The Rain Watcher

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  The motorboat slinks down rue Saint-Dominique, past numerous shops bolted in vain against the flood. All stocks and basements must be underwater. Like rue Saint-Charles, this used to be a busy street, teeming with traffic and passersby. It is now a dreary, watery wasteland without a soul in sight. Up ahead, the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower emerges like a gaunt gray phantom. The black water ripples around them; on its surface, a pallid moon floats like a drowned face staring up in tomblike silence. The team is now going to check on passage Landrieu, a peaceful, narrow lane with no shops between rue Saint-Dominique and rue de l’Université, a place where many tourists rent lodgings for a couple of days or a week. As far as they know, the apartments here are empty and in need of surveillance. Last night, there was a break-in at number 4, on the upper floor of a lavish loft leased out for parties and events. The burglars got away with computers, sound systems, and hard drives. Linden looks up at the moon, unsuccessfully trying to banish thoughts of Hadrien. Oriel’s shout startles them all.

  “Listen! There is someone crying!”

  The motor is turned off, and they all strain their ears. At first, they hear nothing, and even Oriel wonders if it wasn’t her imagination. One of the adjutants says many house pets have been abandoned, another sad truth of the flood. The other night, a desperate, starving cat had sounded quite human. Now they all hear it: a muffled, faraway wail. It is a child. It takes them a while to locate it, past the modern blocks that rise at each opening of the passage. The men angle their search lights up to the dark windows. The child continues to cry, a thin, piercing whine, leading them to it. Perhaps the child is too small to come to the window. They paddle on, halting in front of number 10; the sobs are coming from here. On the third floor, a window is slightly ajar. They shout up, shine their lights along the glass. No response. Commandant Bouissy scrambles up a rescue ladder held in place by the two others. The rocking motion of the boat makes Linden queasy. Oriel whispers to him she has a bad feeling about this; this is exactly the kind of situation she has been dreading. The commandant has now pushed the window open, and he climbs inside. When he appears again, moments later, there is a toddler in his arms. He shouts down to them, his voice altered. There is a dead woman in there. They need to call for extra help.

  Later, Linden and Oriel learn this is the first official casualty linked directly to the flood. The victim was a twenty-eight-year-old woman from Poland, whose working papers were not in order. She worked illegally as a cleaning lady for low-cost rentals. The studio on passage Landrieu where she had been found belonged to a friend, who had agreed to put her and her child up for a few weeks. The concierge of number 10, who had been displaced a few days ago, and who was now in a shelter near the place de la République, told the police she had never noticed the woman’s presence, nor that of a child, or if she had, she didn’t remember. There were so many comings and goings in that flat, which was sublet on the Internet to different clients. Nobody had checked on the woman. The police said she probably died of seasonal flu. She had been dead since Sunday, since the water rose. Oriel felt it was more the lack of caring that killed the Polish woman. What was going to happen to this poor kid? Another boat came, taking away the body of the woman, wrapped in a sheet, and the weeping child, curled up in a police officer’s arms. For a long moment, Linden and Oriel don’t speak.

  It is midnight. The captain leads the boat toward pont de l’Alma. Their team has more night watches to do in the seventh arrondissement, until dawn. The moon radiates in a freezing blue-black sky, illuminating the swollen watercourse. There is a higher spot at the end of rue Cognacq-Jay, just before the bridge, and they head there. As they step out of the boat, icy water shoots up to their shins. They wade through it, teeth clenched. The place is completely deserted. The Seine is now drenching the Zouave’s shoulders. The bridge has been entirely closed off by metal barriers and it seems to be poised on top of the river. The commandant explains the pont de l’Alma was rebuilt in 1974, because the lower ancient structure was in danger of collapsing. The new steel arch is higher and wider, but as a result, the statue of the Zouave was reinstalled eighty centimeters higher. So, in reality, the river should be up to the Zouave’s neck. It is a tragic, silvery spectacle; Linden wishes he had his camera with him. Discreetly, he takes a photo with his phone.

  They board the boat once more, and it turns back down rue de l’Université, crossing the Esplanade over to rue de Lille, by the submerged and barricaded Musée d’Orsay. Paris seems deathly, plunged in silence and obscurity. The City of Light has been snuffed out, stripped of its liveliness. The only sound they hear is the putter of the motor echoing off the stone edifices. Rue de Verneuil is pitch-black; the commandant holds up a powerful floodlight so the captain can see where he is going. The tall buildings are built close together in this small street, creating a stifling impression. Linden thinks of all the empty apartments, of all those who had to flee in haste, wondering what to leave behind them, what to take. There are many art galleries on rue Jacob, where they now slide through in the same thick silence. How many have been affected? The commandant says that even in the northern Parisian quarters, which have not been flooded, the atmosphere is the same as here: uninhabited, dead quiet. No more nightlife. Restaurants are becoming emptier and emptier; theaters and cinemas have dwindling audiences. Parisians are either leaving the city or staying at home, waiting for the Seine to recede. The capital is at a complete standstill. Not to mention the anxiety of expecting mothers, the sick, the elderly. Electricity is only barely working in half of the city. No wonder it’s driving them all mad! How many out there are cold, wet, hungry, and furious? Hundreds! Thousands! He certainly hopes the peak comes soon. The situation is unbearable. God knows what will happen if this goes on. The experts say it could be tomorrow; they’re saying the Seine could go over the level of 1910, which was 8.62 meters. It could reach the highest level ever recorded, that of 1658, up to 8.96 meters, which would mean more damage in the fifteenth and seventh arrondissements, with water sneaking to unprecedented places, all the way up to the seventeenth, to Wagram, to Batignolles; in the third, to boulevard de Sébastopol and rue de Turbigo; and in the fifth, to rue Buffon and avenue des Gobelins. The cost of all this will be colossal, adds the commandant bitterly. It will take months, even years, for everything to get back to normal. The Seine’s ire has only added to the general feeling of dissatisfaction toward the authorities for not coping and not foreseeing the crises, and is not abetting a vulnerable nation still nursing its wounds since the first terrorist attacks targeting it. The flood will divide France all the more.

  * * *

  When Linden returns to the hotel, late, there is a note under his door from Lauren.

  I want to see your father tomorrow. I must. I spoke to the doctor. He says I can go. Please take me.

  Love Mom xxx

  The images of a sinking Paris had, momentarily, taken Linden’s mind off his parents. He lies on the bed, weary, checks the time. Two o’clock in the morning. That’s 5:00 P.M. in San Francisco. For Sacha, it’s still Wednesday. He reminds himself that Sacha has meetings at that time with his staff, every day. He’ll have to call him later, or tomorrow. He sends him the photograph of the submerged Zouave in the moonlight. He sleeps fitfully and awakens to the sound of a knock at his door. It is still dark outside, just after eight, and the rain is back, pattering against the window, just like the policeman said it would be. It is Mistral, telling him they are ready and asking if he can come down. Agathe has managed to order them a taxi, as Lauren feels too weak to walk to the hospital. They meet for breakfast. The hotel is more or less empty now, save for them. To Linden’s surprise, Colin is there, debonair, impeccably dressed and shaved, smelling of Floris aftershave. He greets Linden heartily, clapping him on the back, acting as if nothing had happened. Linden has often observed his brother-in-law in this Jekyll and Hyde mode, switching from intoxicated barbarian to polished gentleman overnight. Tilia looks on, imperturbable, sipping her coffee. Th
eir marriage is a mystery. How does she put up with it? Colin lying, again and again, convincing his entourage he is heroically controlling his drinking, not even realizing how pitiful he is. Linden wonders how long the couple will last. Colin is laying it on too thick, pouring out Lauren’s tea, bouncing up to get a fresh croissant for Mistral, all smiles.

  Leaving them to their breakfast, Linden concentrates on the news, reaching out for the morning newspapers. The Seine will reach its peak today, Thursday, rolling in at a frightening 8.99 meters at pont d’Austerlitz. Can the city take it? He reads the river has turned a violent, stinking yellow, flowing ten times faster than normal. Experts are worried about hazardous waste being swept along by floodwater, about the alarming mass of refuse, of decomposing plants, of putrescent organic matter. Sullied by toxic chemicals, by metal contamination, the fetid water dominates the city with its tenacious and noxious miasma. All the newspapers scream out the same headline: NATIONAL DISASTER; all use the same words: ruin, devastation, unemployment, paralysis. Dismayed, Linden reads on, discovers the Apple Store on rue Halévy was ransacked during the night. The capital’s two opera houses, Garnier and Bastille, have both been inundated. (Sacha will be very upset to hear this.) The famous English-speaking bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, situated near quai de Montebello, has been, as well. Several photographs make Linden wish he had taken them: Notre-Dame, shrunken and altered, literally squatting on the river like a wounded creature; the Jardin des Tuileries entirely smothered by a lake, doused trees thrusting out like desperate arms. Saint-Michel fountain is spewing sludge; the École des Beaux-Arts, on rue Bonaparte, is no longer dry. Major power cuts are slowing down the city, as many electrical processors are underwater. The brand-new Ministry of Justice, an imposing block of glass and steel, situated on higher ground at Aubervilliers, is safe. Linden discovers bitter criticism of the recent relocation of the gigantic Hexagone Balard, dubbed the “French Pentagon,” housing the new Ministry of Defense in the fifteenth arrondissement. It had apparently been built on stilts to prevent being flooded, but it has been damaged, even if no one knows to what extent. Uproar had commenced: Why had it been constructed on that floodable spot in the first place, just like the nearby, and out-of-order, Pompidou hospital?

  At Cochin Hospital, Linden waits in the corridor until his family has spent the time they need with Paul. His room is too small for all of them to be with him at the same moment. Tilia comes out looking preoccupied. She thinks their father looks less well this morning. Paler skin, more sunken eyes. Using her bossy-sister voice, she asks a nurse if they can see Professor Magerant and is told the ward is short-staffed this morning; there have been difficulties with all new patients arriving from flooded hospitals. Tilia sits down next to her brother. How she hates being here; how she hates talking to nurses, waiting for doctors, all that bullshit. When Linden doesn’t answer, she glances at him, tells him she’s never seen him look so tired. He wonders if she has any idea of how maddening she is? He responds with a tight-lipped smile. Then she says something that frightens him: She says fiercely that their father is not going to make it. She can tell; she knows. Linden explodes. What the hell is she talking about? Adamantly, she shakes her head. Their father is dying, and deep down they all know it, and they can’t even say it out loud. They can’t face it, and they’re bloody well going to have to. Linden wants to slap her. How dare she? How dare she destroy their hope? He feels like throttling her. When their mother steps out, in tears, Tilia pulls herself together, and he wipes the fury off his face. They both get up to comfort Lauren, and when Linden’s eyes meet Tilia’s over their mother’s head, there is steely determination in his. The message to his sister is clear: Tell our mother he is going to be all right. Tell her we all have to believe. Lauren murmurs she is in shock; she can’t get over how thin and old their father looks. She can’t bear it. It takes them a long moment to calm her down.

  Linden will spend all morning here with his father. They can go; he’ll be in touch. He says this reassuringly. He watches them leave, Lauren suddenly frail next to Mistral, whose arm is around her shoulders. Back in the room, the first thing that strikes him is how ill his father looks today. Was Tilia right? He must remember not to reveal his anxiety to his father. He stands by the window, glancing out at the gray wetness; he can feel his father’s eyes on him, watching him. The small, unventilated room is silent. Linden picks up the low murmur of voices, the click of footsteps outside in the corridor. The moment stretches out, and it seems interminable. The rain continues to drip. He listens to his father’s breathing for a while. He could continue to stand here, watching the drizzle. It would be easy. He could also turn around and speak honestly to his father for the first time in his life. The choice is there in front of him, like a crossroad. He doesn’t hesitate very long.

  “Papa, I want to talk to you about Sacha.”

  As soon as Linden pronounces Sacha’s name, it feels like doors opening with a smooth whoosh, like a path snaking out in front of him, a path full of promise and possibility, and he flings himself down that path. Sacha is standing next to them, filling the room with his presence, the way the sun ignites a wall. Sacha, he says, is the man he loves. Sacha is short for Alexander. His dad is from San Francisco and his mother is from L.A. Sacha is his age. He is left-handed. He likes to cook, and he does it beautifully. Doesn’t this sound trite? Linden wonders as he speaks. Is this the right way to do it? He rushes on, tautly. They met at the Metropolitan Opera House, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Sacha’s love for opera is like Paul’s love for Bowie. It’s visceral. As a child, Sacha took violin lessons, which he never continued when he grew up, but his teacher once took him to see The Magic Flute when he was seven. Papageno, the comical bird catcher garbed in a feathery costume, charmed him with his fetching tune. Sacha came home singing the aria at the top of his lungs. That’s how it started. Then he was smitten with Don Giovanni, especially Leporello, the peevish manservant. By the time he was a teenager, he wanted only opera in his earphones. Other kids listened to Brandy, Madonna, or Dr. Dre; Sacha stuck to opera. That night in 2013, Linden was taken to the Met by his agent, Rachel Yellan. She had tickets to see La Traviata, and she had insisted, in that rather imperious tone of voice, that Linden join her at Lincoln Center. He had been living in New York for nearly four years now, and he knew how much he owed his agent. She had put all the energy she had into getting him those first jobs that launched his career. He didn’t have the heart to decline. It was an opening night, and Rachel had said he must look smart. No jeans and sneakers, please! He was expecting to fight off ennui, but to his surprise, he found the performance diverting. He savored the melodious, sensitive nuances despite his untrained ear. He had read in the program that traviata meant “fallen woman.” The young German soprano who played Violetta, the ill-fated courtesan dazzled by love, astonished him with her vitality. Dressed in scarlet, she strutted up and down the stage, climbed sofas, flung herself on the floor, pouring all her emotions into her voice. Linden used to think opera singers were static middle-aged dames with double chins. Paul chuckles at this. Linden takes it as an encouragement. During the interval, Linden went to the bar to get champagne for Rachel, who was chatting with friends. He saw Sacha from the back first. He spotted him because he was tall, as tall as he was. Black hair, parted in the middle, reaching to his shoulders. When he turned around, Linden saw long black eyebrows, a curved nose, hazel eyes. Not good-looking in a classical sense, but quite mesmeric. He heard his laugh. He remembers thinking what a delightful laugh it was. He couldn’t help observing the striking stranger as he was waiting for the champagne. He watched him listen to his friends, nod, laugh again. The man was wearing a suit, a white shirt, no tie. He wore a necklace of some sort around his neck, but Linden couldn’t tell what the ornament nestling on his collarbone represented. The man took off with his friends and Linden watched him leave. He wondered who he was, what his name was. He felt sure he would never see him again, and somehow that made him sad.<
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