Finally the sound of a motor. I recognized it; it was them. The car doors slammed. The mother came in first, with bags of groceries. “We’re back, kids!” she said, the father behind her. I didn’t stop to think. I kicked the door shut and I shot them from behind. Him first. Then her. They collapsed, without realizing anything, without even having the reflex to turn around. It was over. I looked at them and I couldn’t move. I was trembling. That was the only thing I could do, tremble. I couldn’t stop trembling. I thought it would never stop. I looked out the window. Nobody. Blood, on my hands, and a smell of . . . a smell . . . It was death. That’s when I got the idea to go wash myself in the river. I wasn’t thinking of the cold, or the ice, or the distance, or of anybody who might see me. I didn’t think of any of that, just that I was trembling, and that my hands were covered in their blood, and that I had to get my legs to move so that I could run to the river and wash myself and . . .
You didn’t have time to finish. A great cry of despair and terror, followed by a horrendous thud, made everyone freeze. Sylvia’s mother had just fainted in the courtroom. Her husband was straddling her, trying to revive his wife by caressing her forehead, as if that would suffice. That ridiculous position gave the scene a poignant theatricality, as if this man and woman, who in the space of one night had lost everything that had given meaning to their lives, were characters in a bad dream and we were their trembling audience. The trial was adjourned for the day, and I hurried home, head buried in a thick scarf, haunted by your words. That night, alone in my bed, wrestling with an onslaught of anxiety, I started awake at every hour, each time that endless cry in the courtroom echoing in my head.
It was during that awful night that I realized that you had become inseparable from me, because I had loved you once, and because the story of your life had joined the story of mine in a tragedy beyond repair.
Everything began one Saturday in July 2015. It was a terrible year bookended by terrorist attacks, the televised images of which had plunged us into a state of utter shock. We watched them playing on a loop, stunned, unable to allow ourselves to believe them. In reality, fear was shaking our certainties along with our legs. For reassurance, we comforted ourselves with the idea that city life clearly wasn’t for us and that we were very lucky to live where we lived.
Calm appeared to return with the arrival of summer. Giddy from the smell of freshly mown hay and whiffs of lilac, we hadn’t anticipated or even imagined the pale horror into which we would be plunged again only a few months later. Not only were we living almost outside of the world, we were also deaf to its upheavals.
On that beautiful July Saturday, Simon and Lucie got married. The celebration took place in the courtyard of the family farm, in the shade of a large cedar tree, beneath the long, low branches that touched the ground. Simon and I go a ways back, and knowing he was settling down at nearly thirty-seven delighted me as much as it did his parents, who had been sporting silly, fragile smiles ever since the engagement was announced, seemingly in constant fear of him changing his mind, which would have forced them to cancel the wedding and send everyone home. Simon was an endearing man, but his juvenile, boorish personality had delayed his entrance into the adult world. Until that day, he had oriented his life along two major axes: one, his work on the farm alongside his father, which he took very seriously; and two, weekend binges with his friends in pubs blanketed in sawdust. For God knows what vague reason, he had always loathed the idea of married life, and his imagining of it verged on a prison-like hell.
Lucie, Simon’s bride, had miraculously succeeded where so many others had failed. The way she went about it remains, for all of us, a huge mystery.
We had perfect weather, a day drenched in sunlight. In the late afternoon, the men, drunk from the heat and brandy, had grabbed two castrated pigs from the trough where they were gorging themselves and released them between the tables. The enormous creatures had grunted and run in every direction, chased by a pack of children with mauve cheeks whose growing elation, fueled by the adults’ laughter and shouting, gradually approached frenzy. In their anxious flight, the pigs had trampled by, snouts wet and smeared with fresh barley, knocking over everything in their path.
Simon’s bride, who had been on the dance floor, face beaming, abruptly found herself on the ground, legs spread beneath her white dress, mowed down by one of the pigs. Her small feet sticking out from the taffeta spiked with dry burdock were bare, and her right big toe, shorter than the other four, was bleeding a little. She laughed, and hiccupped, and laughed again, her face crinkled, moving her head stupidly. Her mother, slurring from inebriation, and whose high bun was falling pathetically onto her forehead, leaned toward her and with one stretched-out hand begged her to get up, because Lushie, c’mon, a bride down for the count don’t look sho good!
She didn’t seem to know that at this stage of the party, everyone was mixing up everyone else amid a general gaiety, and that etiquette, disarmed at the first glass of champagne, had long fled the scene.
The bride wasn’t the center of attention anymore despite the fact that she was slightly off-kilter and regularly getting twisted up in her long white veil. Even Simon himself was no longer focused on her. Standing on a chair before an exclusively male audience, he was chanting the chorus of La Marseillaise, one fist lifted toward the cedar tree’s highest branches, and encouraging everyone to sing with him: Aux armes citoyens, sortez vos aiguillons, fourrons, fourrons, qu’un blanc impur abreuve nos dondons! It was a terrible concert of wrong notes, whistles, and hollers. Marie, the old lady whom the village kids called Mama 92 (because she was ninety-two years old; they renamed her every year), plugged her ears with her two bony hands and mumbled, sucking at her gums, Aie aie, what a racket!
We drank and ate late into the night. On the menu was leg of lamb, roast venison, potatoes in duck fat, thick slices of fresh sausage, garlic butter, cured sausage, smoked bacon, whole wheat bread, fresh walnuts, wild asparagus, and stuffed cabbage. As for alcohol, there was so much and so many kinds that I can’t remember what we drank, much less in what order. We were drunk even before we’d eaten our fill. Sitting at the tables, out of the sun, beneath the cedar branches, we sang at the tops of our lungs, mouths full. The children laughed to see us reverting to childhood. We got carried away over nothing, invigorated by the joy of being together, all of us gifted at becoming emotional in no time at all. We took turns leaving to pee behind the farm, in copses of chamomile and lilac flowerbeds. In the silence interspersed with piercing moos, we could see the stony road dance, and the comfort of physically relieving ourselves added to our rapture.
Long after the sun had set, our minds calmed by the night, I remember sitting on a chair at a big deserted table. It was midnight, or maybe a little later. The air hadn’t cooled yet. My head was spinning, my tongue stiff as a piece of cardboard in my dry mouth. I had eaten too much, drank too much, talked too much.
I had lost sight of you and the girls sometime late in the afternoon. I remember having spotted the children running in a pack from the courtyard to the granary and from the granary to the barn, never tiring. I had assumed they’d ended up falling asleep somewhere, our girls with them, piled one on top of the other in the hay like a litter of kittens lulled by the fresh air.
I didn’t know where you were, but I wasn’t worried. I imagined you were chatting under a lime tree or along the river, amid a cacophony of frogs.
In a drunken, vegetative daze, chin on my hands, I was contemplating what was left on the table: overflowing ashtrays, wine spilled on the paper tablecloth, half-eaten cream puffs. Many of the guests had gone home, but there were still enough of us to keep the party going. There were those talking quietly around the table, others, the oldest, dozing in their chairs, and then there were the ones standing up, smoking, while looking at the sky or else sluggishly twisting around on the dance floor, which was lit by a garland of paper lanterns. The newlyweds had disappeared, and
their absence sparked a tender feeling of joy in us as we pictured them lying in the grass, brushing grasshoppers off their faces, intoxicated by kisses and the warm air. I’d learn later that, far from our romantic fantasies, our two lovebirds were in a deep sleep, drunk to the point of appearing dead, without having taken the time to undress or even take off their new shoes.
I raised my head toward the sky; it was pure, without complication. A gentle breeze rustled the cedar branches. The moment struck me as so delectable that I closed my eyes. I went inside myself with as much delight as if I was slipping into a warm bath. I reached a primitive state of serenity, rocked by the music and the whispers around the table.
It was at that exact moment that they materialized, two silhouettes glued together and coming toward us like some supernatural entity. The contrast between the depth of the night and the striking whiteness of their clothes no doubt reinforced the feeling of strangeness. Simon had told us that his future neighbors would be joining us, but when we didn’t see them arrive at either the town hall ceremony or the reception, we had all thought they’d preferred not to come, and then we eventually forgot about them.
They approached hand in hand, in the thick night, without anyone seeming to notice them. The woman’s heels clicked in the air. The slightly forced confidence with which they had appeared one moment earlier slowly disintegrated upon their contact with the warped cobblestones that covered the courtyard. Halfway across, they stopped, and I thought I detected some hesitation, but they resumed their walk toward us almost immediately.
Only then could I see them clearly. The woman was wearing a flowy dress that fell along her body so nicely that I could hardly, and only reluctantly, take my eyes off her. The man had on a white linen suit and a gray shirt. His black face melted perfectly into the night, giving the illusion that his body was headless. I looked around and realized that nobody had noticed them, or else, more likely, that the busy day had made everyone disinclined to standard courtesies, so I stood up and went over to welcome the new arrivals. I quickly introduced myself and apologized for Simon’s absence. With a conspiratorial smile, encouraged by the reassuring darkness, I added, in a joking tone, that the young newlyweds surely had more important things to do. We shared a small forced laugh. As it should be, the man said to me, then turning to his wife, enveloping her in a gaze of immense tenderness, he added, It is a very special day. . . .
Moved by the thinly veiled reference to their own wedding, the woman nodded and then, discomfited by my presence, burst out laughing in joyful embarrassment.
I suggested they find a spot at the table and drink a glass of wine. The other guests, zoned out in their little bubbles, didn’t pay any further attention to us. At least that’s how it seemed. Of course it was nothing of the sort. I would quickly understand, given the many questions I was asked the next day, that their fake indifference hid very real interest.
I served them each a glass of wine, apologizing for not toasting with them. We’re only staying a few minutes, the man reassured me. He explained that given the late hour, they almost hadn’t come, but having promised Simon they’d be present at his wedding, they’d felt duty-bound to honor the invitation.
His wife said she had family nearby, about ten miles away. We come here a lot on vacation. That was incidentally the reason they’d arrived so late; a family gathering had dragged on. I asked them where they had met Simon. At the bar in the village, not even a week ago, answered the man. We came to show our land to our architect. We’re going to build a house here.
Yes, I’m aware, I responded. Simon told me that you bought a plot not very far from my house, actually.
Oh, yeah? asked the man, delighted.
Yeah, I answered. The house fifty yards down.
The one with blue shutters, across the way?
Yes, that one!
Lovely to meet you, neighbor.
That time, we shared a big laugh.
The conversation continued a while longer. Then, quite naturally, it fizzled out and silence settled in between us.
The man and the woman looked at each other and smiled, and their eyes said what their lips couldn’t express. I thought to myself that they must be a new couple, but in reality (I’d learn this later) they’d been married for fifteen years and had three children between seven and twelve years old. The comparison with my own relationship was inevitably painful. You and I didn’t look at each other with that intensity anymore, despite the love we shared. I don’t know why that observation made me a little sad. I quickly managed to convince myself that their show of tenderness didn’t mean anything—that love could be modest, too, and that it wasn’t measured by how strongly it was displayed. When they stood to say goodbye, making me promise to give Simon and the new bride a hug from them, I felt relieved. I watched them disappear into the night, speeding up as though they were worried about missing an appointment. By their quickening steps, I guessed they were in a hurry to be alone again. My tense body relaxed. Nothing remained but immense fatigue.
On the Monday after the wedding, I went to the Tennessee, the bar run by François. It was going on noon. The two village old-timers were at the counter, like they were every other day, snickering into their tanned hands and lapping up their noon Suze. On paper, their names are Lucien and Léon. But we called them Abbott and Costello because you never found one without the other, and because their favorite pastime was adding new jokes to their repertoire. On occasion, folks referred to them as Laurel and Hardy, too.
Lucien was fat and chatty; Léon was more subdued and looked like a beanpole. Some said that if one died, the other would follow. Former farmworkers, they’d known each other since their first steps and had only ever left the country to fight in the Aurès, in Algeria, in the same regiment. Despite their age, they never sat, preferring to wedge their bellies (as pronounced in the fat one as in the beanpole) against the edge of the bar, standing shoulder to shoulder. The two of them together didn’t take up more room than one would.
Behind the bar, François always attentively listened to their latest jokes and smiled, often just to be polite and almost always out of indulgence, owing to their advanced age. He’d perfected his fake listening skills, thanks no doubt to the large, protruding ears that earned him the nickname Mickey, after the cartoon.
As soon as he noticed me on the doorstep, Lucien called out, How’s it going, Anna? All good, sweetheart?
I waved hello to everyone. The two friends smiled widely, showing all their teeth; they hadn’t lost a one. I ordered a coffee, and they each got another Suze.
You know why they write “virgin wool” on sweaters? Lucien asked me.
I answered that no, I didn’t.
Because sheep run faster than shepherds!
We burst out laughing. François chuckled silently behind the counter.
The bar was empty at that hour of the day. A few flies overcome by the muggy air languished on the deserted tables. At low volume, for background noise, a Johnny Hallyday song was playing. François was an especially big fan and listened to him from morning to night. Lucien and Léon didn’t like Johnny. Between themselves, they secretly called him Johnny-Loves-the-Payday.
We talked about Simon’s wedding, which was all anyone was talking about. Of course, the whole village, or nearly, had been invited. Lucien said that it had been a great party and that the venison thigh had been tender. I drank so much I almost couldn’t find my way home! I got chewed out by my wife real good! Took me all of yesterday to sober up. You, too, am I right, Léon? His friend snickered, dry fingers over his mouth, then gulped down what was left of the Suze. Without waiting, François served him a refill.
Not a soul was outside. The heat had forced everybody into seclusion. Lucien, looking through the tall glass door, said, Hot summer this year, ain’t it? Even the river’s losing its water. Noticed it yesterday when I was walking, down a good third.
In the distance we could hear the steel blade of a saw wailing and cows mooing, half as loud as in winter; they suffered from the heat, too. The sound of bells from the neighboring village, carried by a burning wind, echoed at length. We decided that someone must have died; we figured someone old, always better than someone young. Or worse, a child, said François. Then the ringing abruptly stopped.
The smells of fried peppers, dry hay, sizzling onions, and pizza dough filled the street baking beneath the sun and drifted into the Tennessee, blending with the hints of aniseed, Suze, and martini that permeated its walls.
In one hour, bodies would slump under the village roofs, felled by sleep—the siesta—and minds enveloped in a clammy slumber would stop struggling.
Two tourists came in, a man and a woman. And it was as if the enchantment vanished, as if the glistening sweat on their foreheads pulled us back to the uncomfortable mugginess of everyday life. We recognized them as tourists by their extreme blondness and their inevitably sunburned skin. In broken French, they asked for the way to the Chemin des Oeillets. They were very cheerful, bowing exaggeratedly to apologize for the bother. François gave them directions; they bowed again, then left. Lucien turned toward Léon and tossed out, Always something on the Fritz, eh!
And off they went, laughing again. I laughed, too. I’d have liked to ignore the terrible joke, but I gave in, as I did every time, patronizingly perhaps, but also out of respect for their age. François snorted. It seemed like he was thinking, Getting old doesn’t excuse everything, but what he actually murmured was Come on, let’s not pile on the blondies. They keep business going, after all. . . .
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