The Book of Wonders Read online

  The Book of Wonders

  Julien Sandrel

  Translated from the French by

  Ros Schwartz

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Dedication

  1: My King

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  2: The Book of Wonders

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  3: Princes and Princesses

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  New York • London

  © 2018 by Julien Sandrel

  English translation copyright © 2019 by Ros Schwartz

  First published in the United States by Quercus in 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].

  e-ISBN 978-1-63506-148-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019939158

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10104

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  Julien Sandrel was born in 1980 in the South of France, and lives in Paris. His first novel, The Book of Wonders, was first published in France by Éditions Calmann-Lévy in March 2018. It has become a worldwide phenomenon, selling in more than twenty-five countries and is currently being adapted for film.

  Ros Schwartz has translated some ninety works of fiction and non-fiction from French, including a new translation of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince and, most recently, Mireille Gansel’s Translation as Transhumance. She was made a Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in 2009.

  For Mathilde

  For my daughter and son

  So, tell me something, Miss Thelma.

  How is it you ain’t got any kids?

  I mean God gets you something special,

  I think you oughta pass it on.

  Thelma & Louise, Callie Khouri (writer)

  1

  My King

  1

  10:32

  ‘Louis, time to wake up! Come on, I’m not going to say it again: please, get yourself up and dressed, or we’ll be late. It’s already nine twenty.’

  This was the start of what was to become the worst day of my entire life. I didn’t know it yet, but there would be a ‘before’ and an ‘after’ that Saturday, 7 January 2017. There would forever be ‘before’ – the minute preceding 10:32 a.m. – with its smiles, fleeting joys and memories imprinted on my brain, which I wish I could freeze for eternity. There would forever be ‘after’: the whys, the if onlys, the tears, the screams, the prohibitively expensive mascara running down my cheeks, the wailing sirens, the eyes full of sickening compassion, the gut-wrenching spasm of denial. At the time, of course, I was oblivious to all that. It was a secret that only the gods – if they existed, which I strongly doubted – could know. What were they saying to one another, those divinities, at 9:20? One more, one less, what difference does it make? Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Not really, but why not? You’re right – why not? – it won’t change the world. I was far from all that, far from the gods, far from my heart. At that moment, I was just me, so close to the tipping point, the moment of rupture, of no return. I was just me, and I was furious at Louis, who was making no effort whatsoever.

  My son was driving me up the wall. I’d been trying to coax him out of bed for half an hour, with no success. We were meeting my mother at midday for brunch – a monthly ordeal – and I’d planned to dash over to Boulevard Haussmann beforehand to buy myself the pair of blood-red heels I’d been lusting after since the start of the sales. I wanted to wear them on Monday, for the meeting with the head of Hégémonie, the cosmetics group I’d been working for, night and day, for some fifteen years. I managed a team of twenty people, dedicated to the noble cause of innovation and advertising for a shampoo brand that eliminated up to a hundred per cent of dandruff – the ‘up to’ meant that one tester out of the two hundred in the trial had seen her tresses entirely rid of flakes. My great triumph had been to obtain authorization to make that claim, after a series of bitter battles with Hégémonie’s legal department. Crucial for sales, for my annual pay rise, my summer holiday with Louis – and for my new shoes.

  Louis made a few groaning noises before deciding to cooperate. He pulled on a pair of skinny jeans with a too-low waist, splashed some water on his face, spent five minutes skilfully mussing up his hair, refused to wear a hat despite the freezing temperature outside, mumbled a few incomprehensible phrases I knew by heart (‘But why do I have to come with you?’), put on his shades, grabbed his skateboard – a dirty board, covered in tags, for which I had to buy competition wheels every five minutes – put on his red, ultra-light Uniqlo puffa jacket, grabbed a packet of chocolate biscuits while guzzling a Frube, just like when he was five, and finally pressed the lift button. I glanced at my watch. 10:21. Perfect; I’d still be able to carry out my precision-timed plan. I had factored in an extra hour, the ritual of getting my Sun King Louis out of bed being completely unpredictable.

  It was a glorious day, a cloudless blue winter sky. I’ve always loved cold light and I have never seen a bluer, purer sky than when I was on a business trip to Moscow. For me, the Russian capital is the queen of winter skies. Paris, that morning, had a Muscovite feel and lay winking in the sun. Once out of our apartment, in the tenth arrondissement, Louis and I made our way along the Saint-Martin canal towards the Gare de l’Est, weaving in and out of families out for a stroll and tourists mesmerized by the sight of a barge going through the Pont Eugène-Varlin lock. I watched Louis race ahead on his skateboard and felt a surge of pride at the little man he was becoming. I should have told him – that sort of thought is meant to be spoken aloud, otherwise it’s useless – but I didn’t. Louis had changed a lot, in recent months. A growth spurt typical of his age had seen him morph from a puny little boy into a sturdy adolescent, with facial hair starting to show on his still-chubby cheeks, but no spots yet. A fine-looking young man in the making.

  Life was all going too fast. I pictured myself for a moment, ambling down Quai de Valmy, my right hand steering a petrol-blue buggy, my left clutching my mobile phone. I do believe that image made me smile a fra
ction. Or did I dream it up, in hindsight? My memory plays tricks on me; it’s so hard to remember my thoughts during those all-important seconds. If only I could turn the clock back a few minutes, I’d be more attentive. If only I could turn it back a few months, a few years, I’d change so many things.

  I heard the latest song by The Weeknd – the ringtone Louis had installed on my smartphone. It was JP. Shit. Why was my boss calling me on a Saturday morning? Of course, it had happened before; you can’t work for a company like Hégémonie without having to deal with the occasional emergency. Whenever I think about it now, whenever I hear someone say ‘emergency’, the word has a whole different meaning. Never again will I use the word to talk about a presentation that needs wrapping up, a consumer trial that has to be launched, a bottle design that has to be approved. What kind of emergency is that, exactly? Whose life is in the balance? But, at that precise moment, I didn’t see things that way. I simply wondered what emergency JP could need to discuss with me, and I had a feeling it was to do with Monday’s meeting. So, a major emergency. Vital. I answered without hesitation, barely noticing that Louis had slowed down and was standing beside me, visibly wanting to say something. I signalled to him that I was on the phone, couldn’t he see that? He mumbled into his nascent beard, muttering that it was important, I think. I gestured it was an urgent call, and now I’ll never know what he wanted to talk to me about. I’m certain that my parting thoughts before Louis sped off were negative ones. Something to do with his constant need for attention, my never having a moment to myself, his teenage selfishness, my need for a bit of space. Shit. I think the last word that formed in my mind on the subject of my little person – the baby I rocked for hours on end, the baby I sang to for hours on end, who had brought me so much laughter, pride and joy – the last word I mentally uttered in my rusty brain cells was a swear word. How shocking. What a grim memory.

  Louis heaved an exaggerated sigh, grabbed the red headphones that had been looped around his neck, rammed them on to his head, yelled something about it always being the same with me, how I only cared about my job, then he pushed off with his right foot and launched the skateboard down the sloping pavement. If I hadn’t been talking to JP – the emergency was a problem with some PowerPoint slides that needed redoing – I’d have had a maternal reflex and yelled, Slow down – you’re going too fast, which annoys any child over kindergarten age, the sort of reprimand that’s useless, in theory, but which, in practice, can always stir a half-sleeping conscience. The cry remained unuttered. Having kids is frowned on at Hégémonie, even if the official policy is clear: Hégémonie is pro gender equality; Hégémonie invests in the careers of women in the company. There’s always a gulf between theory, stated policy, and practice, that other face of the same company, those unsaid things that result in a ridiculously low number of women on the boards of large corporates. I’d always fought to get to the top, so it was out of the question to display the slightest maternal streak in the midst of a work conversation, even on a Saturday, even at 10:31.

  While JP was telling me about the changes that needed to be made by Sunday evening, I kept half an eye on Louis, who was definitely going too fast. I noticed the headphones glued to his ears, and I distinctly remember hoping he hadn’t turned the volume up too loud, and that he was aware how fast he was going. I shook my head, telling myself he was a big boy now, that I had to stop worrying about every little thing, about everything, about nothing – especially about nothing. It’s incredible all the thoughts that occur in the space of a few seconds. It’s incredible how a few seconds can become so painfully etched in your mind.

  Last glance at my smartphone screen. It’s 10:32. I tell myself I must put the phone down on JP in three minutes max, because we’re close to the Métro station.

  I hear a muffled wail that reminds me of the horn of an ocean liner in distress. It’s a lorry. I look up and time stands still. I am a hundred metres away, but the clamour of the onlookers is so loud that I feel as if I’m already on the spot. My phone smashes on the ground. I howl. My ankle twists, I fall over, get up, remove my stilettos and run as I’ve never run before. The lorry has stopped now. I’m not the only one screaming. A dozen people who were sitting at a café terrace in the sunshine on this beautiful winter’s morning have jumped to their feet. A father covers his son’s eyes. How old is he? Four or five, probably. This kind of scene is not for him. Even in films, this kind of scene is never shown. To anyone. At most, it can be suggested. I get closer and scream again. I fling myself to the ground, grazing my knees, but I don’t feel the pain. Not that pain, in any case. Louis. Louis. Louis. Louis. My love. My life. How can I describe the indescribable? A witness, later, used the word she-wolf. The cries of a she-wolf being disembowelled. I fight, I claw the ground, my body’s shaking, I cradle Louis’s head in my hands. I know I mustn’t touch him, that he mustn’t be moved, but I can’t . . . Always that same gap between theory and reality. I can’t leave him lying on the ground and do nothing. Yet I cradle his head and do nothing other than wait, crying, constantly checking his breathing. Is he breathing? He’s breathing. He’s stopped breathing. He’s breathing again. The emergency services arrive in record time. A fireman takes charge of me, or rather he tries to pull me off Louis. I slap him. I apologize. He smiles at me. I remember everything: his gestures that are both firm and gentle, his unsightly nose, his comforting voice, his formulaic words, the ambulance driving off. I catch a few snatches. Paediatric A & E. Robert Debré Hospital. Intensive care. ‘Everything will be all right, madame.’ No, it won’t be all right. ‘I’ll drive you there.’ I crumple. He holds me. My muscles, tensed up since the accident, have just given way. Someone sits me on a chair on the sun-drenched terrace of the café. My body no longer responds. My stomach is in knots; I throw up my breakfast all over the table of the hipster bar, which empties within seconds. I wipe my mouth, drink a glass of water and look up.

  Nothing has changed around me. The sky is still as blue and pure. I look at my watch – also smashed; the face cracked, hands stopped. A motionless witness. It is still 10:32.

  One morning

  My name’s Louis. I live in Paris and I’m twelve and a half, nearly thirteen. I love soccer, manga, the rapper Maître Gims, Pokémon YouTube channels, Nutella, films from the Nineties and 2000s (no, that’s not uncool), the smell of exhaust fumes, funky skateboards, Madame Ernest, my maths teacher’s boobs, maths without Madame Ernest’s boobs, my super Granny Odette, my mother (most days).

  Apart from that, I think I’m dead.

  I don’t normally like talking about myself, but, given the situation and since you’re there, I may as well tell you a bit about who you’re dealing with and what happened.

  I live with just my mum. Her name’s Thelma. I spent my last morning with her. I wish I could tell you that it was a wonderful morning, that we shared some magic moments, that we hugged affectionately and said loving words to each another. Actually, it was a horribly ordinary morning, which isn’t really surprising. We don’t live every hour of every day as if it was our last, that would be exhausting. We just live, that’s all. And that’s exactly what my life with my mother was like.

  So, when I think back, that morning was perfect. I know that Mum must feel very differently about it, I know she must be going over every detail of those last minutes in her mind and wondering what she should have done, what she could have changed. I have the answer, although I know Mum would disagree: nothing.

  That’s a weird thing to say when you know that our morning together boils down to Mum trying to get me out of bed, me complaining, dilly-dallying and complaining some more. That’s how it looked from the outside. That’s also what I saw. Now that I’ve got some (a lot of) distance, I’m conscious of my sensations – of that vague feeling, those tingles in the brain that only become accessible when there’s nothing else. The burden of habit. The joy of habits. The unchanging pleasure of family rituals. Those little day-to-day gestures that define us and that c
hange everything.

  That morning was filled with those ritual pleasures. The squeak of my bedroom door-handle stirring a tiny fraction of my consciousness, heralding the arrival of the coming day. Mum entering my room, walking over and running her hand through my hair, stroking me from my forehead to the back of my neck – never the other way around. Mum whispering, ‘Good morning, Louis, darling. It’s time to get up, sweetheart,’ as if I were still two or three years old. That moment, hovering between sleep and waking, that lethargic state in which dream and reality are blurred. Then the sound of the electric shutter being rolled up, the sun’s rays striking my face, a groan, I turn over and bury my head under the pillow. Mum goes out. Sleep enfolds me once more; I pick up the thread of a dream, of which I’ll have no recollection. Mum comes back in, her voice more insistent, not so soft, firmer. Like every day. She knows this ritual inside out too. The same for years. Even if it’s become a reflex, we both recognize what the mood of the day will be like from the tone of a syllable uttered, the length of a guttural sound emanating from the sleepy adolescent bear. The mood of the day is happy. It’s Saturday, we know it. We have plenty of time, even if Mum says we don’t. I know the plan for the day, I know Mum, I know she wakes me up early to give me time to surface.

  I’ll digress, here, because I know you’re saying to yourself, It’s strange, this twelve-and-a-half-year-old kid using all those big words, isn’t it? At any rate, I can tell you my mates in class 8C of Paul Éluard High School think I’m a freak. It’s weird being in with fourteen-year-olds at twelve-and-a-half, anyway. I don’t make a big deal of it, but that’s how it is and that’s how I talk and I can’t do anything about it, and at school they make fun of my turns of phrase, calling me a geek, so thank you very much, but don’t you start . . .

  Now, where was I? Oh, yes – I was telling you. For the past few days, I wanted – I needed – to talk to Mum about this girl I met at football – yup, there are girls who play football, and, yup, they can be pretty. Enough stereotyping. I was waiting for the right moment. Mum and I are shy about our feelings. Not the sort to wear our heart on our sleeve. We tend to keep things to ourselves. The right moment to talk to my mother is not on a weekday. She comes home from work exhausted and finds it hard to switch off her smartphone, always dealing with what she calls ‘emergencies’. I wonder what kind of emergency you have to cope with when you’re in charge of anti-dandruff shampoo.