And Their Children After Them

by Nicolas Mathieu

  “Cool.”

  It was a new one, and the cap made a crack when she unscrewed it. She raised the bottle to her lips.

  “It’s warm,” she said with a grimace.

  “Let’s see.”

  Anthony drank in turn. It was really disgusting.

  “Pretty awful, isn’t?”

  “No kidding.”

  “Let me have the bottle again.”

  Steph took another big slug before walking over to the circular viewpoint map at the edge of the cliff. She climbed onto it and sat looking out at the landscape, legs dangling. Anthony jumped up to join her. She held the bottle out to him.

  “Hits the spot, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  They could see the Henne flowing in the distance, twisty and glittering. In the valley, it was clearly getting late now. The slanting light underscored the imperfections on Anthony’s face: the down on his upper lip, a pimple on the side of his nose. A vein pulsed at his neck. He turned to Steph. The two of them represented nothing in this space, which itself wasn’t very much of anything. A tributary flowed through a valley where people had built six towns and some villages, factories and houses, families and routines. In this valley, the geometric fields of wheat and yellow rapeseed imposed precise patchworks onto the hilly relief. The remains of forests ran between parcels, connecting hamlets, bordering the gray roads that ten thousand semis drove on every year. In some places, a lone oak growing in the vivid green of a small valley stood out like a blotted ink stain.

  People had gotten rich in this valley, building tall houses that mocked each village’s daily reality. Children had been devoured by wolves, wars, factories. Now Anthony and Steph were there, assessing the damage. Life was coursing right under their skin. In the same way, a subterranean history was unfolding in this dead valley that would eventually demand allegiances, choices, movements, and battles.

  “Would you like to go out with me?”

  Steph almost burst out laughing, but Anthony’s seriousness stopped her. He was looking at the landscape without blinking, stubborn and handsome. The vodka had kicked in, and Stéphanie no longer thought him so small after all. And getting used to his face changed it. She was seeing it in profile, without its head-on irregularity. He had long brown eyelashes and tangled black hair. She forgot to keep her distance. Feeling himself being observed, Anthony turned toward her. The half-closed eye reappeared. Steph smiled in embarrassment.

  “What makes you ask me that?” she said.

  “I don’t know. You’re beautiful.”

  The light was gradually fading. They couldn’t go home now. Anthony thought he ought to take her hand. Sensing that, she moved away a little.

  “Where do you live?”

  He showed her.

  “What about you?”

  “Over there.”

  She gazed at the jumble of roofs, the intertwining of lives down in the flats, under the bridge. She had come here hundreds of times and knew this panorama by heart. She could find landmarks immediately, and could see how inadequate it all was.

  “I’m getting out of this dump. As soon as I pass my bac, I’m gone.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Paris.”

  “Really?”

  For Anthony, Paris was something abstract and empty. What was Paris? The 7 sur 7 broadcast. The Eiffel Tower. Belmondo movies. He didn’t quite understand what the hell she would do there.

  “I don’t care, I’m just going.”

  For Steph, on the other hand, Paris was black-and-white. She liked Doisneau photos. She’d gone there at Christmas with her parents. She remembered window shopping and the Opéra. She would be a Parisienne someday.

  They drank some more, and then Steph announced that she had to go home.

  “So soon?”

  “It’s almost eight o’clock. My mom’s gonna kill me.”

  “Want me to keep you company?”

  She took a step back and threw the bottle toward the city in a high, long, beautifully ballistic curve. The two of them followed it with their eyes until it disappeared a few dozen yards down below in a rustling of leaves.

  “No,” said Steph, “that’s okay.”

  After she left, Anthony watched the sunset. He wasn’t crying, but not because he didn’t want to.

  12

  Hélène Casati was treating herself to a personal day, as she did from time to time. She did what she always did in those cases: be the first one up at six and eat breakfast while listening to Europe 1. She enjoyed Philippe Aubert’s show. He was funny and he knew how to talk about women, especially about Mathilda May.

  A very precise routine regulated morning activities at home, dictating the use of the kitchen, bathroom, and toilet. The goal was to avoid face-to-face meetings, because nobody in the Casati household woke up in a good mood. But meals are a special moment in family life, according to Madame Dumas, the social worker they were assigned after the accident. Hélène remembered her, a fat, energetic woman who talked through clenched teeth. When Mme. Dumas sat down in the kitchen, her thighs took on alarming proportions. She dispensed advice while going through their household accounts. Hélène couldn’t stand seeing her stick her nose into their affairs.

  “I am a bookkeeper, you know.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” answered Mme. Dumas. “But we can always do better.”

  The perennially even-tempered Mme. Dumas smiled then, as she picked her way through checkbook stubs, periodically wetting her index finger. She was really in her element. The judge had assigned her to the Casatis “for the good of the child.” To some extent, Hélène could understand taking that step. Even Patrick was making an effort. Everything had all happened so fast.

  “Do you realize that you need help?”

  The couple answered yes. Anthony got used to playing with the toys in the corner of the judge’s office. He once complained that he couldn’t find the Smurf with glasses. Some other kid must have taken it.

  Of course they needed help. In the meantime, Mme. Dumas could drive you crazy with her fixed smile and relentless benevolence. Hélène had thought she didn’t have a shred of affection for her husband left, but the social worker’s behavior nearly made them reconcile. The fat woman was forever listing his habits, the number of beers he drank, the number of cigarettes he smoked, his friends, his rifles, the motorcycle, the language he used in front of the child, even his way of moving. She corrected each of his little ways so as to make the family function properly. “We’re making progress, we’re making progress,” said Mme. Dumas, a leitmotif she repeated immediately before blaming and prescribing. Patrick and Hélène had no choice but to go along. “What do you talk about during meals? Do you ask your wife how her day went?” Patrick puffed out his cheeks. How could he answer that? “You can go to the museum, too. It’s free for the unemployed.”

  Though barely civil in the morning, the Casatis were forced to try having breakfasts together. They were eaten American style, with cereal and fresh fruit. Hélène still remembered the sound Patrick made as he slurped his coffee. She could still see Anthony stirring his muesli; he couldn’t have been more disgusted if you’d served him mud. Hélène finally told him to go drink his Nesquik in front of the television. She and Patrick wound up alone, unable to say a word to each other, feeling humiliated.

  Another time, Hélène had organized a trip to Europa-Park. To endure the long lines at the rides, the heat, and all the assholes, Patrick drank beer continuously, maybe a gallon in all. That was the advantage of German theme parks: you could find Spaten on draft everywhere. Hélène took the wheel for the drive home, and they’d had to stop five times so he could relieve his bladder by the side of the road. Anthony had been happy with his day. He was still little; he didn’t understand.

  When the period of administrative supervision was up,
Mme. Dumas submitted a report that wasn’t very favorable. But the juvenile court judge was handling nearly a hundred fifty cases a year, some of them a lot more serious. So they were left in peace. What really saddened Hélène was to see that their completely made-up story about a serious fall had become the truth in everyone’s eyes. Even Anthony supported this version of events when he was asked. But Hélène had a good memory.

  * * *

  —

  She had very nearly canceled her personal day off. First, because there’d been a storm the night before and there was no point stealing a day for yourself if it meant just staying indoors at the movies. And then the business about the motorcycle was driving her half crazy. Hélène thought about it day and night in the weeks since it disappeared, and jumped every time Patrick opened the door. The bike wasn’t worth anything; it served no purpose. They couldn’t even afford to insure it. But she knew that the moment her husband found out what happened, he would go berserk. To think that he was once prepared to go over to their neighbors’ with a tire iron because they were slow in returning a raclette grill.

  But she needed this day, needed a break.

  So she left the house first, while Patrick was in the shower and Anthony was still asleep. At the wheel of her old Opel Kadett, she’d headed for Guérémange. She felt excited; it was like playing hooky. She was now driving on the departmental highway. Through the windshield, thin clouds emphasized the blue of the sky. Over there, a plane taking off left a contrail that promptly faded away. She rolled her window down to enjoy the earthy smell of rain on dry soil. The wet, dark scent reminded her of the first day of class, the smell of the next day, of nostalgia. It was going to be a beautiful day; they’d said so on the radio.

  She first stopped at Carrefour to buy something to eat: bread, a tomato, a bottle of mineral water, and a copy of Femme actuelle. Then she drove on. When she reached the swimming pool parking lot, she looked at her watch. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. She had the whole day in front of her. She felt far away, and free; it was perfect. She punched her ticket at the front desk, where the woman was an old school friend. They recognized each other and exchanged a knowing smile; that was enough. Then Hélène went into the cabin and put on her yellow two-piece bathing suit. She had bought it a few years earlier, but it was still in style, cut high on the thighs and going up pretty high on the stomach. To wear something like that, it was best to be a bit tan, which Hélène was all summer. To finish, she tied her hair in a bun and wrapped a pareu around her hips. She picked up her purse and walked out to the open-air pool, sunglasses perched on her head instead of a headband. Her feet barely touched the ground. She was even humming to herself.

  * * *

  —

  The Guérémange swimming pool was a model of the kind, both shabby and modern: dug in the 1970s, fifty meters long, with cement starting blocks and gravel tiles, six feet deep at the deep end. There weren’t a lot of people early in the morning except for the hard-core ones who swam laps before it got crowded. Hélène chose a chaise longue with a view of the swimmers as they emerged from the changing rooms. Along the way she gave a little wave to a pair of sexagenarians who were permanent fixtures at the pool. The woman was knitting while the man read a newspaper unfolded at his feet. They spent most of their summers there, oiled from head to foot, caramel brown and graying. After lunch they treated themselves to a little nap in the blazing sun. Then you could see the soles of their feet, which gave you some idea of their original color. Those two came from a nearly vanished era, when sunbathing was considered healthy. They didn’t drink or smoke and they went to bed early, yet they baked in the sun every day.

  Hélène unwrapped her pareu, spread her towel, and lay down. A sigh of pleasure made its way between her lips. She tried to not think of anything. She watched her long, apparently smooth body relax. She studied it critically, inspecting her buttocks and thighs, raising some skin with the palm of her hand. It dimpled but, when released, reverted to perfect smoothness. Very gradually, Hélène’s skin had become a complex surface, a memory. The changes were undetectable day by day, but then one morning she would notice a variation, a wrinkled patch, an unexpected garnet-colored capillary. Her body seemed to be living a secret life of its own, mounting a gradual insurrection. Like many women her age, Hélène made herself follow seasonal diets. A strange pact struck between her and her body, with privations becoming legal tender in a barter economy. You traded suffering for vitality, emptiness for smoothness, restraint for fullness. The results were mixed, to be honest. Hélène patted her stomach and fingered the inside of her navel, producing a little round pop. She stood up, smiling. Time was passing, so what? Her butt still fit into those tattered 501s she’d found in the back of her closet. Men still turned to look as she walked by.

  In the pool, the swimmers’ movements raised a distant swish of foam, a glittering blue backwash. When the more experienced ones reached the wall, they did a quick flip turn and shot back underwater, extended and wavy. Hélène could feel the sun slowly baking her cheeks and nose, stinging her thighs. She was hot; she felt good. She stood and walked over to the pool. Balanced on the edge, she raised her arms over her head. The rules said she should be wearing a swim cap. She dove in.

  Hélène did the crawl through the cool water, with gestures she’d learned in public school thirty years before. In rediscovering their idiotic repetition, she reconnected with an undeniable sense of wellness. Very quickly, she felt warmth in her joints and shoulders. The effort produced a protected cocoon and she happily curled up in it. She could feel her stomach becoming leaner, her shoulders stretching. Every breath she took at the surface was a kiss.

  After one lap she held on to the edge to catch her breath. Millions of reflections dancing on the surface stung her face. She blinked to get rid of the drops purling on her eyelashes. Her skin grew goose bumps in the breeze. It was a miraculous pleasure. Everything that confirmed the existence of her body filled her with joy.

  Because every day, everything conspired against that body. Her husband, who no longer fucked her. Her son, about whom she worried herself sick. Her job, which was making her dull by dint of immobility, meaningless tasks, and endlessly repeated trivialities. And of course time, since that’s all it knew how to do.

  So she resisted. It had already been the same story when she was seventeen. She and her sister loved to dance. They picked up boys, cut classes, bought pointy bras, listened to ge tendre on the radio. In the neighborhood, people already called them the sluts because they refused to follow the proper stages in dispensing favors, the careful progression from first to second base and beyond. Hélène had the most beautiful ass in Heillange. It was a power you were given by luck and couldn’t refuse. The boys gaped at them, became stupid and prodigal; you could choose among them, line them up, go from one to another. You ruled over their foolish desires. In France in those days, a time of DS cars and Sylvie Vartan songs, when girls were stuck in the kitchen or working in shops, this was practically a revolution.

  The most beautiful ass in Heillange.

  That’s what Gérard told her as he was bringing her home one evening. He was a hunky guy with a fur-lined leather jacket. He wore it as if it were weightless, and she loved how light she felt in his arms. He was twenty and worked in a metalwork shop. On Saturday he would pick her up on his motorcycle. He took her out and they would make love in dark corners, standing up behind refreshments stands, in the countryside on Sunday afternoons, wherever they could. Gérard was ambitious. After he finished his military service, he planned to work abroad. Each time, as he buttoned up his pants when they were out in some rapeseed field, he would lay out his career plan. He would go work on jobsites overseas; they would have kids, seaside vacations, build a three-bedroom house. When he was on a roll he would even list the tools hanging in his imagined workshop, which would be next to their two-car garage. In the winter they would have a fire in their fireplace. With luc
k they might even go skiing; it would depend. Lying on her back, her eyes lost in the blue of the sky, Hélène listened. She could feel something warm dribbling between her thighs. She hoped it wasn’t what she thought. She asked him. He’d taken precautions, no problem. And anyway, would it be that bad? No. A family, two cars, living here, it would be great.

  Hélène started on another fifty meters. Her legs hurt already. She was short of breath and felt old. But after the depressing stiffness of the first ten laps, she knew that a second wind would kick in and chase her gloomy thoughts away. The trick was to overcome the cold and the breathlessness, and the weariness that dragged you down. You had to hang on, to persevere in the absurd repetition of the laps. Thoughts passed through her mind, memories, melancholy. Swimming is a sport of endurance and therefore boredom. She stared at the bottom of the old pool and its missing tiles. The sun hit the water at an acute angle that produced glints, shadows, flashes of light. Each lap contained its own stages. Hélène swam.

  The first time she met Patrick, his leg was in a cast. She was eighteen and wearing a gingham dress. A girl cousin of hers was getting married, and Hélène had put on high heels. She wasn’t used to them, and it made her look a little silly, as clumsy as a baby giraffe. The other girls chattered behind her back. They were all in a group with her sister.

  Hélène was used to having the other girls envy and bad-mouth her. With her ass, face, and shock of hair, she knew that she threatened minor equilibriums, positions, and comforts. If she felt like it, she could get Bernard Claudel into her bed, for example, even though he’d been going with Chantal Gomez for nearly eighteen months and they would be married next year. Calling her a slut meant she was a threat and could use her body to solve certain problems. The term “slut” determined an unfair power she was envied for, and which people wanted to curb, out of caution, for fear of seeing certain things they relied on suddenly becoming fragile, turning to sand. In this instance, morality was pursuing a political project that didn’t speak its name, that of limiting the possibilities for disorder that Hélène contained. To restrain the effects of her beauty. To curb the excess power at her disposal thanks to her ass.