“The two archangels had taken human form.”
“You can say that again, more human than those two doesn’t exist!”
“And Cousin Vincent? Did he name his son Raphael?”
“No, he didn’t. He named him Victor.”
“I’m going out to dinner tonight.”
“Is he good-looking?”
“Yes.”
“Intelligent?”
“Yes.”
Since we’d be alone that evening, I suggested to Catherine that she choose a restaurant she liked and I’d treat for dinner. As we walked in front of the museum, we passed a violinist who was playing Schubert. Catherine was about to walk by without the least glance in the direction of the musician.
“What are you doing?” I asked her with surprise.
“What do you mean what am I doing? I’m walking to the restaurant. We have to go up via Solferino.”
“So don’t you give musicians money anymore?”
“When I feel like it I do.”
“Ah.”
I bent down to place a coin in his open case. I had always taught Catherine to give money to musicians. I consider it the least we can do given all the beauty they bring to the street, and since she was very young Catherine always did. Watch out, Christiane, you old biddy, and don’t cover with some political argument your old mother octopus reflexes. But I can’t resist: “Well, I always feel like it.”
Catherine shrugged her shoulders as though to say that was my problem.
The restaurant where we had reserved a table for two was run by a charming gentleman — a man who seemed to come straight from the sort of book I love, books filled with strong-willed characters and heroes who don’t age. He was very elegant with round red eyeglass frames and a magnificent mustache that gave him an air of Colonel Chabert or Count Vronsky. He wore Scottish plaid trousers and two-toned shoes — I found him simply stunning. Besides that, he spoke to me in excellent French. I don’t have much of an appetite anymore except for seafood, but the meal was delicious. I don’t know if it was the Dolcetto d’Alba or being alone with my daughter, but I really enjoyed my evening.
“You know, Catherine, I was very pleased with you in the car yesterday.”
“Oh really, why?”
She looked at me while holding a fork full of zucchini stuffed with ricotta near her mouth and waited for my answer.
“That seems to surprise you.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Why?”
“Because most of the time I don’t please you very much.”
“Oh, why do you say that?”
“Because you criticize me all the time.”
“You’re the one who criticizes me all the time,” I replied a little too emphatically.
“I criticize you because you criticize me.”
“Oh Catherine, are you serious?”
“Are you saying you don’t realize it? ‘Catherine, you’re too serious,’ ‘Catherine, you’re too boring,’ ‘Catherine, you have no imagination, no seductive side, no devilishness,’ and on and on.”
“Oh my poor dear, it’s terrible to think that. You’re severe too: ‘Mother, you’re a windbag,’ ‘Mother, why are you still smoking at your age?’ ‘Mother, you can’t do anything right.’ Sometimes I get the feeling you are trying to raise me.”
“It’s true I find your constant search for some new angle irritating.”
“What do you mean, my search for a new angle?”
“It’s like you’re constantly trying to be original and I find it irritating. It’s true, Mother, why can’t you just do the normal thing once in a while?”
“And you, why can’t you ever get off the beaten path?”
“Because you’re my mother and I’ve had my fill of walks through the jungle. I’ve always dreamed of a humble cottage and garden. I always needed a well-marked, orderly space, but you always found that boring. So how did I please you driving yesterday?”
“I don’t dare say anymore.”
“Okay, got it. Do you see how predictable you are behind your grand originality?”
“You’re mean.”
“Right, get it out there! So I pleased you when I yelled at the car that cut me off and lowered my window to insult the guy.”
I stared humbly at my plate. That was in fact what had pleased me so much. She said everything in Italian and I didn’t understand a word, but it came out of her like a geyser and I was really pleased to see her let loose for once.
“You see, I know you pretty well, don’t I?” After an awkward moment of silence, she continued: “So you see, I resemble your mother. I like routines, muted colors, and clichés.”
“My mother would never have insulted the driver the way you did yesterday.”
“Well, I have a little bit of you, a tiny little bit, just a few drops.”
I pretended that I needed to go to the ladies’ room. In fact I was overcome with the most horrible desire to cry. I hated myself. Just at the moment when my dear daughter was finally confronting the problem she had with me, the big crumbling and stumbling baby that I was collapsed into a sullen puddle. I closed the toilet seat, sat down, and started plugging my tear ducts.
When I returned to the table she was speaking with the restaurant owner.
“Mother, Italo says you’re magnificent.”
“It’s true, you are superb!” He rolled his r’s in a charming way.
“You are very kind, but really I don’t think I am. I wasn’t bad-looking when I was young, a very long time ago.”
“But this exaggerated emphasis on youth is unbearable. It’s gone in the blink of an eye and people spend the rest of their long lives thinking only of that short season.”
“It’s true,” I said, amused. “But it’s especially you men who adore youth. We women, I think we’d be more comfortable with the passage of time if we weren’t terrified of losing you.”
“I’m not like that. On the contrary, the young get on my nerves.”
“Really? The young make me gentler. And you, Catherine?”
“They intrigue me. I was never young.”
The restaurant owner left to attend to other guests and we remained silent for a moment.
“I’m sorry to have caused you pain,” said Catherine, holding out her hand.
“Don’t feel sorry. It’s good to speak openly with each other.”
“I want you to know that despite everything I love you very much.”
“Of course, I know that. I have no resentment, I assure you. And perhaps you’re right that I’m judgmental without realizing it. In any case I’m enormously pleased with you, Catherine.”
“No, you love me a lot, but I don’t please you. It’s people like your new friend Josephine who please you.”
“Why do you bring her up? Josephine pleases me a lot, but you’re my daughter.”
“If we had crossed paths at university, you would never have wanted to get to know me.”
“Well there you’re totally mistaken! I would certainly have become your best friend.”
“So your Josephine, it’s just an act then? Just because you think it’s cool to be friends with a young, poor black woman?”
“A generous, intelligent, funny, and courageous black woman.”
“Is that true?”
“Yes, very true. If you knew Josephine better, you would be fond of her too — and if you knew me better, you’d know that I don’t want to change anything about you.”
“Shall we go home?”
“Yes, of course.”
I paid the bill, we said a warm goodbye to the original and clever owner, and then we stepped out into the hot night air.
When we passed by the violinist again, Catherine placed a five-euro bill into his case. I pretended not to have not
iced.
Chapter Twenty
I’ve only kept fragmentary memories of the war, pieces that don’t fit together, like an abandoned picture puzzle. I remember my mother’s cousin Géraud, a good-for-nothing who was too young to fight but helped us out some. I remember how it seemed there were only women because all the men had gone off to fight. I also remember kind Jeanne who tried to get us to like Jerusalem artichokes. I also remember my mother being surprisingly active and courageous. She spent a lot of time praying, but she also worked long hours in the vegetable garden behind the stables, sewing clothes to give away, even house cleaning when there was no one else to do it. I don’t know about Gabriel, but for me these memories are mostly warm and pleasant. I was about twelve then and was perfectly capable of donning a serious look when the war was under discussion, but I didn’t have the faintest idea about fear tying one’s stomach in knots or the anxiety of death and defeat.
It was precisely in the bull’s-eye of my juvenile confidence in existence that fate struck its fatal blow, the event that breaks forever the balance of one’s life, transporting the person from the morning’s sweetness to night’s biting cold.
We were at the table when out the window we saw Aunt Bette’s car coming down the allée.
“When I’m older I’ll drive like Aunt Bette,” I said as I ate my soup.
“I’m not sure that’s proper for a woman.”
“Why not? You don’t have to wear a bathing suit to drive!” Gabriel quipped.
“Don’t be insolent, Gabriel! You know that’s not what I meant. Just imagine if she had a mechanical problem and found herself alone in the middle of nowhere. She’d be prey to who knows what scoundrel.”
“But what if you sprain your ankle on the way back from church? It’s the same thing!”
Incensed, Mother was about to come back with another remark of her own when Aunt Bette, looking pale and trembling, walked in.
“Marguerite, can you come with me right away?”
“Where?”
“Follow me.”
Mother followed her. Gabriel and I ran immediately to one of the large windowpanes to spy on them and try to understand what it might be about. We saw Aunt Bette speaking with our mother, who then put her head in her hands, and Aunt Bette hugged her. They then walked to the car, got in and drove off.
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know but it looks serious,” Gabriel answered somberly.
“Papyrus?” I asked trembling.
“Of course not! She would have told us, we’re his children, aren’t we?”
“It’s true,” I said heaving a big sigh.
“I bet it’s Uncle Geoffroy, you know.”
“Poor man! But I’d rather it be him than Papyrus!”
“Sure, but he is awfully nice, Uncle Geoffroy.”
“That’s true. How do you think it happened?” I asked Gabriel.
“He must have got a bullet in the head.”
“Poor man. That must have hurt like hell.”
“You got that right.”
Jeanne appeared and not seeing our mother asked what was going on.
“Uncle Geoffroy is dead,” I blurted out to prevent Gabriel from having the pleasure of announcing bad news.
“How awful!” said Jeanne. “How did that happen?”
“He most likely got shot in the head,” said Gabriel.
“How awful! My little dears, what are we going to do to get your minds on something else? It’s horrible. Your uncle Geoffroy was so nice!”
I burst into tears. Honestly though, I think amid all our dramatic efforts to conjure away the possibility of losing Papyrus, there was also true sadness at the thought of losing Uncle Geoffroy. The fact is that Uncle Geoffroy would return from the front without a scratch, whereas Papyrus got a piece of shrapnel lodged in his side, but it luckily missed his spinal cord. An ambulance took him to a military hospital. He was in critical condition and an operation was performed, though they could not extract the shard from his spine. He was lucky that it hit him from the side, otherwise he would have surely died or been paralyzed.
When Aunt Bette learned the news from her husband, who had been notified by telegram, Papyrus had already been transported to the hospital in Amiens. There he continued to be in terrible pain even though he’d been given frequent injections of morphine. My mother spent several weeks traveling between Amiens, where her mother, our grandma Éléonore, lived, and Warvillers, where my brother and I stayed. Then came the truce and the Germans invaded the region. Because we were in the occupied zone, my mother had to obtain a pass to go to Amiens. She received it with no trouble, probably because Aunt Bette, who spoke fluent German, accompanied her and was therefore able to help with formulating the request.
I remember the snow that covered the Somme, the cold mornings that emerged slowly from the night, and Gabriel and me walking to school seeing our breath and hearing our steps crunch on the frosty ground as we walked in silence hurrying for once to get to school because it was a warm refuge. I remember our too heavy school satchels and our gloves and socks that were made of a coarse, itchy wool. I remember the smell of warm bread when we passed in front of the bakery and how it made our mouths water. I remember the sweet waiting period before Christmas. We knew there would be no presents, but the magic of Christmas is nevertheless indestructible in the hearts of children. I remember the crèche in a corner of the classroom and the paper stars that we painted and hung up to decorate the blackboard and Madame Valence’s desk. I also remember Pascale Dagnan, who brought a box of candy that she joyfully distributed to everyone in the class. I remember my own feeling of joy mixed with gray shades of melancholy — my first experience of a way of being happy when a feeling of safety would follow a consciousness of having escaped some danger. For example, when in my hot living room I watch the thunderstorm erupt over Saint-Sulpice. I also remember the mass when we would loudly sing Cantate Domino.
I remember well the end of a school day with little light left in the sky and all sorts of cars parked out front. There was a small white truck and the cars of Aunt Bette and Cousin Vincent. We ran as fast as we could and discovered a whole group of people in our living room.
“Ah, here are the children,” said Uncle Geoffroy with open welcoming arms. “It’s a happy day for us all: your father has come back home!”
“No, no, come back this instant!” our mother cried just as we were running up the stairs to go and hug Papyrus.
“Why?” asked Gabriel.
“Because he’s exhausted and you have to be very gentle with him,” answered Uncle Geoffroy in a grave manner.
We came back down. We were told that Papyrus was in very bad shape and that he would need months to recover and that we were to be kind and patient. All of that formed a big knot of nerves in our stomachs and Aunt Bette sensed this.
“Maybe the children could go and hug their father for just a brief moment. I think it would be reassuring for them. What do you think, Doctor Morel?”
“Yes, of course. The important thing, children, is not to tire him, do you understand? So you may go give him a kiss, but then you must leave him.”
We climbed the stairs behind Mother and Uncle Geoffroy. My heart was beating fast and I think Gabriel’s was too, even though lately he had been starting to imitate the men and play the stiff tough guy.
Our mother gently opened the door. It creaked a bit and she slipped into Papyrus’s room alone. We heard her ask him if he’d like to kiss the children and his mumbled baritone Oui in reply. She returned and motioned for us to enter. We had not seen our father for many months and this reunion was a terrible shock. He was lying in his bed seemingly with no energy whatsoever. His worn skin hung on his bones like an old yellow rag, his light-colored eyes, usually so impishly twinkling, seemed to be hiding like two frightened kittens, and his bony hands g
ripped the covers of the bed in a desperate gesture of hanging on for dear life.
I approached, terrified by this phantom of the person whom I had loved so much, but lacking the courage to bend and kiss him. I saw on Gabriel’s face a look of devastation that he tried to hide behind a forced smile.
“Gosh, Papyrus, they certainly roughed you up bad, those goddamn Krauts!”
Papyrus looked disoriented for a few seconds and then gave out a weak laugh.
“You said it!” he whispered feebly.
He then looked at me and made a gesture with his bony hand for me to come closer. I did, my heart still pounding, and when I leaned over to put my lips on his forehead, I was in tears. My mother tore me immediately from my father’s arms and apologized to him: “It’s the emotion, she missed you so much! All right, children, that’s enough for today, your father is fatigued from his journey. Say good night and be off.”
When we were out of the room Gabriel chewed me out.
“Really, Christiane, it wasn’t so great of you to start crying in his arms!”
“Stop it, Gabriel, stop it! It hurts enough already without you piling on too.”
I ran to my room sobbing. My brother followed me and for the second time in his life was unbelievably kind. He patted my hair in silence and let me cry out everything I had inside without interrupting me.
Papyrus would never die as much as he died that day. When we put him in the ground years later, I only resumed the grieving that had overwhelmed me the day of his return.
After that there was Christmas Eve and our walk through the black night to the midnight mass. Then the festivities back at the house with uncles and cousins and Aunt Bette, who was very elegant as always, and Mother taciturn and solemn as always. I remember the next morning when despite the circumstances a few presents were there to surprise us under the decorated Christmas tree, and Papyrus, leaning stiffly and painfully on two canes, made it out of his room for the first time.
The winter passed, cold and windy — the cries of menacing crows and the north wind were a fitting accompaniment to our misfortunes. Jeanne the cook never tired of trying to jolly us into better spirits — repeating that we were “pauvres choux” until we ended up believing it ourselves. And over time without us noticing we grew up. I was no longer bored, Gabriel disappeared for longer periods of time, and Mother continued her sad life between church and embroidery. We didn’t go often to the homes of Uncle Geoffroy or Cousin Vincent because our mother refused to leave Papyrus alone.
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