Heatwave Read online

  “Nothing.”

  “I never see you around. Where’s your tent?”

  “Number three-thirty.”

  “Are you camping with Louis?”

  “No.”

  “Who are you with, then?”

  “My parents.”

  “You sound like you’re ashamed of it.”

  “A bit.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You’re lucky. Where are you from?”

  “Lorient.”

  “Don’t know it. Are you a senior, too? What do you want to do after high school?”

  “Musicology.”

  “Oh, you’re a musician?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s cool. And you really love to chat, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re funny. Why don’t you take off your T-shirt? You must be hot.”

  “I’m fine… thanks.”

  “Come on, let’s go swimming.”

  She stood up. I refused politely. She didn’t insist, just took off her sarong and ran to join the others, her feet seeming to bounce lightly on the sand. Her skin was pale; she didn’t tan. She disappeared into the sea and I found myself alone in the crowd. The naked torsos of volleyball players sprang into the air. Swimmers threw themselves into the waves. Parents took their children away from the sea so they wouldn’t die in the riptides. Louis and Zoe were already laughing. Luce dived into the crashing waves and reappeared each time somewhere else. Parts of her body glistened as the water moved over her. Suddenly I wanted to go with her. I stood up, but everything around me rose more slowly, as if I’d been drinking. A man walked past with a metal detector. A child screamed in a wave. I twisted my neck and saw the flag, the hole, Oscar’s body. What the hell am I doing here, I thought, and the feeling was stronger than it had been on the other days. I left the beach and walked over the dune. I didn’t say goodbye. They didn’t see me leave anyway.

  ON THE OTHER side was the same strange world. The heat was rising, the sunlight pouring down on the paths. Some madman was grilling sausages like it was noon already. Music blared from the loudspeakers: “Top Summer Hits.” Twenty-five songs. I’d noticed it on the first day: the same twenty-five songs were played on a permanent loop, like at a supermarket. Not loud enough to disturb anyone but loud enough that the music insinuated itself everywhere, like the sun, the sand, and the water of the Landes: If you go hard you gotta get on the floor… If you’re a party freak then step on the floor… All around, people were enjoying their vacation. They didn’t want to hear me. Besides, I had nothing to say. I could say: Oscar is dead. But I didn’t even believe it. I tried to think about him, and I could do it only in fits and starts. I could feel his phone burning against my thigh. I could have taken it to the lost property office. But it was a long way. I’d have had to cross the whole campsite, then line up at the reception desk with all the sunburned campers, the lost children, the new arrivals, and the foreigners who didn’t understand anything; I’d have had to wait as the multilingual receptionist was called so that she could explain to them in English, German, Spanish, or Flemish the rules of the campsite and the hours of the water aerobics class, before attaching a little blue bracelet to everyone’s wrist, uniting us all for eternity. I’d managed to cut mine off with a steak knife on the first day.

  I collapsed onto a bench. I needed my parents. Maybe I’d be able to tell them. But they probably weren’t back yet. I had no idea what time it was.

  I looked around and recognized the playground from the night before. The swing was there with its spotless ropes. Where had I stood to watch Oscar die? I couldn’t remember. I felt like I was looking at another playground, a movie set that had been placed there. Children were playing. Most of them were spinning around endlessly on a merry-go-round in the shape of a crocodile.

  “It’s not a crocodile, it’s an alligator,” a girl said to a boy. “A crocodile has a pointy mouth, and an alligator has a round mouth, so this is an alligator.”

  She stared proudly at the boy and he shook his head. I examined the alligator, its yellow eyes, its green shell, the metal bar that came out of its mouth so that the children could hang on to it. I felt my lip tremble and tears rise up, like people arriving late for a party. I had not made many stupid mistakes in seventeen years. And nothing really stupid. I’d never cheated, stolen, punched anyone. Only rarely had I insulted anyone. I had accumulated my hate and anger slowly, patiently. It wasn’t an accident. I had let Oscar die. I could have saved him and I hadn’t. And then I’d hidden his body. I couldn’t remember why. I could have just walked away. They’d have found him where he died. They’d have seen the marks on his neck, they’d have measured the alcohol in his bloodstream, they’d have noted the time of his death. A cold wave would have crashed down on everyone in the campsite and they’d all have gone far away from here, me included. But I’d buried him. That was the really stupid mistake. I’d spent the whole night burying a body.

  I turned on his phone. I didn’t know the code. I knew nothing about him. All I had was this locked screen with a photograph of a mountain and two missed calls, one from Luce, one from his mother. I remembered his mother. I’d seen her a few times on the beach. People had made fun of Oscar because he was camping with her. Every night she would walk back alone to her bungalow. I remembered the bungalow, too. I could go and look for it; Oscar’s blue towel would be hanging on the guardrail, much too dry by now. I could find his mother and talk to her. She would listen to me.

  I started walking toward the bungalows. On the way, I felt my vision blurring, the ground softening. For two weeks I had wandered around this campsite, fleeing the sun, sticking to the shadows cast by trees and tents, killing time. But I didn’t bother with that now. I walked bareheaded in the light. A pleasant numbness enveloped me, preventing me from thinking too far ahead. At the end of a path, I thought I recognized Oscar’s bungalow. The deck was empty, the door open. No one ever closed anything at the campsite. Everyone trusted everyone else. I went over. I climbed the three little steps. A fan stirred the hammock hanging in a corner. There was no one around. A bodyboard covered with sand. Some empty rosé bottles. My vision grew more blurred. Someone was moving around inside. It all happened calmly: I staggered, Oscar’s mother came out, she caught my arm and helped me into the hammock. I let myself be rocked in the gentle breeze from the fan. She brought me a glass of water and sat facing me.

  “Feeling better? It’s a hundred and two degrees and it’s supposed to keep getting hotter. Are you friends with Oscar?”

  I couldn’t answer. I had come to tell her everything, but I didn’t know how to begin. Just opening my mouth was difficult. So I looked at her—I stared into her eyes like I’d stared into Oscar’s—and I thought about the fact that she was his mother so the nausea would force the words out. She turned away. Leaning on the guardrail, she lit a cigarette. Her dress showed a constellation tattooed on her bare back. She was the kind of person my parents looked down on a little bit.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Leonard.”

  “I’m Claire.”

  Claire. I realized I would never tell her anything.

  “You’re really out of it, aren’t you? You should rest. I don’t know where Oscar is—he didn’t sleep here last night. Do you want to wait for him here?”

  I shrugged. This amused her.

  “So what do you think of this campsite?”

  “It’s okay…”

  “You’re not drinking too much at night?”

  “No.”

  “Are you here with friends? With your parents? Do you think it’s really horrible, camping with your mother? Is it embarrassing with girls?”

  “No…”

  “You should tell Oscar that.”

  She turned around to smile at me. Oscar wasn’t that good-looking; I remembered his face. He could appear quite handsome from a distance, in the sun, but his features were heavy, and his eyes always looked tired.

  �
��These are the best years of your life, you know—you should make the most of them. We’re leaving this afternoon. We’ll come back next summer, but we’ll bring a tent. The bungalows are kind of a rip-off.”

  She smiled at me again and I lowered my head so I couldn’t see her anymore, and also so that she’d question me, shake me, discover the truth herself, since I couldn’t talk or cry and I looked like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. I sensed her moving away behind me. She went inside. I was alone again, in the immense silence.

  My head tilted the landscape. A conga line was going past. The pink bunny was leading some teenagers toward the beach. They were singing. Sometimes their arms lifted and seemed to point to the sun. They weren’t suffering. The heat had been rising for the past few summers. Every year, it got hot earlier—this year it had been in February—and we had welcomed it without fear, happy to see the end of winter; we’d sat out on café terraces with no sense of foreboding about what it might mean. We didn’t sense the inferno coming. I wondered what temperature would finally be too hot. Everything would flip then. People would flee the campsite like it was a house on fire and the bunny would be left to dance alone. I wanted to move. I hated myself for just lying there doing nothing. But my eyes were closing. Sleep was taking me at last. Nobody ever slept much here. We went to bed late and got up with the rising sun to march side by side with the others, toward joy.

  “FOLLOWING AN INCIDENT on the beach, we ask you to keep your dogs tied up in the shade… In fact, you should all get in the shade, too. It’s a hundred and four degrees out there, guys!”

  Luce came toward me in her red sarong. I was dozing. I thought: She’s found me. I shrank into the hammock so she wouldn’t see me.

  Claire came out. “Are you looking for Oscar?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you his girlfriend?”

  “Not really.”

  “I don’t know where he is… But I’ve got another one here, if you’re interested. He’s sleeping…”

  I sat up, embarrassed. Luce did not look surprised. She came toward me, hands behind her back, and pretended to look me over.

  “Yeah… He’ll do… What’s his name?”

  “Leonard. He doesn’t say much, but he’s nice.”

  “Is it normal that he’s all red like that?”

  They laughed together. I thought they were cruel. Luce winked at me. I winked back without thinking.

  “I’m going to the pool. Aren’t you hot?” she asked.

  I got out of the hammock and stood in front of her. I had never looked at her this closely before. She was quite tall, with brown eyes. Freckles full of sunlight.

  “Come on, Leonard.”

  I felt flattered. I followed her, like a little dog. I walked past Claire, and for a moment, I almost spoke. I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

  She laughed. “Go on, go with her. What are you waiting for?”

  The campsite had its own laws. Two weeks of vacation was a lifetime. We arrived like newborns, pale and alone. We left with a sigh of sadness or relief, like the dying. Friendships were made and unmade in the time it took to walk down a path. Hearts were lost and broken in a single day. A few times I’d seen Luce and Oscar being friends, being in love, or ignoring each other. Now I was walking with her as if I were him. Some boys watched us. She waved at the ones she knew. Her sarong brushed against my hand as we walked.

  “I didn’t realize you knew Oscar’s mother.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “But you were in her hammock.”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled. She thought I was funny, and more intelligent than I actually was. This often happened: in my embarrassment, I would say absurd things, and everyone would think I was really witty and deep.

  “Do you get along well with Oscar?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did you leave without saying goodbye before?”

  “I didn’t feel too good. Sorry.”

  At worst, I looked like I was sulking. I gripped the phone in my pocket. My trunks were making me itch. My thoughts and the heat combined to create rivers of sweat on my skin, but I just looked like a spoiled little brat.

  “Why are you making that face?”

  “This is how I always look.”

  She accepted my answers. I could stand her more easily than the others. Something was different with her. But all the same, I wanted to leave. My parents must be back by now.

  “I have to go eat lunch.”

  “Already? Meet me at the pool after!”

  I turned onto a different path. Behind me, I heard her say:

  “You know, Oscar’s really not my boyfriend. We’re just close.”

  MY FATHER WAS making lunch. My mother was reading a thriller. Alma was riding around them on her tricycle, and Bubble, our dog, a beautiful Newfoundland, was sleeping in the shade of a hedge. Seeing all those familiar faces, I felt suddenly calm, and a wave of love and courage rose up within me: they would hear me. When my father saw me, he threw a round cheese at me.

  “Good catch! We pillaged the market in Dax! I was like, Can I have a taste? And they gave me a piece of cheese! Can I taste? Yup, another piece of cheese! I bought one in the end. I’d have felt guilty otherwise. So how are you?”

  “Sit down,” said my mother, pushing a plate in front of me. “We were calling you. Don’t you have your phone?”

  I shook my head. Alma stared at me. “You’re all red.”

  “Where’s Adrien?” I asked suddenly.

  “He’s with his surf buddies.”

  “We gave him his freedom… It’s okay, at fifteen, don’t you think?”

  At my feet, Bubble was panting. He couldn’t sleep in this heat: his tongue lolled and he looked sad. He was hotter than all of us put together. He couldn’t go bare-chested. Then again, neither could I.

  “Bubble’s too hot. He got aggressive this morning. You should watch out…”

  “Apparently a dog went mad earlier on the beach. It bit a child.”

  “Will it bite me, too?”

  “No, sweetie.”

  “Are you protecting yourself, Leo?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, are you wearing sunscreen?”

  “Yes.”

  “We won’t be leaving until late this afternoon. No rush. You have time to enjoy yourself.”

  The tabbouleh, still in its packaging, was surrounded by mustard-flavored chips. Some cherry tomatoes were arranged on top of a green salad in the shape of a smiling face. My father leaned close to me. “So… did you go out last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “We could hear your music from here. We went to karaoke. That was good, too. There was this guy in a bunny suit. He wanted to tie a carrot to my belt so I’d try to get it into a bottle by moving my hips… You get the idea. I refused, obviously.”

  “I’m sorry… I’m not hungry.” I pushed the plate away and stood up.

  “Got a hot date?”

  “Stop it,” my mother hissed.

  “Oh, come on, I’m allowed to ask!”

  “You don’t have to answer, Leo.”

  “Is she pretty, at least?”

  My mother shot him a look to make him shut up. I was just as embarrassed by her prudishness. There was a silence. They could tell that something was wrong. It was the moment to speak up. Adrien was with his surf friends. They could ask Alma to go and play. I’d say: Listen… But there was just that silence, the smell of the pines, Bubble’s panting, and our last day at this three-star campsite. We usually spent our family vacations with my grandparents. But my parents had been looking forward to this trip since the fall. Some evenings, coming back from work, they had shown us photographs of the Landes and live video feeds so we could see the beach in every season. The preparations had taken a long time. First we’d had to buy tents, camping equipment, and bodyboards. Then we’d had to drive across France. We’d had to pay extra for a spot with a view and direct access to the
beach. Finally, there had been the outings and the restaurants to take us to the limits of pleasure. They had often repeated that the landscape was beautiful—“so beautiful” —to help us fully appreciate it. Once, a gray cloud had appeared in the sky, and each of us, even Alma, had pretended not to see it so that nothing would spoil our joy. The sky had stayed blue. The heat had blown away the memory of months of rain. The vacation had been perfect. My parents had done everything they could to make it that way. I had seen them counting the days, regretting each evening that happiness flew by so quickly. I had counted the days, too. For two weeks, I had been waiting for their vacation to end. I couldn’t ruin it even more by telling them about Oscar, his body buried, in such happy times. So I kept my mouth shut.

  “Eat your salad, Leo, or you’ll waste away.”

  “Shut up, Alma, I’m not in the mood. Anyway, it’s not true.”

  ADRIEN AND I had to take turns doing the dishes after each meal. He always complained when it was his turn, and afterward we ate from plates that were slightly dirty, because he’d been in a rush to get back to having fun. But when it was my turn, I did it without being asked. Everyone else ran to the beach while I got to work at the communal sinks. I couldn’t swim or sunbathe or drink because I was too busy scrubbing. In the shadow of the restrooms, I slowly slid my hands into the soapy water. People walked past unsuspecting. They thought I was doing chores. For a long time I let my thoughts wander. Sometimes, as I stood by the sink, I would feel a moment of excitement, but it was always followed by sadness, because I had to admit that, deep down, buried inside me, was a secret desire to join the others, to dance. But I didn’t move. I rubbed at the mayonnaise stains, wishing that they wouldn’t disappear. And when there was really nothing left to do, I went back to the tent with the cleanest dishes in the world and a pair of damaged hands, the skin worn away after so much time spent working to avoid fun. My father always told me not to bother: we would eat from the same plates again anyway. I was wasting my time. This vacation was for me, too. I shouldn’t let it be ruined by my obsessions.