James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

I’ve only just returned from a two-­month vacation to Cape Lake when I rush to the phone and dial Clémence’s number. I need her so much. Only she will be able to comfort me. When a young girl’s voice responds that Clémence no longer lives at that address, I’m gripped by a senseless fear.

‘It’s not possible! No, it’s not possible.’

The voice on the other end hesitates.

‘Wait a moment, I’ll get my husband.’

I hang up. I slip on a jacket and get in my car. I shiver. Could Clémence already have . . . ? No, it’s not possible, she’s only six months older than I am.

Nervously, I bring my hand to my throat. I feel the soft skin flee from my fingers. I park my car in front of Clémence’s house. I ring. The sound of steps on the gravel. Flipper, the dog, barks. The door opens halfway, a young woman smiles at me. She looks like a twenty year younger version of me. She looks like my two daughters too.

‘You’re the one who called just now? My husband was sure you would come. He’s waiting for you in the living room.’

She signals me to follow her. I observe her. Women in our world have always been lively, young, and beautiful. I’ve never seen a woman grow old, but next to this young girl, I feel withered, rough like a piece of burlap. I follow her anxiously down the corridor, Flipper at my heels. Clémence’s favorite paintings are still hanging on the wall. The notes of our theme song, the hard-­to-­find original version of ‘Afrikan Krystal’ sung by Daya Smith, are coming from the living room. Clémence had promised to give it to me for my birthday in a few days. I look around. I understand everything now, I feel like laughing. Clémence is playing a joke on me. Nothing has happened to her. She hasn’t changed. She’s still the same. She’s waiting for me, smiling, in the living room in front of a cup of tea. I walk with a more assured step.

The young woman opens the door for me. Clémence is sitting with her back to me in an armchair facing the window. I see only her dark hair where, to my great surprise, some white strands have blended in. My anxiety vanishes. I can confide in her without fear, explain without shame what’s happening inside me.

‘Clémence! I was so worried; you really scared me, it’s really bad of you to . . .’

She turns around slowly, I can see half of her face. The end of my sentence hangs in the air. A cry of horror escapes me. There, in Clémence’s armchair, a middle-­aged man looks at me with a calm expression.

‘What’s wrong? Do you feel ill? Why don’t you sit down.’

‘I . . . I’m looking for my friend Clémence, she lives here, she lived here, I . . . I don’t know anymore.’

I collapse into a chair. My head is all muddled. The man puts his hand gently on mine.

‘Your friend no longer lives here. She is gone.’

‘Gone? No, it’s impossible, a person can’t just go without taking anything with them, leave everything behind. The photo of her husband, the one of her wedding, of her daughters, a person can’t just leave like that! No one can change to that extent,’ I say under my breath, scrutinizing for a moment the stranger’s impassive face.

I cast a disoriented glance around the whole room. Flipper has come up to the old man and is licking his hands, how strange! They act as though they’ve known each other forever. A mad thought crosses my mind; but I don’t want to believe it. Could Clémence . . . ? I reject that idea. And yet, that way of running his hands through his hair, of stroking his chin with a dreamy look. So many details remind me of Clémence. I stand up, in the grip of a great agitation. At the doorstep, the man places his hand affectionately on my shoulder and murmurs in a comforting voice:

‘There are many ways of leaving.’

As he says these words, he plunges his clear gaze into mine. For a fleeting moment I have the strange sensation of having always known him, of finding a friend I thought I’d lost.

That evening, Claude and Pascale, my two daughters, Frédéric and Joël, their husbands, as well as my two granddaughters come to my house for dinner. This familial interlude is good for me and forces me to take my mind off things. I have just enough time to fix dinner and get dressed. I choose a skirt that covers my calves, a long-­sleeved blouse. I prefer outfits that are lighter and less covering, but for the past few weeks . . . Let’s not think about it any more!

At 8 p.m. the doorbell rings. I assume a calm expression. My two daughters kiss me, my granddaughters Emmanuelle and Paule hop around me. I stroke their curly hair as they pass by. My two sons-­in-­law, so alike with their timeworn faces, shake my hand. I seem to sense an unusual warmth, a complicity, in the smiles they give me. Claude, my eldest daughter, joins me in the kitchen where I’m arranging some glasses on a tray.

She looks at me insistently. Is it that noticeable?

‘You look tired, Mom!’

My lips pursed, I don’t say anything. She takes a couple steps. I anticipate her gesture. I start to take a step back, too late! She has already run her hands through my hair.

‘You’re losing your hair, Mom! Look!’

Do I need to look? I know that trivial spectacle only too well. Every morning on my pillow I gather up handfuls of hair. With every passing day my hair grows more and more sparse.

I manage to stammer a response.

‘I . . . I went to the doctor. Apparently it’s menopause; I’m following a treatment. Everything will go back to normal. Come on, it’s late, let’s sit down at the table.’

During the meal only my daughters and I speak. My sons-­in-­law say almost nothing. Men, in our world, speak little. They look out on existence with an expression that reflects all of mankind’s wisdom.

Is it their function that surrounds them with this indefinable aura? Here, men make up a separate clan, an inacces­sible caste. Beneath their idle appearance, they hold power, wisdom, knowledge. The very balance of our society is in their hands. The women, simultaneously the ants and the grasshoppers, are the lifeblood of our world. They are the future and they beget the future. For those aging sphinxes, stuck in the wanderings of their thoughts, women are a kind of short-­lived turbulence that barely disrupts the order and functioning of the society they have skillfully built.

For the first time in my life, I find myself admiring them. I feel close to them. I feel like talking to them, learning their opinions, their thoughts, and thus having a foretaste of what perhaps awaits me . . . I turn towards them. Our glances meet. One of them slides his hand towards mine and squeezes it with emotion. I read the profoundest respect in their eyes.

When dinner is finished, we make ourselves comfortable in the little sitting room. My sons-­in-­law smoke their cigars with a vacant look. My daughters have a discussion, carefree. My granddaughters sit on footstools, playing at my feet. I relax and softly hum ‘Afrikan Krystal’, my favorite song. I think of Clémence. Without noticing, I’ve crossed my legs. My skirt has slid up, revealing my ankles. Paule, my younger granddaughter, caresses my legs. Unsuspecting, I indulge myself in that soft contact.

‘Oh, Granny, your legs, they’re like a cat’s back!’ she yells, pulling on the long, hard hairs.

‘No, more like a black rabbit,’ retorts Emmanuelle.

With a brusque movement, I fold my skirt back over my legs. Instinctively, I turn towards my sons-­in-­law, as if only they could come to my aid. There’s an awkward silence.

‘It’s getting late,’ they say finally in a single voice. ‘It’s time to leave.’

My daughters, uncomfortable, remain silent. Have they guessed? They won’t say anything, I won’t say anything. It’s the law, this stage of life is lived alone, far from the gaze of others, with courage, with modesty. I had almost forgotten.