The Girl Who Wasn't There Read Free Page B

they looked young and strange, his mother diffident and soft, with a frank face and clear eyes.
    In the past, when Sebastian’s parents were still speaking to each other, he had often heard his mother telling his father that he had no ambition, no self-discipline, not even a proper profession. You needed aims in life, she had said, that was what mattered most.
     
    Sebastian went to the garage for his bicycle, pumped up the tyres and rode out of the park. His friend lived in the last house before you reached the fields and, on seeing Sebastian, the boy’s grandmother called out of the window to say he was down at the lock with the others. Sebastian turned his bike, rode back to the marketplace, and beyond the pharmacy turned into the path through the fields.
    His friend was standing at the water’s edge with the other village boys. Although they hadn’t met for the last three months, they greeted Sebastian as casually as if he had never been away. They spent the day repairing their raft. It had been lying in the mud all winter, and the tree trunks it was made of had absorbed a lot of water, making them heavy and slippery.
    They put unripe corn cobs on sticks and grilled them. The corn stuck in their teeth and tasted of nothing much, but the smoke of their fire drove the wasps away, and it was pleasant to sit beside it. They picked reeds, cut them up, and smoked them as if they were large cigars.
    In the shadow of the alders, the lake was cool and dark. Sebastian swam far out and floated on his back. If he raised his head, he could see his family’s house on the other side of the lake, shining bright white in the sun. He saw the landing stage there, the boathouse, painted blue, he heard the clear voices of his friends on the bank, and when he closed his eyes everything inside him turned to a single colour for which he knew no name.
     
    Early in the evening Sebastian rode home, washed his face and put on clean clothes. It was too chilly to eat out of doors, and the cook had laid the table in the room with a view of the landscape. His father smelled of alcohol and looked tired.
    ‘I’m not hungry, Sebastian, I’ll just have something to drink.’
    He’s grown thin, thought Sebastian. He knew that his father was hardly ever at home, and spent most of his time on his game preserves in Austria. When he was here, he was almost always in his study. The curtains there were never drawn back, and no one could enter the room when he wasn’t at home. He used to lie on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and smoking. He spoke less and less these days, his suits hung loose on him, and he was beginning to drink in the mornings.
    After supper they went into the billiard room. His father was unsteady on his feet.
    ‘Shall we have a game?’ asked Sebastian.
    ‘No, I’m too tired. You play and I’ll keep you company.’
    Sebastian arranged the billiard balls. His father sat on the window-seat with a glass of whisky and lit a cigar. Sometimes he looked at the billiard table, and said, in his old-fashioned French, ‘
entrée
’, ‘
dedans
’ and ‘
à cheval
’. Sebastian played an American break, concentrating hard; he drove the ivory balls along the cushion round the table. For a long time, the clicking of billiard balls on the cloth was the only sound.
    When darkness fell, he replaced the cue in the wooden stands and sat down in an armchair beside his father. There was still a light on in the library; a narrow strip of it fell through the sliding door on to the floorboards. The wood looked like dark velvet.
    ‘It’s good to have you here,’ said his father. His voice was colourless.
    ‘Shall I put the light on?’ asked Sebastian.
    ‘No, please don’t,’ said his father.
    Outside, a hawk screeched. Sebastian was feeling sleepy. He saw his father’s profile in the semi-darkness, his high forehead, his hollow cheeks. He heard his father breathing. It seemed to him that his father wanted to say something, but was still