The next day I went back to the cathedral. The balloon was still there, hardly visible. I went back every day. I don’t know why. I figured that sooner or later it would burst or deflate and end up back on the ground — and then, I would take the plastic remains to my son. He would smile and keep them. One evening, the balloon was gone. Not a trace, either on the ground or in the air.
Children are like that. Like helium balloons in cathedrals. Let go of them, and they will fly off, but they’re still in sight, you wave to them, you visit them, and they’re way up there, far away, still stuck beneath our gothic arches. Then one day, and you never quite know why, they’re no longer anywhere to be seen.
No.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
You’re not going to start blubbering, on the 6:41 train next to Cécile Duffaut.
Although.
It could get a conversation going.
No.
There are simpler ways.
Drop something.
A book, a tissue, a penciclass="underline" she would pick it up, we would look at each other, recognize each other, life flowing into our bodies, and our paths change direction.
~ ~ ~
“Excuse me, I … I … I mean, my pen—”
“Go right ahead.”
“Ah, there it is … I’ve got it … you … excuse me, but isn’t your name Cécile Duffaut?”
“Mergey.”
“Sorry?”
“Mergey. That’s my married name. Cécile Mergey.”
“Ah, yes, of course, I see. Sorry. I am—”
“I know who you are.”
“Ah. Good. That’s good, yes, good.”
“Is it?”
~ ~ ~
I know.
I didn’t think I’d react like that.
That I’d be so sharp, and interrupt the conversation before it even got started.
And turn my head so ostensibly to the window — no point dwelling on it now.
I am not kind.
But all the images suddenly rose to the surface.
Everything I had buried for years. The way the events unfolded.
We were in the cafeteria at the modern art museum — the Tate Gallery, that was it, the names are coming back. It was a strange room with mirrors on the walls, so our reflections were multiplied ad infinitum. I was suffocating. We hadn’t said a word to each other for several minutes. We could sense the end was drawing near; I still couldn’t understand when it was that everything had suddenly changed, but it no longer mattered. Our four-month adventure would be ending there, and it was a pity, we could have made a fine couple, but anyway, I was aware of his change of attitude, the hurtful words, and I was withdrawing, accepting the fact it was over. I finished my tea — I had ordered tea even though I hate tea, simply because I was there, in London, and the moment itself was hateful — the smell of it made me feel sick — everything did, suddenly, that city, that country, that language, the man next to me staring absently into the reflections in the mirror. I said, “I’m going back to the hotel,” and there was no answer. I wasn’t expecting one.
My initial thought was that I would pack my bags and take the next train back to France. But when I realized that it would mean spending the night sitting up in an uncomfortable railway car, to be woken at one o’clock in the morning to take the cross-Channel ferry, then disembark at three o’clock in the morning, French time, to take the train from Calais to Paris, change stations in the fog then take another train for Troyes, and reach my destination late in the morning — broken, wounded, in pain, — no, I couldn’t do it. And anyway, I was sure that Philippe would not come back to the hotel. And if he did come back, then it would be to get things out in the open. Or to apologize. Maybe he would want me to reassure him again. He would want me to wait, with my lips against his shoulder. He would want us to be close again. Because, like an idiot, I still had this tiny hope. Not much. But still. I was sure we were missing out on a meaningful relationship. A real adventure. And that it hadn’t even begun yet.
The bed-and-breakfast was in a quiet neighborhood. Bloomsbury. Cartwright Gardens. I can still remember the name of the street. It wasn’t actually a street, but a crescent of buildings looking onto a tiny park with a completely incongruous tennis court, there in the center of London.
We had found it completely by chance, leafing through a guidebook in a bookstore in France. It was more than we could afford, but we decided we’d do without any souvenirs or presents for our friends in Troyes. A fortunate intuition.
I would have thrown everything out.
And yet.
During the night, I went to an all-night corner store and bought some water, a packet of cookies, a few snacks and, almost as an afterthought, a key ring. Two flags, the Union Jack and the English flag, the St. George’s Cross. I kept it for a long time. I wish I could say I had it on me at this very moment now that I’m reminiscing about all that. It would be so romantic — when in fact it was anything but. But I can’t. Valentine commandeered it when she was in high school, for the key to her locker, and she lost it. At the time, I didn’t even think about it. I just argued with her because she’d lost the lock.
And now I miss it. How stupid is that.
So we went to stay at this bed-and-breakfast that was too expensive. The room was old-fashioned and rundown; the sash windows didn’t close properly, the wall-to-wall carpet was patched here and there, and the wallpaper had seen better days — but there was a tiny balcony that looked out on the rooftops. That’s where I sat when I came back alone. I watched the evening descend in the English sky: clouds, swaths of clear sky, a warm wind, purple, blue, pink, yellow. I repeated the proverb I had learned a few years earlier, Every cloud has a silver lining. I tried to find the French equivalent: À quelque chose, Malheur est bon; Après la pluie, le beau temps. Misfortune is good for something; after the rain, fine weather.
I wanted some fine weather.
I sat right on the concrete balcony, my knees bent, my arms around my legs, and I hardly took up any room. I listened to the sounds of the city, the hubbub, and from time to time the dissonant note of an ambulance or the siren of a fire truck. Down in the park in Cartwright Gardens, a couple was diligently playing tennis. She played better than he did. Sometimes she would have him repeat his moves, drive, backhand. Before long they had to stop, it was getting dark.
I could feel a tingling in my fingertips.
I didn’t want to be an observer anymore. Someone who absorbs. Someone who keeps to one side and stares out at the spectacle of the world with indifference. I wanted to be in the world. Really in it. I didn’t want to be an artist. I wanted to be a protagonist. I wanted to live passionately, with love and hate and scorn, I wanted to throw myself on the bed weeping floods of tears, tearing my hair out in despair, jumping for joy, flinging my arms around people, holding their hands, holding a hand — and leading the dance.