“You again, honey pie?”
I went straight to the point.
“How do you find someone in the States, get hold of someone?”
“Phone book,” she said.
“Is it that easy?”
“There are other ways,” she replied cryptically.
“What about a person who disappeared in 1955?”
“You got a Social Security number, license plate, or even an address?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
She whistled through her teeth.
“It’ll be tough. Might not work. I’ll try, though, I have a couple of pals who could help. Give me the name.”
At that moment, I heard the front door slam, the jangle of keys being tossed onto the table.
My husband, back from Brussels.
“I’ll get back to you,” I whispered to my sister, and hung up.
BERTRAND WALKED INTO THE ROOM. He looked tense, pale, his face was drawn. He came to me, took me in his arms. I felt his chin nestle on top of my head.
I felt I had to speak fast.
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
He hardly moved.
“I know,” he answered. “The doctor phoned me.”
I pulled away from him.
“I couldn’t, Bertrand.”
He smiled, a strange, desperate smile. He went over to the tray by the window where we kept liquor and poured cognac into a glass. I noticed how fast he drank it, his head snapping back. It was an ugly gesture and it stirred me.
“So what now?” he said, putting the glass down squarely. “What do we do now?”
I tried to smile, but I could fell it was a fake, cheerless one. Bertrand sat on the sofa, loosened his tie, opening the first two buttons of his shirt.
Then he said, “I can’t face the idea of this child, Julia. I tried to tell you. You wouldn’t listen.”
Something in his voice made me look closer at him. He seemed vulnerable, rundown. For a split second I saw Edouard Tézac’s weary face, the expression he had in the car, when he told me about Sarah coming back.
“I can’t stop you having this baby. But I need you to know that I just can’t come to terms with it. Having this child is going to destroy me.”
I wanted to express pity-he seemed lost, defenseless-but instead an unexpected feeling of resentment took over me.
“Destroy you?” I repeated.
Bertrand got up, poured himself another drink. I glanced away as he swallowed it.
“Ever heard of midlife crisis, amour? You Americans are so fond of that expression. You’ve been wrapped up in your job, your friends, your daughter, you haven’t even noticed what I’ve been going through. To tell the truth, you don’t care. Do you?”
I stared at him, startled.
He lay back on the sofa, slowly, carefully, gazing up at the ceiling. Slow, precautious gestures I’d never seen him use. The skin of his face seemed crumpled. All of a sudden, I was looking at an aging husband. Gone was the young Bertrand. Bertrand had always been triumphantly young, vibrant, energetic. The kind of person who never sits still, always on the go, buoyant, fast, eager. The man I was staring at was like a ghost of his former self. When had this happened? How could I not have seen it? Bertrand and his tremendous laugh. His jokes. His audacity. Is that your husband? people would whisper, awed, galvanized. Bertrand at dinner parties, monopolizing conversations, but nobody cared, he was so riveting. Bertrand’s way of looking at you, the powerful flicker of his blue eyes and that crooked, devilish smile.
Tonight there was nothing tight, nothing taut about him. He seemed to have let go. He sat there, flaccid, limp. His eyes were mournful, his lids drooped.
“You’ve never noticed, have you, what I’ve been going through. Have you?”
His voice was flat, toneless. I sat down next to him, stroked his hand. How could I ever admit I had not noticed? How could I ever explain how guilty I felt?
“Why didn’t you tell me, Bertrand?”
The corners of his mouth turned down.
“I tried. It never worked.” “Why?”
Then his face went hard. He let out a small, dry laugh.
“You don’t listen to me, Julia.”
And I knew he was right. That awful night, when his voice had become hoarse. When he had expressed his greatest fear, growing old. When I realized he was fragile. Much more fragile than I had ever imagined. And I had looked away. It had disturbed me. It had repelled me. And he had sensed it. And he had not dared tell me how bad that had made him feel.
I said nothing, sitting next to him, holding his hand. The irony of the situation dawned upon me. A depressed husband. A failing marriage. A baby on the way.
“Why don’t we go out for a bite to eat, down to the Select, or the Rotonde?” I said gently. “We can talk things over.”
He heaved himself up.
“Another time, maybe. I’m tired.”
It occurred to me that he had often been tired in the past months. Too tired to go to the movies, too tired to go jogging around the Luxembourg Garden, too tired to take Zoë to Versailles on a Sunday afternoon. Too tired to make love. Make love… When was the last time? Weeks ago. I watched him lumber across the room, his gait heavy. He had put on weight. I hadn’t noticed that either. Bertrand was so careful about his appearance. “You’ve been wrapped up in your job, your friends, your daughter, you haven’t even noticed… You don’t listen to me, Julia.” I felt shame race through me. Didn’t I need to face up to the truth? Bertrand had not been part of my life in the past weeks, even if we shared the same bed, lived under the same roof. I hadn’t told him about Sarah Starzynski. About my new relationship with Edouard. Hadn’t I left Bertrand out of everything important to me? I had cut him out of my life, and the irony was that I was carrying his child.
From the kitchen, I heard him opening the fridge, caught the rustle of tinfoil. He came back to the living room, a chicken leg in one hand, foil in the other.
“Just one thing, Julia.”
“Yes?” I said.
“When I told you I couldn’t face this child, I meant it. You’ve made up your mind. Fine. Now this is my decision. I need time to myself. I need time off. You and Zoë will move into the rue de Saintonge after the summer. I’ll find another place to live, nearby. Then we’ll see how things go. Maybe by then, I can come to terms with this pregnancy. If not, we’ll get a divorce.”
This was no surprise. I had expected it all along. I got up, smoothed out my dress. I said, calmly, “The only thing that matters now is Zoë. Whatever happens, we will have to talk to her, you and I. We will have to prepare her. We have to do this right.”
He put the chicken leg back into the foil.
“Why are you so tough, Julia?” he said. There was no sarcasm in his tone. Only bitterness. “You sound just like your sister.”
I did not reply, heading out of the room. I went to the bathroom and turned on the water. Then it hit me: Hadn’t I made my choice? I had chosen the baby over Bertrand. I had not been softened by his point of view, his inner fears, I had not been scared of his moving out for a couple of months, or indefinitely. Bertrand could not disappear. He was the father of my daughter, of the child within me. He could never completely walk out of our lives.
But as I looked at myself in the mirror, steam slowly filling the room, erasing my reflection with its misty breath, I felt everything had changed drastically. Did I still love Bertrand? Did I still need him? How could I want his child and not him?
I wanted to cry, but the tears did not come.
I WAS STILL IN the bath when he came in. He was holding the red Sarah file I had left in my bag.
“What is this?” he said, brandishing the file.
Startled, I moved abruptly, making the water slop over one side of the bath. His face was confused, flushed. He promptly sat down on the closed toilet. At any other time, I would have laughed outright at the ludicrousness of his position.