Now it was Adèle’s turn. And she wanted to tell the story of Irving Ferns.
Tuesday 16 September
London
Irving Ferns had been cast primarily because of his physique. In the novel, Agatha Christie had described the character, eighty-three-year-old Aristide Leonides, as a small, ugly man who nevertheless possessed an irresistible charm that women seemed to find incredibly attractive – in other words, a complete nightmare for even the most talented casting director. It turned out that Mr Ferns was about the same age, and happened also to be small and very ugly. As for irresistible charm, his sixty-year career in film and theatre would see to that. Irving, as he was known in the business, had enjoyed a respectable career both on screen and on stage, but since turning sixty he had had to make do with minor television roles in exchange for pitiable fees. This perhaps explained the vivid impression he had made on Adèle when she had first accompanied him from his taxi to the set: everything about Irving Ferns, his eyes, his mannerisms, his whole body, seemed to be apologising for not being younger; he seemed to be desperately and silently fighting off the indecent advances of old age. But in vain: Adèle knew that his age would make him an outsider amongst his younger colleagues. When she saw he had difficulty walking, she offered him her arm. Initially they simply exchanged small talk, and as they covered all the usual pleasantries, Adèle decided that this man probably lived alone. The collar of his shirt was too big and his thin neck resembled that of a chicken. Having lost contact with her grandparents, Adèle, like most cosmopolitan young people, barely came into contact with ‘the elderly’. There were no elderly people in London: had they all left or had they been forced to leave? The streets of the city belonged to the young: to the yuppies, City boys, It girls and yummy mummies, second-generation immigrants and those who had just arrived – all of these people were young. Talking to Irving Ferns was like talking to a character in a novel. Yet just as she was about to start feeling really sorry for him, Irving Ferns surprised her by changing the subject from the weather to something altogether different.
Gradually a connection formed between them. Irving must have known that it was Adèle’s job to keep him happy, but he took this as an opportunity to engage her in conversation. Adèle had won him over with her natural warmth, and it was not long before he opened up to her as a friend. Although timid at first, the tone of the conversation became more and more lively, and after a while their age difference, far from being an obstacle, became a distance that, paradoxically, seemed to make them even more at ease with one another. Whether in the green room, on set or in the cafeteria, they always found something to talk about.
Irving told her a lot about his past, and Adèle had to admit that it was a fascinating story. He had worked with some of the greats of British cinema and had, like many actors of his era, been a great fan of the practical joke, and of farce comedy. He also told her about his on-screen love affairs, his successes and his failures. Adèle found his stories funny and moving, and she began to see Irving as he had once been: an up-and-coming actor, a cultivated dandy, and a romantic at heart. He began to feel young again in front of Adèle, his newly captivated audience.
Wednesday 17 September
London
On the second day of shooting, Irving sought out Adèle in the canteen at lunchtime. She was more than happy to sit with him and escape the chattering of the other girls. This time, he paused occasionally in his monologue to ask the young girl about her life: where was her family from, how long had she been living in London, and so on and so forth. France and the French became, amongst others, a subject to which they regularly returned. Irving’s brother, who had been dead for some time, had survived Dunkirk. He remembered the letters from him, and the stories he had told him after the war. He did not, however, turn this story into a tragic tale of a family separated by the war, choosing instead to recount the more comic aspects, something for which Adèle was extremely grateful. She even managed to forget the stress of the first days of shooting. She found herself opening up about her childhood, her plans for the future, her thoughts on her native country and her career, and many more things besides.
After she had refused a sticky slice of sponge drowned in custard, Irving asked her if her grandparents were still alive. She said yes, she had a grandfather who lived in the French countryside. Did she visit him often? No, in fact she had barely spoken to him in ten years. She had seen a lot of him when she was younger, but you know how it is, people lose touch with one another and then, well …
Irving looked at her carefully. Yes, Irving knew. And he knew what came after the ‘and then’ that Adèle had left unsaid. Indifference.
Irving Ferns left the set having shot his last scene. Adèle had continued to escort him between the dressing rooms and the set but it was as though the heart-to-heart of the previous evening had never happened. Irving was as polite as ever, of course, but nothing more; the note of complicity in his voice had vanished. Anyone else would have assumed that he was simply in a mood. Actors were known for being rather volatile in this respect – even Adèle, who was just beginning, knew that. After all, they were carrying all kinds of characters around in their heads and were often under immense pressure. But Adèle couldn’t help but wonder. Perhaps Irving Ferns had been disappointed in her. Perhaps he had thought that she wasn’t the type to forget about her grandfather.
Irving Ferns had awoken an old feeling of guilt that had lain dormant for a long time, and which weighed a little more on her conscience with each birthday that went by. Every time she thought about it, she would tell herself … What did she tell herself? Nothing at all, because there was nothing to say about it. She just tried not to think about it. She was almost twenty-three, she ought to have outgrown her selfish, capricious teenage nature. Why hadn’t she contacted her grandfather for so long? Was she secretly harbouring bad memories of the holidays she had spent with him? No, Adèle had always mistaken what was in fact a very happy childhood for a boring one. She had no regrets, no grudges, no skeletons in her closet. Had her grandfather been a fairy-tale villain? No. Had he held extreme political opinions, had friends in the wrong places or a dark past? No, not as far as she knew. And yet she had grown so far apart from him that when she spoke about him, she did so in the past tense. He wasn’t dead. Not yet. He had had health problems in the past, of course, and the death of his wife had been a grave blow. He had lived alone for so many years and still, still Adèle had not made any effort with him.
That night Adèle turned her conversation with the actor over and over in her mind, and kept coming back to her unfinished sentence. In the darkness she felt her grandfather’s loneliness just as she had sensed that of Irving Ferns. And although she had been able to empathise with an elderly actor she had known for a couple of days, she had not been able to do the same for her grandfather, the man with whom she had spent all of her childhood holidays. Suddenly, she felt ashamed of herself and fell asleep resolving to call her grandfather the very next day.
Tuesday 14 October
Loches (Indre-et-Loire)
And that was the story of her and Irving Ferns. Without dramatic declarations, without shocking revelations, without pearls of wisdom or pomposity, the old man had helped Adèle take this decisive step that had changed so much over the past few weeks. And now she had to tell her grandfather the story.
Adèle gathered all her courage and began talking, her voice trembling slightly.
‘You remember, Grandpa, I told you I was working on a film about the murder of an old millionnaire. And on the first day we filmed the scene … the scene where the body is found.’
‘Oh sweetheart, and that made you think of your old grandpa lying there in his place? Murdered! Well, that would be something wouldn’t it?’ he said jokingly.
‘Oh no, the whole thing is so staged, and there are spotlights everywhere, and wigs and stuff dangling all over the place, and the crew all around you; it’s pretty hard to lose yourself in the scen
e. And I couldn’t see much of the action anyway, so … But the man who was playing the part was about your age. And … I ended up getting on pretty well with him.’
She paused for a moment to steady her voice, which was becoming increasingly shaky.
‘And because I got on so well with him, I thought to myself, there’s no reason why I wouldn’t get on just as well with you. I think when you’re young, and a teenager and all that, you forget that you can still be friends with your granddad, you know.’
She stopped talking. Her grandfather looked at her encouragingly.
‘You’re right, sweetheart. I felt the same way. When you’re old, you forget that you can still relate to young people.’ He laughed. ‘We’re a right pair, aren’t we?’
He sniffed, then took his granddaughter’s hand.
‘You know, Adèle, people always say that life is too short. But for so long, for so long, I thought that it felt too long. But now … I’m starting to think it’s been exactly right.’
George-from-Cameroon spent a lot of time in George-from-Chanteloup’s bedroom. He came to see him after Adèle had left, and found the old man looking a little shaken.
That evening they talked for a long time – or, for as long as the coming and going of the nurses and doctors allowed them to – and carried on well after visiting hours were over. At first, George-from-Chanteloup was the one speaking, with George-from-Cameroon chiming in with the niceties that have always accompanied great friendships. ‘You’re always your own worst enemy’; ‘It’s just like with family reunions; better to leave while you’re still having fun, so you keep the best memories.’
But sometimes, George-from-Cameroon spoke more, and George listened carefully; talking things over with his new companion made everything seem simpler. They discussed the moving phone conversation with Françoise, and what she had told him. The small, crumpled orange notebook was brought out, scribbled on, put back, brought out again, consulted, scribbled on again, inspected, put away and brought out and put away again. Every now and again they would stop talking for a moment and just listen to the sounds of the hospital. Their voices grew quieter as the conversation went on, so that by the time they said goodnight they were almost whispering. George thought about this conversation and what had been said, and wrote letters to Charles, to Adèle, to Françoise, and to Ginette. Would this be enough? Was it ever enough?
By this time it was already getting light. It was the morning of the operation.
Wednesday 15 October
Loches (Indre-et-Loire)
George was taken to the operating room. Was he scared? Worried? No; never before had he felt so profoundly himself. He was an island, a huge island made of everything he had been and had ever dreamed of being: all of his memories, the feelings he had never been able to control, the body that had been the cause of so much joy, pain, strength and despair. All of the things that made George Nicoleau who he was were on this island, on this hospital bed.
On the operating table this feeling momentarily disappeared, and he felt the island breaking up, scattering. But the sight of the other George, George-from-Cameroon, smiling at him from a corner of the room, helped him gather his strength. He was put under anaesthetic, which made him feel as though he were floating on gently undulating waves. George-from-Cameroon was still smiling; so was George-from-Chanteloup, even if no one could see it.
Saturday 18 October
Poitiers (Vienne)
The news did not come as a surprise to anyone except the doctors. They had gone over percentages, medication, emergency measures, had listed everything they had and had not been able to do. George had never regained consciousness.
Adèle had not been able to get back before now. The funeral had been planned for the next day. Her mother, who had just arrived from Peru, would be waiting for her at Poitiers airport. She had not been able to make it back in time to say goodbye to her father, which broke Adèle’s heart.
Adèle stepped onto the tarmac, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. She didn’t dare look up at the tiny airport; she had not seen her mother for almost two months. She was afraid of telling her the whole story, she was afraid of grief, of her own and her mother’s. She was overwhelmed by the events of the last few days.
Finally, she caught sight of her mother. The woman who normally had perfect posture, whose stylish suits hung elegantly on her slim frame, was now wearing jeans and a dark jumper and was sitting alone on a bench in the deserted terminal. They hugged, holding on to each other for a long time, both trying, in vain, not to cry. It was her mother who finally pulled away, looking at Adèle with a smile.
‘You look like you’ve lost weight,’ she said.
‘It’s the food on set,’ replied Adèle, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. ‘It’s horrible, the stuff they serve us, full of sugar and fat. So I just don’t eat it. When did you get here?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘How was the trek?’
‘I didn’t go on a trek,’ Françoise answered, sounding oddly calm.
‘Oh? Was it cancelled or something?’
‘No. There never was any trek. Oh, I was in Peru, but in Lima. I had a phone, internet, email, even my mobile worked out there. I had everything.’
‘Oh. Well Grandpa thought that—’
‘Yes, I know. I spoke to him on the phone on Monday. I told him everything. He understood.’
Adèle felt a surge of anger. She had never liked lies and she was not sure what to make of this one. They were now the only ones in the terminal, which seemed vast, in the middle of the empty airport. There wouldn’t be another plane here until the evening.
Adèle tugged awkwardly at her sleeves until her mother spoke again.
‘You know, Adèle, your grandfather was ill for a very long time. For about fifteen years, actually. And for the last five years, since your grandmother died, I was the one who looked after him. I was all he had; I couldn’t just give up on him, and I was doing it all on my own. You know he never wanted a nurse or anything. For five years I was constantly in contact with his doctors, constantly making sure his affairs were in order “just in case”; basically holding him up, all that time. So many times I kissed him for what I thought was the last time. So many times I came running back when I thought it was the end. And things have changed in my life over the past five years, with your father, you know, even after the divorce, things were difficult, and then I met Patrick just as Grandpa got very ill again, seriously ill with his ulcers, you probably don’t remember. I ended up spending more time looking after him than living my own life, or … Anyway, that’s how it was.’
She paused for a moment before continuing.
‘And then one day last year, I realised that I had to make a choice, because it couldn’t go on like that.’ Her voice was steady, but Adèle could hear a note of fragility that she had never heard before. Shyly, she tried to take her mother’s hand, but Françoise gently pulled it back.
‘I’ll spare you the details, sweetheart, especially because everything is much better now, I promise. But I had to start taking care of myself. And by talking to friends who’ve been through similar things, and then to a psychologist … I’ve realised a lot of things.’
She stopped talking, and took a deep breath. Adèle looked at her mother, and noticed she looked more tired than normal, and older.
‘I had to let your grandpa live his life. Even if that meant letting him go – I mean literally letting him go – because that was what he wanted. And I had a life to live as well. We were so unhappy together. I was too attached to him; I would have preserved him in formaldehyde if I could have, he said. And he was probably right. We both needed some fresh air. I talked to Thérèse a lot about all of this, and she told me about what Charles was going through. One day she told me about their Tour de France plan, and what she hoped it would do for Charles. I knew how much your grandfather was looking forward to it, because it was a way out, even if he knew he was taking huge risks wi
th his health. But if I had still been on the scene, he would never have gone. So I decided that it was now or never. I went to Lima to stay with a friend and have some time alone. But it wasn’t an easy decision. I asked Thérèse to keep me in the loop. She called me when he was taken to hospital but I … I didn’t come back straight away. It wasn’t the first time your grandfather had been taken to hospital, you know … And in some way, maybe we had already said our goodbyes.’
Françoise put her head in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking slightly. Adèle put her arms around her mother. She was no longer angry. The sun cast huge shadows through the terminal windows. The storm had passed.
When it started to rain again an hour later, the terminal was filled with their laughter. The Tour, which had had such an impact on their little family, was a mine of anecdotes that Adèle took great pleasure in exaggerating for the amusement of her mother. By retelling all the stories with the help of her mobile phone, she was able to prove to her mother that she had made the right decision.
They finally left the airport and drove a hire car to the Grand Hôtel de Poitiers, where Françoise, in an effort to put off the inevitable task of going to her father’s empty house, had reserved two rooms.
It was there that she would have to summon the courage to open a package wrapped in brown paper that had been sent to her by someone called George N’Dour, along with two letters.
Françoise took a deep breath and ripped open the paper to find an old wooden box with a faded picture of the Pieds Nickelés comic book characters on the lid. She had a vague memory of it belonging to her when she was a child. Her throat tightened and her heart was pounding as she worked up the courage to open it. She pulled it open as quickly as possible, as though ripping off a plaster. The box was empty.
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