The hearse started up, an elegant Mercedes, the red and black gate rose, I followed on foot, the burial plot wasn’t too far to the right. When the notary public came, I had to greet him, we were the only ones there aside from the two funeral home employees, but also because he had a face that matched his voice, and a raincoat on, I told myself. We could have asked for a priest, or an old friend, surgeons always had stories to tell, they thought of themselves as saviors, playing with the line between life and death, but it seems that he hadn’t been in touch with anyone for three or four years, was completely isolated, even from myself, he had stopped sending these pathetic letters that arrived more or less frequently for all five years, the memories, the regrets, how he had loved my mother, and how that love had been stronger than he had been, I remember that about him, he couldn’t sustain it anymore, I had every reason to bear a grudge against him, but he would have loved to see me again, to know more about me, about my studies, about my life now, the last letter must have come in 2002, with forceful handwriting that had pressed down on the paper with a Bic pen, like a prescription, contrary to what somebody might have said to me he didn’t really know the risks, or the seriousness of the risks, she wanted a baby at any cost, only motherhood would give structure to her life, jobs in healthcare were rarely careers, no matter what people claimed, it was just a way to earn some money, or to ward off one’s fears, but for her, it was a full commitment, such determination that life gave her, what destinies followed, he put together sentences like that, an exceptional midwife, who wanted to have that same experience, he doubted that any other baby in the world had been more wanted than I was, this lachrymosity disgusted me, and then, for five years, silence, no more news, not one letter. It’s true that with Carole and her children we had moved abroad in 2003 without any forwarding instructions for the mailman. But I doubt that he wrote. I’m sure he let it pass.
The notary public walked with me to the cemetery exit, he was parked nearby, and when he went his way he told me, you’ve seen that the burial plot is set aside for two people, your father insisted it be like that, I don’t know what your intentions are, and this isn’t the time, but for what it’s worth, the fee’s been paid for a very long time, you know your father, he liked to plan for the long term, not to have to depend on anybody else. I replied curtly that no, I didn’t know my father. I didn’t have any memories of the first four years. Or they were hazy.
I came back to the boulevard Brune, inexplicably calm at this late hour in the morning, in the middle of the week. A tram passed, almost silently, then a few cars, going slow. I walked nonchalantly, aimlessly, in the emptiness of the hours to come. A new tram came toward me, it gave out a little chime. A strange chime, in juxtaposition with the machine’s modernity. It reminded me of the milkman’s van, elsewhere, at my aunt’s, in Switzerland, she who I called my aunt, anyway, by some strange convention, she’s been dead for several years, by a lake, I believe that she was happy at the end of her life, alone, sipping aperitifs and watching television or putting together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, she wrote me every week, I went to see her three or four times a year, then my kids were born, we moved away from Europe, didn’t get back in touch when we returned, after so much time it would have been too difficult, I learned about her death from a neighbor to whom she always spoke highly of me and my family, her words filled with pride. I took the milk can and went down the stairs whenever the piercing chimes pealed far off so I wouldn’t miss the truck, and I loved the noise of the ladle that brought up milk from the huge boille, that’s the word we used there, the boille, there was a steel footboard at the back of the truck so kids could get up enough to see over the counter, we tipped him, then we put the other coins in our pockets, a secret we all shared, it was a little bit of money for candy, sometimes lollipops, usually chewing gum.
The small Hungarian cemetery was unusually beautiful the day I went, I had just turned eighteen and gotten my driver’s license, it was nearly the end of spring, my aunt had given me access to my bank account, enough in there to keep up my studies, long years of studies according to my father’s instructions, I had taken a bit out for this short trip. There were trees everywhere in there, the forest was beyond, a big forest of slender, leafy trees swaying in the wind, like a sonata of souls. Right below my mother’s name were the two dates, 1953 and 1978, in a big square where other members of my family lay side by side: her parents born in 1934 and 1935, died in 1956; uncles, aunts, grandparents on my father’s side. I thought that I would have liked to be buried there as well, one day, near the one I’d cost so dearly, and with all these people I’d never known, but later, several years ago, with Carole, we discovered the Tadoussac cemetery, close to where we lived, on the left bank of Saint-Laurent, and there as well I thought it would be nice, or peaceful, to spend my afterlife there, with small steles covered in red tiles, as if that mattered in the least. But here at Montrouge, in this tangled earth between rent-controlled apartments and the Périphérique? No, thank you.
The notary public insisted that I had to have the keys to the house, he had a copy just in case. I had to at least stop by, get some idea of the place. The keychain was weighted with an iron ball, which sagged in my vest pocket. I ordered some skate with capers, the pub was nearly empty, a few old women also alone at their tables, or a few possibly illicit couples kissing over their wine glasses, and businessmen, all part of an old world that still exists. My mother couldn’t swallow the smallest bite of meat, it seemed. Those were the only kinds of memories I’d retained. Or, well, not memories, but rather information, picked up here and there. The letters I received didn’t include any concrete details. Once, shortly after my wedding, he sent me a few pictures, including one of my mother, with long black hair, a few gray streaks already, at least this was a problem with the picture, a long and very thin nose, a large mouth with thin lips, she wore a red-and-green-and-yellow-checkered dress, the colors were a bit dated, it was a Polaroid, her shoulders were thin, bony, the bags under her eyes betrayed her sadness, but her body was lively, there was a clear strength, maybe even some happiness, something hidden but joyous, I like this picture that I’ve moved each year into yet another daily planner, maybe this is the reason I don’t want a tablet computer, not even the iPad that Carole pressed on me just before this trip, she had downloaded two or three movies to kill time, and pictures of our kids, from our last vacation, it’s clear we’re happy, tranquil days in store.
He must have known the risks that she was incurring, she’d consulted him because he had a good reputation, he was well-known, a very big deal, in a slightly different field, but he inspired confidence, people talked about him, attributed miracles to him, so she did everything she could to arrange a meeting, and that’s how they met, because she worked in a different department in a different building, there was barely any chance, if any at all, that their paths would cross by accident. He would have to wait months until a decisive meeting. Her overwhelming desire for a child must have touched him, or unexpectedly awakened a similar desire in him, one of those groundless desires that spontaneously appears and stubbornly develops into reality, come hell or high water, her fragility, his age, fifty-three years old, and soon came the wedding, a small ceremony, few friends, mostly colleagues, this mix of professors and nurses that almost seemed like a cliché. A few months later, she became pregnant. Her gift, her fate. I don’t really know how he got by during the three or four years he had me with him, when I was with him, when we were together, nannies I suppose, or babysitters, a few of whom probably ended up in his bed, my aunt always said he was a seductive man, people didn’t say no to him, the surgeon’s charm, both financial and metaphysical, I didn’t understand that word when I was a child and a teenager, I’m not sure I understand it today, it’s a word that inspires a little bit of fear.