Free Soft in the Head by Marie-Sabine Roger Page A

But seeing as how her health wasn’t too good, I hung around a bit longer. In case the house became vacant. And besides, like I told you, I had the vegetable garden to think about. And if you haven’t experienced it, let me tell you: a garden has a greater hold on you than a scraggy bit of umbilical cord. If I’m allowed to say such a thing about something that is a family tie—and therefore sacred—I hope God won’t chalk it up on my slate.
    Then again, Julien is always saying: “No matter what you do, Germain, she’ll always be your mother. In this life, we only get one mother. You’ll see, when she’s gone, you’ll be the first to shed a tear.”
    And that really hacks me off. Me, shed tears for my mother? Over my dead body, I thought. All she ever did was bring me into this world, and then only because she couldn’t get rid of me, because once I was inside her I had to come out somehow. And I’m supposed to cry for her?
    Where’s the justice in that?
    *
    These days, I know that it’s not possible to explain everything.
    Emotions, for example, are often irrational— see also: unreasonable, unwarranted, senseless . My mother was like a stone in my shoe. Something that isn’t really serious, but still manages to ruin your life.
    So, one day, I decided to leave home. The last straw was when I saw her on her own in the kitchen screaming at the ants because they were leaving footprints all over the sink.
    That was the point when I thought, right, now she really has gone too far.
    Let her die, I thought, I don’t care, this time, I’m definitely out of here.
    It came to me like a sudden urge, like when you desperately need to take a leak, with much the same result—a huge feeling of relief once it’s done.
    That night I talked to my friends down at the bar. I was happy. I said:
    “I’ve left home.”
    Landremont threw his hands up to heaven and said:
    “Praise Jesus! It’s a miracle! So you’ve finally made up your mind?”
    “Yeah, it’s done and dusted.”
    “So where are you going to sleep?”
    “In the caravan.”
    “In the caravan?” Julien repeated. “Yeah… it’s not a bad idea, I suppose. I didn’t realize it was still roadworthy… So where are you planning to park it? At the camp site?”
    “I’m not planning to park it anywhere, I’m leaving it where it is.”  
    Jojo laughed and Landremont buried his head in his hands.  
    Julien said:
    “Oh… Let me get this right, you’re saying that you’ve left home and moved to the bottom of the garden, is that it?”
    “Yeah, why?”
    Julien shook his head slowly. Marco said:
    “He’s a certified bona fide grown-up now, our Germain.”
    Landremont sniggered. He said:
    “Certified, I’m not sure; certifiable, definitely.”
    Everyone laughed, especially me. That’s what I always do when I don’t get the joke. But to be honest, I thought about it that night while I was cooking some grub, and I still couldn’t see what the wankers were laughing at. What was the problem with me leaving home and moving into the Eriba Puck? Distance is all in your head. Moving to the bottom of the garden was symbolic , so to speak. That’s what I would have told them if I’d had the word handy at the time. That’s exactly what I would have said.
    The caravan was symbolic.
    And besides, being nearby, it was practical.

 
     
    O NE TIME —I can’t quite remember why—Margueritte asked me:
    “Have you still got your mother, Germain?”
    “Oh yes, still…” I said.
    I could have added “Worse luck!” but I figured that Margueritte probably wouldn’t understand that kind of thing. Especially since, right then, she heaved a big sigh.
    “Oh, you are so lucky.”
    What could I possibly say to that?
    Given her age, Margueritte probably lost hers long ago. I thought maybe she still misses her. Maybe old people feel like orphans too, when they lose their mother.
    It must have been something like that, because she decided we were going to start