CHARLES’ FATE
ALM No.91, July 2026
SHORT STORIES
He was twelve at the time we met. I was eleven.
After my first meeting with Charles Chardin, it had already become clear to me that his life was to be forever crippled by some kind of mental discombobulation. Was it congenital, was it the consequence of being half English, half French, and of some sort of a hundred year war perpetuating itself within him? Was it the fact that his attractive parents were mutually and consistently unfaithful to each other, as I was to learn later on, while overhearing my parents?
Charle’s older sister, Clarita, was one of my best friends, though two years older than me. She resembled the then young singer Françoise Hardy and was, unlike her brother, a model of serene coordination. She literally sailed in and out of rooms, tall and graceful like a fully-rigged schooner. Her young brother, no less attractive in appearance, seemed instead to have embraced clumsiness, bad timing and an all in all odd behavior as his trademark. His long, good-looking face covered in freckles, his dark auburn hair tumbling over a milky forehead, his courteous demeanour, made one believe, at first, that he too, had it ‘all together’. Alas, never had one been more mistaken.
Clarita had told me about his return from some English boarding school. The fact of his return was, however, the extent of her briefing. I noted that his return did not coincide with any school holiday, and surmised that his boarding school had ‘let him go’.
We lived in a residential part of the Phocean city, separated only from the sea and our beach club, by a winding two-laned road that hugged the rocky coastline on one side, and great sustaining walls on the other; above which a mixture of ornate nineteenth century villas and modern cubes of glass and steel looked like LEGO inserted into the side of the hill.
I was permitted to go on my own to Clarita’s house, a mere five minute walk up the hill, and to cross the coastal road at the traffic light, to reach our club. There, we met friends, including the Chardins, just about daily. We swam, sailed, kayaked, lunched, attended sport events and occasional parties. Life was a most pleasant succession of days set against a background of poisonous but beautiful oleander, cypress and olive tree. Even my catholic school provided me with the bliss of playing tricks on the nuns, and without much consequence to boot.
It was heaven or rather, it could have been…
For normal people like us the city was delightful. But it was so, too, for a few high level gangsters embroiled in local politics, and with whom, as it turned out, we occasionally hobnobbed. When I say ‘we’, I mean my parents. My father’s engaging personality and diplomatic position for the United States government afforded him the possibility - and he made it his duty - to know the local ‘big cheeses’ in that world. My mother’s elegance and quick wits made her a favorite among these individuals, to my father’s guarded amusement. The connection between legitimate and illegitimate worlds was so well-oiled, so commonplace in the city, that some of these individuals came to my parents’ official receptions. As an expression of mutual entente, or possibly, gratitude, invitations were lavishly reciprocated on yachts and at fine villas.
Needless to say that in such a social environment, I grew up broadminded. As for Charles, I wonder, in hindsight, whether this tandem world wasn’t a destabilizing factor in his formative years. For his parents inevitably knew some of those same people, euphemistically referred to as the ‘milieu’. Of course, only after they had cleverly blended into respectable society, (usually, by white-washing themselves with political positions).
I distinctly remember the first time Charles showed me his panoply of shyness, compulsive audacity and incoordination, in a causal cascade commonly known as the “domino effect”. I had hopped into a small sailboat made for children of my age, called an ‘Optimist’. I was about to venture out of the club’s bay, having, in the lackadaisical style of the Phocean city, omitted to put on a life jacket. It was after a long day of school and nuns, and I was dizzy with freedom…. when Charles - never far - scrambled in with me, uninvited, in one of his abrupt, incomprehensible moves. Politeness kept me from expressing irritation. Though already, I had an inkling that my little escapade would no longer be a smooth one. I let him take hold of the rudder and crumpled up at the prow, as far away from him as possible. As soon as we were beyond the jetty, a breeze filled our sail and away we went at a good clip until the shore appeared to us in panoramic view, the blue club parasols fused into a distant azure. One gust stronger than the preceding one caused Charles to broach upwind so suddenly that we both ended up in the water beside the cap-sized Optimist that had now lost all claim to its name.
‘Idiot!’, I exclaimed, well past politeness. We managed to up-right the small vessel which obediently emptied itself of water with a gurgle through the scuppers. But instead of climbing back in, I took hold of the mooring line and started pulling the boat back to shore, no longer able to endure Charle’s proximity.
I forgot to say that I was a fast swimmer, and had been already noticed by the French olympic team’s trainer. Like all of us children living by the Mediterranean, Charles was no slouch in that domain, but he could not keep up with me.
‘Espece de peste!’,I heard him sputter indignantly as I pressed on,’ you made me do it!’
I breast-stroked faster, to avoid all temptation of a rash response. Maybe he’ll drown, I considered, with a total disregard for the Christian principles the nuns were trying to teach me.
We both made it back safely and as we parted on our way to our respective homes, we tersely agreed, for our mutual benefit, to say nothing of the accident.
But there was no getting away from Charles. Our families were too friendly. Like a package deal, he was included in my friendship with Clarita, and he hung about my life like a wet blanket. In gangster slang, I was sentenced “ a perpet” ( to perpetuity) to endure his presence. .As gangsterism was practically the modus operandi of life in the region, I came quite naturally to imagine hoodlum ways to be rid of him. Being in a religious school, I appealed to God for help during school prayers. Alas, God seemed deaf to my entreaties.
One day my mother asked me to retrieve a crystal vase that she had lent to the club for some occasion. As a thank you, the club handed me back the vase brimming with fresh flowers. Charles, who happened to be there, offered to carry it. This was soon after the boat incident so that it seemed impossible to me that something would go wrong after such a short interval. Still, I hesitated…He ridiculed my hesitancy. Well, let him be chivalrous, I thought, accepting.
All went well. We crossed the road without the slightest mishap. To secure this accomplishment, I called back to Charles walking behind me:’ Don’t drop it.’ and walked on confidently. I hadn’t taken three steps before I heard the smash of Baccarat crystal. Turning around, I saw the pavement strewn with flowers and shards scintillating in the sunlight like daggers. Charles stared down in a daze at what he had done. I scrutinized his long freckled face, attempting in vain to solve the mystery of such ineptitude. His features then came apart, much like the Baccarat vase, and he began to wail:
‘I knew you would make me do that! I knew it! Why couldn’t you shut up for once! It’s all your fault! You peste, you absolute peste!’ he cried in a frenzy, proffering the French invective over and over. History being my forte at school, I figured that he was comparing me to the city’s eighteenth century plague and I turned to ice.
‘If I am such a peste, why do you always hang around? Did I ask you to help? Well…did I?’ I challenged him. I concluded my tirade with a glacial ’Leave me alone’, And walked home to confront my mother’s wrath.
After this second incident, however, I noticed that my words, brutal as they were, had had only a partial effect. I could not have been more aloof: like an albatross gliding above him in the stratosphere. But Charles was nothing if not persistent. I saw him less, but when I did, he re-emerged with a bang.
The Chardins had a weekend house overlooking a turquoise calanque some sixty kilometers east of the city. The house stood like a diving board over the sea gorge. I never wanted to miss a chance to go there.
That Saturday morning, I walked up from home to the Chardins’ city house, with a satchel containing a tooth brush, bathing suit, night wear and a change of underclothes. At the driveway’s turn, where their Belle Epoque house made its lovely appearance in the sunlight, I spotted Charles. He stood on the flat roof of the house’s garage, holding open a large umbrella. Though not a very high building, it was high enough that jumping from it was not recommended; unless one was a bird or a flying squirrel. As I approached, Charles gravely stepped off the roof, holding the umbrella like Mary Poppins. I had a perfect view of his landing. It was not a gentle one and, predictably, he began moaning and clutching one ankle. Outraged, I went to find Clarita and informed her of her brother’s latest performance. The corner of her mouth twitched, whether in anger or amusement, I could not tell.
The short of it was that Charles had skinned an elbow and mildly sprained an ankle, and so was still able to come with us to the weekend house.
We left late after treating Charle’s wounds, of which he reminded us constantly by keeping one trouser leg and one sleeve rolled up..
We got stuck in weekend traffic and the drive on the twisting road took us a good hour and a half instead of the usual three quarters of an hour.
We, children, sat at the back, Somehow I found myself in the middle, bumping at every turn into Clarita or her brother. This drew a smile from Charles’ previously solemn face. As the car snaked around the coast, he very gradually put his arm over the back of the seat, accidentally, now and then, dropping it onto my shoulders.The heat, the winding road and Charles’ attention brought me to the brink of nausea. At first, I was able to muster the energy to lift his arm off of me. But with a pitying grin, in a pretence of sympathy, he did it again. Too weak by then to resist, I nonetheless managed to survive the trial. Diabolically, he proceeded to kiss me on the cheek, three times.. Clarita placidly looked over at us once, and then looked elsewhere. It became suddenly clear to me how Clarita could always remain composed: she chose to ignore what she didn’t want to see.
At last we arrived at the cliff-hanging house. I felt immense gratitude towards the house for my liberation. I was saved from the humiliation of car sickness.
I understood, however, that if I were to enjoy the weekend at all, I would have to strategize. I had to be very careful not to say or do anything to mar my friendship with the family. Yet I had had more than enough of Charles and my sentiment was reaching boiling point.
Though Clarita seemed disinclined to include her brother in our adventures, her parents might still foist him upon us.
However, Charles had played his cards wrong with his roof jump. After putting on our bathing suits, Clarita and I went down the steep path leading to the sea, knowing that he could not follow us with the sprained ankle.
We swam in the pellucid water out of his reach and it felt like heaven; even though I could see him high above, observing us from the terrace. Yet he was far enough that Clarita and I could spend the rest of the day lying on the warm rocks, blissfully undisturbed.
Back at the house, we continued to keep him at bay by listening and dancing to music in Clarita’s twin bedroom. Just before dinner, we rejoined the rest of the family on the terrace overlooking the calanque. At that hour the sun was gilding the coastline and the beauty of the landscape was breathtaking. Charles, oblivious to this beauty, was crouching over a boulevard of ants crossing the terrace into the house. The insects had found a source of food somewhere. Charles seemed absorbed by the infestation, and I felt his absorption as a way to reproach us for abandoning him. At dinner, he held forth in a magisterial tone about bugs and the menace they represented to house and garden. The Chardin parents nodded encouragingly, seeming to think it a legitimate concern. I personally was not interested in the least. But in fact, it was true that that year, there had been a deadly attack by palm weevils on the Phoenix palm trees of the region, leaving in their trail decapitated and hollowed out trunks. People had been told to treat their houses in prevention of termites and furniture beetles. But I could not help but interpret Charles’ use of the word ‘peste’ as a vindictive innuendo towards me.
The following day, Charle’s ankle having improved, he was able to follow us to the cove. In her habitual manner, Clarita retired into lofty serenity. while Charles repeatedly pushed me underwater. His insistence in doing so even began to alarm me. The cove, no longer the sanctuary of the day before, had become a locus of persecution and I felt rather let down as Clarita swam away from us..
It was climbing back up to the house with Charles at my heels, and Clarita well behind us, that I was unable to hold back any longer, and whispered ferociously:
‘I don’t like you, I never will.’
It affected him, it seemed, not so much as a blow than as a confirmation of what he already knew. But if he was aware of how I felt, why did he insist so on inflicting himself upon me? The mystery remained insoluble for my still uncomplicated brain.
I went to shower. When I returned to Clarita’s room, wrapped like a Roman potentate in one of the immense Chardin towels, I noticed a puddle on my bed’s white antique bedspread. It was dark and viscous. Someone had poured honey or molasses precisely in the middle of the bed. A long phalanx of ants had entered the room from the terrace, drawing a black streak across the terracotta floor and making its way to the quilted top of the bed. Heaped over the sweet substance like a fungus, the ants were having a banquet.
I do not like bugs of any sort, except perhaps the occasional butterfly. But at that time, I disliked insects without exception and ran out of the room, howling for help. Mr. Chardin, who had been enjoying his chaise longue, hastened to my rescue. His quick survey of the room assessed the situation and in a blistering tone, he ordered his son to appear.
‘Charles, clean up this mess and hurry up about it!’ he snapped. The boy, pushing a strand of hair away from his face, leaned against the door frame, attempting to look innocent.
Mr. Chardin had not, however, instructed his son on how to clean up the mess. When I came out of the bathroom again, changed back into my clothes, I saw Charles, once more crouching on the floor, burning through the thick line of ants with a Bic lighter. Admittedly, he was having great success in destroying the phalanx. Nearing the bed, however, he must have realized that if he kept on with this technique, he would burn the delicate fabric of the bedspread, maybe even the whole house.
Clarita who had silently gauged the situation, returned with a bucket of soapy, warm water and a brush which she perfunctorily handed to her brother. For the first time, I observed a frank expression of exasperation on her face. The boy, forced to abandon his weapon of mass destruction, adopted the milder technique; but soon enough, seemed to enjoy the drowning in place of the burning. .
I felt compelled to say:
‘You see, that’s your true calling:: extermination.’
I still recall the pensive gaze he gave me before answering::
‘Yes. Unfortunately, you’re the peste I can never get rid of.’’
Years later, when we had both become adults and I had not seen the Chardins for a very long time because of living abroad, I saw Clarita again. She spontaneously informed me that her brother had, in his young adult years, and with unusual alacrity, created his own business, devoted to the extermination of all forms of nuisances It had flourished in the Phocean city where he continued to reside. His expeditiousness in finding solutions to every problem had drawn a broad and faithful clientele. Clarita suddenly laughed. I realized that she held me responsible for her brother’s choice of career.
Stephanie V Sears is a French and American ethnologist (Doctorate EHESS, Paris 1993), free-lance journalist, essayist , short story writer, and poet. Her first book of poetry: ‘The Strange Travels of Svinhilde Wilson’ was published by Adelaide Books in 2020. Her second poetry book 'Anaho' was published by Arteidolia Press, NY in 2022.
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