The Whisperer Page 33

  Since then, Joseph had lived with that one goal ahead of him. Everything else just brought him one stage closer. Like his mother’s illness. The nights in the big house were shaken by her inhuman cries echoing around the big rooms. It was impossible to escape. After months of forced sleeplessness, Joseph had started putting in earplugs just to keep from hearing her agony.

  But they weren’t enough.

  One morning, at around four o’clock, he had woken up. He was having a dream, but he couldn’t remember it. But that wasn’t what woke him up. He had sat up in bed, trying to work out what it had been.

  There was an unusual silence in the house.

  Joseph understood. He got up and put his clothes on: a pair of trousers, a high-necked jumper and his green Barbour. Then he left the room, passing by the closed door of his mother’s bedroom and walking on. He came down the imposing marble stairs and, in a few minutes, he was outside.

  He walked down the long avenue of the estate until he reached the west gate, which was normally used by servants and deliverymen. It was the boundary of his world. He and Lara had made their way here so many times in their childhood explorations. Even though she was much younger than him, his sister would have liked to go beyond it, demonstrating an enviable courage. But Joseph had always pulled back. Lara had left almost a year before. After she had found the strength to cross that limit, nothing more had been heard from her. He missed her terribly.

  In that cold November morning, Joseph stood motionless by the gate for several minutes. Then he climbed over it. When his feet touched the ground, a new sensation took hold of him, a tickle in the middle of his chest that spread all around him. For the first time in his life he experienced the meaning of joy.

  He walked along the asphalt road.

  Dawn was heralded by a glow on the horizon. The landscape around him was exactly the same as the landscape of the estate, and for a moment he had a sense that he hadn’t actually left the place, and that the gate was only a pretext, because the whole of creation began and ended there, and every time he passed through that boundary he would start again from the beginning, unchanged, and so on until infinity. An interminable series of identical parallel universes. Sooner or later he would see his house emerging from the path again, and he would know for certain that it had been nothing but an illusion.

  But it didn’t happen. As the distance grew, the awareness that he could do it came to the surface.

  There was no one in sight. Not a car, not a house. The sound of his footsteps on the tarmac was the only trace of humanity amidst the song of the birds as they began to reclaim the new day. No wind stirred the trees, which seemed to stare at him as he passed, like a stranger. And he had been tempted to greet them. The air was effervescent, and it had a smell. Of frost, dry leaves and fresh green grass.

  The sun was more than a promise now. It slipped across the fields, spreading and spreading like a tide of oil. Joseph couldn’t have said how many miles he had walked. He was headed nowhere. But that was the great thing: he didn’t care. Lactic acid pulsed through the muscles of his legs. He had never suspected that pain could be pleasant. He had energy in his body, and air to breathe. Those two variables would decide the rest. For once he didn’t want to think about things. Until that day his mind had always found some new anxiety to block his way. And since the unknown still lay in wait all around him, during those few moments he had already learned that apart from danger, it could also harbor something precious. Like astonishment, like wonder.

  That was exactly what he felt when he became aware of a new sound. It was low and far off, but steadily approaching, behind him. He soon recognized it: it was the noise of a car. He turned round and saw only its roof appearing beyond a hump. Then the car went into a dip before reappearing. It was an old beige station wagon. It was coming towards him. The windscreen was so dirty that it was impossible to see the passengers. Joseph decided to ignore it, turned round and started walking again. When the car was close to him, it seemed to slow down.

  “Hey!”

  He hesitated to turn round. Perhaps it was someone wanting to put an end to his adventure. Yes, that was it. His mother had woken up and started shouting his name. Not finding him in bed, she had let the servants loose in and out of the estate. Perhaps the man calling out to him was one of the gardeners who had come looking for him in his own car, hoping for a handsome reward.

  “Hey, you, where’re you going? You want a lift?”

  The question reassured him. It couldn’t be someone from the house. The car pulled up beside him. Joseph couldn’t see the driver. He stopped, and so did the car.

  “I’m going north,” said the man at the wheel. “I could save you a few miles’ walk. It’s not much, but you won’t find many other lifts around here.”

  His age was indeterminable. He might have been forty, maybe less. His beard was reddish, long and disheveled, making it hard to guess. His hair was long too, and he wore it combed back with a center parting. His eyes were gray.

  “So what do you want to do? Are you getting in?”

  Joseph thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, thanks.”

  He sat down beside the stranger and the car set off. The seats were covered with brown velvet, and worn in places, revealing the canvas underneath. There was a smell that was a mix of car deodorants superimposed over one another over the years, hanging from the rearview mirror. The backseat had been lowered to make a bigger space, now occupied by cardboard boxes and plastic bags, tools and jerry cans of various sizes. Everything was perfectly arranged. There were traces of old stickers on the dashboard. The car radio, an old model with a tape machine, was playing a country music cassette. The driver, who had lowered the volume to talk to him, turned it back up again.

  “Walking long?”

  Joseph avoided his eye, for fear that he might notice he was lying.

  “Yes, since yesterday.”

  “Weren’t hitching?”

  “Yes, I was. A truck driver gave me a lift, but he had to go in a different direction.”

  “Why, where’re you going?”

  He wasn’t expecting that, and told the truth.

  “I don’t know.”

  The man started laughing.

  “If you don’t know, why did you let the trucker go?”

  Joseph turned to look at him seriously. “Because he asked too many questions.”

  The man laughed even louder. “My God, I like your directness, kid.”

  He was wearing a red, short-sleeved windcheater. His trousers were light brown and his knitted woolen jumper had a pattern of rhomboids. He wore working boots, with a reinforced rubber sole. He gripped the wheel with both hands. On his left wrist he wore a cheap plastic quartz watch.

  “Listen, I don’t know what your plans are and I won’t press you to tell me but, if you feel like it, I live not far from here and you could come for breakfast. What do you say?”

  Joseph was about to say no. It had already been risky enough accepting a lift, now he wasn’t going to follow this man somewhere to let him rob him or worse. But then he realized that he was just being influenced by another of his fears. The future was mysterious, not threatening—as he had discovered that very morning. And to savor its fruits, you had to take risks.

  “OK.”

  “Eggs, bacon and coffee,” the stranger promised.

  Twenty minutes later they left the main road to go up a dirt track. They traveled slowly, with holes and bumps, until they reached a wooden house with a sloping roof. The white paint covering it had flaked off in places. The porch was dilapidated, and tufts of grass poked out here and there among the planks. They parked beside the front door.

  Who is this guy? Joseph wondered when he saw where he lived, aware that the answer wouldn’t be as interesting as the possibility of exploring his world.

  “Welcome,” said the man as soon as they crossed the threshold.

  The first room was middle-sized. The furniture consisted of a table and t
hree chairs, a sideboard with a few drawers missing and an old sofa with its upholstery torn in several places. An unframed painting showing an anonymous landscape hung from one of the walls.

  Beside the only window was a soot-stained stone fireplace containing cold, blackened logs. On a stool carved from a tree trunk, several pans encrusted with burnt fat stood in a pile. At the end of the room were two closed doors.

  “Sorry, there’s no bathroom. But outside there’s a whole load of trees,” the man added, laughing.

  There was no electricity or running water, either, but soon the man went out to the back of the car and took out the jerry cans that Joseph had noticed a short time before.

  With some old newspapers and wood that he had collected outside, he lit the fire in the fireplace. After cleaning one of the pans as best he could, he started frying up some butter and then threw in the eggs and the bacon. Second rate it might have been, but the food gave off a smell that would have given you an appetite.

  Joseph watched him curiously, tormented by questions, like the ones children ask adults when they reach the age at which they begin to discover the world. But the man didn’t seem annoyed—he seemed to like talking.

  “Have you been living here long?”

  “For a month, but this isn’t my house.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That thing out there is my real house,” he said, pointing his chin at the car parked outside. “I travel the world.”

  “Why have you stopped, then?”

  “Because I like this place. One day I was driving along the road and I saw the path. I turned off onto it and found myself here. The house had been abandoned for God knows how long. It probably belonged to some farm laborers: there’s a tool shed out the back.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. They must have done the same as so many others: when there was a crisis in the country, they went in search of a better life in the city. There are plenty of abandoned farms around here.”

  “Why didn’t they try to sell the property?”

  The man laughed: “Who would buy a place like this? You can’t get a cent out of land like this, my friend.”

  He stopped cooking and poured the contents of the pan straight onto the plates laid out on the table. Joseph, without waiting, plunged his fork into the yellow mush. He had discovered he was very hungry. The smell was terrific.

  “You like it, don’t you? Well, eat away, there’s as much as you want.”

  Joseph went on greedily wolfing it down. Then, with his mouth full, he asked, “Are you going to stay here for long?”

  “I thought I would go at the end of the month: the winters are hard around here. I’m getting some supplies together and then I’ll go out looking for other abandoned farms, in the hope of finding some things that might still be useful in some way. This morning I found a toaster. I think it’s broken, but I can fix it.”

  Joseph registered everything, as if putting together a kind of manual with all kinds of ideas in it: how to make an excellent breakfast with only eggs, butter and bacon, and how to get hold of drinking water. Perhaps he thought they would be useful in a new life. The stranger’s life struck him as enviable. It might have been hard, but it was infinitely better than the one he had lived until then.

  “You know we haven’t even introduced ourselves?”

  Joseph’s hand, still clutching its fork, froze in midair.

  “If you don’t want to tell me your name, that’s fine by me. I like you anyway.”

  Joseph went on eating. The man didn’t press the point, but he felt obliged to repay him in some way for his hospitality. He decided to tell him something about himself.

  “I’m almost certainly going to die when I’m fifty.”

  And he told him about the curse on the male heirs of his family. The man listened attentively. Without naming names, Joseph explained to the man that he was rich, and told him the origin of his wealth. Of that courageous and astute grandfather who had planted the seed of a great fortune. And he also told him about his father, who had enlarged the legacy with his entrepreneurial genius. Finally he talked about himself, about the fact that he had no other targets to reach, because everything had already been won. He had come into the world to pass on only two things: a huge fortune and an inexorably fatal gene.

  “I understand that the sickness that killed your father and grandfather is inevitable, but for the money there’s always a solution: why not give up your wealth if you don’t feel free enough?”

  “Because I grew up with money, and without it I wouldn’t know how to survive for a single day. As you see, whatever change I make, I’m always destined to die.”

  “Balls!” said the man as he got up to wash out the pan.

  Joseph tried to put it better: “I could have anything I desire. But for that very reason I don’t know what desire is.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? Money can’t buy everything.”

  “Oh, believe me, it can. If I wanted you dead, I could pay some men and they would kill you, and no one would ever know.”

  “Ever done that?” asked the other man, suddenly serious.

  “What?”

  “Ever paid someone to kill for you?”

  “I haven’t, but my father and grandfather did, I know.”

  There was a pause.

  “But health you can’t buy.”

  “That’s true. But if you know in advance when you’re going to die, the problem’s solved. You see: the rich are unhappy because they know that sooner or later they’re going to have to leave everything they possess. You can’t take your money to the grave. I’m not condemning myself to thoughts of my own death, someone else has already done it for me.”

  The man stopped to think. “You’re right,” he said, “but it’s very sad not to desire anything. There must be something you really like, isn’t there? So start with that.”

  “Well, I like walking. And since this morning I’ve liked bacon and eggs. And I like boys.”

  “You mean you’re…”

  “I really don’t know. I go with them, but I can’t say it’s something I really desire.”

  “So why don’t you try going with a woman?”

  “I probably should. But first it should be something I desire, you see? I can’t put it better than that.”

  “No. I think you’re clear enough already.”

  The man set down the pan on top of the others on the stool. Then he looked at the quartz watch on his wrist.

  “It’s ten o’clock, I’ve got to go into town: I need some parts to fix the toaster.”

  “Then I’ll go too.”

  “No, why? Stay here and rest for a while if you want. I’ll be back soon, maybe we could eat together again and talk some more. You’re really something, you know that?”

  Joseph looked at the old sofa with the torn upholstery. It looked very inviting.

  “OK,” he said. “I’ll sleep for a while if you don’t mind.”

  The man smiled. “Fantastic!” He was about to leave when he turned round. “By the way, what would you like for dinner?”

  Joseph stared at him. “I don’t know. Surprise me.”

  A hand shook him gently. Joseph opened his eyes and he discovered that it was already evening.

  “There’s tiredness for you!” said his new friend, smiling. “You’ve slept nine hours through!”

  Joseph pulled himself up, stretching. He hadn’t rested as well as that for a long time. He suddenly felt a pang of hunger.

  “Is it dinnertime already?” he asked.

  “Time to make the fire and I’ll get it ready straightaway: I’ve got some chicken to cook in the embers, and some potatoes. Is that OK as a menu?”

  “Fantastic, I’m starving.”

  “Meanwhile get yourself a beer, they’re on the windowsill.”

  Joseph had never drunk beer, apart from the beer that his mother put in the Christmas punch. He took a t
in from the six-pack and pulled the tab. He rested his lips on the aluminum rim and took a long sip. He felt the cold drink quickly going down his esophagus. It was a pleasant, thirst-quenching sensation. After the second sip, he burped.

  “Bless you!” the man exclaimed.

  It was cold outside, but inside the fire gave off good warmth. The light from the gas lamp in the middle of the table faintly illuminated the room.

  “The ironmonger said the toaster’s fixable. He also gave me some advice on how to mend it. That’s great, it means I might be able to sell it again at a fair.”

  “So that’s what you do for a living?”

  “Yes, that too from time to time. People throw away a lot of things that can still be used. I take them and fix them up, and then I make some money. Some things I keep, like this painting, for example…”

  He pointed at the unframed landscape on the wall.

  “Why that one?” asked Joseph.

  “I don’t know, I like it. I think it reminds me of the place where I was born, or perhaps I’ve never even been there, who can say: I’ve traveled so much…”

  “Have you really been to lots of different places?”

  “Yes, loads.” He seemed lost in thought for moment, but he immediately went on: “My chicken is something special, you’ll see. And by the way, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise? What surprise?”

  “Not now, after dinner.”

  They sat down at the table. The chicken and potatoes were perfectly cooked and delicious. Joseph filled his plate several times. The guy—that was how Joseph thought of him now—ate with his mouth open, and had already drunk three beers. After dinner he took out a hand-carved pipe and some tobacco. As he was preparing to smoke, he said, “You know, I’ve thought a lot about what you said to me this morning.”

  “What exactly?”

  “What you said about ‘desire.’ I was struck by it.”