Elle

by Philippe Djian

  “What if we just decide he’s old enough to work it out on his own? Anna made a mistake giving him that money.”

  “Excuse me, Richard. How can you say Vincent is old enough to work it out on his own? Are you joking? Has he proved anything at all? I don’t know, has he crossed any deserts or sailed any oceans or scaled any mountains before he wound up in Josie’s arms? So why on earth should we recognize qualities in him that he has never, as far as I know, exhibited? Just because he’s our son? And so that would make him smarter than other people?”

  “Well, yes. Why not?”

  I don’t forget that he thinks he writes the best screenplays in the world—his work for TV, he says, isn’t worth speaking of. I’ve often seen him brooding at his desk after getting a refusal or finding the object of his dreams returned by regular mail, and I never made out even a hint of self-doubt. And more than anything I loved that strength he embodies, that self-assurance he exudes, while all I wanted was to crawl under a rock, curl up in total darkness, and not even dare to mention my name ever again.

  “What would you say,” I reply, “about a mother who just watches her son barreling over the edge without lifting a finger? Just to see if he’s a big boy who could work it out on his own.”

  Silence is all the answer I get. But I can hear his breathing, and the water flapping in his tub. Outside the weather is fine but the wind is blowing pretty hard, roaring against the windowpanes and the trees getting twisted every which way.

  “Don’t take everything I say so hard,” I tell him with a sigh. “I know you think what you’re doing is for the best. But you don’t know him that well. Well, I mean, you do know him well, but you assume he’s strong, you ignore his weaknesses and you send him off to slaughter.”

  “To slaughter? Your choice of words, Christ!”

  “Your son is slinging french fries at a Mickey D’s, Richard. Maybe it’s time you opened your eyes.”

  “Selling french fries at the age of twenty-four never killed anybody.”

  “But it appears that now he has a wife and a child to look after. Do you see the difference that makes, or don’t you? Look. Bringing up a child means going all the way, you don’t just stop in midstream. And I know you’re going to tell me that at his age it’s not leaving him high and dry, that it’s time for him to strike out on his own, but just consider for one second the possibility that he has walked into a trap. Try to picture that. You wouldn’t help him? He won’t listen to me anymore. But you, can’t you explain to him that she is not his wife and that her child is not his child? Can’t you get him to listen to reason?”

  “Look, I think he’s old enough to see to his own business. That’s what I think.”

  “No, hang on. What are you saying to me, Richard? I don’t follow you.”

  “You understand me very well.”

  “Am I to understand that you’re not going to do anything? That you’re just going to stand there watching? What is wrong with you? Have you gone crazy, too? Are you doing this on purpose?”

  This time he’s the one who hangs up. But because I anticipated his reaction, I don’t feel a thing. It’s not as stinging, no, not quite an exclamation point.

  I look outside, the trees on the avenue, the black monolithic Areva Tower, the wind over the rooftops, the tiny passersby all bundled up, leaning over, the race of clouds across the sky. It’s only a few days before Christmas. The hardest part is holding still and watching the disaster happen. Knowing but doing nothing. We will live to regret it, that much is obvious.

  I grab a few screenplays and go to visit my mother. In the lobby, I buy some magazines and two mixed salads. On my way up in the elevator, I realize that my mother can no longer read or eat—or speak, or walk, or bat her eyelashes (which she used to do so well). I hide a twitch of sadness with my hand.

  You never know, so I read to her for a while. The Old World continues to decline, offering its soul up to evil bankers. I admit I’m a little afraid that she’ll suddenly wake up and be all over me about whether or not I’ve honored my so-called moral obligations regarding her dear husband.

  Did she honor hers by living life hell-bent for leather, violating every moral code she could? What atrocious maneuver did she not try to get me to go see my father? What contemptible low blow did she not use to bend me to her will? This severe concussion thing stands out only for its disgusting perfidy and its lack of concern for others.

  It’s midafternoon but it’s starting to get dark. An airplane crosses the sky, leaving its trail of white in a gentle curve toward the setting sun, veiled in milky orange, its back end breaking up, little by little, then disappearing entirely in the blue. “You can’t stay mad at me,” I say. “You know it, you can’t pretend you didn’t know.” The salad is awful, full of much-too-salty black olives. Somebody came in today and fixed her hair and I feel guilty.

  I can’t stare at her for too long. Otherwise I start crying. But provided I only glance at her, never looking too long at her face (the skin of which looks like cardboard), provided I only glimpse her briefly, never lingering, then I can stand the act of sitting by my comatose mother, holding her cold hand, waiting for who knows what while gazing out the window. Late in the afternoon, they start hanging colored balls and tinsel in the hallway. “There is no way I’m going, Mom. I don’t know if you can hear me, but there is absolutely no way I’m going. He’s nothing to me now. I’m ashamed of the part of me that is linked to him, don’t make me repeat it over and over again, five hundred times. I didn’t blame you for visiting him all those times, I let you do it. I respected your point of view, now you respect mine. Don’t force me to do something I find unbearable. You’re his wife, I’m his daughter. We don’t have the same take on things. You were with him by choice. Not that I blame you, you couldn’t have guessed. But not me. His blood runs in my veins. You understand what the problem is? I’m not sure you do. I don’t think you ever really put yourself in my shoes. The very fact that you demand such a thing of me proves that you have never put yourself in my shoes at all.”

  I stop talking when a male nurse comes in to see if everything’s all right.

  Ralf gets there when I’m on my way out. He takes the opportunity to speak to me once again about his staying in Irène’s apartment. “Just don’t burn the place down, that’s all I ask,” I tell him. “Apart from that, we’ll just wait and see.”

  Ralf is a mystery. What exactly is he after? Unless he’s got a thing for old ladies, I don’t see what he expects from this affair with my mother. I don’t get the feeling that Irène is an uncommon sexual partner—though I can’t deny she has considerable experience. Richard advises me not to worry about it. “You’re right,” I say. “I really shouldn’t. So, fine, we don’t invite him over.” It’s better that way. I don’t even speak of Hélène’s presence at this family dinner, but I certainly have a thought or two. I let Richard do what he feels he has to. He has a soul, a conscience. He’s free to choose, so let him choose. We have a drink at a sunny but miraculously sheltered café with the snow that fell overnight shimmering in crystals on the sidewalks. It’s not very cold. “But we could invite Patrick and his wife,” I say. “What do you think? A little new blood. They’re nice.”

  “He’s not nice. He works for a bank.”

  “Yes, I know. Well, let’s say I’m using my joker. Let’s try to make it as cheery as possible. Please. Let’s think about something new.”

  He takes my hands and rubs them with his, but he knows that I will never forgive him for having slapped me, and that these little acts of tenderness—stroking my back, holding me to his shoulder, massaging my ankles, and so on—are now performed with a sigh. Not so long ago, he said to me, “Three years, Michèle. Almost three years, over a thousand days. Can’t we—”

  I interrupted, “Certainly not, Richard. You’re dreaming. Not everything can be absolved, unfortunately. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. No one can do anything about it, Richard. We just have to accept that.”


  I absolutely abhor this display of sentimentalism that comes over both of us, here and there, at the evocation of a memory or upon having a drink, making us, stupidly, almost maudlin. Stupidly, because completely without hope of improvement. No hope for individual redemption, no chance to remove the stain. In that sense he’s like my father, that inclination to be condemned, their irreparable acts banishing them, precluding forever the possibility of reprieve.

  But he’s been feeling much better lately, much more accepting of the fact that he is responsible for our permanent breakup because he raised his hand to me, then let it fall hard against my cheek. He’s much more accepting of the fact that since he’s met Hélène he’s lost me forever. I really think he’s not going to die of sorrow, that this girl’s effect on him is akin to a powerful antidepressant.

  I take my hands back, the sun is still shining. His whining isn’t quite so heart-wrenching since he’s been sleeping with her. He seems slightly fresher, in better shape, you can tell by the way he’s smiling at me now—I had forgotten that he could smile like that—by the patience he is showing. It’s really depressing. This girl comes along and she gets only the good stuff. I order vodka. I smoke a cigarette.

  Richard makes some food suggestions, I nod, hardly listening. I haven’t had much appetite since Irène has been in the hospital. I’ve even been a little nauseous. I hope I’m not pregnant. Only kidding. I mean, how could I be? Besides getting raped, my sex life has been dry as a desert for a while, which it hasn’t been for him, that much is obvious.

  Mom dies during midnight mass. We have left the table, opened the presents, started drinking Bollinger already and we don’t regret it at all. It’s an amiable family moment. Outside, despite the neighborhood being covered in snow, the weather is practically warm and some of us step out for a smoke. I thought there might be a little tension between Anna and Josie, but Anna quickly had a few drinks and was soon in high spirits—so much so that she actually went over and caressed Édouard-baby’s cheek while he slept in his mother’s arms. The sky is clear and full of stars. Rébecca, Patrick’s wife, is a short redhead with chiseled features—she pronounces the stars gorgeous. He then informs us that she was baptized only a few months ago, at her express request, following a mystical experience she had while visiting the Beauvais Cathedral, and that she would very much like to watch a few minutes of the midnight mass if this didn’t bother anyone. “No, go right ahead. Just turn the sound down,” I say. At that very moment my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  At first, I can hear nothing. Distant crackling. I get up and walk over to the front door, asking the person to repeat what they said, it’s a weak signal. I walk outside. I say, “Yes? Hello?” and that’s when they tell me she’s dead. I don’t know what to say. I go, “Oh?” and I hang up right away, set my phone not to take any more calls. I shiver.

  For a second, I think about calling the hospital back to make sure I heard right. I sit down in a wicker armchair she gave us when Richard and I moved into this house and it makes the horrible groaning noise I want to make, but I remain silent. For a second, I clutch the armrests and wait for the earthquake to be over. When it’s over, I’m clammy, my temples are moist. The moon shines splendid over the woods, Paris shimmering in the distance. A hedgehog crosses the garden in front of me. I can hear the hum of conversations. I turn around and see Anna and Vincent having a smoke on one side, and Patrick on the other with Robert, who has found someone to whom he can explain the perfect science of the cigar.

  Everything is where it should be, all peace and quiet. No one has noticed a thing. I force myself to slow my breathing, to contain my heartbeat.

  I stand up. I smile with no trouble. I ask them if they want anything, then go inside laughing at a remark Robert made and of which I did not understand a single word, but I act like everything is perfectly normal. They don’t notice a thing. I go inside. Rébecca is sitting on the couch with her legs crossed, staring wide-eyed at the silent images of midnight mass. The three others are standing around the fireplace with drinks. I sit down next to Rébecca.

  “I just found out that my mother is dead,” I say, now also staring at the live feed from Notre-Dame Cathedral.

  She looks at me and merely nods. I don’t know where she is exactly, but she’s not here, not sitting next to me. I smile at her. By confiding this awful news to her, I have loosened its grip. And at the same time, I have maintained control of it. I don’t have to share it with the others and Rébecca sure isn’t going to give me away. I ask her if she wants some herb tea or a slice of ice cream cake. She’s thrilled about both. I take her order. I had remembered her as sort of strange and diaphanous, but nothing like this. I go into the kitchen for the herb tea. As I go by, Richard gives me a little friendly wink, and if he can’t tell, if nothing seems out of the ordinary to him, then the camouflage is excellent.

  When I come back with a tray for Rébecca, the others come inside, bringing an odor of frozen earth with them. The conversations start up again, eyes meet, and very soon I am gently floating among them, my terrible secret clutched to my breast like a warm talisman.

  At dawn, I close my door on the heels of Robert and Anna, last to leave, and I feel like I have won Irène—and myself—a few hours’ reprieve, that we had enjoyed them, spending a last few moments together, on the sidelines, the two of us, alone like we used to be, with no one else to count on, and I am extremely glad. It calms my nerves. I remain on the doorstep a few seconds, waiting for them to leave, waiting for Robert to find the keys to his car. A blackbird lands a few feet away from me and from the way he cocks his head and eyes me, all full of bluster, you would think he and I were old friends, that we both knew very well what it was all about. Before I go up to bed, I cut him a few slices of apple and serve them to him in a small plate.

  I wake up in midafternoon and start to spread the grievous news, getting my share of embarrassed silences and wishes of courage to get through this ordeal, offers of help of every kind, but I don’t want to see anyone and I manage to get rid of all these would-be generous souls.

  Except for Patrick. His visit has nothing to do with Irène’s death—which he doesn’t know about yet. He’s here on a search-and-retrieve mission, the object of which is a certain chain bracelet that has no particular value but that Rébecca brought back from a pilgrimage to Lourdes. “I’m sorry, but she’s absolutely freaked she might have lost it,” he says, trying to squeeze his hand between the seat back and the cushion of the sofa where his young wife lounged all evening. “Thank you so much once again for a wonderful Christmas Eve,” he adds, even as he continues fiercely searching, knees bent, brow knitted, one arm into my cushions up to his biceps. I wave off his thanks, even as I observe the man kneeling at my feet. When I opened the door he was standing there with the mist floating all around, and I could hear barking far off, as if he had crossed through cotton.

  It’s only four but there is little light left. How many times have I done it right there on that couch, with Richard, or with Robert, or with that violinist or whoever else, over all those years?

  “And bang, there you go!” he says, brandishing the bracelet and smiling from ear to ear.

  My crotch is approximately at the level of his nose, about three feet away. Naturally, I’m not wearing the wrong bathrobe this time. I have the long one on, but I let it cautiously loosen in front. I wait. He keeps smiling and doesn’t move. I look up and admire the snowcapped firewood in the blue light of evening, then I figure time is up and I turn around to head for the door. “Irène left us this morning,” I blurt. “Sorry I can’t invite you to stay for something, Patrick, but I need to be alone. Give Rébecca my love, would you?”

  He rises, seemingly tripping over several sudden emotions, but Irène’s death seems to win the day and he backs off. He mutters some feeble apologies and kisses my hands, but it’s too late if he’s thinking sex now, things I was thinking less than a minute ago and that now have unfortunately vanished in my
mind—there’s no controlling these things.

  Our offices are closed between Christmas and New Year’s, so I use those few days to see to terrible matters—funeral arrangements and sorting through her things.

  Losing your mother over the holidays is particularly hard because the funeral parlors are on a skeleton crew and a varnished unreality of suspended time and numbness is added to the pain, making the passing of the person who carried you in her womb all the more stressful and incomprehensible.

  Ralf promises he will move out before the end of January. That’s a long way off, but I let it go. I can easily understand that he can’t just find another place to live in two seconds, so I accept it. We work out a few times during the week when, disturbing him as little as possible, I can come over and start going through Irène’s things, putting them in boxes.

  I dart a quick look around the apartment, just to get an idea, I tell him, of how big a move I’m in for. I make him aware of the funeral arrangements I’ve made as well, in case he decides to attend.

  I’ve hurt his feelings. The idea that I could think for one second that he might not come to Irène’s funeral has wounded him deeply.

  “I only meant that you have no formal obligation, Ralf, but you are welcome, you know that.”

  I discover the quick temper I hadn’t seen in him before. Richard says it doesn’t surprise him, that he had a feeling the second he laid eyes on him. “That slightly forced smile of his, you could just tell. A real pain in the ass.”

  “Yes, you’re right. But he was sleeping with her only a little while ago. That counts for something. He’s not some distant cousin. He held her in his arms, he kissed her, rubbed himself against her. It’s sort of horrifying.”

  “What’s horrifying?”

  “What’s horrifying? Well, I mean this relationship they had, how he knew her, their age difference, their intimacy. It’s awful, you know? There were two things she wanted. She wanted to get married again and I was opposed to it. Totally. That’s the first thing. The other was about my father. She wanted me to go see him at least once before it was too late and he completely lost his head. Which I refused to do. What do you think? All in all, it’s not a pretty picture, right? I figure Ralf might be the last person who gave her pleasure—it certainly wasn’t me, anyway, and I’m awfully ashamed, horribly sad about that.”