«Blood», extract no. 7

Le Regard Libre N° 31 - Sébastien Oreiller

Chapter II: The son's arrival (continued)

There were two of them. There was the son and his friend. They entered the great hall, shining with dust and glitter, in uniforms between the portraits of the ancestors. One was tall and blond, with the same marine highlights as his mother, and the same cold arrogance in his eyes; the other was shorter and leaner, with long black hair and an olive complexion he kept away from the sun. No arrogance in the eyes, but malice in the smile.

They must have waited a long time for them. The girls, weary, had gone away, deserted the place, subsidiary to the shadow of their brother, this brother they didn't love, and their moving vision merged with the image of some ancestress on the wall, like them skeletal and vaporous. The blazing sun outside had plunged the great hall into half-light; faces could no longer be discerned against the walls. Only the dripping dampness that beaded at the ends of long white veils and hands, the dampness of old mansions or chapels, preserved the bodies' natural yet volatile reality. He was going to catch a cold.

They'd just arrived; they'd had a good trip. Hot and long. He kissed his mother, she greeted the friend she already knew. They wanted to rinse off, change, and have a drink. There was a barrel of wine in the cellar. He'd bring up a bottle. He was the new gardener and handyman. The son stared at him. Until he knew how to do everything, he'd go to the village and get them a small barrel of beer; they didn't want wine. No, it was more urgent to put together a basin of water with soap. Thank you for your time. Their eyes didn't meet. They went out. He swallowed. He hadn't wanted to be there, but she'd forced him. She wanted so much for him to meet her son. And now he knew he was a servant.

The friend sat at the foot of the bed, at the feet of his son, who was lying there winding his watch. He let himself bounce a few times, as if to test the mattress, and took off his shirt. The handyman looked away; he didn't want to see that ugly pale skin, pitted with black moles. A few hairs here and there. Dirty. He was ashamed; they hadn't noticed that she'd made the beds for them, and made sure they smelled nice.

He placed the basin on a pedestal table beside them. The friend took the soap, inspected it, and held it out over the other's face for him to smell. He laughed in amusement and cruelty, because it smelled of lavender and motherly care. He put it down again. Disgusting. At home, there was no soap, but his mother would have liked it; you washed with water and scrubbed well. The friend fancied a cigarette and lit up, under the amused gaze of the other. He looked up and stared at him. This put him at ease. «Need anything else?» No, he could go. Yes, he could. The son lit a cigarette of his own. His mother had written to him. He understood that she had taken a liking to him. Good for her. They owed him that, after the hellish life his father had inflicted on hers when he worked for them. The friend smiled. Besides, the son remembered him as a child; they used to play together. Now they would be friends again.

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