As she goes on, I make a fire in the fireplace. I can tell that no one has done that for a long time. The grate is empty and dusty. The wood stock is the one I bought, years ago. No cozy tete-a-tete by the hearth for Serge and Astrid. I hold out my hands to the heat. Astrid comes to sit next to me on the floor, resting her head on my arm. I don't smoke, because I know she hates it. We watch the flames. If anybody passing by happened to glance through the window, they would see a happy couple. They'd assume a happy marriage.
I tell her about Arno. I describe the police station, Arno's state, and how cold I was the next morning. How he reacted. I say I have not yet talked to him, but I will. That we need to find a good lawyer. She listens, dismayed.
"Why didn't you call me?"
"I did think about it. But what could you have done from Tokyo? You were already in shock over Pauline's death."
She nods. "You're right."
"Margaux got her period," I say.
"I know about that. She told me. Said you dealt with it pretty well, for a dad."
I feel a glow of pride.
"Really? I'm glad. Because I didn't do too well when Pauline died."
"What do you mean?"
"I just couldn't find the right words. I couldn't comfort her. So I suggested we call you. And she was incensed."
I am on the verge of telling her about my mother. But I hold back. Not now. Now is for our own little family, for our children, for their respective problems. Astrid goes to fetch limoncello from the freezer and comes back with the tiny crystal glasses I bought years ago in the Porte de Vanves flea market. We sip in silence. I tell her about Parimbert and the Think Dome. I describe the feng shui office, the black fish, the green tea, the bran scones. She laughs. We both laugh.
Where is Serge? I wonder. Why is he not here? I want to ask her. I don't. We talk about Melanie, how well she is healing. We talk about Astrid's job. About Christmas coming up. What about a joint Christmas at Malakoff, she suggests. Last year was so complicated, Christmas Eve with her, New Year's Eve with me. What about doing it together this year? Pauline's death has made everything so sad, so fragile. Yes, why not, I say. But what about Serge, I think, where will he be? I say nothing, but she must have sensed my inner questions.
She says, "Serge blew his top in Tokyo when you called."
"Why?"
"He is not the father of these children. They have no hold over him."
"What do you mean?"
"He is younger. He doesn't know how to deal with all this."
The fire crackles on merrily. Titus's mighty snore can be heard. I wait.
"He left. He needs to think things over. He's with his parents in Lyon."
Why don't I feel relief washing through me? Instead, I experience a cautious numbness that puzzles me.
"Are you okay?" I ask gently.
She turns her face to me. It is marked with tiredness and pain.
"Not really," she whispers.
This should have been my cue. The moment to take her into my arms, the moment I'd been waiting for, for so long, the moment to win her back. To win it all back.
The moment I used to dream about those first nights at rue Froidevaux when I'd get into that empty bed and feel that there was nothing left to live for. The moment I'd been watching for since Naxos, since she took off. The moment I had so clearly imagined.
But I say nothing. I cannot say what she wants me to say. I merely watch her and nod compassionately. She searches my face, my eyes. She doesn't find what she is looking for, and she breaks into tears.
I take her hand, kiss it softly. She sobs, wipes her cheeks. She whispers, "You know, sometimes I want it back. So badly."
"What is it you want back?" I ask.
"I want you back, Antoine. I want our old life back." Her face crumples up again. "I want it all back."
She plants feverish kisses over my face. Salty kisses. Her warmth, her scent. I want to cry with her and kiss her too, but I can't. Something stronger is holding me back. I clasp her to me. I finally do kiss her, but the passion has gone. The passion is dead. She strokes me, kisses my neck, my lips, and it feels as if the last time we did this was only yesterday, not two years ago. Desire stirs, for old times, for memories' sake, then fades away. Now I am holding her the way I would hold my daughter, my sister--the way I could have held my mother. I hold her steadfastly. I kiss her like a brother kisses a sister.
I feel an unhurried wonder creep though me. How is this possible? I no longer love Astrid. I care for her deeply, she is the mother of my children, but I no longer love her. There is tenderness, caring, respect, but I don't love her the way I used to. And she knows it. She feels it. She stops the kisses, the precise caresses. She draws back, faltering fingers covering her face.
"I'm sorry," she says, taking a deep, shaking breath. "I don't know what came over me."
She blows her nose. A long pause. I give her time. I hold her hand.
"Lucas told me about your girlfriend. The tall, dark one."
"Angele."
"How long have you been seeing her?"
"Since the accident."
"Are you in love with her?"
I rub my forehead. Am I in love with Angele? Of course I am. But there is no way I can say this to Astrid right now.
"She makes me happy."
Astrid smiles, a brave smile.
"That's good. Great. I'm glad." Another pause. "Listen, I'm awfully tired all of a sudden. I think I'll go up to bed. Will you let Titus out for his last pee?"
Titus is already waiting by the door, wagging his tail with anticipation. I put my coat on, and we head out into the biting cold. He waddles around the garden happily, lifting his leg. I rub my hands together, blow on them to keep warm. I want to get back into the warm house. Astrid has gone upstairs. As Titus flops down in front of the dying fire, I go up to say goodbye. Lucas's light is off. Arno's light is off. Margaux's is on. I hesitate to knock, but she hears my step. Her door creaks open.
"Bye, Dad." She flits to me like a little ghost in her white nightdress. Hugs me in a flash and takes off again. I go down the small corridor to what used to be my old bedroom. It hasn't changed much. Astrid is in the adjoining bathroom. I sit on the bed and wait for her. It was in this room that she told me she wanted a divorce. That she loved him. That she wanted to be with him. Not me. That she was so sorry. That she couldn't stand the lying any longer. I remember the shock and the hurting. Staring down at my wedding ring and thinking that this couldn't be true. Her going on about how our marriage had become something comfy and distended, like a slack pair of old slippers, and I had winced at the image. I knew what she meant. I knew exactly what she meant. But had it been entirely my fault? Is it always the husband's fault? Because I'd let the pizzazz fizzle out of our humdrum life? Because I didn't bring her flowers? Because I'd let a dashing, younger prince whisk her out of my reach? What did she see in Serge? I often wondered. His youth? His ardor? The fact that he wasn't a father? Instead of fighting for her, fighting like the devil, I had stepped back. A deflated balloon. One of my first, childish reactions had been to have a one-night stand with a colleague's assistant. It had done me no good. During our marriage I had not been the unfaithful kind. I wasn't good at that. Some men are. There had been one brief affair during a business trip with an attractive younger woman, just after Lucas was born. I had felt wretched. The guilt was too much for me to bear. I found adultery complicated. I gave it up. Then there had been that long, dry patch in our marriage, just before I found out about Serge. Nothing much went on in our bed anymore, and I'd been lazy about it, not bothering to delve into it. Maybe I didn't want to know. Maybe I already knew, deep inside, that she loved and desired another man.
Astrid comes out of the bathroom wearing a long T-shirt. She slips into bed with a weary sigh. She holds out her hand to me. I take it, lying down next to her, fully clothed.
"Don't go just yet," she murmurs. "Wait till I fall asleep. Please."
She turns off
the bedside lamp. The room seems dark at first. Then I can make out the furniture, the dim streetlight filtering in through the curtains. I will wait till she drops off, then silently take my leave. A juxtaposition of images whirls. The carcasses on the road. Pauline's coffin. Xavier Parimbert and his smug smile. My mother and a woman in her arms. The next thing I know, an alarm is buzzing deafeningly in my ear. I can't understand what time it is, or where I am. A radio blares. France Info. It is seven a.m. I am in Astrid's room, in Malakoff. I must have fallen asleep. I feel her warm hands on me, on my skin, and it is too enjoyable a sensation to pull away. I am still dazed with slumber, incapable of opening my eyes. No, says the little voice, no, no, no, don't do this, don't do this. Her hands, pulling off my clothes. No, no, no. Yes, says the flesh, oh yes. You'll regret this, this is the stupidest thing to do right now, it will hurt both of you. Oh, the bliss of her familiar velvety skin. How I have missed it. There is still time to stop, Antoine, still time to get up, put your clothes on, and get the hell out of here. She knows exactly how to touch me. She hasn't forgotten. When was the last time Astrid and I made love? It was probably right here, in this very bed. Two years ago. You stupid fool. You dumb idiot. It happens fast, a quick flash of shuddering pleasure. I hold her tight, heart pumping. I say nothing, nor does she. We both know this is a mistake. I get up slowly, stroke her hair clumsily. I gather up my clothes, slip into the bathroom. When I leave the room, she is still in bed, her back to me. Downstairs, Lucas is having breakfast. He sees me, his face exploding into a delighted grin. My heart sinks.
"Dad! You spent the night!"
I smile back at him, flinching inwardly. I know that his dream is to see Astrid and me reunited again. He's never been shy about this. He has told Melanie. Me. Astrid. He thinks it is still possible.
"Yes, I was tired."
"Did you sleep in Mom's room?"
Hope shining through his eyes.
"No," I lie, hating myself. "I slept down here on the sofa. I just went upstairs to use the bathroom."
"Oh," he says flatly. "Will you be coming back tonight?"
"No, little fellow. Not tonight. But you know what? We will be spending Christmas all of us together. Right here. Like in the old days. How about that?"
"Great!" he says. And he does seem happy about it.
It is still dark outside, and Malakoff appears fast asleep as I drive down the rue Pierre Larousse, then straight into Paris, up the rue Raymond Losserand, which will take me to the rue Froidevaux. I don't want to think about what just happened. It is like a defeat, no matter how agreeable it was. By now, even the enjoyment has faded. There is nothing left but a bittersweet pang of regret.
Christmas Eve at Malakoff had been a success, and Astrid pulled it off beautifully. Melanie came, and so did my father, not looking his best, perhaps even more weary, as well as Regine and Josephine. I hadn't seen so many Reys in the same room for a very long time.
Serge was not there. When I tactfully asked Astrid how things were going with him, she sighed. "It's complicated." After we had cleared up the meal, opened the presents, and everyone was chatting in the living room in front of the fire, Astrid and I went up to Serge's study to have a talk about the children. About what they were turning into, how we felt we had no control over them. That what we got back from them was disdain, no respect, no affection, no love. Margaux seemed swathed in continuous mute contempt, refusing to see the grief counselor we found. And as we had foreseen, Arno was expelled from the lycee. We enrolled him in a dour boarding school near Reims. The lawyer looking after his case expected the matter to boil down to a sum of money handed over to the Jousselin family for damages. What that sum should amount to, we did not yet know. Luckily, we were not the only parents involved. All this was no doubt normal, part of modern adolescence and its hazards, but even the thought of that did not make it easier to bear. For either of us. I felt relief that she was going through the same turmoil and tried to convey this to her. "You don't understand," she said. "It's worse for me. I gave birth to them." I tried to describe the repugnance I experienced the night of Arno's arrest. She nodded, her face a peculiar blend of alarm and wit. "I see what you mean, Antoine, but it is worse for me. These kids came out of me"--she placed her palm on her stomach--"and I can still feel that. I gave birth to them, they were lovely for years, and now this." I could only add, feebly, "I know, I was there when they were born." She had smirked.
Early January, the no-smoking ban hits France. Funnily enough, submitting to it is easier than I thought. And there are so many people like me puffing away in the freezing cold in front of restaurants and offices that I feel I am part of a conspiracy. A blue-fingered one. I hear that Serge has returned. Lucas tells me he is home. I can't help wondering if Astrid ever told him about us, about that night after Pauline's funeral. And how he took it. Back at the office, Parimbert proves to be a troublemaker, just like his obnoxious son-in-law. Beneath the bland exterior and the beguiling smile, he rules with an iron fist. Negotiating with him is a punishing task that leaves me drained of vitality.
The only bright light in my bleak existence was the surprise birthday party thrown for me by Helene, Didier, and Emmanuel. This took place at Didier's apartment. Didier is a colleague, but the difference between him and me is that we started out roughly at the same time and he has gravitated to another galaxy of success and prosperity. He never became bigheaded about it. He could have. The only thing we now have in common is that his wife left him for a younger man, some arrogant Eurotrash banker from the city. His ex-wife, whom I was quite fond of, became Posh Spice's clone. Her remarkable Grecian nose now looks like an electrical plug. Didier is a tall, emaciated fellow with long, thin hands and a startling howl of a laugh. He lives in a spectacular loft in the twentieth arrondissement, near Menilmontant, converted from a vast old warehouse tucked away between two dilapidated buildings. When he bought it all those years ago, we'd sniggered, hooting that he'd freeze his ass off in the winter and bake during the summer. But he ignored us and slowly transformed the place into a centrally heated air-conditioned glass-and-brick glory that had us all green with envy.
I had not given much thought to my upcoming forty-fourth birthday. There was a time when, as a family man, it was endearing to receive presents from my children--those clumsy drawings and lopsided ceramic creations. But I was no longer a family man. And I knew I would spend my birthday evening alone. As I had last year. That morning, I received a text message from Melanie and one from Astrid. And one from Patrick and Suzanne, who had gone off on a long trip east. I think I would have done just that if I had lost my daughter. My father usually never remembered my birthday. But surprisingly, he called me at the office. How soft and tired his voice sounded, I thought. Not at all the trumpetlike, bossy tone of yesterday.
"Do you want to come over for a bite for your birthday?" he said. "It will be just you and me. Regine has a bridge dinner."
The avenue Kleber. The orange and brown seventies dining room with overbright lighting. My father and me, face-to-face at the oval table. His spotted, trembling hand pouring out the wine. You should go, Antoine. He's an old man now, he's probably lonely. You should make an effort, do something for him for once. For once.
"Thanks, but I have other plans for tonight."
Liar. Coward.
When I hung up, guilt took over. I should call him back, say that I could make it finally. I uneasily turned to my computer, back to the Think Dome. The Think Dome, no matter how it had made me chortle in the beginning, was taking up a lot of energy, but in a surprisingly motivating way. This was the first time in ages I found myself working on a project I enjoyed, that egged me on, that stimulated me. I had researched igloos, their history, their specificity. I had looked up domes, remembered the beautiful ones I had visited in Florence, in Milan. I sketched page after page, drew shapes and forms I never imagined I could think up, hatched ideas I never thought I could possibly conceive.
A little beep signaled an incoming e-mai
l. It was from Didier: "Need your advice about an important business deal. A guy you worked with. Can you drop in tonight at around eightish? Urgent."
I e-mailed back: "Yes, of course."
So when I turned up on Didier's doorstep, I was not expecting anything at all. He greeted me, let me in, poker-faced. I followed him into the huge main room, which I found oddly silent, as if a hush had fallen over it, and all of sudden, screams and shouts exploded from all around me. Bewildered, I discovered Helene and her husband, Melanie, Emmanuel, and two women I did not know, who ended up being Emmanuel's and Didier's new ladies. Music was turned on full blast, champagne was produced, pate and tarama, salads, sandwiches, fruit, and a chocolate cake, followed by a shower of presents. I was delighted. For the first time in what seemed ages, I relaxed, enjoyed the champagne, enjoyed being the center of attention.
Didier kept looking at his watch, I couldn't think why. When the doorbell rang, he rushed to his feet.
"Ah," he announced, "the piece de resistance."
And he opened the door with a flourish.
She glided in, wearing a long white dress, an astounding dress for the middle of winter, just like that, out of nowhere, her chestnut hair tied back, a mysterious smile hovering on her lips.
"Happy birthday, Mister Parisian," she whispered, a la Marilyn Monroe, and she came to kiss me.
Everybody clapped and cheered. I caught Melanie and Didier exchanging triumphant glances and guessed they had rigged all this up behind my unsuspecting back. Nobody could take their eyes off Angele. Emmanuel gawked and discreetly gave me a jovial thumbs-up. I could tell that the ladies--Helene, Patricia, and Karine--were longing to ask Angele about her job. I imagined she was used to this. She was most likely questioned like this every day. When the first timid question came, something like, "How can you handle dead people all day long?" she answered, without being flippant, "Because it helps other people stay alive."
A Secret Kept Page 18
