Fresh Water for Flowers

by Valérie Perrin

Philippe unfastened the strap of his helmet. Just before accelerating around the first bend, accelerating to plow into the trees of the estate forest down below, he didn’t see his life flash past him, he didn’t see the images like in a book when the pages are flicked through, he didn’t want to. Just before the trees, he glimpsed a young woman on the edge of the road. Impossible. She was staring at him while he was moving at nearly two hundred kilometers an hour, and all around him nothing else was still anymore, except her eyes on him. He just had time to think that he’d seen her before, on an old print. A postcard, perhaps. And then he entered the light.

  93.

  We’re at the end of summer, the warmth

  of those evening return journeys, back in

  our apartments, life continuing as usual.

  I’ve not yet been into the water. Every August, I dread the moment of that first dip. I’m afraid of not finding Léonine. Afraid of not sensing her presence. Afraid that she won’t turn up because of me. That she won’t hear me calling her, luring her, that my voice won’t reach her. That she no longer feels my love enough to come back to me. I’m afraid of no longer loving her, of losing her forever. This fear is unfounded, death will never manage to separate me from my child, and I know it.

  I get up, I stretch, I throw my hat onto my towel. I walk toward the vast carpet of emeralds with flashes of pearl. The morning light is harsh, brilliant.

  It promises a beautiful day. Marseilles always keeps its promises.

  At this hour, if there is any shade, the water is black. The waves are cool, as ever. I advance gently. I plunge my head in. I swim to the depths, closing my eyes. She’s already there, she’s always there, she hasn’t moved from here because she’s within me. Her ethereal presence. I breathe in her warm, salty skin, like when she would lie on top of me for a siesta under our parasol. Her hands running across my back, two little marionettes.

  My love.

  When I resurface, I look the blue of the sky straight in the eye, I know I will carry her forever within me. That’s what eternity is.

  I swim for a long time, I don’t want to get out now, I never do. I observe the pines leaning in the wind, I observe life, I’m very close to it, it’s very close to me. Gradually, I near the shore. Sand again under my feet. I turn my back on the beach, I observe the horizon, the still, anchored boats, small white stones suspended in the light. Nothing is more healing than this place in the world where everything is beautiful, where the elements restore the living.

  It’s hot, the salt stings my face and, even more, my lips. I sink my head under the water, I swim, closing my eyes; I love sensing, listening to the sea beneath me.

  I feel a presence, a different presence. Someone brushes against me. Grips my hips and places a hand on my stomach. Clings to my back, mirrors my movements, like a dance, almost a waltz. I can feel his heart knocking on my back, I go along with it, I’ve understood. Another love, a new heart, someone else’s, is being transplanted into mine. I can feel his mouth on my neck, his hair against my back, his hands still walking across me, with steps that are light and delicate. I had so hoped for this without believing in it, without believing it. I rise to the surface, he opens and closes his eyes, his eyelashes against my cheek, butterflies. He breathes me in. I lie on the water, he supports me, I let myself be guided, my body is free, my legs skim the surface of the water, I let myself go, he finds me, I find myself.

  We are.

  We.

  Peals of laughter.

  A child.

  Three.

  Another hand catches my arm and clings to me. Like Léonine’s, small, tense, warm.

  I hope I’m not dreaming, I hope I’m living. The child jumps into my arms. He plants wet kisses on my forehead, in my hair. He hurls himself backwards and yelps with joy.

  “Nathan!”

  I call out his name, like some litany.

  He makes clumsy, rapid movements. He opens his eyes wide, like a child who hasn’t swum for long, a child who is eager and scared all at once. He roars with laughter; his smile has lost two teeth. He pulls goggles over his eyes and ducks his head under the water. He seems more at ease and moves in wide circles. He has slipped a snorkel into his mouth.

  He’s back out of the water. He spits as he removes his snorkel. He pulls off his goggles, which have left their mark around his big brown eyes, his big, luminous eyes under the Southern light. He looks over my shoulder, he looks at Julien, who whispers in my ear, “Come.”

  94.

  Not a day goes by without us thinking of you.

  Saturday September 7th, 2017, blue sky, twenty-three degrees, 10:30 a.m. Funeral of Fernand Occo (1935–2017). Oak coffin. Black marble headstone. Vault in which Jeanne Tillet, married name Occo (1937–2009), Simone Louis, married name Occo (1917–1999), Pierre Occo (1913–2001), Léon Occo (1933) are buried.

  A wreath of white roses, ribbon: “Our sincere condolences.” A wreath of white lilies in the shape of a heart, ribbon: “To our father, our grandfather.” On the coffin, red and white roses, ribbon: “The War Veterans.”

  Three funerary plaques: “To our father, to our grandfather. In memory of this life of loving you and being loved by you”; “To our friend. We won’t forget you, you are forever in our thoughts. Your fishing friends”; “You are not far, just on the other side of the path.”

  Around fifty people are present, including Fernand’s three daughters, Catherine, Isabelle, and Nathalie, and his seven grandchildren.

  Elvis, Gaston, Pierre Lucchini, and I are standing beside the vault. Nono isn’t there. He’s getting ready for his marriage to Countess de Darrieux, taking place at 3 p.m. at Brancion town hall.

  Father Cédric gives an oration. But it is not only for Fernand Occo that our priest addresses God. Now, every time he speaks to Him, he brings Kamal and Anita with him in his prayers, “Reading from the first Epistle General of John: Beloved, we know that we have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren. He that loveth not his brother abideth in death . . . Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. But whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth.”

  The family asked Pierre Lucchini to play Fernand Occo’s favorite song during the interment. The one by Serge Reggiani called “My Freedom.”

  I can’t seem to focus on the words, beautiful as they are. I think of Léonine and of her father; I think of Nono slipping on his young groom’s suit and Countess de Darrieux knotting his tie; I think of Sasha travelling the waters of the Ganges; I think of Irène and Gabriel saying “tu” to each other in eternity; I think of Eliane, who went off to run around the garden of her mistress, Marianne Ferry (1953–2007); I think of Julien and Nathan, who will be here in less than a hour, I think of their arms, their smell, their warmth; I think of Gaston, who will always fall, but whom we will always pick up; I think of Elvis, who will never want to hear any songs except those of Elvis Presley.

  For a few months now, I’ve been like Elvis, forever hearing another song, the same one. It covers all the rest, all the murmurings of my thoughts. It’s a song by Vincent Delerm that I listen to constantly, and that’s called: “Life ahead of you.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Tess, Valentin, and Claude, essential to me and my eternal inspiration.

  Thanks to Yannick, my adored brother.

  Thanks to my precious Maëlle Guillaud. Thanks to the whole Albin Michel team.

  Thanks to Amélie, Arlette, Audrey, Elsa, Emma, Catherine, Charlotte, Gilles, Katia, Manon, Mélusine, Michel, Michèle, Sarah, Salomé, Sylvie, William for your vital support. What luck to have you close by.

  Thanks to Norbert Jolivet
, who exists in real life, and whose name I didn’t change because nothing about that man, Gueugnon’s gravedigger for thirty years, should be changed. It’s through writing this book that this source of joy and kindness became my friend. I hope to drink coffees and kirs with you for all eternity.

  Thanks to Raphaël Fatout, who welcomed me into his unusual, wonderfully humane funeral parlor, “Le Tourneurs du Val,” in Trouville-sur-Mer. By speaking to me of his love of the job, of death, and of the here and now, Raphaël trusted me like no other.

  Thanks to Papa for his garden and his passionate tutoring.

  Thanks to Stéphane Baudin for all his sage advice.

  Thanks to Cédric and Carol for the photography and the friendship.

  Thanks to Julien Seul, who allowed me to borrow his name.

  Thanks to Messrs. Denis Fayolle, Robert Badinter, and Éric Dupond-Moretti.

  Thanks to all my friends from Marseilles and Cassis—you’re my very own chalet.

  Thanks to Eugénie and Simon Lelouch, who suggested this story to me.

  Thanks to Johnny Hallyday, Elvis Presley, Charles Trenet, Jacques Brel, Georges Brassens, Jacques Prévert, Barbara, Raphaël Haroche, Vincent Delerm, Claude Nougaro, Jean-Jacques Goldman, Benjamin Biolay, Serge Reggiani, Pierre Barouh, Françoise Hardy, Alain Bashung, Chet Baker, Damien Saez, Daniel Guichard, Gilbert Bécaud, Francis Cabrel, Michel Jonasz, Serge Lama, Hélène Bohy, and Agnès Chaumié.

  And finally, THANKS to all those who literally carried my first novel, Les Oubliés du dimanche; it’s thanks to YOU that I wrote this second novel.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Valérie Perrin is a photographer and screenwriter who works with Claude Lelouch. Her first novel, Les Oubliés du dimanche, has won numerous prizes, including the 2016 Lire Élire and Poulet-Malassis prizes.