Page 26 of Beautiful Losers

In 2008, eighteen years after that day at the zoo, Molly the orangutan made a run for it. She reached the branches at the edge of her compound and scaled the perimeter wall, leaving her baby behind. She had an hour of freedom before her handlers shot her with a tranquiliser gun and carried her back to her enclosure.

14

I decide to treat Ari to a day out in Albi. I can’t remember the last time it was just the two of us. La Maison Bleue is starting to feel like Monica’s apartment inFriends. I came back from the supermarket the other day to find Leonard and Myriam in the kitchen, Myriam leaning against the stove licking an ice pop, Leonard re-grouting the tiles above the sink. They were discussing the Isreal–Palestine crisis and asked me what I made of the latest developments. And you know, obviously I have thoughts, but one needs time, some kind of transitional process between the purchasing of onions and thrush cream, to the hashing out of complex geopolitical matters. I’m still not used to it, Ari and me sharing our life with others.

We drive past fields of grape vines and sunflowers, their heads drooping from the heat, until we see the red-bricked town, rising up from the banks of the river Tarn like something out of an Impressionist painting. Crossing the old bridge, wepark in a side street and make our way to the carousel on Place du Vigan. It’s like Ari knows I’m here to repent. After eight turns, he’s finally satisfied, and we head to Place Sainte-Cécile, the Disney-esque cathedral dominating the old town square. It took two hundred years to build the rose-coloured brick monolith. That’s commitment for you. I suppose it’s like the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. They’ve been at that church forever. (To be fair to them, a civil war and a pandemic make for less-than-ideal working conditions.) You’ve got to admire their tenacity. Keeping at something that might never be realised. Showing up day after day, not knowing whether or not you’ll be around for the payoff – or if there’ll even be a payoff.

Before lunch, we pop into the tourist office and give the woman behind the counter a stack of leaflets I’d made up, advertising La Maison Bleue. I was chuffed with the end result. The guesthouse looks great in the photos I took. On the flier, I included a picture of Leonard, staring dreamily at Cordes from the terrace, a glass of rosé in hand. I was impressed by how natural he was in front of the camera. He said the year he spent modelling menswear for Walmart really helped him to hone his craft.

At the pizzeria across the road, we order drinks – pineapple juice for Ari, an Orangina for me – and I attempt to answer questions like, ‘Why can’t I see my eyes?’ and ‘What is infinity?’ and ‘Why are you so old?’ Our pizza arrives, and I’m still reluctant to broach the subject of Ari’s grandfather, so we talk about volcanoes instead, Ari explaining the difference between lava and magma. Finally, over dessert, I bite the bullet.

‘So listen, Aribo, I wanted to talk to you about Grandad.’

Ari takes a measured spoonful of strawberry ice cream.

‘I’m very sorry that I lied to you, mister. I should never have done that. It’s just, well, when I told you that the man on the TV was your grandfather, I was feeling a little vulnerable.’

‘What’s vumruble?’

‘Exposed, raw. Kind of like my body had been turned inside out.’

‘That’s silly. If you were inside out, you’d be a skeleton.’

He dips his spoon into his glass of water before moving onto the chocolate ice cream, careful to avoid cross-contamination. I wonder if he’s picked that up from me, the need to compartmentalise, and my heart sinks. At Ari’s age, I’d have gone full Jackson Pollock with my ice cream. I saw the world as one of infinite possibilities, a great big sundae of flavours, demanding you dive right in.

‘Hey, Mummy?’

‘Yes, love.’

‘I found something strange beside my penis the other day.’

‘What did you find?’

‘Little balls. They moved when I touched them. It was cool.’

‘They’re your testicles, sweetheart. Would you like me to tell you about your real grandad?’

‘Does he live on a desert island like Grandad?’

‘No. Remember, that’s not your actual grandfather. That’s an actor. He’s just pretending to be on the island.’

‘Hey, Mummy?’

‘Yes, baby.’

‘What would happen if you set a pigeon on fire?’

‘The pigeon would most likely die. I wouldn’t recommend it.’

Ari says nothing, alternating between flavours of ice cream. The waiter shows a family to the table in front of us. A girl of around eight climbs onto her dad’s knee, throwing her arms around his neck. I smile at her. She gives me the finger.

‘You shouldn’t lie,’ says Ari. You told me lying is wrong.’

‘I know, baby. It is wrong, but it’s complicated. Sometimes, grown-ups tell lies to protect the people they love from getting hurt.’

‘When I showed Matthieu’s mummy the photo of Grandad after school, she said he went all the way to New York City to fall in love and get married.’

‘That’s not exactly how it happened. He went to New York to get his son back. Finding Meg Ryan on top of the Empire State Building was an added bonus.’

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