by Anna Gavalda
In despair, Christine turned to me:
‘And you, Chloé, what do you make of all this?’
I was tired, I wanted the evening to be over. I had had it up to here with their family drama.
‘Me?’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I think that Pierre doesn’t live among us, I mean not really. He’s a kind of Martian lost in the Dippel family …’
The others shrugged and turned away. But not him.
He loosened his grip on the jug. His face relaxed and he smiled at me. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile in that way. Maybe the last time, too. I think we developed some sort of understanding that evening … something subtle. I had tried to defend him as best I could, my odd, grey-haired Martian, who was now walking toward the kitchen door pushing a wheelbarrow full of wood.
• • •
‘Is everything all right? You’re not cold?’
‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine, thanks.’
‘And the girls?’
‘They’re watching cartoons.’
‘There are cartoons on at this hour?’
‘They’re on every morning during the school holidays.’
‘Oh … great. You found the coffee?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘And what about you, Chloé? Speaking of holidays, shouldn’t you – ’
‘Call the office?’
‘Well, I just thought – ’
‘Yes, yes, I’m going to do it, I …’
I started to cry again.
My father-in-law lowered his gaze. He took off his gloves.
‘I’m sorry, I’m interfering with something that’s none of my business.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that … I feel lost. I’m completely lost … I … you’re right, I’ll call my boss.’
‘Who is your boss?’
‘A friend. At least, I think she’s a friend. We’ll see …’
I pulled my hair back with an old hairband of Lucie’s that was in my pocket.
‘Just tell her you’re taking a few days off to take care of your cantankerous old father-in-law,’ he suggested.
‘All right … I’ll say cantankerous and impotent. That makes it sound more serious.’
He smiled as he blew on his coffee cup.
*
Laure wasn’t in. I mumbled a few words to her assistant, who had a call on another line.
I also called home. Punched in the answering machine code. Nothing important.
What did I expect?
And once again, the tears came. My father-in-law entered and quickly left.
Go on, I told myself, you need to have a good healthy cry. Dry your tears, squeeze out the sponge, wring out your big, sad body and turn the page. Think about something else. One foot in front of the other and start again.
That’s what everyone keeps saying. Just think about something else. Life goes on. Think of your daughters. You can’t just let yourself go. Get a grip.
Yes, I know, I know, but: I just can’t.
What does ‘to live’ mean, anyway? What does it really mean?
My children, what do I have to offer them? A messed-up mother? An upside-down world?
I really do want to get up in the morning, get dressed, feed myself, dress them, feed them, hang on until evening and then put them to bed and kiss them good night. I’ve done that, anybody can. But not anymore.
For God’s sake.
Not anymore.
*
‘Mum!’
‘Yes?’ I answered, wiping my nose on my sleeve.
‘Mum!’
‘I’m here, I’m here …’
Lucie stood in front of me, wearing her coat over her nightdress. She was swinging her Barbie doll around by the hair.
‘You know what Grandpa said?’
‘No.’
‘He said we’re going to go eat at McDonald’s.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I answered.
‘But it’s true! He told us himself.’
‘When?’
‘A little while ago.’
‘I thought he hated McDonald’s …’
‘Nope, he doesn’t hate it. He said we’re going shopping, and afterwards we’re going to McDonald’s – even you, even Marion, even me, and even him!’
She took my hand as we climbed the stairs.
‘I don’t have many clothes here, you know. We forgot them all in Paris.’
‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘We forgot everything.’
‘And you know what Grandpa said?’
‘No.’
‘He told me and Marion that he’s going to buy us clothes when we go shopping. And we can choose them ourselves.’
‘Oh, really?’
I changed Marion’s nappy, tickling her tummy as I did so.
All this time, Lucie sat on the edge of the bed and kept on talking.
‘And then he said okay …’
‘Okay to what?’
‘To everything I asked for …’
Oh no …
‘What did you ask for?’
‘Barbie clothes.’
‘For your Barbie?’
‘For my Barbie and for me. The same for both!’
‘Not those horrendous sparkly T-shirts?’
‘Yes, and everything that goes with them: pink jeans, pink sneakers with Barbie on them, and socks with the little bow … You know … right there … the little bow at the back …’
She pointed at her ankle.
I laid Marion down.
‘Beeeeooootiful,’ I told her, ‘you’re going to look just beeeooooootiful!’
Her mouth twisted.
‘Anyway, you think everything that’s nice is ugly.’
I laughed; I kissed her adorable little frown.
She put on her dress, dreaming all the while.
*
‘I’m going to look beautiful, huh?’
‘You’re already beautiful, my sweet. You’re already very, very beautiful.’
‘Yes, but even more …’
‘You think that’s possible?’
She thought for a second.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Come on, turn around.’
What a wonderful invention little girls are, I thought as I combed her hair. What a wonderful invention.
AS WE QUEUED at the checkout, my father-in-law admitted he hadn’t set foot in a supermarket in more than ten years.
I thought about Suzanne.
Always alone, behind her shopping trolley.
Always alone everywhere.
After their chicken nuggets, the girls played in a sort of cage filled with coloured balls. A young man told them to take off their shoes, and I kept Lucie’s awful ‘You’re a Barbie girl!’ sneakers on my lap.
The worst thing was that they had a sort of transparent wedge heel. …
‘How could you have bought such hideous things?’
‘It made her so happy … I’m trying not to make the same mistakes with the next generation. You see, it’s like this place … Even if it had been possible, I would never have brought Christine and Adrien here thirty years ago. Never! And why, I ask myself now – why would I have deprived them of this type of pleasure? In the end, what would it have cost me? A miserable fifteen minutes? What’s a miserable fifteen minutes compared with the shining faces of your kids?’
‘I’ve done everything wrong,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Even this bloody sandwich, I’m holding it the wrong way up, aren’t I?’
His trousers were covered with mayonnaise.
‘Chloé?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to eat. I’m sorry I’m talking to you as if you were Suzanne, but you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.’
‘I can’t seem to do it.’
He backed off.
‘You’re right – how could you eat something like this, anyway? Who could? Nobody!’
I tried to smile.
‘All right, you can
stay on a diet for now, but tonight, it’s over! Tonight I’m making dinner, and you’re going to have to make an effort, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘And this? How do you eat this astronaut thing, anyway?’
He held up an improbable salad sealed in a plastic shaker.
• • •
We spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden. The girls fluttered around their grandfather, who had got it into his head to mend the old swing. I watched them from a distance, sitting on the steps. It was cold but clear. The sun shone in their hair, and I thought they were lovely.
I thought about Adrien. What was he doing?
Where was he at this exact moment?
And with whom?
And our life, what was it going to look like?
Every thought drew me closer to the bottom. I was so tired. I shut my eyes. I dreamed that he had arrived. There was the sound of an engine in the courtyard, he sat down next to me, he kissed me and put his finger to my lips in order to surprise the girls. I can still feel his tender touch on my neck, his voice, his warmth, the smell of his skin, it’s all there.
It’s all there …
All I have to do is think about it.
How long does it take to forget the smell of someone who loved you? How long until you stop loving?
If only someone would give me an hourglass.
• • •
The last time we were in each other’s arms, I was the one who kissed him. It was in the lift in the Rue de Flandre.
He didn’t resist.
Why? Why did he let himself be kissed by a woman he no longer loved? Why did he give me his lips? His arms?
It doesn’t make any sense.
The swing is fixed. Pierre shoots me a glance. I turn my head. I don’t want to meet his gaze. I’m cold, my nose is running, and I have to go and heat the bathroom.
‘WHAT CAN I do to help?’
He had tied a dish towel around his waist.
‘Lucie and Marion are in bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘They won’t be cold?’
‘No, no, they’re fine. Tell me what I can do.’
‘You can cry without embarrassing me for once … It would do me good to see you cry for no reason. Here, cut these up,’ he added, handing me three onions.
‘You think I cry too much?’
‘Yes.’
Silence.
I picked up the wooden cutting board near the sink and sat down across from him. His face was tight once again. The only sounds came from the fireplace.
• • •
‘That’s not what I meant to say …’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t think you cry too much, I’m just overwhelmed. You’re so pretty when you smile …’
‘Would you like a drink?’
I nodded.
‘Let’s let it warm up a bit, it would be a shame otherwise … Do you want a Bushmills while we’re waiting?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t like whiskey.’
‘What a shame! This isn’t just whiskey. Here, taste this.’
I put the glass to my lips; it tasted like lighter fluid. I hadn’t eaten for days, and suddenly I was drunk. My knife slipped on the onion skins, and my head rolled on my neck. I thought I was going to chop off a finger. I felt just fine.
‘It’s good, isn’t it? Patrick Frendall gave it to me for my sixtieth birthday. Do you remember Patrick Frendall?’
‘Uh … no.’
‘Yes, you do. You met him here, don’t you remember? A big fellow with huge arms.’
‘The one who tossed Lucie in the air until she was about to throw up?’
‘That’s the one,’ Pierre said, pouring me another drink.
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘I really like him; I think about him a lot. It’s odd, I consider him to be one of my best friends and I hardly know him.’
‘Do you have best friends?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Just to ask, I … I don’t know. I’ve never heard you talk about them.’
My father-in-law threw himself into cutting carrot rounds. It’s always amusing to watch a man cook for the first time in his life. That way of following a recipe to the letter, as if Delia Smith were looking over his shoulder.
‘It says “cut the carrots in medium-sized rounds”. Do you think these will do like that?’
‘Perfect!’
I laughed. With a rubber neck, my head lolled on my shoulders.
‘Thanks. So, where was I? Oh yes, my friends … I’ve had three in my life. I met Patrick on a trip to Rome, some sort of pious nonsense organised by the local church. My first trip without my parents … I was fifteen. I didn’t understand a word this Irishman, twice my size, was saying to me, but we got along immediately. He had been brought up in the most Catholic family in the world, and I was just getting out from under my suffocating family … Two young hounds unleashed in the Eternal City … What a pilgrimage that was!’
It still gave him a thrill.
He heated the onions and carrots in a casserole with bits of smoked ham. It smelled wonderful.
‘And then there’s Jean Théron, whom you know, and my brother, Paul, who you never met because he died in ’56.’
‘You considered your brother to be your best friend?’
‘He was even more than that. Chloé, from what I know of you, you would have adored him. He was sensitive, funny, attentive to everyone, always in a good mood. He painted … I’ll show you his watercolours tomorrow, they’re in my study. He knew all the bird calls. He liked to tease people, but never harmed a soul. He was charming, really charming. Everyone loved him …’
‘What did he die of?’
My father-in-law turned away.
‘He went to Indochina. He came back sick and half-mad. He died of tuberculosis on Bastille Day, 1956.’
I said nothing.
‘I don’t need to tell you that after that, my parents never watched a single parade again for the rest of their lives. Celebrations, fireworks, that was the end of that.’
*
He added pieces of meat and turned them over, browning them on all sides.
‘You see, the worst part was that he had volunteered. He was still at school at the time. He was dazzling. He wanted to work at the National Forestry Office. He loved trees and birds. He should never have gone over there. He had no reason to go. None. He was gentle, a pacifist. He quoted Giono, and he – ’
‘So why did he go?’
‘Because of a girl. Your typical unhappy love affair. It was ridiculous; she wasn’t even a woman, just a young girl. It was absurd. Even as I’m telling you this – and every time I think about it – I’m just floored by the inanity of our lives. A good boy goes off to war because of a sulky young lady … it’s grotesque. It’s something you read in bad novels. It’s like a soap opera, a story like that.’
‘She didn’t love him?’
‘No. But Paul was crazy about her. He adored her. He had known her since she was twelve; he wrote her letters she probably didn’t even understand. He went swaggering off to war. So she could see what a man he was! And the night before he left, the ass, he told everyone: “When she asks you, don’t give her my address right away. I want to be the first to write.” Three months later, she got engaged to the son of the butcher on the Rue de Passy.’
*
He shook a dozen different spices into the pot, whatever he could find in the cupboards.
I shuddered to think what Delia would have said.
‘A big pale boy who spent his days boning cuts of meat in the back of his father’s shop. You can imagine what a shock it was for us. She ditched our Paul for this big lump. He was over there, halfway around the world, he was probably thinking about her, writing poetry for her, the fool, and she, all she could think about was going out with an oaf who was
allowed to borrow his father’s car on Saturday night. A sky-blue Renault Frégate, as I recall … Of course, she was free not to love him, but Paul was too impetuous, he never could do anything without bravura, without … without flair. What a waste …’
‘And then?’
‘And then nothing. Paul came home and my mother switched butchers. He spent a lot of time in this house, which he hardly ever left. He drew, read, complained that he couldn’t sleep. He suffered a great deal, coughed constantly, and then he died. At twenty-one.’
‘You’ve never spoken of him.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I always liked talking about him with people who had known him; it was easier …’
*
I pushed my chair back from the table.
‘I’ll set the table. Where do you want to eat?’
‘Here in the kitchen is fine.’
He switched off the overhead light, and we sat down, facing each other.
‘It’s delicious.’
‘Do you really think so? It seems a bit overcooked, don’t you think?’
‘No, no, really, it’s perfect.’
‘You’re too good.’
‘It’s your wine that’s good. Tell me about Rome.’
‘About the city?’
‘No, about this pilgrimage … What were you like when you were fifteen?’
‘Oh … what was I like? I was the stupidest boy in the world. I tried to keep up with Frendall’s big strides. I talked incessantly, told him about Paris, the Moulin Rouge, said anything that came into my head, and lied shamelessly. He laughed and said things that I didn’t understand either, which made me laugh in turn. We spent our time stealing coins from the fountains and smirked every time we met someone of the opposite sex. We were completely pathetic, when I think of it now. I don’t remember the goal of the pilgrimage anymore. There was no doubt a good cause, an occasion for prayer, as they say. I don’t remember anymore. For me, it was a huge breath of fresh air. Those few days changed my life. I discovered the taste of freedom. It was like … would you like some more?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘You have to understand the context. We were all pretending we had just won a war. There was so much ill-will in the air. We couldn’t mention anyone’s name, a neighbour, a shopkeeper, a friend’s parents, without my father immediately pigeonholing them – this one’s an informer, that one was denounced, a coward, a good-for-nothing. It was horrible. It’s perhaps hard to imagine it now, but believe me, it was horrible for us children. We hardly spoke to him, or very little. Probably just the strict minimum. But one day, I asked him, “If you think humanity is so awful, then why did you go and fight for it?”’
