She reassures me, tells me Melanie will be in the best of hands, and then she has this strange sentence.
"Keep an eye out for your father."
I nod and walk away, but I can't help wondering what she means. Does she think my father looks ill? Did she notice something I didn't? I have half a mind to turn back and ask her to explain, but Marc is waiting for me and the child has already begun to make a fuss, so we take off fast, waving to Valerie's tall, comforting figure at the hospital entrance.
The drive is long and hot but miraculously quiet, as both dog and child fall asleep. Marc is the silent type. We listen to classical music and don't engage in much talking, which I feel relieved about.
The first thing I do when I get home is to fling open all the windows. The rooms are stuffy and stale. Paris has that dusty, heavy, broiling summer smell, laden with exhaust fumes and dog shit. The noisy rue Froidevaux, three floors down, spews up its incessant roar of traffic. I can never leave the windows open long, the noise is too horrendous.
The fridge is empty. I can't face the idea of a lonely meal. I call Emmanuel, get his answering machine, beg him to cross teeming-hot, jammed Paris all the way from the Marais to give me some moral support and company over dinner, which he will no doubt end up making. My phone beeps a few minutes later, and I expect a text message from Emmanuel. But no.
That's called taking French leave. When are you back?
My blood races around my chest, making me even sweatier. Angele Rouvatier. I can't help grinning. I cradle the phone in my hand like a sentimental teenager. I text back fast:
I miss you. Will call you soon.
I immediately feel foolish. Should I have sent that? Should I have admitted I miss her? I rush down to the Monoprix on the avenue du General Leclerc and buy wine, cheese, ham, and bread. The phone beeps again as I leave the shop. It's Emmanuel texting to say he is on his way.
As I wait for him, I choose an old Aretha Franklin CD and turn it up loud. The old lady above is stone deaf, and the couple below are still on vacation. I pour myself a glass of Chardonnay and walk through my empty apartment, humming along to "Think." My children will be turning up this weekend. I peer into their rooms. Once the divorce was in full swing, they liked the idea of having rooms in two different houses, I remember. That helped. I let them decorate each room their own special way. Lucas's walls are plastered with Jedi and Darth Vaders. Arno painted his dark blue, which looks incongruously aquatic. Margaux pinned up a poster of Marilyn Manson at his worst. I look at it only if I have to. There is another upsetting photograph of Margaux and Pauline, her best friend, both heavily made up and exhibiting their middle fingers. My cleaning lady, the energetic and talkative Mme Georges, complains about the state of Arno's room. She says she can't get the door open, there's so much stuff lying around on the floor. Margaux's is just as bad. Only Lucas makes a small effort at cleaning things up. I let them live with their mess. They spend so little time with me, and the idea of telling them to clean up again and again does not appeal to me at all. I leave that to Astrid. And to Serge.
I notice that Lucas has a family tree above his desk. I'd never seen it. I put my wineglass down to have a look. Astrid's parents, French on one side, Swedish on the other, going back to her grandparents. On our side, the Rey family, and a question mark beside my father's photograph. I realize that Lucas knows very little about my mother. I even wonder if he knows her name. What have I told my children about her? Hardly anything.
I grab a pencil on his desk and meticulously print out "Clarisse Elzyere, 1938-1974" in the little box next to "Francois Rey, 1937."
There are photographs of every single parent on that tree except for my mother. A strange frustration works through me.
The doorbell announces Emmanuel's arrival. I am suddenly glad to see him, very glad not to be alone, and I eagerly wrap my arms around his stocky, burly body. He pats me on the back in a comforting, fatherly fashion.
I've known Emmanuel for more than ten years. We met when I refurbished his advertising company's offices with my team. He is my age, but looks older, I guess, because of his entirely bald pate. He makes up for his lack of hair with a bushy ginger beard he likes to finger. Emmanuel wears bright, outlandish colors I would never dare try, and he carries them off with a certain panache. Tonight his Ralph Lauren shirt is a tropical orange. His eyes sparkle at me, baby blue from behind his rimless glasses.
I want to tell him how happy I am that he is here, how thankful I am for his presence, but as usual, in true Rey fashion, the words fizzle out on my tongue and I keep them bottled up within me.
I grab the plastic bag he is carrying, and he follows me to the kitchen. He gets to work at once, and I watch him, offering to help although I know this is perfectly useless. He takes over the place as if it were his, and I let him.
"You still don't have a proper apron, do you?" he grumbles.
I point to Margaux's pink Mickey Mouse one hanging on a peg near the door. She's had it since she was ten. He sighs and manages to tie it around his fleshy loins. I try not to laugh.
Emmanuel's personal life is a mystery to me. He is more or less involved with a woebegone, complicated creature called Monique who has two teenage children by a previous marriage. I'm not sure what he sees in her. And I'm pretty sure he has affairs whenever she's not around, like now, as she is still on vacation in Normandy with her kids. I can tell he's up to something, because he's whistling as he chops up the avocados and he flaunts that naughty boy expression I usually see on his face at this time of year.
Despite his extra padding, Emmanuel never seems to suffer from the heat. As I sit there sipping my wine, I feel sweat glistening at my temples and on my upper lip while he remains as cool as a cucumber. The kitchen window is open and gives onto a typically Parisian courtyard, as dark as a cave even at noon, facing the neighbor's grimy windowpane and damp kitchen cloths hanging over the ledge. Not a breath of air sneaks into the room. I hate Paris in this heat. I miss Malakoff and the small, fresh garden, the rickety table and chair under the old poplar tree. Emmanuel bustles about, complaining about my lack of good knives and a pepper grinder.
I have never been a cook. Astrid was the cook in our couple. She rustled up the most delicious, original stuff that never ceased to impress our friends. I wonder suddenly if my mother was a good cook. I have no recollection of appetizing kitchen smells at the avenue Kleber. Before our father married Regine, a governess was hired to look after the household and us. Madame Tulard. A thin, hairychinned woman. Watery soup. Halfhearted brussels sprouts. Leathery veal. Soggy riz-au-lait. Suddenly I remember piping-hot goat cheese on whole wheat bread. That came from our mother. The acrid tang of the melted cheese, the wheatlike, floury sensation of the bread, the sweet hint of fresh thyme and basil, the drop of olive oil. I remember her telling me she used to eat goat cheese as a child in the Cevennes.
They had a name, those little round cheeses . . . Pelardons . . . Picadons . . .
Emmanuel asks me how Mel is doing. I tell him Valerie turned up to take over for a couple of days. I tell him I don't really know how my sister is, but I like and trust her surgeon, Benedicte Besson, how earnest and kind she is, how she comforted me the night of the accident, how she put up with our father. He then asks how the children are, neatly producing two plates of finely chopped fresh vegetables, sliced Gouda, tangy yogurt sauce, and Italian ham. This is merely our hors d'oeuvre, as I know his robust appetite well. As we both start to eat, I tell him that my children will be turning up this weekend. I glance at him as he wolfs down his food. Like Melanie, what does Emmanuel know about raising children? What does he know about teenagers? Nothing. Lucky man. I hide a wry smile. Try as I might, I can't imagine Emmanuel as a father.
I wait till he has finished his plate and is up again cooking our salmon. This is fast and deft. I watch him, marveling at his skill. He sprinkles dill over the fish and hands me my share and a half lemon. I then say, "Melanie drove off the highway because something abou
t our mother came back to her."
He looks up at me, startled. A small piece of dill is caught between his teeth. He picks at it.
"She doesn't remember anything now," I go on, eating the salmon steadily.
He eats too, his eyes on me. "But she will," he says. "You know that."
"Yes," I say. "She will. For the moment she hasn't, and I just can't stop thinking about it. It's driving me crazy."
I wait till he has finished his salmon. Then I light up a cigarette. I know he hates it, but I am, after all, in my own house.
"What do you think it was?"
"Something that upset her tremendously. Enough to lose control of the car."
I smoke in silence as he has another go at trying to dislodge the piece of dill.
"And then, I met this woman," I say.
His face perks up. He raises an eyebrow.
"She's a mortician."
He guffaws. "You're kidding."
I smile. "She's the sexiest thing."
He rubs his chin, eyes beaming.
"And?" he eggs me on. Emmanuel loves this sort of conversation.
"Well, she made a beeline for me. She's amazing. Magnificent."
"Blond?"
"No. Brunette. Yellowy green eyes. Great body. Great sense of humor."
"Where does she live?"
"Clisson."
"Where's that?"
"Somewhere near Nantes."
He chuckles.
"Well, you should see her again because she's done you good, my boy. You haven't looked this full of beans since--"
"Since Astrid took off."
"No, since before that. You haven't looked this good for years."
I raise my glass of Chardonnay. "Here's to Angele Rouvatier."
Our glasses tinkle.
I think about her in that provincial hospital. I think about her slow smile and her smooth skin and the taste of her. And I want her so badly I almost burst. Emmanuel is right. I haven't felt this way in years.
On Friday afternoon I leave my office to see my father. The heat has not faded. Paris is ablaze. Tourists troop here and there, drained. Trees hang limp; dust and dirt gather in gray, billowing clouds. I decide to walk the distance from the avenue du Maine to the avenue Kleber, which should take me roughly forty-five minutes. It's too hot to cycle, and I feel like some sort of exercise.
The latest news from the hospital is good. Dr. Besson and Valerie have both called to say that Melanie is gaining strength. (There have also been several text messages from Angele Rouvatier, but they were of a more erotic nature, which naturally thrilled me. I have stored each and every one of them on my phone.)
As I turn left after passing the Invalides, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at the number flashing up on the screen. Rabagny. I pick up, although I instantly wish I hadn't.
He doesn't even bother to greet me. He never does. He is fifteen years younger than I am, at least, and he has absolutely no respect for me whatsoever.
"I've just been to the day-care center," he barks. "And all I can say is that I am appalled by your lack of professionalism. I hired you because you had a good reputation and some people seemed impressed by your work."
I let him ramble on. This is not new. It happens nearly every time we speak to each other. I had often tried reminding him, as calmly as possible, that in France during the month of August it is impossible to get work done fast and equally difficult to expect speedy deliveries.
"I don't think the mayor is going to like the fact that the day-care center won't be ready to open at the beginning of September, as planned. Have you given any thought to this? I know you've been having family problems, but I sometimes wonder if you have not been using these problems as an excuse."
Without turning it off, I slip the phone into my shirt pocket and walk faster, gathering speed as I near the Seine. There has been a series of unfortunate mishaps concerning the day-care center: the wrong woodwork and a painter (not on my team) who didn't get the colors right. None of these events had anything to do with me. But Rabagny was impervious to that. He was out to get me. From the start he had never liked me. No matter what I did or said. I could tell just by the way he looked at me. Sometimes he stared at my shoes in a pointed manner. I wonder how much longer I am going to put up with his behavior. The job was well paid, above the usual standard. I know I have to stick it out. The question is, how?
After the place de l'Alma and hordes of tearful tourists peering down into the tunnel where Lady Di died, I begin the slow ascent on the avenue du President-Wilson. The cars are scarcer here; it is a more residential area. My neighborhood, as a child. The quiet, placid, wealthy, uptight, gloomy sixteenth arrondissement. If you admit to a Parisian that you live in the sixteenth arrondissement, he or she at once thinks, Money. This is where the wealthy live, and this is where they flaunt it. There is old money here, and there is nouveau riche. Both cohabit with more or less grace. I don't miss the sixteenth arrondissement. I'm glad I live on the Left Bank of the Seine, in noisy, colorful, trendy Montparnasse, even if my apartment gives onto a cemetery. In the summer this district empties alarmingly. Everyone is away, in Normandy, in Brittany, on the Riviera.
As I head toward the avenue Kleber, cutting across to it via the rue de Longchamp, my childhood comes back to me, and it does not feel good. I see the quiet, earnest little boy I used to be, with my gray flannel shorts and navy blue sweater. Why, I wonder, is there something sad and sinister about these empty streets lined with regal, Haussmanian buildings? Why do I find it hard to breathe as I walk along them?
When I get to the avenue Kleber, I check my watch and find that I'm early. I pursue my walk farther, down the rue des Belles-Feuilles. I haven't been here for years. I remember a bustling, lively place. I came here often as a child. It was the shopping street. You got the freshest fish here, the juiciest meat, crisp baguettes straight from the oven. This is where my mother did her shopping every morning, wicker basket over her arm, Mel and me in tow, breathing in mouthwatering whiffs of roasting chicken and hot croissants. Today the street is deserted. A triumphant McDonald's reigns where a fine restaurant used to be, and a frozen-food store now replaces a movie theater. Most of the food stalls have been traded for chic clothing and shoe shops. The enticing smells have gone.
I get to the end of the street. If I turn left, down the rue de la Pompe, it would lead me straight to my grandmother's place on the avenue Henri-Martin. I toy with the idea of going to visit her now. Slow, gentle Gaspard would let me in, beaming, so happy to see "Monsieur Antoine." I put it off for another day and head back toward my father's.
In the mid-seventies, I remember, after our mother died, the Galerie Saint-Didier was built just beyond, an unsightly, gigantic triangle that ate up part of the exquisite hotels particuliers of the area and sprouted malls and supermarkets in their wake. As I walk past, I notice that the huge construction has not aged well, its surface marred by rust and stains. I hurry along. Somebody has left two messages on my voice mail. I don't listen to them, because I know it has to be Rabagny.
My stepmother opens the door and pecks me on the cheek. Regine sports a dark, toasty tan that makes her look older and more withered than she actually is. As usual, she is wearing one of her Courreges revival outfits and exudes Chanel No. 5. She asks me how Mel is. I answer, following her into the living room. I have never liked coming back here. It is like going back in time, back to a place where I was unhappy. My body remembers it, and I can feel every part of me clenching up in self-defense. The apartment, like the Galerie Saint-Didier, has not aged well either. Its daring modernity has faded and now looks impossibly unfashionable. The maroon and gray decor, the fluffy wall-to-wall carpet have lost both brightness and texture. Everything seems scruffy, spotted.
My father comes shuffling in. I am taken aback by his wizened appearance, although I saw him barely a week ago. He looks exhausted. His lips are colorless. His skin has an odd, yellowish hue. I can hardly believe this is the formidabl
e lawyer who had his opponents quaking as soon as he marched into the courtroom.
The infamous Vallombreux affair, in the early seventies, launched my father's career as an eminent lawyer. Edgar Vallombreux, an influential political counselor, had been found half dead in his country house near Bordeaux after a presumed suicide following a disastrous result for his party in recent elections. Paralyzed, unable to speak, depressed, he was confined to a hospital bed for the rest of his life. His wife, Marguerite, never bought the suicide story. It was clear to her that her husband had been assaulted because he was aware of fiscal indiscretions concerning a couple of highly placed ministers.
I remember when Le Figaro printed an entire page about Francois Rey, the young, impudent lawyer who dared take on the Ministry of Finance without a qualm, and who, after weeks of a palpitating trial that had the entire country holding its breath, proved that Vallombreux had indeed been the victim of a substantial financial scandal that left several heads tumbling in its aftermath. In my adolescence I was often asked if I had anything to do with "the legendary lawyer." Sometimes, embarrassed or annoyed, I used to say I didn't. Melanie and I were kept out of our father's professional life. We had seldom seen him in action in the courtroom. We simply knew that he was respected and feared.
My father pats me on the shoulder, makes his way to the bar, and hands me a whiskey poured out with a shaking hand. I dislike whiskey, but I don't have the heart to remind him. I pretend to sip at it. He sits down with a groan and rubs his kneecaps. He is retired now and not happy about it. Younger lawyers have stepped into his shoes, and he is no longer part of the legal scene. What does he do all day long? I wonder. Does he read, see friends? Talk to his wife? I know nothing about my father's life. He knows nothing about mine. And what he thinks he knows, he disapproves of.
Josephine appears, mumbling into the mobile phone caught between her cheek and shoulder. She smiles at me and hands me something. I glance down to see a folded five-hundred-euro bill. She winks at me and makes a sort of gesture explaining that the rest will come later.
A Secret Kept Page 11
