Because I say nothing, she gently places her hand on mine. This maternal concern demands no effort from her. Her affection comes naturally, almost as if she’s on this earth to put others back together. When I feel the warmth of her skin, I choke back a sob.
Would you like to have dinner with us tonight? Met with my worried silence, she says, a bit quieter, like how you’d talk to a sleepwalker standing on a window ledge, It’s on the house, of course. . . . At seven, in the kitchen. I know that everyone has to get up tomorrow. Visiting hours are very early. So seven’s good, right? There’ll be two other people: Jeanne, who made the trip from Corsica to see her son, and Maud, same, her son. They come here every month. That’s it. I’m telling you that because it’s all I know about them. I promise. We never talk about anything upsetting, only what makes us happy.
Her offer is much more than a simple dinner invitation; it’s an outstretched hand that no argument could push away. I say, Okay, I’ll eat with you. The proprietor claps. All right, done deal, she says, and gives me a look of such warmth that I’m this close to curling up in her arms and never leaving them.
The room is spacious. The window looks over a square lit by two streetlamps. The amenities are basic, but I immediately feel at ease. This is the first time in a long time that I’ve found myself alone, without the girls. And that sudden freedom, far from making me anxious, lifts a crushing weight from my daily load. I left them with my parents for a few days. I have no more responsibilities, no more duties. I can give free rein to my emotions without having to build a protective maternal wall. I can cry if I want. I’m already shaking with tears; I make no effort to hold them back. I cry, without resisting, and the simple act of hearing my sobs reminds me how much I’ve suffered in silence these past months.
I set my suitcase on the bed, open it, and take out my toiletries, which I place on a small shelf in the bathroom. There’s a faint smell of toothpaste and household cleaner. The bathtub is spotless, smooth to the touch. I think about tomorrow and I tell myself that it will undoubtedly be a strange day, an unusual day. I haven’t seen you in a year. I haven’t seen anyone for that matter. When I moved more than sixty miles away from our old house, I was choosing to turn the page on everything that still connected me to our old life. The last image I have of you is from the day of the verdict. You had your back to me, a police officer on each side. The sentence had just been announced; you were crying. Life in prison. Premeditation had been established. You were crying like a lost child. What are the tears of a man who’s killed five people worth? I remember that the prosecutor had paraphrased Dostoyevsky in his closing speech: The unjust death of an innocent child makes us doubt the existence of God. He added, Could it make us believe in the existence of the devil? No. On second thought, Constant Guillot isn’t the devil. He’s much worse. An ordinary man who became a quintuple murderer.
Your parents, who had refused to attend the trial because of the shame and unbearable pain of seeing you in the defendant’s dock, nonetheless wanted to hear the verdict. On the last day of the trial, they entered the courtroom, looking thinner. Your father was holding your mother’s arm tightly, as if it was about to come off. After the sentence was read, you turned around to follow the officers escorting you. Your mother held out one hand toward you, the way you’d hand a snack to a child who’s forgotten their bag before they enter the classroom. That’s the last time I saw them. They never again expressed a desire to see their grandchildren, as if the mere mention of them made your absence more unbearable. Neither the pain nor the love inside them will ever fade. They’ll continue to love you just as deeply as before, and that feeling will probably accompany them until death, when the time comes.
I haven’t seen you since that day. I haven’t felt the need until now. On multiple occasions you’ve asked me, by mail, to bring the girls to visit, but I never agreed. I only ever allowed the exchange of letters and drawings. You will not see them. I don’t want them mixed up in this anymore. I know that, deep down, you think the same thing. After your many requests, all left unanswered, I responded yes to your last one. I don’t know what I expect from our meeting or why I’m taking a step in your direction. I haven’t been sure of anything in a very long time.
At seven o’clock sharp, I go down to dinner. As soon as I arrive at the front desk, the proprietor leads me to the kitchen, holding my arm like I have something illegal to sell her and discretion is required.
The girls (she means Jeanne and Maud) are coming. They’ll be here in five minutes or so. Have a seat. I’ll be right back!
Then she walks out, leaving me alone in this kitchen that smells of rosemary and roasted meat. The table is set for five. In the center, a pitcher of cold water and a bottle of red wine. In a wicker basket, walnut bread, cut into thick slices.
The proprietor returns, followed by a young girl who must be, at most, seventeen.
This is my daughter, Marguerite. She’s just finished her homework. She’s drowning in term papers this semester. Normal, right? It’s her senior year!
Visibly exhausted by her heavy workload, Marguerite greets me with a gloomy smile—or maybe it’s resigned, I couldn’t say—and sits at the other end of the table with a sigh, like her life is just one long string of hardships. Her blonde hair, pulled back in a ponytail, is iron straight. She’s tall with legs that go on forever. Stretching one arm toward the basket, she grabs a slice of bread, then bites into it as ravenously as if she hasn’t eaten in two days. Her mother, stirring vegetables and chunks of lamb in a cast-iron pot, gently chastises her without even turning around. No, no bread, sweetheart, it’ll ruin your appetite. Marguerite devours the piece in a few bites, impervious to any commentary, then goes for another.
Maud and Jeanne make their entrance. The first woman looks to be about fifty, the second, a good twenty years older.
Ah, the girls! exclaims the proprietor, making a rapid about-turn. Sit, sit!
The proprietor introduces everyone by pointing at us with her spatula: Maud, Jeanne, and . . . Mrs. Guillot, I don’t know your first name. . . .
Anna, I say. My name is Anna.
Lovely, she responds, turning back to her lamb stew. Anna, she goes by Anna. We should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think, my dear? Much nicer, isn’t it?
I say, Yes, of course, much nicer. She clearly hasn’t noticed that at no point has she told me her name.
The two women take their places side by side, shoulder to shoulder, like they’re worried they’ll lose sight of each other. They remind me of Abbott and Costello. The thought of those two partners in crime, a memory so closely tied to a happy though now distant period in my life, breaks my heart.
Our eyes meet and though the exchange lasts barely a second, I can tell from the animalistic way we’re sniffing around one another that everyone’s trying to look straight into the other’s soul, to divine her secrets. Jeanne, the older of the two, matches exactly the image I’ve always had of a Corsican woman: petite, steely-eyed, in black from head to toe. Maud is the opposite, a cheerful giantess with dyed red hair and too much makeup. When she laughs, her mouth opens wide and one shining steel tooth, an upper canine, immediately draws the gaze.
Jeanne asks Marguerite about school. The young woman answers with a yes or a no, chomping on her bread and giving a weak smile. Without even turning around (almost like she has eyes in the back of her head), the proprietor tosses out, over the steaming stew, Come on, Marguerite, a little effort. Tell Jeanne what you did this week.
Marguerite rolls her eyes and with as much enthusiasm as a corpse responds, What do you want me to say? Her ponytail whips the air with the slightest movement of her head.
Jeanne laughs. Never mind, let her be. The youngsters don’t like to talk.
Now that is true, exclaims Maud. At home, mine won’t say a single word when he gets back from school. You can try all you want, nothing ever comes out of that mouth.
. . .
It’s ready, the proprietor announces suddenly. Holding the pot with both hands, she does a half-turn around herself. Marguerite, sweetheart, quick—the trivet!
And voilà, she says as she sets down the dish with as much pride as if she was tossing a stag killed during a hunt onto the center of the table. Tonight it’s stew with lamb and assorted vegetables.
The women congratulate the chef. Maud thanks her by placing one hand over her heart and Jeanne says in appreciation, My word, it smells so good!
Newbie first, says the proprietor, looking at me. I hold out my bowl and she gives me a generous serving. Marguerite seems a little irritated at not being served first. Her ponytail whips the air again, then stops. Someone asks me where I’m from and how many hours my train ride lasted. Jeanne tells us that the trip from Corsica is long and exhausting but that she wouldn’t miss her monthly visit for anything in the world.
I’m allowed three slots of three hours, three days in a row. They change the hours if you come from far away. I brought cured sausage and capocollo, as usual!
I thought outside items were forbidden, I say timidly.
As if!
The women tell me how to bring in goods without being bothered by the prison officials. Maud explains how at each visit, she goes in with cigarettes for her son. You roll your cigarettes in plastic wrap, and you hide them under your armpits, using scotch tape, or around your waist, or I’m guessing you know where, don’t you?! Then she laughs, revealing her sparkling canine.
The proprietor, almost choking from laughter, coughs into her hands, hiding her mouth. Her small eyes, wet with tears, laugh on their own.
Nobody sees anything, you know, adds Maud, since nobody frisks those parts of the body. They just ask you to remove everything metal: belt, jewelry, cellphone, etc. And then, well, as long as you’re not bringing in drugs or a weapon, right, they basically look the other way. Cigarettes and sausages are just to make ’em feel better. They don’t hurt anybody. I know my boy needs smokes, so, well, I spoil him a little. Someone has to.
I’m worried about Marguerite’s presence. It’s not a conversation for a girl her age. But she doesn’t seem any more perturbed than if we’d been discussing the weather. For that matter, her gaze is as bright as ever, unclouded by any visible signs of irritation. This is her world, her every day—she seems to have gotten used to it.
I’m surprised to find I have a good appetite. The proprietor gives me another serving, smiling, encouraging me to enjoy the evening with a wink. We drink wine; Maud prefers beer. Vino gives me a headache, makes me feel like my brain’s on fire.
Long as it’s not your culo, hoots Jeanne out of one side of her mouth.
The proprietor, who snorts at the word culo, almost chokes again, this time on her stew. Seized by uncontrollable giggles, Maud leans against Jeanne, who cackles just like a hyena without moving a single muscle in her face. Marguerite, with her ever flawless way of beating the air with her ponytail, sighs and, making a pained face, bends over the screen of the cellphone she grabs from her jeans pocket in one rapid movement. I laugh, too, and suddenly it becomes clear to me that everything happening tonight at this table in a kitchen that smells of rosemary was orchestrated with the sole goal of making my night a pleasant one, and to lighten the ordeal that awaits me in a few hours. Their kindness is an instinctual reaction, no doubt, triggered by still vivid memories of their first visit; that or perhaps they regret not having been on the receiving end of the same warmth and generosity they’re now showing me.
I feel good. Serenity floods over me; I know it will be short-lived, so I enjoy it as best I can. For the first time in a long time, I’m being treated like an equal. It feels like everything that was tainted by tragedy is invisible to them.
After the meal, the proprietor offers us herbal tea. And how about we put on some music?
Oh, no, Mom, you’re going to play us your cheesy pop again!
Her mother gently chastises her. Hey, missy, do I say anything to you when you play your weird music?
Marguerite shrugs. Electro, Mom, I already told you that it’s called electro!
Okay, fine, call it what you want, she says, now taking her cellphone from her jeans pocket. Rod Stewart okay with you ladies? she asks, her eyes so bright that none of us think to contradict her.
Marguerite rolls her eyes and mumbles, God, how corny. Seriously . . .
The first distinctive notes of Missing You rise from the phone, immediately plunging the women into a kind of happy nostalgia.
Maud, pensive, draws invisible lines on the tablecloth with her knife, while Jeanne, staring into space, flashes a silly smile. Marguerite resists, nose wrinkled, but her sullen pout slowly loosens. Her body relaxes, swept along by the corny song’s catchy melody in spite of herself. Her mother casts an imploring look in her direction. The young woman, seeming to immediately understand how to read that entreaty, stands up, a little grudgingly, and moving as decisively as her mother, fills the kettle with water.
I notice that the women always sing along with the same verse, softly, in unison: “I ain’t missing you at all . . .” And without fail they stop at the same spot, letting the singer continue without them: “I ain’t missing you . . .”
After that, there’s no more talking, or very little. We drink our herbal tea, silent and peaceful. And the music is there to say what we don’t say to one another.
The room is tiny, ten square feet, barely enough to hold a table and two chairs. On the ceiling, one bare bulb. The gray walls, dotted with flyspecks, smell of misery. There’s not one window, not one air vent, not a single opening to the outside. The floor is warped linoleum covered with scuff marks. This individual visiting room is where I’m being made to wait. No way out. We’re going to have to make do with limited space and, with no place for our eyes to wander, settle for staring at the walls.
The guards who escorted me here led me through an endless labyrinth of metallic doors, seven in all, which they systematically closed behind us in a chilling clatter. As I advanced, my breathing got shorter, as if every key twist, taking me a little farther from the outside world, was also depriving me of air. I sensed from the guards’ cold looks that I wasn’t welcome and that your quintuple murder had left a stink on me, like the decaying flesh of a corpse. Unless my confused mind twisted everything. After all, a guard has no reason to welcome people with a smile. He shares the same day-to-day as the men he guards.
I’m made to wait twenty minutes in the tiny room. I think of running away. Suddenly the door opens and a guard appears. His face is pale, thin; he looks sick. He asks me to follow him, tells me the warden of the correctional facility would like to speak to me. In a panic, I ask him why. He answers that he doesn’t know. I know he knows, but he won’t tell me anything. We repeat the labyrinth of corridors and the clatter of metallic doors. His back is wide and straight. He knows the way by heart, there’s no hesitation in his step; he could walk it with his eyes closed.
When I enter the warden’s office, he stands and holds out his hand. He is tall, big. I notice he’s as pale as the guard. In his rush to sit back down, he bumps his knee against a table, reddens, and says, Sorry, I never know where to put my legs. His hands, placed on the table, do nothing. They tremble a little. His slightly bent fingers cling to an invisible handrail. I don’t understand what I’m doing here, across from him, and the lost look in his eyes disconcerts me even more. He’s the one to break the silence. His serious, even tone contrasts with the weakness in his hands. He says in one breath, as if to get rid of it, I’m so very, very sorry to tell you that your partner died last night.
Silence. His hands, abruptly, stop trembling. They unfurl slowly, flatten, finally breathe.
I turn my head toward the window, like my neck is being operated by an electric motor. Outside, there’s a white sky.
He’s not my partner, I reply. He’s
no longer my partner. And that’s all I can think to say.
The warden doesn’t know if he should congratulate me or console me.
He says, stumbling over the first words, His heart . . . his heart stopped. We found him this morning . . . early. The doctor who usually treats him concluded it was a massive heart attack.
I look at him, stunned. The doctor who treats him?
Yes, your . . . Mr. Guillot developed a heart condition. You weren’t aware?
I shake my head no. He looks at me, surprised.
We don’t talk on the phone, I clarify. He would write to the girls every month. We had very limited contact. Then I stop talking.
I’m sure he wanted to spare you, says the warden, hesitant.
Maybe, I respond. And I immediately think that if he had wanted to spare me, he wouldn’t have died the day of my first visit.
The warden continues, The doctor thinks it’s highly likely that he was born with this particular condition. This kind of anomaly can reveal itself one day or remain dormant for an entire lifetime. There’s no rule. There are people who live a healthy life and still develop it, and others who have terrible lifestyles and die in good health. It’s a lottery. Mr. Guillot’s illness manifested shortly after he was incarcerated. He was being monitored. He took medicine on a daily basis.
Silence. I look at him again. I say, How can you be sure that he was really taking it every day?
The warden looks at his flattened hands, then says with a shrug, We can’t be sure, ma’am. We can’t.
At the end of the meeting, he tells me that he informed your parents and that they want to bring home your body for burial near where they live. He hands me a notebook.
We found this under his pillow. It’s yours now, if you want it.
He walks me to the door and shakes my hand; his palm is damp.
People Like Them Page 10
