Free The Stone Boy by Sophie Loubière Page A

Mondays at Yakitori Express, a Japanese restaurant. Martin could have taken her to a kebab shop; it would have made no difference. Madame Préau was in a hurry to finish. The place was noisy, the menu sticky, and the food certainly tasteless. But Martin was in the habit of going there. The waitress brought them two overly sweet kirs and prawn crackers, which the medic munched absentmindedly.
    “It’s convenient for me here because I’m close to the surgery. That gives us an hour to chat. It’s not bad, is it?”
    “If you say so.”
    Madame Préau unfolded a paper napkin so thin that it almost flew away.
    “So… what does one eat here?”
    “Raw fish or meat skewers.”
    “Raw fish. You’re sure?”
    “I come here almost every day. I haven’t ended up in the hospital yet.”
    “Yes. Well, I think I’ll pass. Have you heard from your father?”
    Martin stared into his mother’s face. Her features were drawn, her skin dull and slack.
    “What’s wrong, Mum?”
    “What do you mean, what’s wrong?”
    “Usually, you ask me that question at dessert.”
    “Oh? Well, today I wanted a change.”
    “Are you sleeping well?”
    “Yes. Actually, I have a mouse problem.”
    “Mice? Where?”
    “In the attic. But don’t worry, the problem is about to be sorted.”
    Martin swallowed his aperitif in one gulp. He clinked the champagne flute against his mother’s.
    “You’re not drinking your kir?”
    “No thank you. You know, I’ve gone back to the piano—”
    The waitress came to take their orders, interrupting Madame Préau.
    “Excuse me, are you ready to order?”
    The latter stared at her.
    “I feel as if we’ve met… Your father isn’t a piano tuner, by any chance?”
    The young woman looked a bit embarrassed. She was having trouble with the term “tuner.” Martin half choked on his prawn crackers.
    “My mother is making a joke.”
    “I think you look very much like him,” continued Madame Préau.
    The waitress nodded and gave a slender laugh, believing it to be a compliment. Satisfied, the old lady put on her glasses and leaned into the menu.
    “What do you recommend for the speediest food poisoning, set menu M1 or B13?”
    Madame Préau chose her kebabs according to her son’s advice. She told him what she had learned recently about Charcot and Daudet in two biographies borrowed from the library, and expressed her regret that Michel Onfray could publish drivel like
The Aesthetics of the North Pole
or
The Art of Enjoyment
, among other relevant philosophical works; she raged against the hedge cutters who never stopped ringing the bell to offer their services at all hours; and passed quickly on her visit to the Blaise Pascal School.
    “You went back there?” gaped Martin. “They let you in?”
    “Why not? I am not a terrorist, so far as I know.”
    “That’s not what I mean. You can’t just drop into a school anymore. You have to be the parent of a student or have an official reason to go there.”
    Madame Préau took no notice. She moved on to another topic of conversation: Isabelle.
    “I’m not sure I want to keep her.”
    Martin dropped his chopsticks.
    “Don’t start this again, Mum. You’re not going to make us go through the ‘maid who goes through your things and steals your jewelry’ rigmarole again. Isabelle is perfect. She has been taking care of the house for years. When you were away—”
    “When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
    Martin glared into his mother’s eyes.
    “Let me be clear: if Isabelle goes, you go, too!”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You heard me.”
    Leaning toward her, enunciating each word, he said, “I’ll send you to a retirement home.”
    Madame Préau carefully rested her chopsticks on the plastic place mat. The reappearance of her ex-daughter-in-law in her son’s life was making itself felt: this was a speech that showed how Martin was being fed hostility toward her. Never underestimate the power of the enemy. She knew it was too early to