And that’s where I want to stay—but then can’t because the sweetness of the bird is turning slightly bitter and the bones have announced themselves. When I think about forcing them down my throat, a wave of nausea passes through me. And that’s when, with great difficulty, I swallow everything.
Afterward, I hold still for a moment, head bowed and hooded. I can feel my heart racing. Slowly, the sounds of the room filter back—the ting of wineglasses against plates, a shout back in the kitchen, laughter from another place. And then, underneath it, something soft and moving. Lungs filling and emptying. I can hear people breathing.
After the president’s second ortolan—he had appeared from beneath the hood, wide-eyed, ecstatic, staring into a dark corner of the room—the guests approached him in groups of two and three and made brief small talk about the affairs of the country or Zola or the weather. They knew this was adieu, and yet they hid their sadness; they acted as if in a month’s time he would still be among them.
And what about him? There was nothing left to subtract now. What of the white river that flowed through his childhood, the purple attic full of cornhusks? And then his beautiful books—Dostoyevsky, Voltaire, Camus? How would the world continue without him in it?
He tried to flail one last time against the proof of his death. But then he had no energy left. Just an unhappy body weighted with grapefruits, curving earthward. Everything moving toward the center and one final flash of pain. Soon after, he refused food and medicine; death took eight days.
“I’m eaten up inside,” he said before he was carried from the room.
We wake late and senseless, hungover from food and wine, alone with our thoughts, feeling guilty and elated, sated and empty.
The day after Mitterrand’s last meal seems to have no end. Huddled together, we wander the streets of Bordeaux, everyone on the sidewalks turning silver in the half-light. And then we drive out toward Jarnac, the village where Mitterrand is buried—through the winding miles of gnarled fruit trees in the gray gloom. We visit Mitterrand’s tomb, a simple family sarcophagus in a thickly populated graveyard, and stand on the banks of his childhood river.
If I could, I would stay right here and describe the exact details of that next day. I would describe how we watched children riding a carousel until twilight, all of their heads tilting upward, hands fluttering and reaching for a brass ring that the ride master manipulated on a wire, how the stone village looked barbaric in the rain, with its demented buildings blackened by soot from the cognac distilleries.
We just seemed to be sleepwalking. Or vanishing. Until later. Until we were lost and the streets had emptied. Until night came and the wind carried with it the taste of salt water and the warm light in the boulangerie window shone on loaves of bread just drawn from the oven. And we were hungry again.
For Sara,
every page of it:
wonder, thanks, ridiculous love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Sloan Harris, mudder/gentleman/warrior, there from the first word, my unswerving gratitude.
To Andy Ward, the twenty-minute Cortez solo of editors and friends—thank you for all … again.
To Jim Nelson, of polymathic mind and adventurous spirit, who has sent me far afield to find myself over and over again, thank you.
To David Granger, who has done the same, big gratitude.
To Peter Griffin, who edited seven of these pieces: Seven times thank you for showing me how.
To Colin Harrison, who took the first chance, my indebtedness.
For their generous support of these essays and stories, and for helping to improve them in their various moments of need, huge and humble appreciation goes to the great ones: Joel Lovell, Donovan Hohn, Ilena Silverman, Devin Friedman, Andrew Corsello, Gerry Marzorati, Lewis Lapham, Mark Warren, and Daniel Riley.
Among all the diligent fact-checkers, researchers, and others who helped bring these stories to life, outstanding debts are owed to Dan Torday, Raha Naddaf, Greg Veis, Luke Zaleski, Genevieve Roth, Kyla Jones, Nurit Zunger, Luke Mogelson, Bob Scheffler, Andrew Chaikivaky, John Kenney, Kevin McDonald, Alex French, Julie Greenberg, Angela Riechers, and Aida Edemariam.
Among those who read in a pinch, advised, encouraged, published and republished, and repeatedly stuck up for the efforts here as friends and professionals, heartfelt gratitude to Bill Lychack, Miles Harvey, Dan Coyle, Wil Hylton, Laura Hohnhold, Will Dana, Mark Bryant, Adam Moss, Dave Eggers, Robert Draper, Tom Junod, Tim Cahill, Patsy Sims, Norman Sims, Paige Williams, Michael Hainey, Tom Lake, Evan Ratliff, Doug Stanton, Justin Heckert, Liz Gilbert, Wright Thompson, Chris Jones, Sean Flynn, Jeanne Marie Laskas, Jenny Rosenstrach, Cammie McGovern, the Chautauqua Element, Ira Glass, Alix Spiegel, Kim Wasco, Charlie Baxter, Nicholas Delbanco, Anton Shammas, and Chris Heath.
To all the translators, fixers, and photographers with whom I’ve been privileged to collaborate—including Carlos Gomez in Spain and Tony Kieffer in China—my great luck has been to see these stories through your eyes, and art, too. And to those who indulged and sustained these efforts with food and drink, provocations and curiosity, including the Freaks and the Portland posse, thank you.
To the subjects of these stories who opened their worlds to me in a thousand unexpected ways, my appreciation and awe.
This book couldn’t have happened without the beneficence and support of Susan Kamil, another guardian angel. And those at Random House who made it real, with thanks: Gina Centrello, Kaela Myers, Benjamin Dreyer, London King, Theresa Zoro, Leigh Marchant, Erika Seyfried, Giselle Roig, Evan Camfield, Amelia Zalcman, and Chelsea Cardinal. And, as well, the ICMers who’ve done tireless work on my behalf: Ron Bernstein, Liz Farrell, Heather Karpas, Heather Bushong, John DeLaney, Kristyn Keene, Michael Griffo, Katharine Cluverius. Betsy Robbins, Gordon Wise, and Sophie Baker.
My most treasured readers are my parents—and my extended family—whose support has been invaluable. To my children, Leo, May, and Nicholas: I hope that in reading these someday, you’ll realize there was a reason your dad sometimes looked a little cross-eyed in the morning. You made the hardest writing moments easy. This record was made for you, too, with love.
ALSO BY MICHAEL PATERNITI
The Telling Room
Driving Mr. Albert
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Paterniti’s writing has appeared in publications including The New York Times Magazine, National Geographic, Harper’s, Outside, Esquire, and GQ, where he works as a correspondent. He is the author of two books, Driving Mr. Albert and The Telling Room. He lives in Portland, Maine, with his wife, the writer Sara Corbett, and their three children.
Love and Other Ways of Dying Page 42
