Nancy Huston - Infrared

Rena says none of these things because the cameras have long since moved away from the projects, impatient to highlight other suppurating sores of the planet — interspersed, naturally, with advertisements. When she goes upstairs to dress for dinner, she can hear Simon and Ingrid getting ready in their room.

The storm will have blown over by tomorrow, Subra tells her, and you’ll all get off to a new start. You’ll be on the last leg of your journey.

Right, Rena says. Cool it.

In the restaurant, they alternate between clumsy attempts at conversation, embarrassed silences and contrite smiles.

Early to bed.

Vast hiatus between lights out and sleep.

Rovine

France is in ruins — a landscape like Baghdad or Mogadishu — heaps of rubble, wandering shadows — scenes of unspeakable horror…Right afterwards, I’m supposed to give birth to a baby — apparently a boy. His mother(??) gave him to me and asked me to do this as a favour to her. The delivery itself is swift and easy — but the child comes out motionless and caked in fat, looking like a lump of duck conserve — not only that, but it’s in two pieces. Horrified at having given birth to a stillborn baby, I call Alioune. He joins me…‘No,’ he says, picking up the larger of the two pieces and gently unfolding it. ‘No, look. The baby’s alive, it’s magnificent!’ I take the tiny boy in my arms. He’s beautiful indeed. He smiles up at me, staring straight into my eyes…Then I have to run and find the mother, to tell her that her baby is born and that everything went fine — it was an incredibly easy delivery, I didn’t suffer at all — ah! — compared to the birth of my own children! Alioune and I are amazed at the baby’s innate capacity to smile. We’re so happy…Then, just as we’re preparing to leave, I remember that the country is war torn…

No problem interpreting France as a country at war — the images I saw last night more than suffice. But the baby. Who is that baby? Myself? ‘Apparently a boy.’ Half dead. The dream doesn’t say what happens to the other half, the part no one bothers to unfold or take in their arms, the part no one smiles at. It’s there, too, though. I mean, we can’t just toss it onto the garbage heap. Why does the mother take no interest in it?

Who is that mother? asks Subra.

Parting the bedroom curtains, Rena sees that Sunday’s limpid brilliance has given way to a chilly, steel-grey Monday — as if the Creator himself were reluctant to head back to work after His day of rest. A thick fog has invaded Chianti, narrowing the universe, effacing the distant hills and blurring even the contours of the garden. Only nearby objects are visible, and even they look dull and lustreless.

It’s only eight o’clock but Gaia has told them she needs to lock up the house by nine-thirty at the latest. How will they ever manage to extricate themselves in time?

Determined not to go stir-crazy waiting for Simon and Ingrid, Rena flips through the beautiful edition of The Divine Comedy in Gaia’s library, admiring Gustave Doré’s illustrations, and stumbles on a passage about bodies metamorphosing…

The two heads were by now to one comprest, When there before our eyes two forms begin To mix in one where neither could be traced. Two arms were made where the four bands had been; The belly and chest and with the legs the thighs Became such members as were never seen…

Hard to believe this passage was written seven centuries before movie cameras were invented, Rena says to herself. You’d think it was describing special effects for the next Harry Potter film.

This house is so lovely…

Still no sign of Simon and Ingrid. Maybe when they come down she’ll tell them to take the Megane and continue the trip without her; she’s decided to stay here. She wants to live with Gaia until the end of her days, absorbing her wisdom, making fruit jam, drying flowers, planting vegetables in the earth…

Her mobile rings. It’s Schroeder.

‘Patrice! How are you?’

‘I’m not calling to make small talk, Rena.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve been keeping abreast of…’

‘Yes, I finally caught some footage last night. It’s…’

‘What about this morning?’

A wave of fear washes through her.

‘Not yet. Is there…’

‘Rena, listen. There’s a civil war going on here. Aziz tells me he asked you to cut your holiday short and you said no. Don’t you think you’re going a bit far? I mean, you’re not Salgado, you know? You’re replaceable. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but I want to be sure you understand. Rena, you’ve got to come back today. That’s an ultimatum. If you decide not to, I won’t be able to renew your contract.’

‘Is Aziz with you?’

‘Did you hear me? On the Fringe won’t be able to publish your photos anymore.’

‘Could you put him on? I’ll talk to you again right afterwards.’

A silence. Her brain is shrouded in the same fog as the landscape.

‘Yeah.’

Aziz. His bad-day voice.

‘What’s going on, love? What have I done to deserve this overdose of silence?’

No, that’s not the right approach — she shouldn’t force him to discuss their love life in front of their boss. It will only make him feel trapped, cornered, tricked. But she can’t help it.

‘You’re thinking about replacing me, too, is that it?’

What a stupid thing to say. The worst possible tactic. She can practically see his shoulders shrugging to shake her off.

Schroeder has taken the phone back.

‘Well, Rena. What’s your decision?’

‘Ciao, Patrice.’

There. I’ve lost my job. Good start to the day. Let’s see what else can happen before the sun goes down.

Capriccio

Going upstairs to pack, she passes Ingrid coming down for breakfast. Simon isn’t hungry, she informs Rena. But they’re almost ready…

Rena brings down her suitcase, moves the car to the doorstep, and settles down to wait in the living room with Gaia.

The minutes inch by like slobbery, amorphous slugs. They swell up into obese quarter-hours, ugly and useless as gobs of saliva.

Gaia puts a sympathetic arm around her shoulders and tells her in a low voice that her father was depressive, too. So many failed Galileos! So many immature Zeuses! So many Commanders in bathrobes! Why did no one warn us about this?

Using hand gestures and her modicum of Italian, Rena conveys to her hostess that the little mice are fed up with tiptoeing around their big, depressed lion-daddies. Gaia bursts out laughing.

At long last, Ingrid comes down and tells her they’re all set. Rena goes up to help Simon with their suitcases…But first he wants to carry down the plates, glasses, cups and saucers Gaia brought them for their various snacks.

‘Leave it, Daddy, please. Don’t worry, Gaia will take care of it. It’s her job.’

Simon thinks it would be more polite, more generous, indeed, more feminist of them to take care of it themselves. The debate goes on for a good five minutes; downstairs, Gaia must be losing patience. Rena gives in and carries down the tray.

The car is waiting at the doorstep; the luggage is in the trunk; now what’s holding them up?

Oh, right. Life.

Simon has come to a halt in the middle of the living room. A step. A pause. A question — insoluble, as always. A sigh. Encroaching darkness. His hands go up to cover his face. Blackout. Endgame. They’ll go nowhere. They’ve been struck motionless, like the party guests in Sleeping Beauty’s castle.