at the front door, at a vision of heartrending clarity.

The mother had her back to them, facing the window opened wide onto the trees fragrant with fruit.

“Grandfather!” he called quietly. “Grandfather!”

The old man quickly turned his head, stood up and took him in his arms.

For all these days, he had been patiently, cruelly, preparing him for the visitation of the late ancestor. Did he even believe in it himself? In the depths of his soul, legends he thought he had forgotten had been reawakened. Legends he was desperately using as the only weapons available to the revenge-obsessed believer that he had become.

“No matter what you see,” he whispered, “don’t give yourself away. Keep calm, little one.”

The child batted his lashes, his face growing horribly pale. He leaned his head on his grandfather’s shoulder and shivered.

“He is there,” he gasped, “I see him. He’s dressed in a high-collared jacket and a big straw hat. Just as you described him.”

“What is he doing?”

“He’s looking at us. He’s standing by the door and looking at us.”

The mother starting walking in that direction. The grandfather had to restrain the invalid. He was panting, eyes wide, mouth dry. The mother pulled the doors shut and returned to where she’d been standing.

“Good night,” she said. “Sleep well, Claude.”

They heard her walk upstairs, the grandfather clutching the child tightly, asking him:

“Did she lock him inside the house?”

“No. He saw her coming, so he stepped back and disappeared.”