What does it go up to?’
‘One fifty.’
‘I should manage that within a month or two. Thank you, Jeanne, thanks very much. I’ll start work right away. Bring out the Yule log and let the champagne flow!’
Olivier had reached the stage when he could just as easily stop as carry on drinking. The only reason he kept draining his glass was to prolong this state of grace. He did not stutter or stammer, there was just a certain slowness to his actions. Something like the woozy feeling divers describe on returning from the deep. Everything had a deep-sea look to it, in fact; objects seemed to glow from within, shining among the shadows which danced on the walls, and Rodolphe’s body was a humungous jellyfish which had washed up on the sofa, his chocolate-smeared mouth letting out regular snores. Olivier went to stand with Jeanne who was leaning her head against the window, smoking. As he placed his hand on her shoulder, he could feel she was shivering. It could be no later than midnight, and there were lights in most windows. Silhouettes flitted across the yellow rectangles like shadow puppets. Jeanne stubbed out her cigarette against the wet glass, unfazed by the ashes falling onto the floor.
‘This is my last Christmas here.’
‘Did you see that in your crystal ball?’
‘No, even better, I’ve decided.’
‘You want to go away?’
‘Yes, somewhere far from here.’
They were holding on to one another and had unconsciously started to sway as if on the bridge of a ship, gently rocking from side to side.
‘I want to feel warm, all over.’
‘Come here.’
The last candle went out as day began to break. Wrapped in a blanket, Olivier watched the blue slowly creeping into the room. Rodolphe was no longer on the sofa; he must have finally dragged himself off to bed. The scales were still in the middle of the carpet, directly beneath the light. The last few patches of darkness clung on around the ceiling rose. The table had not been cleared; the set had not been dismantled. Olivier was reminded of Pompeii, of mineralised life. He felt as if he were himself made of stone. A statuesque silence reigned over his body. His eyelids no longer seemed able to shut. He had not slept. They had made love without reserve or restraint, like two flailing swimmers dragging each other down towards the abyss amid the foam of crashing waves. Just like the people in the print of
The Raft of the Medusa
on the wall opposite him. He never imagined Jeanne’s body could unleash such a tempest. The truth was he had never given a moment’s thought to Jeanne’s body. She was not all mind after all; she had breasts, buttocks and a vagina, and this revelation left him as bewildered as the day he lost his virginity.
Olivier took a swig of Williamine. The pear liqueur was just what was needed, a rush of white heat. He had started drinking when he was very young, almost as soon as he arrived in Réunion; rum, mixed with fruit juice to begin with, moving on to
rhum arrangé
with added grains of rice which fermented and took it up to almost 70 per cent proof. Since the age of sixteen, he had loved nothing and nobody but alcohol. No woman – and Lord knowsthere had been a few – had been powerful enough to defeat it. He only stopped drinking because his gamma GT levels had gone through the roof and clots in his legs were making it hard for him to walk. An enforced vacation, putting the tired old horse out to pasture for a few years. Now it was time to get back in the saddle. It was a long journey to the island. He knew that Jeanne would never say anything about his drinking. She didn’t view it as competition, or as a handicap. Olivier drank; he could just as easily not drink; it was all the same to her. The last trickle of pear liqueur felt like a teardrop, the kind that comes when you’re brimming with happiness.
The Islanders
Over the next two days, Jeanne and Olivier left the bed only to carry out a limited number of rapid
‘One fifty.’
‘I should manage that within a month or two. Thank you, Jeanne, thanks very much. I’ll start work right away. Bring out the Yule log and let the champagne flow!’
Olivier had reached the stage when he could just as easily stop as carry on drinking. The only reason he kept draining his glass was to prolong this state of grace. He did not stutter or stammer, there was just a certain slowness to his actions. Something like the woozy feeling divers describe on returning from the deep. Everything had a deep-sea look to it, in fact; objects seemed to glow from within, shining among the shadows which danced on the walls, and Rodolphe’s body was a humungous jellyfish which had washed up on the sofa, his chocolate-smeared mouth letting out regular snores. Olivier went to stand with Jeanne who was leaning her head against the window, smoking. As he placed his hand on her shoulder, he could feel she was shivering. It could be no later than midnight, and there were lights in most windows. Silhouettes flitted across the yellow rectangles like shadow puppets. Jeanne stubbed out her cigarette against the wet glass, unfazed by the ashes falling onto the floor.
‘This is my last Christmas here.’
‘Did you see that in your crystal ball?’
‘No, even better, I’ve decided.’
‘You want to go away?’
‘Yes, somewhere far from here.’
They were holding on to one another and had unconsciously started to sway as if on the bridge of a ship, gently rocking from side to side.
‘I want to feel warm, all over.’
‘Come here.’
The last candle went out as day began to break. Wrapped in a blanket, Olivier watched the blue slowly creeping into the room. Rodolphe was no longer on the sofa; he must have finally dragged himself off to bed. The scales were still in the middle of the carpet, directly beneath the light. The last few patches of darkness clung on around the ceiling rose. The table had not been cleared; the set had not been dismantled. Olivier was reminded of Pompeii, of mineralised life. He felt as if he were himself made of stone. A statuesque silence reigned over his body. His eyelids no longer seemed able to shut. He had not slept. They had made love without reserve or restraint, like two flailing swimmers dragging each other down towards the abyss amid the foam of crashing waves. Just like the people in the print of
The Raft of the Medusa
on the wall opposite him. He never imagined Jeanne’s body could unleash such a tempest. The truth was he had never given a moment’s thought to Jeanne’s body. She was not all mind after all; she had breasts, buttocks and a vagina, and this revelation left him as bewildered as the day he lost his virginity.
Olivier took a swig of Williamine. The pear liqueur was just what was needed, a rush of white heat. He had started drinking when he was very young, almost as soon as he arrived in Réunion; rum, mixed with fruit juice to begin with, moving on to
rhum arrangé
with added grains of rice which fermented and took it up to almost 70 per cent proof. Since the age of sixteen, he had loved nothing and nobody but alcohol. No woman – and Lord knowsthere had been a few – had been powerful enough to defeat it. He only stopped drinking because his gamma GT levels had gone through the roof and clots in his legs were making it hard for him to walk. An enforced vacation, putting the tired old horse out to pasture for a few years. Now it was time to get back in the saddle. It was a long journey to the island. He knew that Jeanne would never say anything about his drinking. She didn’t view it as competition, or as a handicap. Olivier drank; he could just as easily not drink; it was all the same to her. The last trickle of pear liqueur felt like a teardrop, the kind that comes when you’re brimming with happiness.
The Islanders
Over the next two days, Jeanne and Olivier left the bed only to carry out a limited number of rapid
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