Stone Bruises

‘Here!’ Arnaud’s voice cracks out. The dog dithers, torn between obedience and enjoying the attention. ‘Get here, damn you!’

Obedience wins. The spaniel slinks over, cowering and wagging its tail frantically. It would tie a white flag to it if it could, but as Arnaud raises his hand to cuff it a spasm contorts his features. He stiffens, one hand going to his back as he straightens in pain.

‘Mathilde! Mathilde!’ he bellows.

She hurries around the side of the house, the baby in one arm and a basket of soil-covered vegetables in the other. A flash of what could be dismay passes across her face when she sees us, then it’s wiped clean of any emotion.

‘What’s he doing out here?’ Arnaud demands. ‘I told you to keep him out of my way!’

Mathilde tries to soothe the baby, who has started crying at his grandfather’s raised voice. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘It’s not her fault,’ I say.

Arnaud turns back to me, his face livid. ‘I wasn’t talking to you!’

‘I only came out for some fresh air,’ I say wearily. ‘I’ll go back to the loft, OK?’

Arnaud sniffs. He looks at the baby, who is still howling, then reaches out for him.

‘Give him to me.’

His hands look huge as he takes the child from Mathilde and holds him at eye level, gently rocking him from side to side. He still has the rifle tucked under his arm.

‘Eh? What’s this, Michel? You don’t cry. Be a big boy for your grandfather.’

His voice is gruff but fond. The baby hiccups and beams toothlessly at him. Without taking his eyes from his grandson, Arnaud turns his head to speak to me over his shoulder.

‘Get out of my sight.’

I spend the rest of the day sleeping. Or rather half-sleeping: in the airless loft I drift in and out between consciousness and dreaming. At one point I rouse to find a tray of food and a fresh bucket of water has been left beside the bed. By Mathilde, I guess: even though I said I didn’t want a book there’s an old card-bound copy of Madame Bovary on the tray as well.

Maybe it’s by way of an apology for the run-in with her father.

The evening passes in a haze of heat and sweat. I lie in my boxers on top of the mattress, drugged by the spiced, cigar-box smell of the loft. For lack of anything else to do I make an attempt at Madame Bovary. But the archaic French is impenetrable, and I can’t concentrate. The words blur and the book keeps falling from my hands, until eventually I give up and put it aside. I think it’s too hot to sleep, but when I close my eyes I slide under so deeply it’s like drowning.

I wake with a cry, images of blood on a darkened street stark in my mind. For a few seconds I can’t remember where I am. The loft is in darkness, but a ghostly light spills through the open window. My hands are hot and sticky, and with the nightmare still vivid I expect to see them stained with blood. But it’s only sweat.

The moon’s light is bright enough for me to see my watch without turning on the lamp. It’s just after midnight. I reach shakily for my cigarettes. Only three left: I’ve started smoking them a half at a time. I light the burned end of one I started earlier and draw the smoke into my lungs. A weight of despair refuses to lift. When I finish the cigarette, making it last right down to the filter, there’s no question of going back to sleep.

The loft is humid and close, floodlit by the moon. A strip of light runs across the floor and hooks over the edge of the bed. I get out of bed and hop along its silver path to the window. The night has turned the landscape black and white. Beyond the shadows of the woods, the moon’s twin shines from the mirrored lake. There’s a metallic moistness to the air. I breathe it deeply, imagining submerging myself in the water, feeling its coolness lift even the weight of hair from my head.

An owl hoots. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out. There isn’t enough air. Suddenly claustrophobic, I seize the crutch and lamp and go to the trapdoor. I’ve left it open, and it looks like a hole into nothing. In the lamp’s dull glow I lower myself down the steps.

I don’t think about what I’m doing. The barn below is dark, but once outside the full moon is so bright I no longer need the lamp. I turn it off and leave it in the entrance. The night air soothes my bare skin, scented with trees and grass. I don’t feel tired at all now, only a feverish desire to get to the lake.

I follow the track that Georges used earlier, limping past rows of vines. It’s a monochrome world, all light and shadow. I pause at the edge of the woods to catch my breath. The trees form a solid wall of black at the edge of the vine field. The air is cooler here, dampening any sound. Moonlight drips indiscriminately through the branches. I shiver, wondering what I’m doing. I know I should turn back, but the lure of the lake is too strong.