Tears came easily since Roger’s last attack. He had been told they were caused by the depressant effect of the pills he had to take. He leaned on the window frame, in the hope of seeing Luc, and wept quietly in the shelter of Luc’s glasses.
“It’s awfully curious of me,” said Cassandra, helping Simone, “but what’s got into Luc? When he stayed with us, in England, he was angelic. Your husband seems upset, too.”
“The Baron,” said Simone, letting it be known she had read the diary and was ready for combat, “the Baron is too sensible. Today is his birthday. He is forty-eight — nearly fifty.”
Roger supposed she meant “sensitive.” To correct Simone might create a diversion, but he could not be sure of what kind. To let it stand might bewilder the English girl; but, then, Cassandra was born bewildered.
Luc came home in time for dinner, dressed in a shirt and corduroys belonging to Cousin Henri. His silence, Roger thought, challenged them for questions; none came. He accepted a portion of Roger’s birthday cake, which, of course, Roger could not touch, and left half on his plate. “Even as a small child, Luc never cared for chocolate,” Simone explained to Cassandra.
The next day, only food favoured by Luc was served. Simone turned over a letter from Katia. It was brief and cool in tone: Katia had been exercising horses in a riding school, helping a friend.
The Clairevoies, preceded by Luc on the Honda, packed up and drove back to Paris. This time Cassandra was allowed to sit in front, next to Simone. Roger and the dog shared the back seat with Luc’s books and a number of parcels.
They saw Cassandra off at the Gare du Nord. Roger was careful not to take her arm, brush against her, or otherwise inspire a mention in her diary. She wore a T-shirt decorated with a grinning mouth. “It’s been really lovely,” she said. Roger bowed.
Her letter of thanks arrived promptly. She was planning to help her father with his book on Stalin, Cromwell, and Torquemada. He wanted to include a woman on the list, to bring the work in line with trends of the day. Cassandra had suggested Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni. Boadicea stood for feminine rectitude, firmness, and true love of one’s native culture. So Cassandra felt.
“Cassandra has written a most learned and affectionate letter,” said Simone, who would never have to see Cassandra again. “I only hope Luc was as polite to the Brunts.” Her voice held a new tone of maternal grievance and maternal threat.
Luc, who no longer found threats alarming, packed his books and took the train for Rennes. Katia’s letters seemed to have stopped. Searching Luc’s room, Simone found nothing to read except a paperback on private ownership. “I believe he is taking an interest in things,” she told Roger.
It was late in May when the Clairevoies made their final trip to Rennes. Suspecting what awaited them, Simone wore mourning — a dark linen suit, black sandals, sunglasses. Father Rousseau had on a dark suit and black tie. After some hesitation he said what Roger was waiting to hear: it was useless to make Luc sit for an examination he had not even a remote chance of passing. Luc was unprepared, now and forever. He had, in fact, disappeared, though he had promised to come back once the talk with his parents was over. Luc had confided that he would be content to live like Cousin Henri, without a degree to his name, and with a reliable tenant farmer to keep things running.
My son is a fool, said Roger to himself. Katia, who was certainly beautiful, perhaps even clever, loved him. She stood crying in the street, trying to see a light in his room.
“Luc’s cousin is rich,” said Simone. “Luc is too pure to understand the difference. He will have to learn something. What about computer training?”
“Luc has a mind too fluid to be restrained,” said Father Rousseau.
“Literature?” said Simone, bringing up the last resort.
Roger came to life. “Sorting letters in the post office?”
“Machines do that,” said Father Rousseau. “Luc would have to pass a test to show he understands the machine. I have been wondering if there might be in Luc’s close environment a family affair.” The Clairevoies fell silent. “A family business,” Father Rousseau repeated. “Families are open, airy structures. They take in the dreamy as well as the alert. There is always an extra corner somewhere.”
Like most of her women friends, Simone had given up wearing jewellery: the streets were full of anarchists and muggers. One of her friends knew of someone who had had a string of pearls ripped off her neck by a bearded intellectual of the Mediterranean type — that is, quite dark. Simone still kept, for luck, a pair of gold earrings, so large and heavy they looked fake. She touched her talisman earrings and said, “We have in our family a bank too small to be nationalized.”
“Congratulations,” said Father Rousseau, sincerely. When he got up to see them to the door, Roger saw he wore running shoes.
It fell to Roger to tell Luc what was to become of him. After military service of the most humdrum and unprotected kind, he would move to a provincial town and learn about banks. The conversation took place late one night in Luc’s room. Simone had persuaded Roger that Luc needed to be among his own things — the galleon lamp, the Foreign Legion recruiting poster that had replaced Che Guevara, the photograph of Simone that replaced Roger’s graduating class. Roger said, somewhat shyly, “You will be that much closer to Biarritz.”
“Katia is getting married,” said Luc. “His father has a riding school.” He said this looking away, rolling a pencil between thumb and finger, something like the way his mother had rolled a kitchen match. Reflected in the dark window, Luc’s cheeks were hollowed, his eyes blazing and black. He looked almost a hero and, like most heroes, lonely.
“What happened to your friends?” said Roger. “The friends you used to see every Sunday.”
“Oh, that … that fell apart. All the people they ever talked about were already dead. And some of the parents were worried. You were the only parents who never interfered.”
“We wanted you to live your own life,” said Roger. “It must have been that. Could you get her back?”
“You can do anything with a woman if you give her enough money.”
“Who told you a thing like that?” In the window Roger examined the reflected lamp, the very sight of which was supposed to have made a man of Luc.
“Everyone. Cousin Henri. I told her we owned a bank, because Cousin Henri said it would be a good thing to tell her. She asked me how to go about getting a bank loan. That was all.”
Does he really believe he owns a bank, Roger wondered. “About money,” he said. “Nothing of Cousin Henri’s is likely to be ours. Illegitimate children are allowed to inherit now, and my cousin,” said Roger with some wonder, “has acknowledged everyone. I pity the schoolteacher. All she ever sees is the same face.” This was not what Luc was waiting to hear. “You will inherit everything your mother owns. I have to share with my cousin, because that is how our grandparents arranged it.” He did not go on about the Freemasons and Protestants, because Luc already knew.
“It isn’t fair,” said Luc.
“Then you and your mother share my share.”
“How much of yours is mine?” said Luc politely.
“Oh, something at least the size of the tennis court,” said Roger.
On Luc’s desk stood, silver-framed, another picture of Simone, a charming one taken at the time of her engagement. She wore, already, the gold earrings. Her hair was in the upswept balloon style of the time. Her expression was smiling, confident but untried. Both Luc and Roger suddenly looked at it in silence.