“But they didn’t find the body.”
“No, but it’s a sea accident, and there are two witnesses who saw him fall. We just need to wait three months for the judge to declare him dead and me a widow.”
“How did Loiseau find out?”
“The contract was among the things Pierre-Gabriel had in the hotel room. He also had my father’s wallet,” she added sadly.
Henri was quietly pleased; another issue resolved. He focused again on the subject of Pierre-Gabriel. “You think you know a person, and—”
“He must have been in a very bad state. He took my bright blue suitcase that he always made fun of, instead of his custom-made leather one, and my epilator case instead of the one he took everywhere, even on Sundays when he went to play golf.”
Henri didn’t know whether to laugh or worry—he’d really blown that one. At least he didn’t take Tash’s lacy bras. He decided to change the subject. “I want to tell you a story that happened a long, long time ago: thirty-four years, to be exact. You’re the first person to hear what really happened that night.”
Tash nodded. She knew exactly what he was talking about.
“My parents were working-class Parisians, humble people. In the fifties, there was an economic boom: World War II was a distant memory, and reconstruction was helping to grow the economy. My father asked the bank where my uncle worked for a small loan, then took the plunge: he bought a secondhand truck and founded his own transport and removal business, which grew and grew with much work and dedication. Everything was happiness and prosperity. He even bought an apartment.
“In 1973, the first oil crisis caught him unawares with ten employees, three trucks, five new vans, and debt up to his ears. OPEC had decided not to export more oil to the world powers that helped Israel during the Yom Kippur War in which Israel fought Syria and Egypt. This caused major inflation and a reduction in the economic activity of the affected countries. From that moment on, a fierce fight for survival erupted, and the bank was completely unforgiving with my father’s business. They repossessed two of his trucks and three of the new vans. He had to lay off seven employees, but he fought on, and little by little he managed to get ahead again without losing his home.
“With the new oil clash in late 1978, caused by the Iran-Iraq War and the Iranian revolution, OPEC got up to its old tricks and the speculators did the rest—oil tripled in price. Nineteen-seventy-nine was the year of the carnage of the land transport industry. The bank took away what was left of my father’s company, but it wasn’t enough—they wanted his home, and one day the eviction notice arrived. My father went crazy, and one Friday he came home drunk and out of his mind, yelling that this world had gone insane and life was no longer worth living. My big brother hid me under a bed and went to help my mother calm my father down, but everything ended badly. After a lot of screaming, punches, and upheaval, the house was silent—a silence dyed in red.
“I eventually emerged from my hiding place and slowly approached the kitchen. There they all were, lying on the ground, and there was blood everywhere. I gathered all the strength of an eight-year-old and sat them up, propping them against the furniture. When I was done, I sat among them in a last attempt to recover the family unity we used to have, and I took the knife to stab myself and join them. But I wasn’t able to, and when the police arrived, they found me like that, the knife in my hand, surrounded by my family in a sea of blood. I never told anyone anything, and everyone made up their own version of the story.”
Henri wiped away the tears running down Tash’s cheeks, and she hugged him tight.
“You must have suffered so much.”
“That was a long time ago, and my aunt and uncle gave me all their love and care. The subject was not taboo at home—on the contrary, we spoke about it regularly. I remember at the beginning I had a lot of nightmares, but my aunt was always nearby when I woke up. Bit by bit they subsided, and now they form a part of the past, like many other things.”
Tash’s cell phone rang again, bringing Henri back to a much happier reality. He looked at her tenderly as she stretched out in his arms, and he gave her a kiss.
“Your phone has rung a few times.”
“How narrow and tall this bed is. We’ll need to do something about it.”
The phone rang again.
“I’m going to take the call—if they’re insisting so much, maybe it’s important.”
Tash took the phone and sat on the corner of the bed, her legs dangling over the side.
“Yes? Are you sure? I think that’s great, but won’t it complicate things for you? Well, I’m delighted. I don’t know how he’ll be at the end of all this, but I’m sure he’ll be enthusiastic. Thanks very much. Right, see you there. Bye.”
Tash hung up, looked pensive for a moment, and turned to Henri.
“It was Morgane.”
“Your father’s lover?”
“Yes, and she says she wants to take care of him when he leaves the hospital. She doesn’t mind about the issues he might have. She asked permission to move into his home, and she’s even thinking about leaving her apartment altogether. She seems very upset.”
“I’m sure,” said Henri seriously.
“Don’t be mean. I arranged to meet her at the hospital tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?”
“I think it’s better if you talk alone.”
Tash went back to her place on the bed, with Henri’s arm around her, to talk about the future.
77
Six months later
The driver of a stretch limousine finished loading an excessive amount of luggage for the passengers of a private jet that had just landed at Orly Airport, south of Paris, arriving from a small island in Antilles.
“My father will be glad we’re spending Christmas with him. The nurse says he understands everything. She can see it in his eyes. I’m looking forward to seeing him in person and giving him a kiss.”
Tash was radiant, and the Caribbean sunshine had given her velvety skin a golden tone and her sea-blue eyes a special glow.
Henri had a less coppery complexion, perhaps because he spent mornings at the office for his new financial business. He had a lot of work, but this didn’t keep him from dedicating plenty of time to his wife. They had married as soon as the judge ruled that Pierre-Gabriel’s death was an accident after considering the evidence from his fall off the Jersey cliffs.
They used the three months between Pierre-Gabriel’s fall and the ruling to renovate the Montmartre apartment, starting by getting rid of absolutely everything. An antiques dealer took away the furniture and various odds and ends for a bargain price. Henri hoped Aunt Odette wouldn’t be upset, if she were watching from wherever she was. He kept the photographs, which he put away carefully in a folder.
Tash did the same with her luxury apartment, emptying it out and putting it up for rent through an agency.
The company Pierre-Gabriel had used for his life insurance, which was a subsidiary of the bank, started coming up with reasons not to pay—but then, for unknown reasons, everything was cleared up, and Tash received a check for two million euros.
Pierre-Gabriel’s grandmother died of a heart attack from the disappointment of seeing the horrible story about her grandson in the news, and Tash inherited the castle, the fields, and the cows her father disliked so much.
Maillard was feeling better and had been discharged from the hospital. He rode around in a fancy, modern wheelchair with a pretty turquoise cushion given to him by Tash to keep his head from dropping to one side, and there was a drool napkin that Morgane had to change periodically. She was now a delightful Morgane—one who could kill Pichon with her eyes but fulfilled her obligations dutifully.
The life and disability insurance provided by the bank for its high-level executives, in addition to help from social security, allowed Maillard to have the daily help of
a nurse, which liberated his beautiful blond caretaker from the most unpleasant duties and allowed her to go to the office frequently. The rest of her work she could do from home, courtesy of the bank, while she kept Maillard busy with the television so that he could stay informed and exercise his neurons.
Seeing that everything was organized and on track, Tash and Henri decided to abandon the motherland with the arrival of fall, the cold, and the rain. Together they chose a sunny, sandy paradise with abundant water to wash away all the recent events. Henri participated by quietly ruling out the places that weren’t tax havens.
Back home in Paris, the limo dropped them off at Place Émile Goudeau. The driver busied himself with the luggage while they went down to Relais de la Butte to visit Marcel for a soda. The waiter had a surprise for them: Valérie, Etienne, and his mother were there waiting for them.
It was cold but it wasn’t raining, and the terrace was open, with the stove lamps on the highest setting.
When Henri and Tash got to the apartment, the driver had put away the luggage and opened the door for them. They had hired him for two weeks.
Then he took them to Maillard’s house so that Tash could see her father.
“You seem a lot better, and the doctor says you might get even better—you’ll see.”
Tash was kneeling down in front of her father, holding his hands. Morgane was standing, caressing Maillard’s hair with faux affection.
“I have so many things to tell you,” said Tash.
Maillard frowned, and Tash went on. “Do you remember how I lent Henri a million euros after I received the insurance settlement so he could launch his financial business? Well, he already paid me back. He’s a genius, and I think he’s multiplied it by a hundred in these three months. And that’s only the beginning. Businessmen from all over the world come to see him. He’s even going to dedicate funds to helping people who are having a hard time. But he wants to oversee all that himself. He thinks many associations keep a large part of the money, and the aid arrives greatly reduced.”
Maillard was frowning more than ever, glancing back and forth from Tash to Henri.
Tash turned toward Henri. “You see, he understands everything, and I’m sure he’s delighted by what you’re doing.”
She turned around again and stood up, looking at her father.
“I’m four and a half months pregnant,” she said finally, passing her hand over a barely visible bump. “You’ll be a grandfather at last.”
At the end of the afternoon, they said good-bye. Morgane took that moment to approach Pichon.
“Thanks for giving me back a normal life,” she whispered.
“Almost normal,” replied Henri.
“It could have been a lot worse.”
Pichon smiled, and Morgane went back to Maillard, who was saying good-bye to his daughter.
“Come along, Jean-Philippe. The news is starting, and you won’t want to miss it,” Morgane said winking and turning the chair around toward the television.
“Morgane seems much more relaxed,” said Henri.
“Yes, and happier. Especially since you’ve arranged for my father to have twenty-four-hour nursing care. That gives her more freedom, and she can work at the bank all day.”
“I’m glad for her.”
“And one more thing you don’t know: the nurse told me that Morgane has a lover, the director of a small branch at the bank. I don’t mind, because she’s sacrificing part of her life taking care of my father.”
“You’re right,” said Henri, thinking that the million-and-a-half euros he’d transferred to Morgane’s Mexican account probably contributed to her current happiness.
The car dropped them off at the lower end of the Butte Montmartre. They returned to their apartment, strolling through the narrow streets, arm in arm in the Parisian cold.
Tash looked under her coat for the small, translucent-green talisman that Henri had given back to hang around her neck. She held it with all her might.
They would soon return to their paradise.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2014 Zinnia Clavo
Christophe Paul was born in Paris and spent much of his childhood in Madrid. He made his debut as a writer at the Lycée Français. In 1982, Paul completed a master’s degree in IT computing in Paris, where he created his own software company. Paul is married to the Spanish painter and artist Zinnia Clavo. They divide their time between Madrid, Paris, and Marbella.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Photo © 2014 Saule Zuk
Jennifer Adcock is a poet and translator working in English and Spanish. Her translations have appeared in Asymptote, Words Without Borders, Inventory magazine, and A Bird Is Not a Stone: An Anthology of Contemporary Palestinian Poetry. Her first poetry collection, Manca, was published in 2014 and explores the anatomy of violence in Mexico.
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