As I left the pub, it wasn’t raining anymore, but the clouds were still heavy, very heavy, and a faint fog loomed. I debated about taking the avenue Jean-Moulin, and finally decided on the noisy and chaotic avenue de Général-Leclerc, they said the liberation had come from the south, but the disembarkation happened in the west, even the northwest of Paris, I was lost among my reflections when suddenly I found myself struck by a new calmness. There wasn’t any more traffic around me, men were stopped, seized by fear, and there was nothing but the emergency lights of two ambulances facing each other and two fire trucks across the street. I saw first a motorcycle frame that was still smoking under the fire-fighting foam that glazed it with a drab gray, then the raised stretcher that two firemen were carrying to their truck, without any IVs or other signs that the victim would live. They had just left the scene, clearly, and put aside the body wrapped in a silvery cloth and covered again with a sheet over its legs. Everything was quiet, the nurses had a haggard look in the cold, one of them grimaced, the police took action, assessed the scene around the car that had struck him, and suddenly I felt death, the brutal and sudden weight of death, with sadness, despondency, and some kind of compassion, a deep compassion for this man that they had slid into the back of a fire truck and who was probably my age and had children as well and a stupid move, the wrong decision, a pointless attempt, an accident, bang, it was all over in minutes. I was afraid, standing there on the sidewalk. Afraid to walk, afraid to cross streets, afraid of the noises that returned little by little as I approached the Périphérique. I had wanted to buy a little something for the kids and for Carole, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for something like that, I couldn’t think about anything other than the accident, or that femme fatale named Fate, or that woman who was perhaps getting a phone call right now that would bring about the collapse of her life, of the work she had dedicated so much of her life to. I was almost ready to cry, but it was cold, a cold wind came, followed by rain that was turning to snow, just as they had said this morning in the weather report.
I called Carole on my cell phone, it did me good to hear her voice, our kids in the background, I heard their laughter, their screams, I didn’t really know what to say. I talked about the funeral, about my unease there, the house, she said let it go, don’t worry about the past, it’s okay to give it up, I know it, you can say no, after all you’ve certainly got the right, he’s not going to be bothered, your father, you don’t owe him anything, we don’t need his shit, I was surprised to hear her using that word, not because of the word itself, but because it meant she was annoyed, or even outraged, she who was always so calm, so gracious around people, I told her I would call in the evening, because I needed to lie down now, I hadn’t slept well the night before.
When I walked out of another, lighter drizzle into the hotel, there was a message from the notary public for me to call him back. His secretary told me that he was busy, that she would leave him a note because she had to leave early today to take care of her son. I turned on the television, without paying any attention, I switched from one channel to the next. I almost dozed off, and when the phone rang, when I answered, I could tell from his voice that the notary public was embarrassed, that he didn’t know how to tell me, it’s a secret, there wouldn’t be any red tape, the rooms have never been listed and as such no one else could have any legal claim on them, and anyway none of that changes anything, nobody has any idea, but after all, I thought that I should let you know, you seemed so distant this morning, so closed-off, but listen, your father ran some tests, I don’t know exactly when or why, you were very little, it was when you were still living with him, and these tests, how should I put this, these tests completely changed things, I think he wasn’t able to handle it, it was impossible, you know, in any case, he couldn’t handle it at all, you weren’t there for no reason, of course, but he named you as his heir, his sole heir, as you know, that makes you a pretty rich man, believe me, and so I thought it was important that you knew, now you can do what you want, it’s none of my business anymore. I hung up the phone carefully.
The skate isn’t enough to hold me over. I’m hungry, but it’s too early for dinner. I’ll sleep a bit first, in the darkness of the room, with the tune of rainfall against the window.
[UNITED KINGDOM: WALES]
RAY FRENCH
Migration
We’re standing on the banks of the Humber river, my father and I, the two of us enjoying the sun, the pleasant breeze. This is a rare outing for him. His loss of memory, a gradual loosening of his grip on the world, making him increasingly reluctant to leave home, where he’s surrounded by things that are familiar, that can be named. But, today, he is coping well with the unfamiliarity all around him, remarkably well in fact. Who knows when there’ll be another day like this—I’m determined we make the most of it.
To our right is the Humber Bridge. He gazes at it admiringly and says, “That must have taken some work, boy.”
The cue to take my notebook from my pocket, flip to the page where I’d scrawled some notes while reading the display about the bridge at the Information Centre. He likes facts, cherishing their lack of ambiguity—clear and solid signposts in a shape-shifting world.
“It took 480,000 tonnes of concrete and 11,000 tonnes of steel wire to build it,” I tell him. When I glance up at him he’s alert, focused; nothing grabs his attention like detailed information about construction. He worked as a labourer all his life, this is his currency, these are things that still bring him satisfaction.
“That’s enough wire,” I continue, “to stretch one and a half times across the world.”
“Fecking hell!”
I knew he’d love that one. He shakes his head and looks back at the bridge.
“That took some work alright.”
It’s good to see him re-engage with the world. There should be more days like this.
“When the winds reach eighty miles an hour,” I say, encouraged by his reaction, “the bridge bends by up to three meters in the middle. That’s close to ten feet—amazing, isn’t it?”
Bad idea. His face grows taut, worried, a nerve begins to jump under his eye. This drags him back to some dark and threatening place.