Family secrets

It's Saturday. It's one of those autumn weekends when Mum drops me off at Grandma and Grandpa's house. When the weather's nice, we play in the garden. What's more, at the beginning of the summer, Grandpa put a swing in there for me. Perfect for July, very average in October. Everything gets wet and the dead leaves stick to the seat. Besides, it's too cold for Grandpa to push me. As soon as the temperature drops, he can't stop complaining about his knee. I gather it's from a war injury. I asked what war was like and Grandpa showed me his rifle. We'd gone to shoot cans in the garden. Apparently war is a bit the same thing. Except that the targets are different. I didn't really understand why people would want to be targets. Grandpa laughed. 

The microwave goes off as I finish buttering and flouring the inside of a cake tin. I set the tin down on the worktop next to my grandmother, stirring the gently melting chocolate, and hurriedly collected my warm milk, dipped a spoonful of honey into it, sprinkled the whole thing with a thin film of powdered cinnamon and sat down at the table. 

At my back, sitting on the sofa, my grandfather smokes his pipe while reading the newspaper, to a background of music that my ears find strange, a certain jazz. Mum doesn't like jazz either, or him smoking next to me, but I don't mind. I like the smell of tobacco. In fact, I'm torn between its waft and the aroma of my milk.

Drops begin to hit the window to my right. At first, they all trace parallel furrows, but when the wind gets involved, the whole geometry becomes blurred. I clutch my mug in my hands and its warmth makes me glad to be inside. The brown wooden floor beneath my feet is warm, while the rays from the chandelier above my head tint the frothy surface of my drink with orange highlights. 

I can see my grandmother busy in the kitchen. With a spatula, she pours the dark chocolate into the bowl in which I've mixed the eggs, flour and sugar. She stirs the texture in turn before tasting the dough.  

- There's not enough sugar, darling.

- I've finished the packet, I say to defend myself.

- That's OK. Go and get another one from the larder. 

I really don't want to go there. The pantry is a small adjoining room in the house, but to get there I have to go outside, along the left-hand wall to this stone outgrowth with its creaking metal door. At times like this, I wish I had a brother. He'd come with me through all this unpleasantness, which we'd turn into an adventure. Mum has an older brother. I've never seen him and she hardly ever talks about him. Neither do Grandma and Grandpa. 

I don't like the rain, but even less so the bad cakes, so I don't complain. It doesn't take me long to put on my rubber boots and raincoat. 

-I'm off, I say once I'm dressed. 

No sooner had I opened the door than I was assaulted by the outside world. I'm raging inside. What an idea to go and put a coin in there! Adults really are strange! Pulling my hood down over my eyes, I rush towards my goal. The metal door doesn't resist. After wiping my face of the drops that had overcome my hood, I turn on the light. Against the wall, a series of shelves are crammed full of things, most of which I don't know what they're for. On the left I recognise the floor cleaner with the flower pictures on it. Of all the flowers I've smelled, none smelled like that. But then, I haven't sniffed all the flowers in the world. On the right are Grandpa's tools. Finally, opposite, the food. Tinned food, sacks of rice barely smaller than me, bottles of water and, on top, the sugar. 

It's a bit high. So on tiptoe, sticking as close as I can to the shelf, I try to grow taller, but I'm startled when a deep voice behind me stops me.

- Need a hand?

I turn round to face him. The man is very tall. Taller than my father, who towers over everyone by a head. The light bulb that hangs down illuminates one side of his face and I see bright colours. The make-up reminds me of cartoon clowns, but with different colours and patterns. Black spirals curl into the hollows of his cheeks, while a constellation of white triangles gravitates around his eyebrows. Beneath them, eyes whose lids are painted black rest on me and a strange feeling of déjà vu runs through me. His hair is redder than the red on the tins of dye that Mum buys for herself. It's beautiful. It's the same red as the one in the wounds. He smiles at me. His teeth are perfect.

- Grandma asked me to get some sugar but it's too high for me.

- Is it for a cake?

- Yes, it's for a cake. A chocolate cake.

All he has to do is bend over to reach the sugar. As he does so, I find myself against him. For a moment I think I smell Grandpa and his tobacco, but the smell is more acidic, colder, like the smell in the ashtrays on restaurant tables. His wet clothes drip onto my hair. He apologises.

- It's all right, I say.

He hands me the sugar.

- Thank you, sir.

In his other hand, still in the shadows, I notice that he's holding a canvas bag and that some liquid has probably spilt into it, soaking the bottom and making it look sticky. A viscous trickle drips onto the stone floor, on which a dark spot forms between us, linking our shadows. 

- There's something dripping from your bag, sir. 

He looks down.

- Indeed... it must be my red fruit tart. I didn't protect it well enough, I didn't expect it to rain so much. Don't worry!  

At these words, he steps aside to let me out and I see a knife sheath on his belt, similar to the ones Grandpa uses. I put my hood back on and was about to leave when he called me back. I don't know why, but my neck feels cold when I turn round. The hairs on my neck are all sticking out as if they want to leave without me.

- Here, take this too! It's for your cake.

He picks up a packet of coarse salt from the middle shelf and hands it to me. I imagine my surprise is evident on my face because he feels compelled to add :

- Ask your grandmother, you'll see. My mother used to put it in chocolate cakes. It goes really well!

- Does it really?

- Yes, it's true. In cakes and cuts. She said it would make me a man.

I'm still sceptical but I've always been told to be polite.

- All right, then. Thank you very much, sir. Goodbye, sir.

- Goodbye Tom.

I walk back through the rain and wind armed with salt and sugar. After taking off my shoes, I also hang up my jacket on the coat rack in the hall. In the doorway between the two rooms, I see my grandmother leaning against the cooker. 

- There you are! she says. I was just coming to look for you. Did you find it?

- Yes, Grandma. The man helped me.

Then I put the packet of coarse salt on the central island.

- He also gave me this. From what he said, it's very good in chocolate cakes. 

Out of the corner of my eye I see my grandfather stand up. I watch him, surprised, because I've never seen him leave the sofa without a grumble, or so quickly. He goes over to the walnut cupboard, the one with the rifle for the war, and picks up a box of cartridges. They're not the same as those used to shoot bottles. A smell of gunpowder and oil fills the air. 

My grandmother approaches me, then puts her hands on her knees and leans towards me.

- Say, while the cake's baking, would you like to play hide-and-seek?

What a question! What's more, I always win! I shouted several yeses and hopped out of the kitchen to hide under the bed in my bedroom - an unbeatable hiding place if ever there was one. As I leave the room, I hear my grandmother ask:

- Can you see him?

Without turning around, I reply that I'm not hidden yet. 

- Count to the highest number you know! And don't come down! I'm going to find you, my darling! she shouts as I climb the stairs to the bedrooms upstairs.

The door to mine is open. I hurriedly shut it before slipping between the carpet and the bed base. The carpet fibres sting my forearms and nostrils. I sneeze. As quietly as possible, because there's no way I'm going to lose this game of hide-and-seek!

An explosion sounds. For a moment I mistake it for thunder, but soon a second jolt sends shivers through my body. It's not coming from the heavens at all, but from below.

I hear screams too. I don't understand what they're saying, yet there's a derailment in their sound that twists my stomach.

 It scares me. A bit like when Mum took me for my vaccinations, but stronger, more profound. So I curl up and start counting. My hands over my ears until the numbers blend together and adding one to the previous one takes effort. Until my fists, too tightly clenched, burn, and the irritating texture of the carpet doesn't prevent me from falling into a strange sleep.

It's a rocking movement that wakes me up. 

I'm in a man's arms. He's coming down the stairs. I think they've found my hiding place. Seeing me awake, he smiles at me.

- You've been a brave boy," he says, putting me down at the bottom of the steps. Your grandmother is waiting for you!

Emerging slowly, I realise that there are other men like the one who carried me in the hallway, but also in the garden. I recognise them; they're policemen. Dad likes them, he told me I can trust them. 

My grandmother gives me a big hug and lots of kisses. I like hugs, but this is a bit much. 

A policeman comes in and I recognise the big man's canvas bag in the larder.

- We found this by the well, he says.

- What's this? asks his colleague. 

The other opened it.

- It looks like a pie. It's pretty banged up. 

- Get rid of it.

The two men leave. Outside the rain has stopped. I can vaguely hear them talking to Grandpa on the porch.

After a few more caresses, my grandmother asks me:

- Are you all right? 

I'm about to answer yes when a pain in my palms makes me grunt. By squeezing my fists too tightly, my fingernails had dug fine bloody grooves at the base of my fingers.

- My poor darling! Luckily we've got chocolate cake! she says, pointing to the bowl still containing the batter.

I ask her if she's mixed the salt in. She giggles.

- Yes, coarse salt is my secret ingredient! In cakes and cuts!