Every spring, for a fortnight, the Pascal clan has journeyed to the Pyrenees. It is a week often spent relaxing, hiking in the mountains, and stopping to bask in the wonders of nature. A bonding experience for father, mother, and daughter at its utmost finest. Since young Yvette turned two, it has become somewhat of a pilgrimage. It does not matter what issues we may be facing in our personal and professional lives—the family can rest assured that none of the dramatics shall seep into our precious few weeks away. We go out of our way to ensure that the vacation goes ahead. We plan rigourously all year, to fit our hectic schedules around our quality time spent as a family. It is truly a wonderful bonding experience, and a fantastic opportunity to catch up with our daughter, who always seems so busy working in Paris. These vacations have gone without event—at least until our 2013 annual Pyrenees visit.
I called my daughter two weeks before our scheduled vacation. She, as ever, was feverishly excited, and delighted to be a part of it. We planned several hikes, before her voice fell, and she seemed to become disappointed. I asked her what was wrong! She'd never felt this way before in regards to our annual trip! I was really concerned by this—was she suddenly undergoing a change of heart regarding our family bonding time? I was afraid to ask, but I did anyway. In the end, she let it out—she was simply concerned for the wellbeing of her client, a man she cared for back in Paris. I was moved by her dedication, but worried. She seemed intent on allowing this man, Émile Javert, to accompany us on our annual trip!
I was hesitant. This Émile was obviously not a family member. I had never met him before in my life. In fact, upon hearing Yvette's introduction to him, it dawned on me that this was the very first time I was hearing his name! I knew nothing of this man, other than Yvette was his full-time carer. This worried me. Was it safe to bring this man up to the mountains? He evidently needed a carer for /something/. I was not incredible comfortable with the thought of allowing a sick or disabled man into the great mountains of the Pyrenees—especially when the purpose of the trip was hiking trails and exploration!
So, I was forced to ask my daughter what exactly he was like, and what was wrong with him. According to her, Émile was quite able. He formerly used a wheelchair, but could now walk with the aid of crutches. However, in the head and neck area, he was still very disabled indeed—unable to breathe or speak, he was faced with maintaining his breathing with medical equipment—a tube deep within his trachea, inserted via an open hole in his neck. A very problematic medical appliance for anybody afflicted, according to Yvette. Constant changing of the tube, cleaning of the stoma site, medication to prevent infection, suctioning of the tube, monitoring of the area for changes and general care was needed at all times. Add the fact that monsieur Émile was unable to speak, and I began to quickly feel very sorry for him indeed. Yvette soon quashed these feelings.
According to her, the man was boring, unemotional, and extremely socially awkward—but noble, stoic, and endlessly polite. If I am to be honest, I initially was indifferent towards the man. It was when Yvette told me that he continued to strive for independence, to the extent that he would leave the house at random and attempt to cook food that I gained respect for him. Even though obviously a very disabled man, he made the best of the situation and attempted to the best of his abilities to function as normal. By the end of our short phone conversation, I had accepted the fact that there was no avoiding Émile accompanying us on this trip. Josée and I did not need to think about it. We accepted his company with open arms, and waited their arrival.
We arrived before they did, cleaning our chalet, and drawing up plans and trails we intended to explore on our escapades in the mountains. We had a peaceful few days waiting for their arrival, though, we longed to see our daughter and to meet her client. We had not seen her since Christmas, and even then, she had been busy with him. I foolishly remember feeling some resentment towards the man at Christmas, wondering why he still had to be looked after on such an important day. As a result, we saw her only for a few hours. Upon hearing her description now, however, I felt the need to apologize. Perhaps he could accompany us next Christmas, if we deemed him passable, which, following Yvette's description of him, was the direction he was headed.
It was several says into our stay when we heard a knock at the door. Looking forward to seeing our daughter and meeting monsieur Émile, I rushed to the door, excited. After all the necessary greetings, the hugs, the kisses and the laughs, we turned our attention to the other guest—a medium sized, slightly pudgy man who was roughly thirty years younger than we expected him to be. He was fifty-five at the absolute most. Yvette confirmed for us later that he was merely forty-nine years of age—too young to reqiure care, in both of our opinions. His dress sense was questionable, choosing to wear a suit jacket and black trousers to the mountains. However, I could not ignore the silk scarf he wore around his neck, evidently to hide his tubing. It was the pinnacle of male scarf-wearing fashion. I was extremely sold on it, and made a mental note to ask him exactly where he purchased it.
The next few days went without incident. Myself, Josée and Yvette would explore the mountaintops of the Pyrenees, whilst Émile remained at the chalet, writing up work reports that he had brought with him, in an attempt to keep from becoming bored whilst we explored the peaks. We would bask in the glory of mother nature for hours, observing the snowy mountains, and taking plenty of pictures for our family photo album. I reminded myself to send the pictures to our cousin Nicolas in Cannes. He would no doubt be seething with jealousy once again.
Upon our return from the mountains each day, monsieur Émile would have attempted to cook dinner, out of sheer politeness and what I imagined was also boredom. He had completed his work in four hours on the first day of his stay. He was not an impeccable cook, though I would prefer to come home to burned food than to come home to no food at all.
Evidently, being unable to speak, he was not very talkative. He had brought with him, however, a laptop, which he would use to converse with Yvette, or sometimes us. I noticed, however, that he seemed more introverted when communicating—as if he did not wish to interrupt our conversations as a family. Despite encouraging him with a hard pat on the back, he seemed only to sink further into his shell. I thought, perhaps, he was embarrassed to be speaking with a computer program—something Yvette did not deny, though she assured me he was simply attempting to be polite, as he thought he was an unwelcome guest in our family conversation. I attempted to pat him on the back once more, though he simply coughed in response—which triggered a death glare from Yvette.
Desperate to engage in a form of conversation with him, one day following his tube suction, I attempted to comment on his scarf, which I asked him about. He told me he had bought it in a small shop on the Champs Elysées. I asked to try it on, and he allowed me to, untying it and handing it to me after folding it neatly—despite us being sat opposite one another. It was still the most fashionable item of clothing I had ever laid eyes upon. The next time I was in Paris, I made a mental note to purchase it. Being a counsellor, I decided to use some of my methods on him, to try and get the man to open up. I made him tea, I complimented him, and I commented on the scenery. He seemed willing enough to engage in conversation. It was then I made the genius move of asking him about his work. It was, at first, as if I had asked him about anything else. He told me he formerly worked as the chief inspector of Paris—as a police officer. A fascinating occupation. I interrogated him further on his job, asking him of the most treacherous villains in the city. He was only at liberty to reveal some information, but what he told me was riveting. I asked him to tell me of his more famous cases, some of the most shocking things he'd witnessed—and though he still remained stiff and stoic the entire time, he seemed more at ease, despite probably not even being aware of it himself. We spoke long into the night. I kept preparing him more tea. Despite not having a voice, he somehow managed to keep his stories riveting—perhaps it was his wording.
We stayed up until a ridiculous time—half one in the morning, speaking of policework. He was in the middle of telling me about several subsections of the complicated legal system, when Yvette ordered us to either go to sleep or change the subject. Not wanting to bore my daughter to tears, I suggested a game of backgammon, which we played for an hour and a half. He seemed open enough to playing, though, I remained the champion of my craft. Nobody defeats Philbert Pascal at backgammon.
The next morning, I decided to bring him outside, to show him the mountains. He had been cooped up in our chalet for the entire vacation, and following a change of tube and a small suctioning process, I insisted he wrap up in several thick layers, and accompany me and Yvette on a walk. My passion in life is the Pyrenees—it is no new fact to those who know me. I could ramble on about rock formations and the snowy peaks for days. I know every mountain by name, and who was the first to conquer it. I feel I may have lectured poor, voiceless Émile a little too thoroughly as Yvette and I helped him through the snow on his crutches.
However, it was solely my own mistake when I decided to bring Émile up above a snow drift. Yvette stayed down below as I helped him through the thick, deep snow. I intended to show him the majesty of the mountains from atop a plateau near the start of one mountain. There we stood for several moments, until we turned to go back to the chalet. Monsieur Émile's legs were weak still, from having sat, wheelchair-bound for seven months. Before my eyes, the man fell, slipping off of the plateau as we turned to leave. My heart in my mouth, I watched for roughly a second before he fell into the snow drift below, sinking almost six or seven feet down. He would surely perish—a disabled man, lost in the snow drift. I could only stare at Yvette, who I could see at the bottom, standing outside outside our chalet. She was hysterical. She immediately ran at the base of the mountain, and attempted to reach the snow drift. She wouldn't get there in time. Helpless to save the poor man, I simply looked down at the human-shaped hole he'd created upon impact. It was dark down there. I was endlessly worried—had we caused Monsieur Javert's accidental death by being too careless? It looked very much like this was the case. With myself and Yvette both helpless and ready to cry out, I sank to the floor of the plateau, with nothing to say.
It was at that moment that I saw the man lift himself out of the hole, drenched to the bone—looking as if he'd survived some sort of sea battle. I scrambled forward, grabbing his hand, and together, we managed to get him back up onto the cold plateau—drenched in sweat and water, and completely freezing. I picked him up instantly, and leaned down to retrieve his crutches. I threw them to Yvette when she was in sight, and carried the poor man down the mountain. We rushed him into the house and laid him on the bed he'd used. The two of us undressed him and forced him into dry, clean pyjamas. We filled up five hot water bottles, and placed them on his limbs and one on his stomach. Yvette changed his tube almost immediately, and then performed cleaning and suction. He slept for several hours with Yvette watching him like a hawk, until it was dinner time.
Sat at the table, myself and Josée dug in to a delicious beef bourgingon—the meat was tender, delicious—melt-in-mouth quality. The potatoes were gorgeous and the gravy a treat. It was quite a welcome change from the burnt bacon and eggs we'd gotten every other day. When Yvette helped Émile out of bed, still wrapped in blankets and shivering, we couldn't help but feel bad as she sat him down at the table. Encased in a cocoon of blankets and looking a mixture of confused and livid, he was forced to watch as the three of us consumed our delicious dinner and as we complimented the chef. I couldn't help but laugh as Yvette, every so often, spooned up a dollop of the pasty, blended beef bourgingon and spoonfed it to him. I asked why she'd gone to that length—and if it was precautionary in any way. She just laughed it off and denied that, glaring murderously at Émile every few moments. By the time he'd finished, he was too embarrassed to even look at us.
Whatever punishment Yvette was putting him through, he couldn't have seemed more embarrassed. Smiling wryly as dinner finished and tea was served to all, I took out the backgammon table once again.
I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment when Émile was the only one who didn't get up and groan as I produced the game.
Perhaps Yvette's taste in clients wasn't so bad after all.