“She is very pretty, Louis,” said Isabelle.
“I see no resemblance at all,” said Renard.
“They seem like very nice people,” said Jenny. “Solesme is quite beautiful. Are you in love with her?”
The next morning he and Jenny walked together through Saint Leon. Louis described the history of the town and of the region. He took Jenny into the church and showed her the traces of ancient frescoes that had recently been discovered. He told her about how, for centuries past, the pilgrims had found their way from all over Europe to Santiago, stopping in Saint Leon as they went. He pointed out the seashell carved in the stone above the church door, the symbol that meant pilgrims were welcome. He did not speak about his own pilgrimage of twenty years ago. After all, his pilgrimage had been her abandonment.
Louis introduced Jennifer to Madeleine Picard and to Madame Chalfont, who ran the Hotel de France by herself since Monsieur Chalfont’s condition had deteriorated so badly. Each time he introduced Jenny to someone new, he tried to step back a bit and just watch. Jenny was tall and pretty, and though it was true she had a slightly stiff, slightly prudish air, she also seemed strong and sure of herself. When you were introduced to her, she looked into your eyes.
“What are all the decorations for, Dad, and the loudspeakers? Is there a fair or something?”
“It’s the Festival of Music, Jenny,” said Louis. “It’s something quite remarkable. It’s not just here, but it’s in every town and village in France. The French celebrate the arrival of summer, and the longest day, by singing and dancing all night. They literally dance the night away. I’m glad you’re here for the festival, Jenny.” Louis stopped and looked around the square. It was suddenly as though he had just arrived, as though he had never been here before. “The first night I ever spent in Saint Leon was the night of the Festival of Music. It’s somehow perfect that you’re here now. I’m glad you’re here.”
The day of the twenty-first was, in contrast to all the previous days of Jenny’s visit, rainy and chilly, with heavy clouds blowing in low over the hills from the west. Occasionally, the rain stopped and the clouds broke apart. But then they closed back up, and the rain would begin again. There was little hope that the weather would change. All of Europe was under the influence of a strong low pressure system over the Atlantic.
And yet the weather did change. At about nine o’clock, as Louis and Jenny were finishing their supper, the clouds suddenly broke up, and in a matter of minutes the sky was clear and blue. The sunlight poured through the window into the kitchen, and, unable to resist what seemed like an invitation, they took their plates and the fruit bowl and went out to sit at the battered metal table. The sun was low in the sky. The light had taken on that magical golden quality it sometimes assumes before sunset.
Over the last few days, the length and depth of Louis and Jenny’s estrangement had become clear. They had come to understand how little they knew about one another, what a small part each of them had played, or, for that matter, could ever now play in the other’s life. Some things simply could not, could never be replaced or made up for. They might perhaps come to like each other, might even love each other, might have lives that became intricately involved, might become friends, but they could never become father and daughter. That was lost to them forever. This knowledge filled Jenny with resentment and Louis with sorrow. That is why they had eaten their supper in silence, looking mostly at their plates. When Louis looked at Jenny, she chose not to meet his eyes.
Now, as the sun moved down toward the sharp blue horizon, their silence continued. In fact, it seemed to grow, to fill the landscape around them with a sullen, dead quality. “I’m not going tonight,” said Jenny. “It’s your Festival of Music. It’s not mine.” Louis had eventually told her all about his first day and night in Saint Leon, about meeting the gypsy Kadusco, Phillipe or Henri or who knew what his name had been. He had told her about hating to dance and yet dancing, dancing with Madame Chalfont, dancing with Solesme.
“Did you think of us, while you were dancing?” said Jenny. “Did you think of me?” This was the damage it seemed they would never get past. At ten thirty, the sun set behind the fields in front of them. They carried the dishes inside, and Louis put them in the dishwasher, while Jenny retreated to her room. Louis called to her that he was leaving for the festival, but she did not answer. He walked down the driveway and into town, not wanting to leave Jenny by herself, but not wanting to stay away from the festival either.
Children were dancing in the square to the recorded music coming from the loudspeakers. Some teenage boys were throwing firecrackers in the street. Louis greeted his friends. They inquired after Jenny. He found Solesme sitting with Madeleine Picard. “Where is Jenny?” she wanted to know.
“She isn’t coming,” said Louis. “I think she sees this as a celebration of my abandonment of her, something like that.” He drew his hand across his eyes. Madeleine got up to visit with someone else. Solesme put her hand on his, a reckless gesture for her. It startled him. “She cannot forgive me,” said Louis.
“Nor must she,” said Solesme. “But why is it necessary? We all have a lot that is unforgivable about us, even someone as young as your daughter. If we were all without our unforgivable parts then love would mean nothing at all. Love happens despite the unforgivable. Loving someone unforgivable, now that is something. That is love.” Now she took his hand in both of hers. “Come on, let’s dance.” They were playing the musette.
There was no live musette at the fête de la musique in Saint Leon any more. They had only tapes which they broadcast over the loudspeakers. Later, there would be a live rock duet with an electric piano and drums. But the gypsy accordionist had disappeared years ago. Other, apparently unmusical gypsies now camped above the cemetery for several weeks each summer and tried to sell the baskets they made to passersby on the streets of Saint Leon. Though the musette playing was a recording, it still drew everyone onto the square. And just as Louis and Solesme had bobbed and circled around the square that first time, and every year after that, they circled again with the tide of their friends and neighbors eddying about them.
They held each other gently. Solesme’s steps were shorter still, and more delicate, than they had ever been. Louis sensed her fragility as he never had before. It was as if Pierre’s death had taken some of her life too.
A French Country Murder Page 22
