On Leave (12 page)

“So, Jean, what do you think?” Luc Giraud asked, raising his voice. “Don't you agree with what I just said?”

“Of course I do!” Jean Valette protested. “The Party is amazingly popular around here. Just look at the election results. Lachaume knows that full well,” he added. “I often talked to him about it, over there…”

“You often talked to him about it,” Luc Giraud repeated, mimicking his voice for fun. “You often talked to him about it, but he didn't know the area was called ‘Little U.S.S.R.' So there you are! You'd just forgotten to mention what was most typical. Just for-got-ten!”

When he'd got over his initial amazement at Luc Giraud's diction and style, quite apart from what the man was saying, Lachaume was overcome with a pleasant sensation of the same kind, but to a greater degree, that Colette's solid self-confidence had aroused in him when he had first come into the apartment. It wasn't that Luc Giraud had a fine voice or even a strong one. The enchantment, as in all works of art, came from profound skill in repetition—combined, in this case, with an acute sense of liturgical dialogue. (It has to be said, this was his first encounter with a federation-level exegete.) As the sky grew darker now and shadow spread along the wall like an outstretched wing, Luc Giraud remained stuck in his “Little U.S.S.R.” and continued to catalogue its attractions and oddities. Lachaume was beginning to feel not impatient, since that would have implied a critical attitude, but worried that there would not be enough time for the main thing. (But again, he didn't dare tell himself what the main thing was.)

“So, then, sir,” Luc Giraud said slowly, with a faint smile on his face, “did you suspect when you got on the train this morning to come out here that you were taking a trip to a People's Democracy? Because, speaking for the municipality, are we not in a People's Democracy here? Are we not, as far as the municipality is concerned, in a little socialist fortress?

“Well, yes, we are indeed…” he resumed, smiling. “As far as the municipality is concerned, we are in a People's Democracy. Hereabouts we are in a little fortress, a bridgehead of so-ci-al-ism. How does it feel to you?”

As Lachaume was still trying to find his words—

“Were you murdered on the street?” he articulated slowly, making the women laugh. “Did you have your wallet stolen? That's what I wanted to tell you.

“Ninety-two percent,” he went on, “ninety-two point three percent [smiling fondly at Colette], how does that feel?”

“It's a lot,” Lachaume repeated without watching his words.

“Okay! All right, let's grant that it's a high number. But what impression does it make on you?… Well, I'll tell you. It's a source of comfort. And why is it a source of comfort for you?

“Because,” he concluded, separating and hammering home each word, “because you, sir, can tell yourself that at least ninety-two point three percent of the people you came across on your way here want peace in Algeria, want our young men back home, want this national scandal to cease as soon as possible.”

Lachaume was deeply touched. He looked at Giraud with gratitude in his eyes.

At that point, seeing the oysters had now all been eaten, Danielle set out clean plates and Granny brought in a tray of vol-au-vents, some of which had unfortunately collapsed, so that the mushroom sauce that should have been inside them was on the outside. It took a while to share them out equitably, and then there was the slow and tricky business of crowning each vol-au-vent with its little flap of puff pastry. The underlying cause of this mishap was that Granny had overdone it and had made too much mushroom sauce—but now that it was made, there could be no question of any of it going to waste.

Luc Giraud smiled amiably and said, “As a matter of fact, I am very glad to be able to talk things over with you. Later on, I'll even make you a modest proposal. But let's eat first.”

“Yes, yes, let's get on with the meal,” M. Valette said.

Lachaume was not far from riposting quite uncivilly that time was short for Jean Valette and for himself, and that they might as well just skip the meal. That reference to a “modest proposal” made his heart flutter. Something at last! an inner voice sang to a jolly tune. No commonsense argument was capable of stopping this crazy tune that grew louder inside him and made him smile ever more broadly. Something at last!

Well, let's tuck in, he thought as he gobbled up his vol-au-vent. Since we have to, let's eat. He emptied his glass twice over, and it was refilled straightaway.

“Madame,” he said in a loud voice so Granny could hear, “your sauce is wonderful!”

“De-li-cious!” Mme Valette repeated in her mother's ear, and the old lady smiled at Lachaume. In any case, everyone was smiling now, even Colette, whose heart he had won by showing he had been touched by Luc Giraud's eloquence.

Only Jean Valette did not share in the general bonhomie. He uttered not a word, and he still had that sulky look around his nose, like a moody child, and that diagnosis allowed Lachaume not to see in it an ill omen.

“Eat up, kid,” Lachaume said, with a nudge of his elbow.

“I am eating,” Jean Valette replied.

“This mushroom sauce is delicious,” Luc Giraud declared, with two fingers raised in a victory sign. “Did you add any spirits? I can taste something fruity under the creaminess.”

The question was relayed to Granny, who gave the solution in her earthy accent: “Three teaspoons of marc de Bourgogne.” (She pronounced it
marque
.)

“Ah! Burgundy!” Luc Giraud said with a nod. “Bur-gun-dy! Pa-ra-dise! Is there anything better on earth than a Burgundy wine?”

“What about snails?” Danielle said.

“What about snails? You're right, my girl,” Luc Giraud responded, nodding his head. “Alongside Bur-gun-dy, snails!”

“With parsley, medium rare!” Colette added.

“I wanted Granny to make some, but I was afraid you wouldn't like them,” Madame Valette said, turning to Lachaume.

“Oh, you know, you don't often come across people who don't like snails,” Luc Giraud said in his laborious manner. “In France, that is. Because abroad, people look at us as if we were odd, to put it politely, when we mention snails. They don't know what's good.”

“And frogs?” Danielle said.

“Yes, frogs as well!” Luc Giraud said, nodding his head. “With garlic. Lightly fried. Frogs are wonderful, aren't they? And to think that we're the only people who eat frogs. They don't know what's good.”

“It's true, when you think about it,” Colette said with a giggle. “There are frogs everywhere in the world, but only the French eat them. Why is that so?”

“The French are the only ones who've found out how to eat them,” Luc Giraud said. “Another example of French in-ge-nu-it-y.”

“As far as food is concerned, the French are champions of ingenuity!” Madame Valette laughed.

“For food, yes, and for everything else,” Luc Giraud said slowly. “The French are far ahead…”

“Perhaps the frogs in other countries aren't the same kind!” Danielle interrupted, shouting across the table.

“Don't interrupt!” Colette said.

“You could be right, my girl,” Luc Giraud resumed with a smile. “The climate of France is unique.”

“It's a temperate climate,” Danielle said. “Like in England.”

“Don't jump to conclusions,” Luc Giraud riposted. “Do the English have wine as we do?”

“So what do they drink, then?” Colette asked, turning to Lachaume.

“Beer,” he said. “Beer and tea.”

“Tea with meals?” she queried, puckering her nose.

Lachaume confirmed it with a smile.

“Have you been to England?” Madame Valette inquired. “And is it true a Frenchman can live in England?”

“They boil everything,” Luc Giraud opined. “It is a mistake.”

“Well, I don't like the English,” Colette said. “They give me the shivers.”

“That's no good,” Luc Giraud said. “You shouldn't put them all in the same basket. There are also good English people. It's their cooking we don't approve of.”

“It's an ancient squabble,” Lachaume said. “Shakespeare was already calling the French frog-eaters, in
Henry V
, I believe.”

“So what?” Luc Giraud said, raising his voice. “Are frogs not good to eat?” He pushed his plate away and leaned his elbow on the table. “Look at that, just look at the harm done by chauvinism, even in small matters. Listen, pay attention. I'm not against Shakespeare, it depends on the context. I'm just asking the simple question as to how it can be, after so many years of the English seeing us eat frogs, how is it the idea hasn't caught on in England? Well, let me tell you why.” He made a globe with his hands. “The English are blinded by chauvinism. Because when all's said and done,” he continued with a smile, “frogs' legs, when they've been properly cleaned, flavored with garlic, and lightly fried, are delicious. Am I right or not?”

“Someone had to invent it,” Colette said.

“The Arabs eat grasshoppers,” Jean Valette said.

“Grasshoppers?” Colette said, drawing back instinctively. “How awful…”

“But they're very tasty,” Jean Valette said.

“Did you try any?”

“No, I didn't. But I know a guy who did. He told me it's a delicacy. The Arabs love it.”

“You astound me,” Luc Giraud articulated slowly. “You astound me…”

“It's like I said.”

“Like you said,” Luc Giraud responded with a tremolo in his voice. “Like you said … well, perhaps it is! But you won't persuade me that the Arabs eat grasshoppers for any reason other than that they've got nothing else to eat. You'll not change my view that when both sides settle down to live in peace and eat their fill in a genuine French Union, when France has finally renounced colonialism, then the Arabs will stop having to eat whatever they find on the ground.”

“You're wrong,” Jean Valette said, his face reddening. “It's a delicacy. It's what they like.”

“That's what the colonialists say!” Colette said.

“No, it isn't,” Jean Valette said, shifting around on his chair. “I'm telling you that's what they like.”

“If you say so,” Luc Giraud uttered slowly. “If you say so … Well, can you at least tell us how they cook them?”

“I don't know. Ask Lachaume.”

“I think they scald them in a brine, like shrimps,” Lachaume said. “Or else crushed in milk, I believe…”

“Oh, I see,” Luc Giraud said. “In that case, I see. But it doesn't make any difference to the real issue.”

Everyone accepted his judgment tacitly, while Granny served a veal roast surrounded by sautéed baby onions. Danielle brought in braised endives and sautéed potatoes. M. Valette uncorked another bottle of red. Colette opened a new pot of mustard and nicked her finger on the metal ring securing the lid. Lachaume, seeing the sky darken and the room fill with shade, struggled with an awful and idiotic idea; he knew it was idiotic, and yet it grew stronger by the minute, amid the silence that fell upon the diners, as it often does when a new dish is served. It seemed to him … but how could he say it, point-blank, just like that, as if it were a witticism coming between vol-au-vents and roast veal?

“There you are! Help yourselves,” Madame Valette said, as if from afar.

Lachaume's throat had gone dry, and he glanced at Jean Valette, on his right, who looked as if he had frozen. He could see Jean's hand resting on the white tablecloth and wished he would move it just a bit, just his little finger, so as to banish the idiotic idea that his whole being rejected with a thousand unformulated screams inside him, where his heart had stopped beating. But his hand and Jean's didn't move, and it seemed to him ever more insistently that he and Valette were dead, that they'd died long before, with a bullet in their heads in some far-off wadi, and that before they could touch the food, the others were going to notice, get up, and shout.

He thought the shouting was about to start …

Then Luc Giraud, sitting opposite, slowly said, “What a meal!… Must make a change from the mess?

“And what's the mess like where you are posted?” Luc Giraud went on, talking to Jean Valette. “Do you get enough to eat?”

“Now listen to me!” Lachaume suddenly burst in, speaking loudly. “Visiting parliamentarians, journalists, parents, and friends who write to us never stop asking the same bloody question: Is the food okay? THE FOOD AT LEAST IS OKAY? AND HOW'S YOUR APPETITE?” He was screaming now. “HOW'S YOUR APPETITE?”

Nobody said anything. Lachaume shut his eyes to hide the fact that he was near to crying, and then felt Jean Valette firmly gripping his forearm.

“I'm sorry,” he said, after a long pause. “Fatigue … nerves…”

“Not at all,” Luc Giraud pronounced in his slow manner. “Your question is correct. It has to be answered.”

It was not easy to get back to eating the meal. Lachaume made great efforts to set an example, forked his food into his mouth, chewed what had become tasteless and sticky, and managed to get it down with gulps of wine. But that had no effect on the others. Their liveliness had been irremediably extinguished, and the dinner table slowly sank into silence and darkness, with its meat and vegetables growing cold. They all understood in their own ways that the ghost of war had entered the room. In its presence, every ordinary and familiar movement, such as stretching out a hand to take a piece of bread, was out of place. So they finished off what was on their plates, lost in themselves, making as few movements as they could. The meal died away like a fire smothered in ashes.

Granny was the only one to express her sorrow in the surrounding silence, urging everyone to eat each of the courses, egging on each one by name, repeating herself tirelessly, not knowing, because of her deafness, whether anyone was answering her or not. How could you explain to her what had happened? What would you have to shout into her ear?