Thank you, Mme Limbres. Then, after smoothing the sheet down with the flat of his hand, he returns it to Simon’s dossier, a pale-green folder. He looks back up at Marianne: You can see your son as soon as we have completed the examinations. What examinations? Marianne’s voice sounding suddenly alert in the office, and the vague idea that if they are conducting examinations, then all is not lost. The glimmer in her eyes warns Révol, who makes an effort to bring the situation under control, stemming the tide of hope: Simon’s situation is developing, but not in the way we would want it to. Marianne’s face registers the pain of this blow. Ah, she says, so how is Simon’s condition developing exactly? In speaking like this, she knows she is leaving herself open to another blow, that she is taking a risk. Révol inhales deeply before replying.
Simon’s injuries are irreversible.
* * *
He has the unpleasant sensation of having kicked this woman when she was down, of having delivered a death blow. He stands up. We’ll call you as soon as we can. Then, in a louder voice, Does Simon’s father know? Marianne stares at him and answers he’ll be here this afternoon — but Sean still hasn’t called or texted, and suddenly she is seized with panic, begins wondering if maybe he isn’t in the warehouse today, or at home, if maybe he’s gone to Villequier or Duclair or Caudebec-en-Caux to deliver a skiff, or if he’s at the rowing club on the Seine, in fact maybe at this very moment he’s trying out the boat with the buyer, and they’re rowing, sitting on the sliding seat, Sean watching and quietly making remarks, impressing with his expert terminology, and little by little Marianne sees the river narrowing between high, mossy rock walls covered with plants growing out horizontally, giant ferns and fleshy vines, peat moss and acid-green grass all tangled up along the vertical cliffs or bowing toward the river in leafy cascades, then the light dims, the geography leaving only a narrow corridor of milk-white sky above the boat, the water becoming heavy, flat, slow, the surface aswarm with insects — iridescent-turquoise dragonflies, transparent mosquitoes — the river turning bronze, scattered with silver reflections, and suddenly, in horror, Marianne imagines that Sean has returned to New Zealand, that he is rowing up the Whanganui River, from the Cook Strait, leaving from another estuary and another city, and heading inland, alone in his canoe, fully at peace, the way she had known him, gazing straight ahead; he rowed steadily, passing Maori villages along the riverbank, climbing down the waterfalls, carrying the light boat on his back, advancing ever northward, toward the central plateau and the Tongariro volcano, where the sacred river drew its source, retracing the path of migration to the new lands. She can see Sean precisely, she can even hear his breath echoing in the canyon. Everything is calm there, suffocatingly calm. Révol watches her, concerned by the panic he can see in her eyes, but when he says I’ll see you with him, then, when he arrives, Marianne nods, okay.
The scraping of chair legs on the floor, the creak of the door, now they are walking toward the other end of the corridor, and once they are on the landing, without adding a word to their meager dialogue, Marianne turns on her heel and slowly walks away, with no idea where she is going. She passes the waiting room with its straight-backed chairs and its coffee table strewn with old magazines, where mature women with healthy teeth and shining hair and firm perinea smile at her, and soon she is back in the vast glass-and-concrete lobby, on the skating-rink floor. She walks past the cafeteria — multicolored packs of chips, candy, and chewing gum fill the display racks, brightly printed posters of burgers and pizzas are stuck to the wall, bottles of water and soda stand in glass-fronted refrigerators — then suddenly stops, staggering on her feet: Simon is lying helpless somewhere back there, how can she leave him behind like this? She wants to turn around, go back to him, but she continues on her way. She has to find Sean. She has to.
* * *
She heads to the main exit, the doors slowly opening in the distance, and four figures enter the building, move toward her. Soon the figures emerge from the blur of her myopia: it’s the parents of the other two caballeros, Christophe and Johan, walking in a line, wearing the same winter coats that weigh heavy on their shoulders, the same scarfs wrapped around their necks like braces to hold up their sagging heads, the same gloves. They recognize her, slow down, then one of the two men breaks step and comes toward Marianne, takes her in his arms. The other three wait in line to embrace her. How is he? Chris’s father is speaking. All four of them are looking at her. She is paralyzed. Whispers: He’s in a coma, no news yet. Shrugging, her mouth twisted: And you? How are the boys? Johan’s mother speaks: Chris has fractures in his left hip and fibula; Johan, fractures of both wrists and his clavicle, his rib cage was crushed but no organs were punctured — she speaks plainly, with an outrageous lack of emotion designed to show Marianne that all four of them are aware how lucky they are, how monstrously lucky, because their children are only a little broken, their children were wearing seat belts, they were protected from the collision, and if this woman is downplaying her anxiety to this degree, abstaining from all commentary, it is also to let Marianne know that they know, about Simon, they know it’s serious, very serious — a rumor that’s spread from the ICU to the Department of Orthopedic and Trauma Surgery, where their sons are — and that she would never be so indecent as to rub it in. And then there is the awkwardness she feels, the guilt that holds her back, because it was fifty-fifty between their two sons as to who got the seat belt, with Chris having one automatically as the driver — Johan might well have sat in the middle of the bench, in which case she would be standing in Marianne’s shoes at this very moment, in exactly the same situation, staring down into the same chasm of misery, her mouth twisted with the same pain, and at the mere thought of this she is suddenly dizzy, her legs weakening and her eyes rolling back in their sockets. Her husband, sensing that she is about to keel over, puts his arm under hers to steady her, and Marianne, seeing this woman on the verge of collapse, also becomes aware of the chasm between them, between the four of them and her, the abyss that separates them now, thank you, I have to go, let’s talk later.