The Rain Watcher

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  Linden looks around at the busy main room, its yellowish moldings and stucco, its square tables with their wooden surfaces scratched by the patina of years. Regular customers sit at the bar, facing the glittering array of bottles set against mirrored shelves. He used to meet Candice here, when he lived on rue Broca. He remembers how she used to rush in, blond and sleek in her black gabardine, face lighting up when she saw him. It was a kir for her, a glass of Saint Emilion for him. He has very few photographs of Candy. She hated being photographed. After her death, he went through his archives frenetically, pulling up every image that had to do with her. He hoarded them, even if it was torture to lay eyes on her graceful features. His favorite was the one of her in the kitchen, with morning sunlight streaming in from the window, igniting her hair and outlining the steam from her cup of tea. She was wearing a red kimono, her splayed hand delicately holding a book open. He had crept up on her as she was reading and had taken the picture just as she glanced up in surprise when the floorboards creaked. Her death weighs on him still, a burden of pain and guilt that, he knows, will not lift. Coming here tonight brings her back, resurrects the happy epoch of their cohabitation. She was perhaps, along with Sacha, the one who knew him the best. It always saddens him to think Sacha and Candice never met.

  His phone vibrates with a new incoming message. It’s Oriel, asking how he is. He realizes he never answered the text message she sent him yesterday morning. He calls her, and she answers him immediately. Yes, he’s still around. His father had a stroke on Saturday evening, in the middle of the anniversary dinner, and is at the Pompidou hospital, which will be emptied tomorrow morning because of the inundations. They’re not sure yet about his state. Oriel sounds stunned. With empathy and sensitivity, she says she hopes his father will pull through, and what bad luck about the evacuation. The reason she texted him was because she has an interesting proposal for him. Tomorrow afternoon, she will be accompanying her friend Matthieu, from the city hall, on a boat around the flooded Javel district, in the fifteenth arrondissement. She has managed to secure a pass and a badge for Linden, so that he has a place on the boat, and can take photos. The meeting point is at place Cambronne, at two o’clock. Can he make it? Yes, he wants to see this. Depending on his father’s condition, he will gladly join them. He thanks her. Is he aware of how some streets are already totally submersed? He’s seen them on TV, but he imagines it’s probably awfully different in real life. That’s right, she says. It is. And she adds it is a shock.

  They talk for a little longer while he savors the wine. Out of the corner of his eye, he observes a young man sitting in the banquette opposite him, on the other side of the room. He is in his late twenties, with a pale complexion, short black hair, and huge horn-rimmed glasses. The young man’s dark eyes have not lifted once from Linden’s face. He can feel the pressure of his gaze like warmth settling on his skin. When he hangs up with Oriel, the black eyes are still fixed upon him, and now there is a slight smile hovering over the well-drawn mouth. Linden looks away, down at his phone. It’s a rousing game. He’s played it before, but never since Sacha came into his life. Linden is not into one-night stands, painful vestiges of his adolescence. However tempting, he won’t glance back at the far corner. After a while, the young man gets up, slips into a coat, not looking his way once. As he passes Linden with studied insouciance, he drops a piece of paper on the table and darts out of the revolving doors without a backward glance. On it, Linden discovers a mobile number and a name. Smiling, he crumples the scrap of paper up. He sends a text message to Sacha: Just got picked up at a Montparnasse bar by a cutie.

  Sacha’s response is instantaneous: AND??

  And nothing. I miss you. I love you. I want to be in your arms. I can’t stand going through all this without you. I can’t stand flooded, rainy Paris, this family situation, and your not being here.

  Sacha calls him, right there and then, and just hearing his voice fills Linden with relief and joy.

  FIVE

  Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

  Et nos amours

  Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne

  La joie venait toujours après la peine

  —GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE, “LE PONT MIRABEAU”

  There are many things about that day I’ve forgotten. But other things I see clearly, so clearly. We ate the picnic and she wiped crumbs from my lips with a napkin. She said I had lovely eyes. She said women would fall in love with me when I was grown up because my eyes were so blue. It made me blush, but it also made me happy. I felt for her all the love a four-year-old could muster, and the last thing I wanted was to grow up.

  Those golden afternoons were the highlight of my summer. I put aside my grandfather’s death. I wasn’t worried about my mother having another baby. The only thing that counted was Suzanne. My afternoons with Suzanne.

  We used to play hide-and-seek. We would go no farther than the last trees, our boundary. But the trees were planted close together and were so thickly leaved that the space beneath them was a green labyrinth you could easily get lost in. Behind which tree was Suzanne hiding? I could never tell. It was my favorite game. I was good at slipping out and flitting from trunk to trunk while she called for me. I was thrilled when she couldn’t find me and got anxious. I held my breath and waited, shivers of delight running up and down my spine while she shouted my name.

  I waited until the last minute, until her voice became desperate, until I could tell she was really beginning to worry, and then I’d spring out like a jack-in-the-box, yelling at the top of my lungs. She would cry out with relief and come running to me.

  The best part was when she hugged me with all her might, half-scolding me, and I felt her skin against mine and the caress of her hair.

  The day it happened, I was the one hiding.

  I chose the biggest tree, the ancient one in the middle, with the very thick trunk. I remember closing my eyes and hearing her count to twenty.

  And then there was silence.

  ON TUESDAY MORNING, LINDEN has an early breakfast at one of the cafés on place Edgar-Quinet before he goes to the hospital. It is still dark outside, and the rain teems down, unremitting. He watches the news on a large screen above the counter. Half of Paris is submerged. Thousands of Parisians have no electricity, no heating, no landlines. Families with small children, as well as the elderly, are now being sheltered in churches, theaters, concert halls, as there is no more room in gymnasiums and schools. The Red Cross is asking for help and donations; the army is sending in more troops. The government is under fire, and no party seems to have a better solution, despite constant backbiting and criticism. The bitter-cold temperature does not help. Petrol is being rationed; the gathering of refuse in the deluged streets is an increasing problem. Garbage-processing plants have been inundated, as well. Parked cars threatened by the overflow are removed hourly by the prefecture and sent to police impounds in dry areas out of the city. Traffic is halted in almost every arrondissement; colleges and schools are closed. Jussieu University, near the river, has been flooded. The heliport situated at Issy-les-Moulineaux, just outside Paris, sits under a meter of water. On quai François-Mauriac, the Bibliothèque nationale, repository of all that is published in France, is fighting a losing battle with the Seine. The river is still rising, greedily. If this goes on, Parisians must expect the worst. Over a million of them will be directly concerned. Thousands of cellars, basements, businesses, and homes will be damaged. Linden and most of the bleary-eyed customers listen in glum stillness. On the screen, a historian in his late forties explains that in 1910, people lived otherwise. They didn’t depend so much on communications and transport. Horses and carriages were able to face the floods, unlike cars, with easily swamped engines. Back then, many Parisians still used petrol or alcohol lamps, and lit fires in their chimneys to keep warm. That helped during the great flood. Today, in a world governed by electricity, the situation is quite different. A century ago, people were kinder to one another, the historian e
xplains. They watched out for their neighbors; they made sure everyone was dry and safe. Solidarity ruled, and this, sadly, is no longer true in our modern selfish world, he points out.

  When Linden gets to place Balard, he is startled by the amount of water in the streets compared to the day before. A wide black lagoon circles the building. Streetlamps are no longer functioning. Searchlights fixed on nearby army vans light up the area with harsh, glaring strands. Pockets of light pick out the undulation of the mounting water. The glass façade of the hospital seems ghostly, illuminated from within by the feeble bluish glow of emergency lights. Dozens of military personnel encompass the sector, adding tension to the scene. Clearly, Plan Neptune is in full deployment. The only way in is by crossing the elevated metal sidewalks. Linden takes his turn in the queue, under the rain. It is a long, drawn-out process. Some people are rejected by the patrol and have to turn back along the unsteady passage. There is barely enough room for two to stand abreast on the iron strips at the same time. One woman nearly slips into the water and is caught at the last moment by a soldier wearing a rubber-coated dry suit. Linden is asked to produce the sheet of paper proving his father’s transfer. He says he never received one. The officer replies he won’t be able to enter the hospital. No paper, no entry. Usually, in this kind of situation, Linden remains calm. His tone is always polite; his voice never rises. He is not the one with the bad temper in the Malegarde family. But this morning, confronted with the man’s unpleasant, churlish demeanor, something inside him snaps. His emotions are no longer kept in check; they leap up like avid flames. Linden yells at the man at the top of his lungs. Who the hell does this guy think he is? His father had a stroke, he might die, he needs to be transferred to another hospital, and because no one sent him the paper, he’s not allowed in? Is he hearing properly? Is this really what’s going on? Linden rarely uses his height as a weapon; he’s often embarrassed of being so tall, towering above others. This morning, his powerful stature and furious voice do the trick: The guard recoils and lets him pass. The outburst leaves a new, tearing sensation in Linden’s chest, as if something had forced its way through him.

  The sight that greets him when he enters the vast entry hall of the hospital takes him by surprise. The floor is entirely covered by rolling brown water; bits of garbage—plastic bottles, newspapers, carrier bags—bob up and down on its greasy surface. Wooden trestles and planks are lined up on one corner, creating an extended makeshift platform, on which Linden finds a cramped spot. Soldiers with lights strapped to their heads wade through waist-high muck, maneuvering pneumatic dinghies. The din of small waves slapping against the walls is broken by voices shouting out names. The rotten, decaying smell is stronger then yesterday; added to it is the overpowering stench of brimming sewers. As more and more people take their places on the wobbly podium, Linden can feel anxiety mounting. The wait is uncomfortable and endless. Dawn begins to break with a timid gray radiance. Two men curse, elbowing each other, while a woman begs them to remain calm. She is told to shut up. Another one is in tears and no one consoles her. A soldier warns the guard at the entrance, asks him to stop sending more folks through, or the whole structure will give in. Farther on, from a flight of stairs away from the wetness, medical teams transfer invalids from stretchers into dinghies, a long and complex procedure. Some are in wheelchairs, and it seems easier for those. A young woman by Linden’s side gasps at every movement, hiding her face behind her hands. He wishes she would stop; her attitude is nerve-racking. He, too, feels anxious seeing how perilous the operations are; one false move and the patient could be tipped into the dirty water.

  Above the commotion, Linden somehow catches the name Paul Malegarde and raises his arm. A doctor signals back to him, and he recognizes Brunel. How are they going to get Paul down those stairs and into the boat? And what about the rain outside? Linden sees the stretcher being heaved painstakingly down the stairs by four men. Then he notices that his father, eyes closed, with drip and oxygen in place, is ensconced within an ingenious man-size Pyrex container that looks like a glass sarcophagus. It must weigh a ton. Uneasily, he watches the casket being carefully inclined, an inch at time, and positioned into the dinghy with the help of three soldiers struggling in the water. The entire performance takes twenty minutes. The deed is at last done and Linden heaves a sigh of relief. He is told to step into a large rowboat, which is to follow his father. Behind him, on the platform, others complain. And what about them? Why is no one taking care of their sick ones? Why him, and not them? They’ve been waiting here for a long time, and then this guy gets all the attention. It’s not fair! Linden grasps the gloved hand stretched out to him and steps into the boat.

  “Ignore them,” mutters Dr. Brunel, who is in the boat, as well. “Your father’s transfer is our priority this morning. Everyone will be taken care of. They’re worrying for nothing. Are you ready for the rain now? And the press?” he adds sarcastically.

  A soldier rows the boat out of the building as the rain slams down onto them. Abundant cameras click and film the event from elevated metal sidewalks while police keep journalists at bay. Some of them, spotting a doctor in a white jacket seated in the boat, shout out, trying to attract his attention. Dr. Brunel explains that many people believe the hospital has been vacated too late. The rain flattens his fine hair. He goes on to say that no one had any idea the Seine would rise so fast. Does Linden know that presently it is going up two centimeters per hour? The Assistance publique, which runs all national public hospitals, is being severely criticized. Linden glimpses his father’s dinghy ahead, towed by soldiers guiding it up to the dry land beyond boulevard Victor. He sees people peering down at the bizarre procession from balconies and windows. Part of him is itching to take photos. He left his camera behind.

  Just before they reach place de la Porte-de-Versailles, the water has thinned out; they are able to step onto the sidewalk. Ambulances wait, lined up, with groups of doctors and nurses under umbrellas. Linden follows Dr. Brunel, nimbly darting through the crowd. Six firefighters lift Paul’s glass sarcophagus straight to an open medical van. Paul’s eyes are still closed; his skin seems pale in the morning light. Dr. Brunel greets the nurses and doctors in attendance, says a few sentences, and the others nod their heads. Yes, they are all from Professor Magerant’s team. They are ready for the transfer to Cochin Hospital. Dr. Brunel turns to Linden, introducing him. Linden will be riding with his father to the hospital. Then he extends his hand with a smile; he says it has been an honor tending to Paul Malegarde, and he wishes Linden all the best for his father. Paul will be in good hands; of that, Linden must be certain. As the van moves away with father and son on board, Dr. Brunel fades away, arm lifted in a gesture of farewell. The van drives up rue Raymond-Losserand, then crosses over to avenue Denfert-Rochereau by rue Froidevaux. The fourteenth arrondissement is one of the lucky ones; it is too high up to be inundated. Queues of people line up outside cafés; Linden realizes they are there to recharge mobile phones. He hasn’t yet seen with his own eyes how hard hit half of Paris is, apart from images on TV of those unfortunate families displaying apartments reduced to muddy chaos. For the moment, he is sheltered.

  The entry to the hospital is situated on rue Saint-Jacques, a familiar neighborhood to Linden. He lived on nearby rue Broca for four years before moving to New York City in 2009. Cochin is an older, shabbier location, but the fact that it will never be flooded makes it feel safe. The hospital is divided into several different buildings. They are taken up to a fifth-floor wing, where Linden is told to stay. Another wait. He’s been doing a lot of that these days. Nonetheless, his job consists of waiting for the right moment. Photography is all about that—the serendipity of an instant, how the magic of it ends up in his frame. He is used to the anticipation; he has learned to become patient, but this sort of waiting is something else. The tension chews into him; he has no idea how to stop it. He walks up and down the gallery, his shoes making a squeaky noise on the linoleum. It’s another hospital, bu
t the same distasteful smell lingers. He hopes his father will have a room of his own. Around him, other people wait, as well; some are slumbering in their chairs. They all seem coated with the same doleful anguish. He probably looks like that also; how could he not, with what he’s been going through? His anxiety makes him jittery; he finds it impossible to stay in his seat. Others stare resentfully at him as he paces the room, looking down at his phone. He sends the same text message to sister, mother, and niece: In new hospital. All ok. Waiting to see new doctor.

  More emails have accumulated since yesterday; more contracts, more trips. He hasn’t answered any yet. He wonders how Marlowe, Deb, and Stéphane, are coping with this. Today, Tuesday, was to be a busy day for him and his team. They were scheduled to shoot a promising young senator at her home near Boston for Time magazine. She had never accepted being photographed with her family, in her own house, but when she heard the photographer was Linden Malegarde, she had said yes. He had prepared the event in advance with his team; Marlowe had gone to the senator’s home to check the house out. They were planning to shoot in the large, cheerful kitchen, with the senator’s young children and husband. Had the session been canceled? He hadn’t thought of asking his agent. Rachel probably booked another photographer at the last moment. Linden wonders how the senator felt about that. He should have written to her, and explained the situation about his father. Ever since Saturday evening and the stroke, he has shut out areas of his life that appear less important, letting them dissolve away into elements he will manage later. The only inner voices he listens to are his fear, his pain, his love for his father.