Lemon tart

Knowing how to maintain suspense

From my desk, I can see the kitchen. The vinyl curls up in places, and my mother's footsteps dance from cupboard to counter, from counter to fridge. The sweet smell of dough rising floods the house, the oven timer rocks the scene. I'm not curious, it's my brother who will lick the plate, he's at the age where flaws are imperceptible. She wipes her hands on her apron and, with her head tilted to catch my eye, smiles at me:

- Tommy darling? Go fetch me 2 or 3 beautiful lemons and take your brother with you so he can get some fresh air. Put his shoes on!

I comply slowly. It's lightly raining, the lemon tree is at the very end of the garden, on the other side of the border as I remind him. Since our new neighbor moved in, it's been lemon war and the enemy sports a beard as long as my arm, a leather jacket, and boots with studs that shine in the night. Technically the roots are his, but the branches are ours, so there's a debate. Except that dad is dead, mom makes pies to feed the void, and her gaze implores me, this task now falls to me. So I take Lucien's sticky hand in mine and help him down the few steps leading to the garden. Arriving at the edge of the two worlds, I warn my little brother that he'll have to play the king of silence if he wants dessert. He's already complaining about his feet tingling, I regret not putting his sneakers on him but I can't be bothered to turn back. I carry him on one arm and discreetly search the leaves of the tree with the other, disturbing a few wasps. Until now, we were hidden by the waist-high fence but the left side of the lemon tree where I must venture is exposed, there's only a simple and short corrugated iron sheet that marks our boundaries. So I move cautiously, one eye on the neighbor's house and the other, furtive, in the lemon tree. Lucien grows impatient, plays with the wooden spoon he has finished licking and now twirls in the air to kill the invisible villain. So to avoid the likely spatula blow, I decide to lay him down again despite the wet grass and command him to stay still. Despite my efforts, my search remains fruitless, and I start to wonder if there's a season for lemons? I resign myself to crossing the boundary, fear being preferable to shame as my father used to say. I step over the iron fence first and, after scanning the immediate surroundings, laboriously lift my little brother and silently place him next to me. Surrounded by scrawny trees with dangling arms, the neighbor's shed looks even more sinister in the fading daylight, lurking in the shadows like a creature from a tale that ends badly. Its eyes; windows whose broken glass is sealed from the inside, its mouth; a simple wooden door warped by moisture like the belly of a dead cow. The lemon tree on this slope is denser, I concentrate, on tiptoe, to avoid the thorns and just as I think I've finally found the gold, a deafening drumming freezes my movement. I stifle a scream and leap towards Lucien to snatch the spoon from his hands, the metal sheet still trembles when I push him to the ground and pray that the tall grass conceals our bodies. A dog howls in the twilight, sharp, rapid, powerful barks coming from the cabin, I'm certain. I expect to see the canine monster emerge but nothing moves except for the leaves rustling in the wind, an ant passes. I recognize the sound of a chain loosening, the links sweeping the floor and the growls becoming more spaced until they fade away, letting my heart regain its composure. I manage to raise myself on my elbows and command my legs to stop trembling but as I get up, a massive form emerges from the gravel alley behind the shack, the man strides decisively in our direction. I just have time to dive and in my haste, my elbow knocks Lucien's head, whose face I see shift from fear to incomprehension. Our bodies hold their breath, and I beg him with my eyes not to cry. The birds are silent, the neighbor's footsteps must be muffled by the grass because I no longer hear the crunching of the pebbles. He must be very close. I grip the spoon tighter, clench my jaw, and prepare to resist when I distinctly hear the sound of metal clashing. A door is being opened. And then everything happens very quickly, I barely have time to understand, again the chain tightens, frantic yelping, claws skidding on smooth flooring, the master's joyful exclamations to his dog, and in the euphoria of a reunion, bursts of laughter, a cacophony of barks, and loud licks that fade away with the closing door. 

So I turn to Lucien whom I had almost forgotten. The light flooding into the cabin has plunged us into a soothing darkness. He is hiding under the lemon tree right there, lying on his back. I can hear him doing that thing with his lips to imitate the sound of the wind in the air. His arms are almost outstretched, his hands reaching towards the sky, two small child's hands each clutching a lemon, like two bright beacons in the night.