The Young Bride

Obviously, I’m sorry.

He stood there, without really knowing why. He had placed his hand on the doorknob, but he was still standing there.

Don’t be afraid, he’ll come back, said the young Bride.

By tradition they left in two honking cars. Nothing especially elegant, but the solemnity of the occasion required a certain display of grandeur. Habitually, Modesto said goodbye standing on the threshold of the entrance, even though he was ready to leave himself, his suitcase placed on the ground next to him: like any captain, he considered it his duty to be the last to abandon ship. That year, he found beside him the young Bride, and this because of the variation that the Father had announced concisely, at one of the last breakfasts, and that he had greeted without enthusiasm. The fact that it seemed to be the prelude to the return of the Son had helped him endure his irritation at the news.

So they stood on the threshold, stiffly, he and the young Bride, when the two cars set off, pistons sputtering, hands waving, and various cries. They were two fine automobiles, cream-colored. They went ten meters and stopped. They shifted into reverse and in a rather elaborate way backed up. The Mother jumped out with surprising agility and ran to the house. As she passed Modesto and the young Bride she hurriedly murmured three words.

I forgot something.

Then she disappeared into the house. She came out a few minutes later and, without even saying goodbye, ran to the cars and got in. She appeared visibly relieved.

So the cars set off again, sputtering as they had the first time, and even more animated by final waves and cheerful voices. They went ten meters and stopped. They had to shift into reverse again. This time the Mother got out with a hint of anxiety. She covered with decisive steps the distance that divided her from the entrance and disappeared into the house murmuring four words.

I forgot something else.

The young Bride turned toward Modesto, giving him a questioning gaze.

Modesto cleared his throat with two precise contractions of the larynx, one short, the other long. The young Bride’s education in that cuneiform writing wasn’t so advanced, but she sensed vaguely that it was all under control, and was calm.

The Mother got back in the car, the engines revved again, and in a bubble of noisy joy goodbyes were said conclusively and without regret. This time, before stopping, they traveled some meters farther. They shifted into reverse with a certain fluidity, since they had learned how.

The Mother returned to the house humming, with the most complete self-control. She seemed to know what she wanted. When she reached the doorway, however, right next to Modesto and the young Bride, she was seized by some second thoughts. She stopped. She seemed to be focusing on some belated reflection. She shrugged and said three words.

But no, O.K.

Then she turned around and went back to the cars, still humming.

How many times does she do it? asked the young Bride in a serious tone.

Usually four, answered Modesto, imperturbable.

So it wasn’t a surprise to see the cars leave, stop after a certain distance, back up, and spit out the Mother, who this time walked up the path to the house, apparently furious, her steps heavy, cursing softly in an uninterrupted litany of which the young Bride caught, as she passed, an indefinite fragment.

Let them all go to hell.

Or maybe “yell,” it was hard to tell.

The Mother re-emerged from the house, after an absence longer than the previous ones, clutching in her hand a piece of silverware, and waving it in the air. She seemed no less furious than before. As she passed, the young Bride discerned that the litany had veered toward French. She seemed to recognize distinctly the word connard.

But it could also be moutarde, it was hard to tell.

Since Modesto raised an arm to wave, the young Bride understood that the ceremony was concluding and so she, too, with sincere happiness, and perhaps a tinge of regret, began to say goodbye, standing on tiptoe and waving her hand in the air. She saw them growing distant, in a cloud of dust and emotion, and for a moment she was gripped by the fear that she had demanded too much from herself. Then she saw the two cars stop.

Oh no, she let escape.

But this time they didn’t back up, and it wasn’t the Mother who jumped down off the running board. Amid the dust they saw the Daughter running toward the house, with her crooked gait, but heedless and decisive, even beautiful in her vaguely childish hurry. She stopped in front of the young Bride.

You won’t run away, right? she asked in a firm voice.

But her eyes were tearing, and it wasn’t because of the dust.

I’m not even thinking of it, said the young Bride, surprised.

Here, let’s make it so you won’t run away.

Then she went up to the young Bride and embraced her.

They remained like that, for a few moments.

The Daughter, returning to the car, was no longer in a hurry. She walked with her sad, dragging gait, but she was serene. She got in without turning around again.

Then they all disappeared around the first bend, and this time they had really left.

Modesto let the snorting of the two automobiles disappear in the distance of the countryside, then, in the regular silence of nothing, heaved a faint sigh and picked up his suitcase.

I’ve left you three books, hidden in the bathroom. Three texts of a certain notoriety.

Really?

As I told you, the pantry is full of food — be content with cold meals and don’t touch the wine cellar, except in case of absolute necessity.

The young Bride had trouble imagining what a case of absolute necessity might be.

I’ll leave you my address, in the city, but I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand. I’m leaving it only because, if the Son really should arrive, he might need me.

The young Bride took the piece of paper, folded in two, that he was handing her.

I think that’s everything, Modesto concluded.

He decided that at that precise moment he was starting his vacation, so he went off without taking the first steps backward, as his most glorious number would have required. He confined himself to a very slight bow.

The young Bride let him go a few steps, then she called to him.

Modesto.

Yes?

Isn’t it a burden to have to always be so perfect?

No, in fact. It releases me from seeking other purposes for my actions.

What do you mean?

I don’t have to ask myself every day why I live.

Ah.

It’s comforting.

I imagine.

Do you have other questions?

Yes, one.

Tell me.

What do you do when they leave and close the house?

I get drunk, Modesto answered with unpredictable readiness and heedless sincerity.

For two weeks?

Yes, every day for two weeks.

And where?

I have a person who takes care of me, in the city.

May I go so far as to ask what type of person it is?

A likable man. The man I’ve loved all my life.

Ah.

He has a family. But it’s arranged so that in those two weeks he comes to stay with me.

Very practical.

Rather.

So you won’t be alone, in the city.

No.

I’m happy for that.

Thank you.

They looked at each other in silence.

No one knows, said Modesto.

Evidently, said the young Bride.

Then she waved, even though she would have liked to embrace him, or even kiss him lightly, or something like that.

He understood, and was grateful for her composure.

He walked away slowly, slightly bent, immediately distant.

The young Bride went into the house and closed the door behind her.