Read Online Soft in the Head by Marie-Sabine Roger - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marie-Sabine Roger
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sleeps in an Eriba Puck and comes around telling you he’s “on business” makes me suspicious. Well, it would make me suspicious now, but back then nothing seemed strange or surprising because I was still a kid.
In fact his “business”, we found out later, was selling knock-off jewellery at local markets.
Anyway, there he was explaining to my mother that someone down at the town hall had mentioned we had a large garden and that he’d like to rent part of it while he washere. And, while they were on the subject, he was prepared to pay extra if she would cook lunch for him every day.
At the time, my mother was pretty much living from hand to mouth. She did a few little jobs here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. So the prospect of renting out a bit of waste ground that no one ever used—except me as a playground, but I didn’t count—of taking in a lodger, half-board, cash in hand, no word to the taxman, gave her pause for thought. Though it wasn’t a long pause.
I think she’d said yes before he finished his sentence.
I hated this Gardini from the moment I set eyes on him, the two-faced fucker. He was a flash bastard, all tailored suits and stripy shirts. He wore his hair down over his shoulders, leaving snowdrifts of dandruff. He was trying his best to look artistic, but really he was just an arsehole, something I knew all about even then. Just having to sit opposite him at breakfast, lunch and dinner was too much for me. The way he ate was disgusting. He never washed his hands when he came out of the toilet, but that didn’t stop him helping himself to bread from the basket. He was forever talking with his mouth full, and I would spend the whole meal calculating the trajectories— line (parabola) describing the path followed by a projectile after launch —to avoid ending up with breadcrumbs floating in my water glass.
My mother would yell at me:
“Germain, what’s got into you? You’re holding on to that glass for dear life. Would you ever just put it down! Noone’s going to steal it! Children, I tell you… You wouldn’t believe what I have to put up with, Monsieur Gardini!”
“Call me Jean-Mi, Madame Chazes. All my friends call me Jean-Mi.”
“I couldn’t possibly…”
“Even if I ask nicely?”
“Well… as long as you call me Jacqueline. Germain, you’ll get a slap if you’re not careful.”
“Jacqueline? Such a charming name. It suits you… You must be so proud to be blessed with such an elegant name.”
“That’s so true.”
This was news to me. She spent her time moaning to her girlfriends:
“Jacqueline makes me sound like an old biddy. I prefer Jackie…” And Gardini, bowing and scraping to get into her good books, telling her how she cooked like a queen, how she deserved a Michelin star. How she was one of the ten wonders of the world. He had a good line in soft soap… Long story short, after a couple of days they hardly even talked during meals, they were so busy devouring each other with their eyes. At first, I was happy, I didn’t have to play goalie with my water glass any more. But even though I was a kid, I wasn’t completely blind. Whenever my mother got up from the table to get more bread or fill the water jug, I noticed that Gardini watched her like a stray dog watching someone take away its bowl. And that he mostly stared at her below the waterline.
Sometimes, after the cheese course, he’d start jiggling on his seat like a corn kernel on a hotplate. Then he’d say:
“I’ve brought some lovely stuff back from my studio in Paris. Would you like me to show you?”
“It would be a pleasure, but you do know I couldn’t possibly afford—”
“I’d just like you to see them.”
And my mother would say:
“Well, in that case…”
Gardini sprinted down to the end of the garden and came back with the large briefcase stamped Brotard & Gardini—Authentic Parisian Chic—Jewellery and Finery that he always kept in the boot of his
In fact his “business”, we found out later, was selling knock-off jewellery at local markets.
Anyway, there he was explaining to my mother that someone down at the town hall had mentioned we had a large garden and that he’d like to rent part of it while he washere. And, while they were on the subject, he was prepared to pay extra if she would cook lunch for him every day.
At the time, my mother was pretty much living from hand to mouth. She did a few little jobs here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. So the prospect of renting out a bit of waste ground that no one ever used—except me as a playground, but I didn’t count—of taking in a lodger, half-board, cash in hand, no word to the taxman, gave her pause for thought. Though it wasn’t a long pause.
I think she’d said yes before he finished his sentence.
I hated this Gardini from the moment I set eyes on him, the two-faced fucker. He was a flash bastard, all tailored suits and stripy shirts. He wore his hair down over his shoulders, leaving snowdrifts of dandruff. He was trying his best to look artistic, but really he was just an arsehole, something I knew all about even then. Just having to sit opposite him at breakfast, lunch and dinner was too much for me. The way he ate was disgusting. He never washed his hands when he came out of the toilet, but that didn’t stop him helping himself to bread from the basket. He was forever talking with his mouth full, and I would spend the whole meal calculating the trajectories— line (parabola) describing the path followed by a projectile after launch —to avoid ending up with breadcrumbs floating in my water glass.
My mother would yell at me:
“Germain, what’s got into you? You’re holding on to that glass for dear life. Would you ever just put it down! Noone’s going to steal it! Children, I tell you… You wouldn’t believe what I have to put up with, Monsieur Gardini!”
“Call me Jean-Mi, Madame Chazes. All my friends call me Jean-Mi.”
“I couldn’t possibly…”
“Even if I ask nicely?”
“Well… as long as you call me Jacqueline. Germain, you’ll get a slap if you’re not careful.”
“Jacqueline? Such a charming name. It suits you… You must be so proud to be blessed with such an elegant name.”
“That’s so true.”
This was news to me. She spent her time moaning to her girlfriends:
“Jacqueline makes me sound like an old biddy. I prefer Jackie…” And Gardini, bowing and scraping to get into her good books, telling her how she cooked like a queen, how she deserved a Michelin star. How she was one of the ten wonders of the world. He had a good line in soft soap… Long story short, after a couple of days they hardly even talked during meals, they were so busy devouring each other with their eyes. At first, I was happy, I didn’t have to play goalie with my water glass any more. But even though I was a kid, I wasn’t completely blind. Whenever my mother got up from the table to get more bread or fill the water jug, I noticed that Gardini watched her like a stray dog watching someone take away its bowl. And that he mostly stared at her below the waterline.
Sometimes, after the cheese course, he’d start jiggling on his seat like a corn kernel on a hotplate. Then he’d say:
“I’ve brought some lovely stuff back from my studio in Paris. Would you like me to show you?”
“It would be a pleasure, but you do know I couldn’t possibly afford—”
“I’d just like you to see them.”
And my mother would say:
“Well, in that case…”
Gardini sprinted down to the end of the garden and came back with the large briefcase stamped Brotard & Gardini—Authentic Parisian Chic—Jewellery and Finery that he always kept in the boot of his
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