The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau (12 page)

In another way this arrangement with Sonia suited Manfred. Despite the fact that he had no desire to ever be with anyone other than Juliette, the school environment conspired against him. He could not fail to notice the down-covered napes, tanned calves and saucily revealed bra-straps of the girls around him. He initiated a rigorous regime of masturbation, performing the act first thing in the morning and as soon as he returned home from
school, whether he felt the urge or not. It had been a lack of control over his sexual desire that had led to the death of Juliette and he made a pact with himself to curb this malevolent force at all times. The perception that he and Sonia Givskov were an item meant that other girls kept their distance. She acted as a buffer.

Manfred let his schoolwork slide. In his state of numbness, he no longer cared what happened, neither in the here and now of school, nor in the future. He did not deliberately flunk tests. He simply no longer knew or could be bothered recalling the answers. He had never been popular with his teachers. Despite his good marks, he lacked charm. He sat at the back of class, never put his hand up and when called upon answered in monosyllables. He was surly. The only person who appeared to notice Manfred's drive to failure was his French master. M. Becault was in his twenties. He wore an unconvincing ginger beard and dressed in corduroy trousers, cheesecloth shirts and tweed jackets, as if these middle-aged clothes would somehow bestow authority on him. His beard, Manfred observed, disguised a weak chin and slack mouth, but he was otherwise a pleasant-looking man. In the corridor he would form his lips into a thin smile and nod almost deferentially when passing one of his students. Becault committed the cardinal sin of the novice teacher: he wanted to be liked. Consequently, he suffered continual discipline problems. He regularly blushed when texts alluded to the sexual act. Becault had always been Manfred's favourite teacher.

Once or twice in previous years the pair had chatted uneasily for a few minutes after class. Shortly after the death of his mother Manfred had written an essay on
The Outsider. ‘The real shock of The Outsider,
' he wrote, ‘
is not Mersault's indifference to his mother's death. Rather it is the animosity of others towards this indifference
.' Becault had read these lines back to Manfred and asked him what he meant. Manfred shrugged. He was both flattered by Becault's attention and embarrassed. In truth, he was not sure what he meant and he suspected that Becault was using this as an attempt to get him to ‘open up' about his own
bereavement. When Manfred failed to articulate anything, the conversation fizzled out. ‘Well, it's an excellent essay,' Becault had said, handing it back.

Despite the abortive nature of this conversation, Manfred felt some sort of kinship with Becault. He pictured his teacher as an awkward, disillusioned teenager, always on the outside looking in. For a while he entertained fantasies about meeting Becault in a café to discuss books or other worldly matters. They would smoke and drink coffee together. Sometimes Becault would pause and chat for a few moments in the canteen about whatever Manfred was reading. On account of his weak manner and eccentric appearance, there were rumours that Becault was a homosexual. When he stopped to talk, Manfred was conscious of other students' eyes upon them. Nothing would have pleased Manfred more than to engage in discussion, but it was not politic to do so. Invariably the situation became awkward and Becault would take his leave with a limp comment such as ‘Best be getting on,' or ‘Mustn't keep you from your lunch.'

A few months into the school year Becault asked Manfred to stay behind at the end of class. Manfred slouched in his seat at the back of the room. Becault perched on an adjacent desk. He had shaved off his beard during the summer. The flesh around his mouth was pink and flabby.

‘You don't seem yourself,' he said.

‘I wish I wasn't myself,' said Manfred.

Becault smiled, as if to himself, and exhaled a little laugh through his nose.

‘I'm concerned,' he said. He proffered an essay Manfred had written on Gide. ‘This is…' He let his sentence trail off with a shake of his head. Manfred shrugged.

‘You used to be my star pupil.'

‘I don't like Gide.'

The teacher seemed encouraged. ‘It's not a question of liking Gide,' he said. ‘This is nothing more than a rant. You used to write so well. You had insight.'

Manfred stared at the front of the room.

‘I just want to help you,' he said.

Manfred said nothing.

Becault pursed his lips. ‘How are things at your grandparents? You're living with your grandparents, aren't you?'

Manfred turned and looked at him. He imagined the little daydream he must nurture of fostering his students, of providing them with pastoral care. Probably he went home at night and struggled over a novel about a homosexual provincial schoolteacher in love with one of his pupils. But he had no idea that he was dealing with the Beast of Saint-Louis. Manfred scraped his chair back across the linoleum floor and got up.

‘I don't need the help of some sad faggot,' he said. He gathered up his bag and jacket and left the room. Becault remained on the desk at the back of the room for some time. He left the teaching profession the following term.

B
Y
W
EDNESDAY MORNING
, Manfred's excitement at the prospect of meeting Alice Tarrou had given way to a kind of dread. It was inconceivable that he could pass an evening in the company a woman like Alice without embarrassing himself in some way. He spent the day concocting reasons to break the appointment, but could think of nothing credible. In any case, Alice had not given him her telephone number, so, short of loitering in the foyer, he had no means of contacting her. His only option was simply not to turn up at the appointed hour. But even setting aside the discourtesy of such an act, he was bound to run into Alice again at some point and he imagined that she would not be the type to take such a snub lightly. He had no choice but to go through with it.

Manfred spent his lunch wondering whether he should mention to Pasteur that he would not be in that evening. His absence would be noted and likely become the subject of speculation. He imagined Lemerre holding forth about how he was probably off stalking the waitresses of another bar or how, on account of being mixed up in the disappearance of Adèle, he was now ashamed to show his face. And then the following evening, he would have to endure his jibes about how he was now too good for the Restaurant de la Cloche: ‘Got better things to do with yourself, have you, Swiss?' It was better to lay
the groundwork beforehand. When he was paying his bill at the counter, Pasteur muttered, ‘See you later.'

Manfred grasped the opportunity. ‘Actually,' he said, ‘I don't think I'll be in tonight.'

He lingered at the counter for a moment, waiting for the proprietor to react. Pasteur counted the coins from the silver salver into the till and then looked up as if to enquire why he was still there. Manfred wondered if he had heard him.

‘See you tomorrow, then,' Pasteur said eventually.

Manfred nodded and left. The afternoon passed slowly. He left the bank at five and hurried home. He took a shower and shaved for the second time that day, a white towel wrapped around his waist. Then he examined his face in the bathroom mirror for any stray whiskers and clipped his nasal hair with a pair of scissors he kept in the bathroom cabinet for this purpose. He splashed his face with cold water and patted it dry before applying cologne. Manfred prided himself on his fastidious personal hygiene. On more than one occasion, a girl at Simone's had remarked that he smelled nice. He was not such a bad-looking chap. Was it so implausible that Alice Tarrou would find him attractive?

Manfred returned to his bedroom and dressed. Once a year Manfred bought himself a new suit from the same tailor's in Mulhouse that he had visited with his grandmother as a teenager. M. Boulot invariably greeted him with great warmth and enquired after the wellbeing of his grandparents. In earlier years, he would inform Manfred of the latest trends, but Manfred was not interested and insisted on the same cut and colour as he always had. As a result the rail of suits in Manfred's wardrobe were all but identical, distinguishable only through subtle variations in the fabric. There was no need for Manfred to go on acquiring new suits – he had more than enough to last him a lifetime – but he continued to make his annual pilgrimage to M. Boulot's out of loyalty. In a similar way, the rack on the back of the wardrobe door consisted almost entirely of black ties of a narrow girth, enlivened by a few of bolder colours. These were
gifts from his grandmother, which Manfred would occasionally wear to Sunday lunch in order to please her, but remove immediately after he left the house. Such gaudy accessories made him feel like a ridiculous dandy. He had no wish to attract comments on his dress. Nor did he wish to have to think about what he would wear on such-and-such a day. His only concession to casual dress was to loosen his tie a little and undo the top button of his shirt at the end of the working day.

He sat at the kitchen table. Now, in fresh clothes, he felt a little more relaxed about the impending encounter. What, after all, could really go wrong? It was not yet six o'clock. He planned to arrive early to accustom himself to his surroundings before Alice arrived, but he still had the best part of an hour to kill. He found a notebook and began to write a list of possible topics of conversation. Manfred was not in the habit of asking personal questions, but he was aware that on occasions such as these it was regarded as normal practice. Indeed, were he not to ask Alice some questions about herself, she might think that he was the sort of egoist who only wished to talk about himself, something which could not be further from the truth. He tapped his pencil on the piece of paper and wrote the word
Work
. It was dull, but work was a perfectly acceptable topic. Alice had already asked him what he did for a living. He would merely be reciprocating. Indeed, if he did not ask, Alice might think that he was a chauvinist who thought women were only fit to be housewives. Or whores. He tried to think of ways in which he might phrase a question:
So, Alice, what do you do for a living? What line of work are you in
? As he rehearsed the words in his head, they sounded quite absurd, as if he were interviewing a prospective employee. He crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor. What was he going to do, take it out of his pocket and consult it at the dinner table? He was sure to make a fool of himself. He should never have agreed to this stupid date in the first place. The more he thought about it, the more he was not even sure if he liked Alice Tarrou. She was offhand and supercilious. And clearly she was someone who was used to getting
her own way. He had foolishly allowed himself to be flattered by her attention, but he had no wish to be drawn into any entanglements. He was quite content with his life the way it was. If he lived the way he did, it was because that was how he wanted to live. He had no desire to change anything. The date had been a mistake. There was no question of cancelling, but he could easily and quite politely make it quite clear that he had no interest in becoming more deeply involved.

Manfred arrived at the restaurant on Avenue de Bâle at ten to seven. He had walked the back way alongside the railway line to avoid being spotted by any of the regulars of the La Cloche. The restaurant was housed in a traditional oak-beamed building. Inside, the dining room was low-ceilinged, but surprisingly large. The walls were panelled with dark wood and fitted with brass light fittings, which emitted a yellowish light. A number of oversized pot plants stood like sentries next to the various doors. The tables were covered with starched white cloths and laid with an intimidating array of cutlery and glasses. Only two other tables were occupied. Manfred was shown to a table in the centre of the room. He explained to the waiter that he was expecting someone and asked for a glass of wine.

Manfred recognised a man at one of the other tables. He was in the construction trade and over the years had had occasional business with the bank. He acknowledged Manfred with a little bow of his head. He was with a woman and they were chatting animatedly. The man talked with his mouth full and pointed his knife at his dining companion – for some reason Manfred did not think she was his wife – who did not seem to notice his ill manners. The other table was occupied by a solitary man in a suit; probably, Manfred thought, a salesman passing through town. He had a paperback open on the table in front of him and kept his eyes fixed on the pages. Manfred wished he had asked to be seated elsewhere. He felt like an exhibit in a museum. His wine arrived. He assumed that Alice would be late and downed it in a couple of swallows before ordering a second.

Alice arrived on the stroke of seven o'clock. She was wearing a knee-length grey wool dress, fastened around her waist with a thick brown leather belt. The waiter took her coat and showed her to the table. Manfred stood up and held out his hand.

‘Good evening,' he said.

Alice ignored his hand and kissed him on both cheeks, placing her hands on his upper arms as she did so. Manfred inhaled her perfume. It was dry and earthy like the floor of a forest before a fire. She sat down and ordered a Martini without so much as glancing at the waiter.

‘Well,' she said, ‘here we are.'

‘Yes,' said Manfred. He made himself smile. Alice was wearing pale red lipstick. She pursed her lips and widened her eyes, then glanced around the room. She leaned forward and whispered, ‘It's like a morgue in here. Maybe we should go somewhere else.'

‘It's fine,' said Manfred. ‘We're here now.'

The idea of just getting up and leaving horrified Manfred and, worse, Alice might suggest going to the Restaurant de la Cloche. The waiter arrived with Alice's drink and two menus bound in maroon leatherette. Ordering provided a welcome distraction from the business of making conversation. While they waited for their starters Alice lit a cigarette with a chunky brass lighter, which emitted a whiff of butane. She turned her head to the side and blew out a slow stream of milky grey smoke.

‘So, Manfred Baumann,' she said, ‘what have you got to say for yourself?'

Manfred unconsciously put his hand to his face and slowly massaged the flesh around his mouth.
What did he have to say for himself
? He had nothing at all to say for himself. The carpet in the restaurant was dark brown with a pattern of messy yellow whorls. Manfred felt a little dizzy. He was tempted to excuse himself and make a dash for the door, but he did not do so. Alice leaned forward a little. Her fingers played on the stem of her glass. The second hand of her wristwatch moved slowly around the dial. Her dress was snug around her breasts, which did not
appear to be constrained by a brassiere. Manfred raised his eyes to Alice's face. She appeared quite relaxed.

‘So,' Manfred began, ‘you've only been in your apartment a few months?' It was the only thing he could think of to say. He breathed out as if he had just put down a heavy object.

‘That's right,' said Alice.

‘Yes,' said Manfred, ‘it struck me as odd that I hadn't run into you before.'

There was no reason to make this remark. It made him seem like the sort of busybody who liked to keep tabs on the comings and goings of his neighbours, when nothing could be farther from the truth. He only knew the names of his immediate neighbours because they were written on the little plaques on their doors and he did his best to avoid all contact with them.

‘And
I
hadn't run into you before,' said Alice. She widened her eyes as if this was an astonishing coincidence.

Manfred gave a little laugh. Despite everything, the conversation was proceeding quite satisfactorily.

‘Do you like it?' he said.

‘Architecturally?' she said.

‘Living there, I meant. Do you like living there?' said Manfred.

Alice gave a little snort of derision through her nose. Manfred recognised the gesture from before. It gave him a sense of intimacy, as if they were lovers who knew each other's quirks inside out. Still, it was a stupid question. What was there to say about living in a drab apartment building exactly like a thousand other drab apartment buildings elsewhere? Of course, there had been the incident with the dog faeces in the stairwell only a week earlier and there was the ongoing dispute about the need to refurbish the laundry facilities, but, even if she knew about these things, Alice would probably not deem them worthy of comment.

Alice shrugged. ‘It was supposed to just be a stopgap. I haven't even unpacked most of my things.'

The starters arrived. Alice had asked for a green salad, even though it was not on the menu. Manfred ordered an expensive
bottle of white wine. The waiter poured a little for him to sample before filling their glasses.

Alice, it transpired, had moved into the building following the breakdown of her marriage. She talked almost uninterrupted for the rest of the meal, pausing only to top up her glass or take the occasional mouthful of food. Her husband, Marc, ran a large concrete firm. They met when Alice's stationery company won the contract to supply his firm with letterheads and other goods. Marc was twelve years older and Alice had been flattered by his attention. Shortly after they married, Marc's firm began to supply various large government projects, which entailed a lot of travel. They both had affairs and – Alice shrugged – after a while it became apparent that they were sharing a house, but weren't really married anymore. It was all perfectly amicable. There were no children to complicate matters. ‘I'm not the maternal type,' Alice said. They still met for dinner once or twice a month and had even taken to sleeping together now and then. Alice mentioned this last detail without a hint of self-consciousness, but the thought of Alice engaged in the sexual act brought the colour to Manfred's cheeks. He put his glass to his face to disguise the fact.

Manfred found himself building up a healthy loathing for this successful man with his easy way with women. He probably wore ostentatious jewellery and spoke in a loud voice in restaurants. He did not like the idea of Alice continuing to see him and the fact that they persisted in sleeping together was certainly not healthy.

Alice paused and looked at Manfred, as if she had almost forgotten he was there. During her monologue he had confined himself to nodding and the occasional ‘I see.' They had ordered a second bottle of wine. Alice had consumed her share, but Manfred felt quite drunk. Alice excused herself and Manfred took the opportunity to pay the bill.

They walked back along Rue de Mulhouse. Alice put her hand in the crook of Manfred's arm. He was not sure if this was a sign of affection or merely to steady herself.

They passed the little park where Adèle had met her friend. Some people were gathered on the pavement outside a shop on a side street. It was not late. Lemerre and his cronies would still be at their table by the door of the Restaurant de la Cloche. Manfred wondered what Lemerre would have to say if he could see him walking home with a woman on his arm. Something obscene, no doubt. The streets were deserted, as they always were at this time of night. They reached the apartment building. Manfred unlocked the door and they stood in the foyer.