The Stone Boy

Chapter Two

August 1959

THE YOUNG man slowly locked his arms across Elsa's chest. He held her tightly against his body, not letting go. Her eyes closed, the young girl kept her mouth open, as if she were at the dentist. She breathed like a puppy that had run about too much, her head bent back, her gingham blouse inflating. A sigh escaped her lips.

"Go ahead. Squeeze. Squeeze me tight, cousin."

In Elsa's garden, between the cherry tree and the chaise longue missing its cushion, Gérard felt confused. An overpowering sensation emanated from the young girl and her surroundings. The lawn seemed to be inhaling the young man feet first, the plum trees bending toward Elsa, holding out their ripe fruit. When he was with his cousin, the world seemed to shrink around her and her alone, erasing everything around them, leaving just the faintest outlines; Gérard could only make out the beauty of this incandescent girl as she swooned.

"The stars," she said, her voice barely audible. "I can see tiny yellow stars. Squeeze again!"

Gérard's arms tensed, responding to the plea in spite of himself. Then, suddenly, the gasping stopped. She collapsed. Her body slid against her cousin's stomach and fell to the ground like a sack of laundry. The young man hastened to hoist her onto the chaise longue. He slapped lightly at her cheeks, moaned her name, and felt for her pulse, but he couldn't manage to find it in her ivory-colored wrist.

"Elsa? Elsa!"

He brought his mouth to her lips to give her some air. There was no sign of life. Sobbing, he shook the young woman by the shoulders.

"Elsa! Answer me!"

He cursed himself for surrendering to the young girl's capricious desires, for agreeing to play such an idiotic game with her, gambling her life for a thrill. But he hadn't wanted to look weak in front of Elsa, so he had slipped his arms under hers and squeezed and squeezed.

"Elsa, please!"

As Gérard had often witnessed before, his cousin made a miraculous return from the dead with a cozy laugh, coughing, like a little girl recovering from being tickled. Toughened up by her years at boarding school, she had no doubt fraternized with girls—girls from good families—and broken the rules of her orderly upbringing. Elsa had snuck out and developed a taste for the forbidden, but there was nonetheless a casual grace about her, and she was as confident as a boy.

"It was delicious, cousin."

Elsa grabbed Gérard by his shirt collar and pulled their mouths together.

"Do it again. Suffocate me in your arms. Make me die again."

The touch of madness was irresistible.

Chapter Three

SHE WAS standing up in her room a meter away from her bed, staring at the ceiling. There was an odd noise, like a marble rolling along the floorboards. The noise stopped, and started again, this time like the shoes of a dancer called to the attic for a macabre ballet. The woman stood in the middle of the room, dressed in a nightgown, one hand running over her round belly.

Leave me alone. Leave me alone, please.

She had gotten up to drink a glass of water to improve her circulation. Then, when she was back in her room, she opened the curtains, worried. With her face tilted toward the frost-covered glass, she looked out beyond the chestnut tree, looking around for someone, a shadow crossing the snowy garden, the memory of a floral dress disappearing around the corner of the street one spring day during the war. Then the noise happened again. A marble across the floor. Sashaying footsteps.

No. I'm begging you. Go away!

Elsa was standing still by the window, her skin taking on a bluish cast from the streetlamp. Her knees weakened and buckled, and she writhed in pain. Overhead, the noises started again, louder, in the rhythm of her contractions with each pitch and roll of her insides. She didn't groan, didn't scream, didn't wake her husband.

Leave me alone! I don't want to come with you! Not now!

It was two hours since the sun had withdrawn from her frozen feet. The noise of her fall had woken Gérard. His young wife was sitting in a puddle of blood. Elsa was giving birth.

Chapter Four

KNEELING IN front of the low table in the living room, the child unwrapped his present with the enthusiasm of a man condemned to death. The size of the item covered in forest-green paper was far too modest to correspond to Martin's hopes. He had asked for a giant Erector set and a chemistry kit for his birthday. The child held up the package: too heavy for a board game or a giant puzzle.

"Go ahead, Martin, open your present."

His mother forced a smile through too much makeup. Her lipstick was like a dark purple rail track through the snow. The cider was too sharp and the chocolate cake needed more butter. Also wanting were Martin's classmates: the little party couldn't be held until the second Wednesday in January. There was no upside to being born between Christmas and New Year at all. It was usually impossible to get all of your friends together, the luckier of whom had gone skiing, and there was the disappointment of Christmas gifts being put aside for your birthday—unless your parents thought ahead—which was never the case with Martin's parents. So, the gifts that he received were rarely as impressive as those opened by his friends twice each year. Regardless, Martin's mother had always held on to the idea that they should "mark the occasion."

"A little party, just us. What do you say?"

Sitting on the big armchair in the living room, her knees together below her lilac wool dress, she looked like she was praying, her elbows bent, watching Martin's fingers tear open the wrapping paper on his first gift. When he saw the encyclopedia, the child turned pale.

"Do you like it?"

"It's not what I wanted."

"It's a useful gift. You'll need it for your studies."

"Yes, but it's not what I wanted."

"We don't always get what we want in life, Martin. Open your other gift."

"If it's like the first one, I don't want it."

"Stop that. Go on, open it. It came from Galeries Lafayette in Paris."

Martin pulled off the paper more quickly this time: maybe it was one of those wonderful toys he'd seen last week in the window of the big Parisian shop. Inside a gray cardboard box lined in cellophane, the little boy found a pair of mittens and a matching hat.

"It's pure wool. You won't be numb with the cold going to school in the morning with them."

The hat was rust-colored with brown snowflakes embroidered on it. It was a ridiculous thing to put on in the playground. Martin looked at his mother, incredulous.

"Why did you buy me that?"

She leaned down to her son and caressed his face.

"Listen, Martin, times are hard, as well you know. Your father has abandoned us and I have to get by on just my own salary, so—"

"That's not true! You're talking rubbish!"

On the verge of tears, Martin threw the box and its contents on the ground, then ran out and shut himself in his room. His mother's voice echoed up the stairs: "Come now, try to be reasonable, Martin! You need a hat much more than an Erector set!"

Chapter Five

ON THE third floor of the hospital complex in Seine-Saint-Denis, an overweight female doctor was sitting in a narrow room behind a desk groaning with files. She was speaking to Madame Préau, and Madame Préau was listening to her as closely as she could, her hands folded and her legs crossed. She had the distinct feeling that other people were standing around her—medical personnel, nurses, orderlies with mocking expressions. The woman in the white blouse was explaining something very important. It was precisely for this reason that there were so many people in this room staring at her.

"The battle is over, Madame Préau. What you have done for your father all these years is outstanding. You have managed to keep him in the best possible physical condition, well beyond the prognosis that we gave him after his remission."

What was worrying Madame Préau was her ability to take in what this pink-cheeked woman was going to tell her. These past years had been difficult, and her nerves were frayed. Martin's departure for Canada hadn't helped things. But she understood that her son's studies took precedence over his mother and that he needed to be closer to his father.

"I understand that it is difficult to hear this, but I know that you can take it. If we look at the MRI…"

Madame Préau turned toward the window and concentrated on the view of the park. Poplars quivered in the rays of the setting sun. It would be so lovely to walk along there just now, and leave behind this sentencing.

"Overall, his health has deteriorated. We will give him the best possible care, but you should know that he will continue to suffer."

Her mother would have so loved those pathways of white flowers, the foliage turning inky in the shadow of the beech trees. Madame Préau would take her father there twice a week, pushing the wheelchair to a bench where, in the shade of a honeysuckle, she would sit, the invalid by her side. She would read the paper to her father, commenting passionately about the first measures put in place by the new government—measures that would give the French people a more optimistic perspective about their future.

"If he were to fall victim to respiratory failure, we need your authorization—do you understand?"

The new government didn't waste any time: raising the minimum wage, increasing the minimum rate for the old age pension and child benefits, temporarily suspending the deportation of foreigners… And then there was that astonishing festival dreamed up by the Ministry for Culture, a national day dedicated to music! Madame Préau asked suddenly:

"What is the date today?"

"The twenty-first of June."

"Yes, of course. Where is my head—"

"Madame Préau, do you give us your consent so that we could let him go?"

At the school today, they were celebrating the first day of summer in the playground. Madame Préau had arranged for break time to be livened up for the children with songs and dancing. A tiring day. They hadn't heard shouts of joy like that since the last school fête. The headmistress's heart was still swelling with happiness.

"Madame Préau, please, we need your consent."

The ill man's daughter turned to face the doctor and noticed her hostile expression. Pink and white scrubs moved back and forth behind her restlessly, sharpening their syringes.

"Tell me, Docteur," whispered Madame Préau, "this evening, for the music festival, couldn't you just see your devoted orderlies singing the latest hits to the patients just before they give them the lethal injection?"

Chapter Six

THE SCRAWNY daisies had been pulled up by the root. The dandelions, too. Parched by the heat, the earth crumbled between your fingers.

"Are they for me, Bastien?" asked Madame Préau.

"No, they're for Mommy."

The little boy held the makeshift bouquet tightly in his left hand. He walked with his head bobbing, one palm against his granny's, which was damp with sweat. There wasn't a breath of wind to chase the dog days of summer away.

"I really like Captain Cousteau."

"Me too, Bastien."

"Why did he die?"

"Because the Good Lord needed him."

"It's not fair. Who's going to take care of the whales now?"

"You, when you're older."

"Granny Elsa?"

"Yes, Bastien?"

"Why did you come to school to pick me up and not Mommy?"

"Because she had to work. She'll come later."

On the path, between two wisps of yellow grass that had grown up through the tarmac, a colony of fireflies had caught the child's eye. He stopped for a moment to watch the insects mating happily.

"What kind of insects are these, Granny Elsa?"

Madame Préau raised an eyebrow.

"Not God's creatures, certainly."

"Oh?"

"Come on, Bastien, let's cross."

"But that's not the way home."