The Peculiar Life of a Lonely Postman (5 page)

The grass barely filled the gaps on Gaston Grandpré’s freshly sodded grave. Bilodo sank into a meditative state. Hoping to stir what was left of the deceased, perhaps his lingering soul, he silently depicted Ségolène’s anxiety, the urgent nature of the situation, and stressed that his intentions were honest, his feelings sincere. Most humbly he told the man slumbering underground of his diligent efforts to imitate his works, and begged him respectfully to enlighten him: what could he do? Was there some action yet to be taken, some sacrifice he needed to agree to, some key he might have failed to insert into the complicated lock of the door barring his way to poetry?

Kneeling on the damp grass, Bilodo waited, listened with every fibre of his being, but not a single revelation issued from the grave, no sepulchral voice burst forth. Apparently the deceased had no advice to communicate. And yet…

As though in response to his visit to the cemetery, Bilodo dreamt about Grandpré that night. He dreamt in fact that he woke up and found Grandpré at his bedside, wrapped in his red kimono. The ghost was smiling in spite of the blood spattered on his pale brow, his tangled hair. His smile never fading, he moved through the room as though rolling on ball bearings. He went up to the wardrobe in this way, opened its door, and pointed at the top shelf…

Bilodo woke up in earnest. Theoretically at least. Could this be just a fractal of a deeper dream, he wondered – was he only dreaming that he had woken up – or was it real this time? Then he noticed there was no ghostly Grandpré anywhere in sight and opted for the second eventuality. He looked at the wardrobe, puzzling over the gesture the ghost had made to direct
him towards the shelf. It had been just a dream, of course, but Bilodo’s curiosity got the better of him and he decided to go and take a closer look, just in case. He opened the wardrobe. The top shelf was high and deep. Bilodo stretched out his hand, explored the cavity with his fingertips. He touched something. A box stowed away at the very back. Startled, he pulled it towards him. It was a black cardboard box, quite large, not very heavy, printed with Japanese ideograms. Bilodo put it on the bed and lifted the lid. Folded in thin tissue paper was a red kimono.

The kimono didn’t look as if it had ever been worn. Bilodo took it out of the box, unfolded it. The fabric was silky, iridescent. A truly beautiful garment. Bilodo couldn’t resist putting it on. To his amazement he felt perfectly comfortable in it. He took a few steps and spun around and around to see how light the kimono was. He sent the flaps flying about him – he felt a bit like Lawrence of Arabia in his first emir costume – and admired himself in the mirror. The garment moulded itself completely to his body. It looked as though it were made for him. Bilodo felt electric. It was as if a mild current flowed through his nerves, causing him to tingle all over. On a sudden impulse he left the bedroom, headed into the living room, sat down at the desk, put a blank sheet of paper in front of him, picked up a pen, placed its point on the paper. Then the miracle happened. The tip of the ballpoint started rolling over the sheet, inscribed it with a seismographic string of words. Could Bilodo still be dreaming? Inspiration had suddenly struck. It was like a dam giving way inside him, like a stalled engine finally starting. He could barely keep up with the images as they crowded into his consciousness, knocked against one another like billiard balls.

A minute later, it was finished: the mysterious force had abandoned Bilodo, leaving him haggard, worn out. Before him
lay a haiku. It had written itself, in one go, without a single deletion, automatically, in handwriting one would have sworn was Grandpré’s:

Bilodo tried to make sense of what just happened; he thought it might be a conditioning phenomenon of some kind, the catalyst of which had been the discovery of the kimono. Putting on the garment, slipping symbolically into Grandpré’s skin had probably triggered the creative process he’d been trying to start for days. Or was it spiritualism? Had Bilodo been briefly possessed? Had Grandpré’s spirit granted his wish so as to help him? Bilodo felt too shaken to decide. The important thing was the poem: whether under spiritual influence or not, Bilodo had just written what he thought was the first good haiku of his life. Would it succeed, though, in comforting Ségolène? Would it appeal to her?

Bilodo folded the paper and slipped it into an envelope. But just as he was about to close it, he hesitated, tormented by one last dilemma: should he add that stylized O to the haiku – the one Grandpré used to draw on everything? Was it some kind of signature or graphic seal, the absence of which might arouse suspicion? To find out, he would have needed to examine the deceased’s previous mailings; once again the loss of Grandpré’s last letter made itself sorely felt. Bilodo finally chanced forgoing it. He sealed the envelope and hurried to post it before he changed his mind.

It would take five or six days for the haiku to reach Ségolène and at least as many for her reply to get back to him – supposing that she replied, that she didn’t suspect the deception, that the ruse worked.

The letter arrived eleven days later. Bilodo had been hoping for it with all the passion he had inside him, praying for it constantly, no longer daring to touch his pen or put on the kimono for fear of jeopardizing fate’s delicate balance, but there it was at last, in his hand, as he stood transfixed at his counter in the Depot. Unable to wait, he rushed to the men’s room, locked himself in the last cubicle, tore open the envelope, and read:

Bilodo was instantly transported into a Himalayan landscape worthy of
Tintin in Tibet
. Clinging to a rock, he stood halfway up a steep, downhill slope of virgin snow, dazzling in the harsh sunlight, while ahead of him rose the summit, far off and yet close by in the rarefied air, sharply outlined against the deep blue sky, moody, imperious in its rugged grandeur…

When after all that time Bilodo finally savoured Ségolène’s words again, he felt invigorated, strong as a yeti. It was like a transfusion after a haemorrhage, a puff of oxygen when you are suffocating. He jubilated in the washroom. It had worked! She had believed in it!

Bilodo felt his happiness was complete. What more could he want? The kimono hung waiting for him in the wardrobe, but he was careful not to use it too often; he saved it, donned it only when it was time to reply to Ségolène. Then all he needed to do was put the miraculous garment on and his soul took wing, whizzed away, while colours and visions came rushing in. Bilodo had finally rejected any kind of supernatural explanation for the phenomenon. He reckoned that his discovery of the kimono right after the dream about a ghostly Grandpré was simply a fortunate coincidence, and as for the rest, that was just the subconscious manifesting itself. Besides, he didn’t really want to delve more deeply into the issue, because he feared that being too inquisitive might slow down his creative momentum and jeopardize the poetry. The basic cause of
the miracle wasn’t particularly important to him, as long as it worked and he could keep writing to Ségolène, as long as he could dream about her playing the flute on the bank of the lazy river, charming snakes as in that painting by Henri Rousseau, then dozing on a bed of greenery while wildflowers wrapped her in live petals and forest animals mounted a jealous guard by her side.

She swam and gambolled, enormous, yet so nimble. Her dark, streamlined body undulated gracefully, stood out against the sunlight on the shimmering screen of the surface, skimming the sparkling curtain, sometimes cleaving it with her back. She swam and melodized, she filled the ocean with her songs, because she was a whale. And so was he. They were whales and swam together, they were heading over yonder, to that place that had no name, that was simply ‘over yonder’, far off in the infinite blue expanse. They were in no hurry. They dawdled, glided in a muted twilight glow. They would hunt a little, then let themselves be carried along, trusting the currents. They’d come up now and again to blow out a geyser of iodized steam and fill their lungs with air, to drift for a spell, swaying gently with the waves, then they’d go down again to where it was calm.

It was good to be a whale. It was good to be with her, just with her, and be free together. If he had had a choice, he would rather have been the ocean so he could have hugged Ségolène even more closely, and put his endless water arms around her everywhere at once, and slid all over her skin forever, but even so it was nice to be a whale. It was a great joy, as long as she was there and together they could escape time.

Now she sounded all of a sudden. She went into a nosedive, fled from the light. Had she detected an appetizing prey? Was it
just for the fun of getting to the bottom of things, of exploring some unfamiliar wreck, or was she playing hide-and-seek? He followed her, plunging with powerful strokes of his tail; he wasn’t going to lag behind. He dived after her to where the darkness deepened, surrounded you, held you in an ever tighter, ever colder grip. He had already lost sight of her but could feel the vibrations of the mass of water she displaced, and he heard her sing in the gloom close by. She was calling. She was calling
him
, and he answered, also with a song, because that was how you communicated when you were a whale – you sang into the void, unafraid of the darkness that grew ever darker, ever deeper.

January was wreaking its havoc. It had already been three months since Bilodo moved into Grandpré’s place. He now felt perfectly at home there but continued to think ‘at Grandpré’s place’. It was automatic, but also a mark of respect for the man to whom he owed so much happiness. He only went over to his old apartment when it suited him, to pick up his scanty post and delete from his voicemail the smutty propositions that kept flooding into it. His furniture and most of his things were still there. He had hardly moved anything into Grandpré’s place, not wanting to alter its pleasing Oriental atmosphere. He could have sublet his old apartment now that he didn’t need it any more, but had decided not to, because he used that official address as both a cover and an alibi so as to preserve the tranquillity of the parallel life he led in his lair on rue des Hêtres. That way,
he didn’t have to fear either visits from unwelcome guests or ill-timed intrusions by Robert. Bilodo hadn’t told the clerk anything, and the mere thought of him turning up with his huge clogs in the muffled seclusion of his Japanese sanctuary made him shudder. Robert, who was no fool, suspected something, of course. It struck him as odd that Bilodo never answered the phone and was never home when he stopped by. Robert’s questions were becoming embarrassing and Bilodo found it more and more difficult to evade them.

Apart from Robert’s nosy queries, the outside world rarely intervened in Bilodo’s cloistered life, centred completely on his imaginary romance. There was Tania, at the Madelinot, who never missed an opportunity to gab and ask how his research into Japanese poetry was coming along. As a matter of fact, Bilodo had got into the habit of devoting his lunch break, after dessert, to the revision of haiku he meant to send to Ségolène, and Tania, puzzled, often asked him what he was writing and if she could read it. He refused as nicely as possible, on the pretext that it was too personal, but the young waitress continued to show a keen interest in his writings, which was rather touching. He was sorry he always had to say no to Tania. And because he wanted her to like him, he promised he’d write a haiku especially for her one day. She seemed thrilled.

Apart from that, Bilodo saw practically no one. There was Madame Brochu, with whom he exchanged the occasional polite remark, although more briefly since a recent incident: when she came knocking at his door to ask him to turn down the volume of his Chinese music, the lady had looked shocked at seeing him wearing Grandpré’s kimono. She had been less cordial after that and eyed Bilodo suspiciously ever since. It was understandable, he thought. Judged from the outside, his behaviour was certainly surprising. Judged from the inside as well: living the way he did, having slipped into someone else’s mind and clothing, surely denoted a high degree of eccentricity. But he fully accepted being
odd in this respect, no matter what other people might think. The important point was never to lose sight of the deeper logic.

Vidé
, in Creole, was a parade, a procession, because in Guadeloupe, too, it was the end of February, carnival time.
Touloulou
was a dance for which the ladies enjoyed the privilege of choosing their partners, while
Vaval
was the king of the festival, the local mascot, sort of the Bonhomme Carnaval of the area. The
Grand brilé
was a popular ceremony that took place on the evening of Ash Wednesday and concluded the carnival with the burning of the unfortunate Vaval amid cries and wails from the hysterical crowd. As for the freely flowing
ti-punch
, that was clear enough. Bilodo supposed it was probably all very much like the Quebec Carnival, but fifty degrees warmer.

Eager to share Ségolène’s festive mood and show her that celebrations around here were every bit as joyful as the ones on her island, he sent her a rousing:

And he, who had never set as much as a toe on a dance floor, dreamt that night that he whirled around merrily with Ségolène in the unlikely, highly diverse setting of a festive town that was a cross between Vieux-Québec and Pointe-à-Pitre. He dreamt that they danced now a frenzied rigadoon on the icy pavement of Place d’Youville, now a wild gwoka in the fragrant sultriness of Place de la Victoire. And Ségolène laughed and twirled around, never tiring, her hair whipping the night.