Read Online Soft in the Head by Marie-Sabine Roger - Free Book Online
Authors: Marie-Sabine Roger
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to me that I should pay her a visit one of these days while she was still alive.
M Y MOTHER lives thirty metres from my place. She lives in the house, I live in the garden. Well, in the caravan. That said, thinking about it, we couldn’t be farther apart.
I suppose I could have looked for my own place, but what would be the point? I don’t need much space, apart from a bed, a place to sit and somewhere to eat. I take up more than enough space as it is. People say that, given the size of me, a caravan must feel very small. But ever since I was a kid, I’ve always bumped into things, I’ve always been too big for my size. Annette says I’m magnificent. But since when can you trust the word of a woman in love? You know what they’re like: they always think you’re the strongest, the most handsome. Mothers can be a bit like that too, apparently. Those who are the maternal type, at least.
I stayed here on account of my vegetable garden. I created it all by myself. I turned over the soil with a spade—and that’s no job for slackers, trust me. I built the fence with the little gate, the tool shed, the greenhouse. It’s like my kid. Maybe that’s a dumb thing to say. I don’t care. Without me, it wouldn’t exist. I grow a bit of everything: carrots, turnips, beetroot, potatoes, leeks. Different types of lettuce: frisée, romaine, some Batavian. Tomatoes too, beefsteak and Black Krim, as well as Marmandes. Anyhow, it depends on theseason and on how I feel. And I plant flowers too, just for show. I was young when I started it. I don’t quite remember how old—twelve, maybe thirteen?
My mother screamed at me like a fishwife, saying I’d turned her lawn into a building site. “Lawn”? You must be kidding. A patch of wilderness, more like.
These days, she doesn’t say anything. But she comes down and steals my vegetables as soon as my back is turned. In the beginning, I’d bawl her out, but actually, I don’t really care. I’ve got ten times as many vegetables as I can use. Sometimes I even go down the market and sell them. And besides, at least trekking down the garden and back with her basket gives my mother a bit of exercise. She could do with it, she barks like a seal when she breathes, her lungs will be the death of her, or maybe her heart. One or the other. Her mind is gone already. But being brain-dead isn’t fatal: even when your mind is gone, you can live on. Too bad for those around you.
The day I told my mother I was going to move into the caravan at the bottom of the garden, she looked at me like I was soft in the head. She said:
“Can’t you think of a better way to make us look bad to the neighbours?”
I replied, keeping my cool:
“I don’t give a damn about the neighbours! And I can’t see why they would be bothered. It’s our garden…”
She collapsed on the sofa. She was panting hard, one hand on her chest.
“God Almighty, what did I ever do to deserve a son like this?”
“To God Almighty? Nothing.” I said.
“Oh, go away! You make me tired. Go and live in that caravan of yours for all I care!”
I walked out and left her, I didn’t respond, I didn’t even turn back.
I LIKE THIS CARAVAN . I resprayed it white and built an arbour over it to train a vine. It keeps me cool in summer and acts as a gutter during the rainy season. The caravan doesn’t belong to me, but I don’t think there’s any danger of the owner coming to claim it. Not if he values his balls, at any rate.
Gardini, his name is. Jean-Michel Gardini.
He showed up at the house one day. I was still a kid at the time, nine or ten maybe. Not much older. I do know I hadn’t started on my vegetable garden yet and that I was still going to school more or less. That gives me a couple of reference points.
This guy showed up one morning and asked my mother if he could park his caravan on our land because he was here for two weeks “on business”.
I don’t know about you, but a guy who
M Y MOTHER lives thirty metres from my place. She lives in the house, I live in the garden. Well, in the caravan. That said, thinking about it, we couldn’t be farther apart.
I suppose I could have looked for my own place, but what would be the point? I don’t need much space, apart from a bed, a place to sit and somewhere to eat. I take up more than enough space as it is. People say that, given the size of me, a caravan must feel very small. But ever since I was a kid, I’ve always bumped into things, I’ve always been too big for my size. Annette says I’m magnificent. But since when can you trust the word of a woman in love? You know what they’re like: they always think you’re the strongest, the most handsome. Mothers can be a bit like that too, apparently. Those who are the maternal type, at least.
I stayed here on account of my vegetable garden. I created it all by myself. I turned over the soil with a spade—and that’s no job for slackers, trust me. I built the fence with the little gate, the tool shed, the greenhouse. It’s like my kid. Maybe that’s a dumb thing to say. I don’t care. Without me, it wouldn’t exist. I grow a bit of everything: carrots, turnips, beetroot, potatoes, leeks. Different types of lettuce: frisée, romaine, some Batavian. Tomatoes too, beefsteak and Black Krim, as well as Marmandes. Anyhow, it depends on theseason and on how I feel. And I plant flowers too, just for show. I was young when I started it. I don’t quite remember how old—twelve, maybe thirteen?
My mother screamed at me like a fishwife, saying I’d turned her lawn into a building site. “Lawn”? You must be kidding. A patch of wilderness, more like.
These days, she doesn’t say anything. But she comes down and steals my vegetables as soon as my back is turned. In the beginning, I’d bawl her out, but actually, I don’t really care. I’ve got ten times as many vegetables as I can use. Sometimes I even go down the market and sell them. And besides, at least trekking down the garden and back with her basket gives my mother a bit of exercise. She could do with it, she barks like a seal when she breathes, her lungs will be the death of her, or maybe her heart. One or the other. Her mind is gone already. But being brain-dead isn’t fatal: even when your mind is gone, you can live on. Too bad for those around you.
The day I told my mother I was going to move into the caravan at the bottom of the garden, she looked at me like I was soft in the head. She said:
“Can’t you think of a better way to make us look bad to the neighbours?”
I replied, keeping my cool:
“I don’t give a damn about the neighbours! And I can’t see why they would be bothered. It’s our garden…”
She collapsed on the sofa. She was panting hard, one hand on her chest.
“God Almighty, what did I ever do to deserve a son like this?”
“To God Almighty? Nothing.” I said.
“Oh, go away! You make me tired. Go and live in that caravan of yours for all I care!”
I walked out and left her, I didn’t respond, I didn’t even turn back.
I LIKE THIS CARAVAN . I resprayed it white and built an arbour over it to train a vine. It keeps me cool in summer and acts as a gutter during the rainy season. The caravan doesn’t belong to me, but I don’t think there’s any danger of the owner coming to claim it. Not if he values his balls, at any rate.
Gardini, his name is. Jean-Michel Gardini.
He showed up at the house one day. I was still a kid at the time, nine or ten maybe. Not much older. I do know I hadn’t started on my vegetable garden yet and that I was still going to school more or less. That gives me a couple of reference points.
This guy showed up one morning and asked my mother if he could park his caravan on our land because he was here for two weeks “on business”.
I don’t know about you, but a guy who
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