Emma wasn’t jealous. He was, a little. When one of his exes phoned to find out how he was on the sly, she would make a point of exchanging a few polite words with her before handing him the receiver with a mischievous smile. When the boot was on the other foot, however, he would growl like a bear, holding out the phone as if it were a dirty sock. It had to be said that before him, poor Emma had gone out with a succession of guys each more stupid than the last. Especially Bob. That idiot of a photographer with his ludicrous action gilet covered in pockets, and travel anecdotes as boring as a show of holiday slides. Was he called Bob? He might have been.
All he felt good for was stuffing himself with crisps in front of the regional news on TV. Sweeping aside his drawing materials with his forearm, he stepped through the hole into the kitchen. In front of the fridge door, seated squarely on its bottom, tail neatly framing its paws, whiskers bristling, eyes bright and ears pricked up, a cat was looking at him with all the hauteur its little frame could muster. How had it got in? Brice was careful to check daily that all exits were sealed but the cat was well and truly there, as if it always had been. The look in its eyes was like that of Bombay beggars, disdainful and at the same time suffering. The creature yawned, revealing a pink chasm bristling with pointed teeth. It stretched out and then concertinaed in again before swaggering up to rub itself, purring, against his legs.
‘The cat was created to give man the pleasure of stroking a tiger.’ Brice had never wanted to stroke a tiger. He had never owned an animal, neither goldfish, canary nor tortoise. Only a solitary worm when he was aged fifteen. Animals, all of them, from the ant to the elephant, had always made him feel uneasy. He didn’t understand them, nor they him. It was the same with people, but he had so far managed to survive among them thanks to the power of speech. The gift of the gab proved singularly ineffective with animals, unfortunately. The number of times he had got himself stung, bitten or scratched! Even so, on odd days when he felt down, he would find himself glued to a wildlife documentary showing lions devouring gazelles, giraffes giving birth, gnus getting stuck in mud and monkeys picking fleas off one another. But only because, on the other channels, people were slaughtering one another in increasingly horrible ways in dreadful American series. The cat persisted in wrapping itself round his legs, purring. Much too affectionate to be sincere. Food! Only food would get rid of it. Slowly he turned his upper body before taking one, then two steps towards the fridge and opening the door. He took out a bottle of milk and poured a little into a saucer. Even before he had put it on the floor, the cat was upon it. It was as simple as that. Now all he had to do was find the poison …
Was it a male or a female cat? Brice bent down but it was impossible to see beneath the tufts of fur. The creature was lapping greedily, and when it had finished it gave him a grateful look which threw him completely. He allowed the animal to climb on to his lap and rub its cuddly head against his tummy. His hand began to move back and forth on the silky coat.
‘Who are you then? Where’ve you come from? Boy or girl?’
Impassive, almost solemn, the cat was kneading his thighs. Really, the nature of its sex had no more significance than that of angels. As for how it had got into the heart of his private world, that was its own affair. He would never have thought that stroking a cat would be so agreeable. He could have gone on for hours, breathing to its rhythm, not moving. But a tractor passing in the street made the cat’s ears prick up, and it leaped from his lap to disappear off somewhere only it knew. Already Brice was missing it. He opened a tin of sardines and ate half, putting the rest out for the cat in the hope it would come back. He so much needed to be one of a pair.
He didn’t immediately recognise the ring of the doorbell, for the simple reason that until now no one had visited him. Only at the second attempt did he realise that the call was intended for him. He shot up from his camp bed, sending the sleeping cat off his tummy and into a box of glassware he had opened that morning in search of a Thermos.
‘Hello, Blanche.’
‘Good evening. I’ve brought you some soup.’
‘But … That’s very kind. Do come in.’
Brice led her into the dining room and sat her down while he cleared a heap of rubbish from the table. To his great shame he noticed the room smelled like a tip.
‘Please excuse me. I’m in the middle of some work.’
‘I can see. That hole’s big.’
‘I’m going to make a kitchen-diner; my wife prefers it. Tea?’
‘Yes, please. Ah, you’ve a cat?’
The cat, which Brice had encountered again that morning, faithful to its post in front of the fridge, had not left his side all day. Now it was prowling around Blanche, arching its back and rubbing against her fur-lined ankle boots.
‘I love cats. Here, kitty … come and sit on my knee. What’s its name?’
‘I don’t know. I found it here the other day. I don’t even know how it gets in and out.’
‘I used to have one long ago, Pompon, but then it died. We shouldn’t grow attached … It just means sorrow afterwards.’
On her knee, the cat luxuriated in her caresses, while Blanche swept the walls and ceiling with her gaze, smiling. The kitchen’s cataclysmic appearance seemed not to surprise her in the least.
‘It’s a beautiful house.’
‘It will be. There’s still a lot to do.’
‘Your wife is lucky to have such a considerate husband.’
Blanche’s smile had gone. A shadow crossed her face but gave way immediately to the opalescent luminosity which served her as make-up.
‘It’s pea and lardon soup. Do you like that?’
‘I love it. I must confess I don’t do much cooking at the moment.’
‘It’s very easy to make, you know. I bought four packets for the price of one. All you do is add water and stir and …’
She was making the gesture with her hand, as if to convey to him that the whole secret of the recipe lay in this rotating motion of the wrist. He watched her, unable to take his eyes off the invisible spoon which was turning.
Emma could make only one thing, béchamel sauce. She never got it wrong. The wooden spatula would make a spiral in the sauce, which thickened little by little into an unctuous cream. Emma, Emma, Emma …
‘… otherwise it goes lumpy.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Otherwise it goes lumpy. Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you.’
‘That’s good. If I may … I’ve brought you a little poem by my father. Would you like to read it?’
‘With pleasure.’
From her purse she drew a piece of paper folded in eight and, unfolding it with the greatest of care, handed it to him with a blush.
A Father’s Oath
Beautiful child, you make my life worthwhile.
Light