E-Book, Englisch, 336 Seiten
Joncour Lean on Me
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-428-6
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 336 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80533-428-6
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Serge Joncour is a novelist and screenwriter. He was born in Paris in 1961 and studied philosophy at university before deciding to become a writer. He wrote the screenplay for Sarah's Key starring Kristin Scott Thomas, released in 2011. Wild Dog, winner of the Prix Landerneau des Lecteurs in France, is the first of his novels to be published in English.
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I
Ludovic always took a deep breath before ringing the bell, quickening his pulse in anticipation of a frosty or angry reception. Then he would draw himself up to his full and considerable height, puff out his chest, and wait for the door to open.
But now, at the sight of the elderly woman emerging onto the top step of the small, rather shabby house, he knew he faced a different challenge altogether. He must resist feeling sorry for her.
In the sitting room, Ludovic chose the big armchair on the far side of the coffee table. The old woman took forever to sit down. Ludovic couldn’t help thinking she was exaggerating, unless she really did have a bad back, and legs, and more. He waited for her to settle, laid out some documents from the file he had brought, but already she was struggling up out of her chair, and shuffling towards the corridor. She was going to fetch her specs, only she wasn’t sure where they were.
Three minutes passed, and still she had not reappeared. An excruciating wait. Pauses such as this always made Ludovic feel awkward and embarrassed. He hated silences, much preferred it when things came together quickly, even if that meant a heated exchange. His visits did sometimes provoke anger, and shouting. More than once, like last week, a guy had even pulled a knife on him. But today was nothing like that. He would never let it show, but he felt ashamed inside. The old lady reminded him of his mother: she was more or less the same age, had the same trouble walking. The likeness had bothered him when she first answered the doorbell. In his work, he relied on his imposing build to make an impression. A stern gaze helped, too. He wasn’t trying to scare people, just to show that he would not soften or be swayed by emotion. It worked, as a rule, but sometimes it was hard. It was hardest of all when he felt, as now, that he understood everything about the person whose home he was entering, the little old lady who had invited him down the narrow concrete path and along the hallway of her modest house in Sevran, on the north-eastern edge of Paris. He had figured everything out about this old lady with her shuffling gait, sensed it all straight away. She had spent most of her life here; he spotted the signs of old, die-hard habits, the long-abandoned kennel, the garden no one saw to any more, her husband’s shoes tucked under the dresser, though it seemed he was out, or asleep, or in hospital. Ludovic was unsure, for now, where this brave little lady stood in life, though he knew she was in debt, of course – the house was not unpleasant, but there was a whiff of bad luck, and withered hopes.
From the cooking smells that hung in every room, he immediately recognised the old-school cuisine – refried butter, frozen steaks sizzling in a fat-filled pan, Brussels sprouts that had hung around too long outside the fridge. There was the battery-powered radio on the side, and the neatly aligned slippers. And overlaying the rest, the faint, stale odour of last night’s supper, the reek of a poor diet – too much fat, possibly too much drink – that he often noticed when he turned up unannounced in people’s homes. It was the cumulative impression that struck him every time, the inevitable result of arriving brazen and unexpected at the home of a person you’ve never met. He had shown her the headed notepaper, with its official-looking red-white-and-blue logo, over the top of the gate and she had signalled for him to step up the path straight away, politely, making no trouble. She was clearly not planning to make a run for it; any attempt on her part would be pathetic indeed, and a very poor reflection on Ludovic. It depressed him to handle situations where people showed bad faith from the start, poisoning the encounter with their lack of scruples, or their downright dishonesty.
The old lady returned with her glasses and asked him if he would like anything to drink, a beer perhaps, or a glass of port, but he refused. To accept a drink would alter the tone. This was not a courtesy call. The real risk in debt collection this way, face to face, was allowing yourself to be deflected, and then there was no way back. Casting his eye over the file, Ludovic realised the woman was not as old as all that. She was seventy-six, according to the date of birth on the forms, but her memory was failing, or she pretended it was, because now she was serving him that glass of port, and one for herself, in two little schooners full to the brim, which she placed carefully on the coffee table. Ludovic made a show of pushing his glass away and taking up most of the table with the papers from his folder. Faced with all these documents, all the letters on red-white-and-blue-headed paper, the woman rose again from her chair. Ludovic sensed her panic. She was plainly affected by his copies of all the reminders she had received. There was no hiding now, the evidence was there in front of her, the debt was real. They had caught up with her.
‘You know, Madame Salama, the longer you let this drag on, the worse it gets. I’m here to help you, Madame Salama. That’s why I’ve come, to help you sort this out so that you don’t have to worry about it anymore. That’s my job, to make sure things don’t get out of hand. Do you understand?’
Ludovic attended every meeting equipped with a cardboard folder bearing the debtor’s name, written conspicuously on the cover. Just one cardboard folder, not a binder. The technique emphasised his personal approach – he had travelled just for her, he had come to see her alone, whose surname was written in black marker on the red file, rather like a set of doctor’s notes. A thick file, stuffed with papers, 90 per cent of which were nothing to do with the case in hand. After two years in this job, Ludovic knew one thing at least: a fat folder was far more intimidating than his own impressive bulk.
‘You know, I never really understood all the paperwork, those registered letters and all that … ’
‘Of course, Madame Salama, but if you’ll just sit down again I can explain everything.’
He sensed her anxiety, so he softened his tone, addressed her as one human being to another. ‘Don’t worry, everyone has unpaid bills. These days it’s practically the norm: there’s something you need to buy, you get into debt, but then when you’ve bought it you forget you still have to finish paying for it. It’s the system, it steers you into debt … ’
‘It was for my granddaughter, you see, it wasn’t for us.’
‘The ring, it was for your granddaughter?’
‘Yes, for her wedding.’
‘OK, but as far as I can see, she got married two years ago, and the ring is still not paid for. Two years is a long time, don’t you think? And apart from the deposit, only one payment’s been made, and not a full payment either – is that right?’
‘She’s got divorced since then. Poor child, she’s such a good girl, an absolute love. She hasn’t had things easy, believe me, but she really is a good girl.’
‘I’m sure she is, Madame Salama, but I haven’t come here to talk about your granddaughter. It’s the ring I’m concerned about.’
‘He left her with two small children; he just took off one day.’
‘Right, but from what I can see, your granddaughter’s husband isn’t mentioned anywhere in the file. You agreed to pay for the ring in instalments, didn’t you, Madame Salama? Expecting that he would pay you back?’
‘Oh, I don’t know any more, it’s my husband who deals with all the paperwork; he’s always dealt with that side of things.’
‘I see. And where is Monsieur Salama?’
‘He’s in hospital.’
Ludovic’s pang of apprehension was justified. He must be careful not to weaken, not to give in to pity.
‘I see. But it’s your signature on the first cheque. That’s definitely yours, isn’t it?’
‘We use the same chequebook, and I can’t remember. You’re talking about things that happened three years ago and I’ve told you, they’ve got divorced since then.’
‘No, this was two years ago. And where is the ring now?’
Ludovic pretended to search through the papers. Already, he could picture the scene, his attempt to retrieve the ring from the granddaughter who has doubtless sold it already. Two screaming kids, a panicked young woman who has lost everything. Maybe she has a new boyfriend, and he’s there, standing between them. Ludovic would have to handle him, too, and try to keep a lid on things, stay calm.
He decided to try a little bluff.
‘Madame Salama, you wanted to help your granddaughter before, so here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to help her again, because if you don’t, she’s the one who will bear the brunt of this. If you do nothing, she’ll be the one who has to pay the seven hundred euros.’
‘Oh, I don’t want her to get into trouble … Oh my goodness, this would have to happen to me. Just my luck. I’ve never had much luck. Don’t tell me you’re going to get her into trouble … ’
‘That’s exactly why I’m here, to avoid any trouble for her. Listen to...
