Ian McEwan
I CANNOT QUITE REMEMBER
I cannot quite remember how it came about, but at some point after
my return to the Hôtel des Tilleuls, either when I sat at
the bar and drank a Pernod, or half an hour later when I came
back down from my room in search of a bar of soap, I learned that
the patronne was Mme Monique Auriac, a name I remembered from
my notes. She was surely the daughter of the Mme Auriac who had
looked after June, and perhaps she was the young girl who had
served lunch while the Maire told his story. I thought I would
ask her some questions and find out how much she remembered. But
the bar was suddenly deserted, and so too was the dining room.
I could hear voices in the kitchen. Feeling that the smallness
of the establishment somehow excused my transgression, I pushed
open the scarred swing doors and stepped through.
In front of me, on a table in a wicker basket was a heap of
bloodied
fur. At the far end of the kitchen a row was in progress. Mme
Auriac and her brother who was the cook, and the girl who doubled
as chambermaid and waitress glanced round at me and then continued
to talk over each other. I stood waiting by the stove where a
pan of soup was simmering. After a half minute I would have
tiptoed
out and tried later had I not begun to realise that the argument
concerned me. The hotel was meant to be closed. Because the girl
had let the gentleman from England stay-Mme Auriac gestured
towards
me with the back of her wrist-she, Mme Auriac, had been obliged
for the sake of consistency to let a family take two rooms, and
now a lady from Paris had arrived. How was everyone going to eat?
And they were understaffed.
Her brother said that there was no difficulty so long as all the
guests ate the seventy-five franc menu-soup, salad, rabbit,
cheese-and
did not expect choices. The girl backed him up. Mme Auriac said
that was not the kind of restaurant she wanted to run. At this
point I cleared my throat and excused myself and said that I was
certain that all the guests were only too happy to find the hotel
open so late in the year and that in the circumstances the set
menu would be perfectly agreeable. Mme Auriac left the kitchen
with an impatient hissing sound and a toss of the head which was
a form of acceptance, and her brother spread his palms in triumph.
One further concession was required; to simplify the work, all
the guests should eat early and all together at half past seven.
I said that speaking for myself that was quite acceptable, and
the cook sent the girl to inform the others.
Half an hour later, I was the first to take my seat in the dining
room. I now felt myself something more than a guest. I was an
insider, party to the hotel's internal affairs. Mme Auriac herself
brought me my bread and wine. She was in good humour now and we
established that she had indeed been working here in 1946, and
though of course she did not remember Bernard and June's visit,
she certainly knew the Maire's story about the dogs and she
promised
to talk to me when she was less busy. Next to appear was the lady
from Paris. She was in her early thirties and was beautiful in
a drawn, emaciated way, with that brittle, over-manicured
appearance
some French women have, too arranged, too severe for my taste.
She had concave cheeks and the huge eyes of the famished. I
guessed
she would not be eating much. She clicked across the tiled floor
to a far corner, to the table furthest from mine. By ignoring
so completely the presence of the sole occupant of the room, she
created the paradoxical impression that her every movement was
made with me in mind. I had put down the book I was reading, and
was wondering whether this was in fact the case, or whether it
was one of those masculine projections that women sometimes
complain
about, when the family came in.
There were three of them, husband, wife, and a seven- or
eight-year-old
boy, and they arrived wrapped in their own silence, a luminous
envelope of familial intensity which moved across the larger
quietness
of the dining room to occupy the next table but one from mine.
They sat with a loud scrape of chairs. The man, cock of his tiny
roost, rested his tattooed forearms on the table and looked about
him. He stared first in the direction of the Parisian lady who
did not-or would not-look up from the menu, and then his eyes
met mine. Though I nodded, there was no trace of acknowledgement.
He simply registered me, then murmured to his wife, who took from
her handbag a packet of Gauloises and a lighter. While the parents
lit up, I looked at the boy who sat alone on his side of the
table.
My impression was that there had been a scene outside the dining
room a few minutes before, some misbehaviour for which the child
had been reprimanded. He sat listlessly, sulking perhaps, his
left hand hanging at his side, his right toying with the cutlery.
Mme Auriac arrived with the bread, water and the barely drinkable
refrigerated litre of red wine. After she had left, the boy
slumped
further, placing his elbow on the table and propping his head
with his hand. Immediately, his mother's hand flashed across the
tablecloth and delivered a sharp slap to the boy's forearm,
knocking
it away. The father, squinting up through his smoke, did not seem
to notice. No one spoke. The Parisian woman, whom I could see
beyond the family, stared with resolution into an empty corner
of the room. The boy slumped against the backrest of his chair,
gazing at his lap and rubbing his arm. His mother delicately
tapped
her cigarette on the ash tray. She hardly looked the hitting sort.
She was plump and pink with a pleasant round face and red patches
on her cheeks like a doll's, and this disjunction between her
behaviour and her maternal appearance was sinister. I felt
oppressed
by the presence of this family and its miserable situation about
which I could do nothing. If there had been somewhere else in
the village to eat I would have gone there.
I had finished my lapin au chef and the family was still eating
salad. For some minutes the only sound had been that of cutlery
against plates. It was not possible to read, so I watched quietly
over the top of my book. The father was screwing pieces of bread
into his plate, mopping up the last of the vinaigrette. He lowered
his head to take each morsel, as though the hand that fed him
was not his. The boy finished by pushing his plate to one side
and dabbing his mouth with the back of his hand. It looked like
an absent-minded gesture, for the boy was a fastidious eater and,
as far as I could see, his lips were not smeared with food. But
I was an outsider, and perhaps this was a provocation, a
continuation
of a long-running conflict. His father immediately murmured a
phrase that included the word 'serviette.' The mother had stopped
eating and was watching closely. The boy took his napkin from
his lap and pressed it carefully, not to his mouth, but first
to one cheek and then the other. In a child so young it could
only have been an artless attempt to do the right thing. But his
father did not think so. He leaned across the empty salad bowl
and pushed the boy hard below the collar bone. The blow jolted
the child out of his chair on to the floor. The mother half rose
out of her chair and seized his arm. She wanted to get to him
before he started howling, and thereby preserve the proprieties
of the restaurant. The child hardly knew where he was as she
cautioned
him in a hiss, 'Tais-toi! Tais-toi!' Without leaving her seat,
she managed to haul him back into the chair which her husband
had righted skilfully with his foot. The couple worked in evident
harmony. They seemed to believe that by not standing up they had
succeeded in avoiding an unpleasant scene. The boy was back in
his place, whimpering. His mother held before him a rigid,
cautionary
forefinger, and kept it there until he was completely silent.
With her eyes still on him, she lowered her hand.
My own hand shook as I poured Mme Auriac's thin sharp wine. I
emptied my glass in gulps. I felt a constriction about my throat.
That the boy was not even permitted to cry seemed to me even more
terrible than the blow that had knocked him to the floor. It was
his loneliness that gripped me. I remembered my own after my
parents
died, how incommunicable the despair was, how I expected nothing.
For this boy misery was simply the condition of the world. Who
could possibly help him? I looked around. The woman sitting alone
had her head turned away, but the way she fumbled with the
lighting
of her cigarette made it clear she had seen everything. At the
far end of the dining room, by the buffet, stood the young girl
waiting to take our plates. The French are notably kind and
tolerant
towards children. Surely something was going to be said. Someone,
not me, had to intervene.
I downed another glass of wine. A family occupies an inviolable,
private space. Behind walls both visible and notional it makes
its own rules for its members. The girl came forward and cleared
my table. Then she came back to take the salad bowl from the
family
and bring clean plates. I think I understand what happened to
the boy just then. As the table was readied for the next course,
as the stewed rabbit was set down, he began to cry; with the
coming
and going of the waitress came confirmation that after his
humiliation,
life was to proceed as normal. His sense of isolation was complete
and he could not hold back his despair.
First he shook with the attempt to do just that, and then it
broke,
a nauseous keening sound that grew louder, despite the finger
his mother had raised again, then it broadened to a wail, then
a sob on a desperate lunging intake of breath. The father put
down the fresh cigarette he had been about to light. He paused
a moment to discover what would follow the inhalation, and as
the child's cry rose, the man's arm made an extravagant sweep
across the table and struck the boy's face with the back of his
hand.
It was impossible, I thought I had not seen it, a strong man could
not hit a child this way, with the unrestrained force of adult
hatred. The child's head snapped back as the blow carried both
him and the chair he was sitting on almost to my table. It was
the chair's back which cracked against the floor and saved the
boy's head from damage. The waitress was running towards us,
calling
for Mme Auriac as she came. I had made no decision to stand, but
I was on my feet. For an instant, I met the gaze of the woman
from Paris. She was immobile. Then she nodded gravely. The young
waitress had gathered up the child and was sitting on the floor
making breathy, flute-like notes of concern over him, a lovely
sound I remembered thinking as I arrived at the father's table.
His wife had risen from her seat and was whining to the girl,
'You don't understand, Mademoiselle. You'll only make things
worse.
He'll scream, that one, but he knows what he's up to. He always
gets his way.'
There was no sign of Mme Auriac. Again, I had made no decision,
no calculation as to what I was getting myself into. The man had
lit his cigarette. It relieved me a little to see that his hands
were shaky. He did not look at me. I spoke out in a clear,
trembling
voice with tolerable accuracy but virtually no idiom. I had none
of Jenny's sinuous mastery. Speaking in French elevated both my
sentiments and my words into a theatrical, self-conscious
solemnity,
and standing there, I had a brief ennobling sense of myself as
one of those obscure French citizens who blossom from nowhere
at a transforming moment in their nation's history to improvise
the words that history will engrave in stone. Was this the Tennis
Court Oath? Was I Desmoulins at the Café Foy? In fact all
I said was, literally, 'Monsieur, to hit a child in this way is
disgusting. You are an animal, an animal, Monsieur. Are you
frightened
of fighting someone your own size, because I would love to smash
my gob.'
This ridiculous slip of the tongue caused the man to relax. He
smiled up at me as he pushed his chair back from the table. He
saw a pale Englishman of medium height who still held his napkin
in his hand. What did a man have to fear who had a caduceus
tattooed
on each of his fat forearms.
'Ta gueule? It would make me happy to help you smash it.' He
jerked
his head towards the door.
I followed him past the empty tables. I could hardly believe it.
We were stepping outside. A reckless exhilaration lightened my
tread and I seemed to hover above the restaurant floor. As we
went out, the man I had challenged let the swing door fall against
me. He led the way across the deserted road to where a petrol
pump stood under a street lamp. He turned to face me and square
up, but I had already made up my mind and even as he raised his
arms my fist was travelling towards his face with all my weight
behind it. I caught him hard and full on the nose with such force
that even as his bone crunched, I felt something snap in my
knuckle.
There was a satisfying moment when he was stunned but could not
fall. His arms dropped to his side and he stood there and watched
me as I hit him with the left, one two three, face, throat and
gut, before he went down. I drew back my foot and I think I might
have kicked and stomped him to death had I not heard a voice and
turned to see a thin figure in the lighted doorway across the
road.
The voice was calm. 'Monsieur. Je vous prie. Ça suffit.'
Immediately I knew that the elation driving me had nothing to
do with revenge and justice. Horrified with myself, I stepped
back.
I crossed the road and followed the woman from Paris inside. While
we waited for the police and an ambulance, Mme Auriac bound my
hand with a crêpe bandage and went behind the bar to pour
me a cognac. And at the bottom of the fridge she found the last
of the summer's ice-creams for the boy who still sat on the floor
recovering, wrapped in the maternal arms of the pretty young
waitress
who, it must be said, appeared flushed and in the embrace of a
great happiness.
Excerpted from Black Dogs. Reprinted by permission of
the author.
|