And eventually she gave up.
I understand her oh so well.
But along the way, we did have two children together. That counts for something. That’s what I keep telling myself, every day. It’s not nothing. I still count for something.
Ouch.
It’s almost as if someone were snipping at my lungs with very fine scissors.
I have to stretch — as a rule, that eases the pain.
Like that, yesss.
Uh-oh. I bumped into Cécile Duffaut.
~ ~ ~
“Excuse me, I’m sorry.”
“No problem.”
Silence.
Loudspeaker crackling.
Our train will be arriving shortly in Paris, Gare de l’Est, our final station. On behalf of the SNCF, the train manager, and crew hope you have had a pleasant journey.
“I am really sorry.”
“It’s not a problem, really, it was nothing.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is, I’m sorry about everything. About what happened almost thirty years ago. About London. I am. I’m really sorry.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
~ ~ ~
At least now it’s done.
I expect it’s something Mathieu would have done, too. That’s how he must be feeling these days, wishing he could ease his conscience. Put an end to all the failures, tie up all the loose ends. When you’re at death’s door, you won’t be in the mood for Impressionists. Vermeer would be more like it. A View of Delft, say. Or any seventeenth century Dutch interior. Or why not Bacon’s screaming popes or decomposing bodies, while you’re at it.
I don’t know how he’s doing.
Yesterday on the phone he was totally delirious. Half in tears over a red bicycle he used to have when he was nine years old, and half elated because he’s convinced that he’ll be going home soon. I’m glad his mother is not altogether lucid anymore. I couldn’t stand seeing any of my children die before me.
I got hold of the head nurse on the phone. She knows me. She knows I’m a substitute family. I’m everything at once: parents, brother, son, friend. Even though Mathieu and I stopped seeing each other for almost twenty years. It’s pathetic. She told me they’d increased the dose of morphine, and that his delirium might be a consequence of the injections, unless the metastasis has already reached his brain. They would have to check, with a scan. There was a moment of silence. She murmured, “If it comes to that.” I understood that I had to get there as fast as I could.
So here I am.
Whatever Cécile Duffaut might think, I’m very loyal. It’s probably my best quality: for anyone I get attached to, or who gets attached to me, I’m like a dog. It’s not a very sexy trait, I’ll grant you that. It’s not the sort of thing you can let slip in conversation, when you meet someone. “You know, I’m very loyal”: you might as well tell them that you collect ceramic owls or that you spend your Sunday afternoons in front of the TV.
Cécile Duffaut doesn’t give a damn. She doesn’t give a damn about what I just told her.
At the same time, I can hardly say I blame her. It was twenty-seven years ago. A whole lifetime has gone by since then. There’s no point talking about it anymore. Or apologizing.
Thank God the trip will be over soon.
~ ~ ~
Sorry.
It was kind of him to say it.
To say he was sorry.
And I said, thank you.
How stupid.
Either you say nothing, and you cloak yourself in your dignity, you cast a scornful look at the odious individual who has dared to speak to you; or you accept the apology and you continue the conversation, Oh, and how are you after all these years, are you married, do you have kids, where do you work, well, you see, you made your way after all.
But like an imbecile, I dithered, somewhere in between.
I suppose that’s just the way I react to him — I’m indecisive, half stunned, half annoyed, incapable of deciding anything until the facts shove me out the door. Off the train. Out of the hotel room.
Why am I hung up on the past when I should be forging ahead, elated, looking forward to whatever’s in store? That’s how things were until last year. But now some spring has lost its tension; there’s some mechanism that hasn’t seized up yet, but it’s creaking. It’s harder to stifle those yawns in the morning. Valentine is almost seventeen, and she’s slipping away — and with her, the strongest tie I have with Luc. I wonder what will be left of our relationship once our daughter has left home. Maybe we’ll just congratulate each other, with kisses on both cheeks: “You did good with the kid, we can be proud, I’m off now, ciao,” and go our separate ways without any other due process, because for a long time now we haven’t exactly known who we are to each other, what we like, what we want. Or we’ll go on living together, like mussels on a rock, waiting for the next tide.
Balance sheet.
Settling of accounts.
That’s what I’ve been going over these last few months.
My life, two columns: pluses and minuses.
This I like / this I don’t like.
Make lists of what you like / what bothers you.
I sound like an article in a woman’s magazine.
I hate that sort of thing.
My father was a genealogy fanatic.
It started when he was about forty-five; I was still at the lycée. He would spend his vacations writing letters, making phone calls, going from one town hall to the next to look at birth registries. I was laughing behind his back. I couldn’t have been happier. While he was busy doing that he was off my case, and I was free to come and go as I pleased. Otherwise he’d spend all day telling me to “go out for some air,” or “do something intelligent.” I still don’t understand what he meant by that, coming from him, a man who didn’t read or listen to music and who’d never set foot in a museum. For him intelligent was probably a synonym for usefuclass="underline" housework, mending, shopping.
This lasted until his retirement; I thought he’d have something to keep him busy once he stopped work, that he’d continue to pursue his passion, go all the way back to the sixteenth century, fill in his family trees. But all of a sudden he lost interest. The family trees must be in some dusty corner of the attic.
I’ve never been like him. I’ve never wanted to pore over registries of births, deaths, and marriages just to find out that one of my ancestors was a blacksmith. I’m much more down to earth than that. Now things have changed somewhat. We have, imperceptibly, grown closer. Just as everything has begun to take off professionally for me — we’re opening new stores, the business is booming — I’ve begun to feel a sort of weariness. All I want to do, in fact, is sit in a deck chair on an evening in June and start to drop off right there, just as the night is falling, and I’ll be vaguely trying to remember the names of the stars above me. The way he used to. One day, perhaps, we’ll be able to name them together. At last.
I wonder if Philippe has any aspirations. Probably not. Philippe isn’t the aspiring kind. He seizes the moment and consequences be damned. He must cheat on his wife, and his kids will think he’s a hero, what with the pointless but entertaining conversations I’m sure they have together.