“You didn’t bring me here just for the fun of it.”
Strange as it may seem, Anthony had never made the connection. He’d just wanted to do something different. The weather was nice. It had been a long time since he’d gone on a picnic. That was all.
“I thought you wanted to talk about your father.”
With the hand holding her glass, she gestured toward the lake. Mother and son contemplated its surface for a few moments. When evening fell you would’ve thought it was a layer of oil. On the other side, a shore and then the vague green of trees. Finally the sky, which covered everything.
After Patrick’s death, they’d never really had a chance to talk about it. Anthony was serving in Germany. His mother chose to deliver the news in a letter. He came home for the funeral, but their time was taken up with formalities, paperwork, and clearing out the apartment.
“What are we going to do with all his things?” Anthony had asked.
“What little there is.”
In fact, Patrick had been living in a tiny apartment, owned nothing, and had just two pairs of jeans, three shirts, a TV, and a few pots and pans. He had been shortening his sails for a long time. His death was the logical conclusion of a slow process of erasure. Weeks had passed, then months. Neither Anthony nor his mother gave a thought to mourning or any of that American soap-opera stuff.
When Hélène talked about her husband now, she spoke neither well nor ill of him anymore. Memories got scattered like loose change. She put the episodes in order and worked out a story that suited her. They’d had some good times, after all. It was a part of her life that she didn’t regret. Nobody was responsible, certainly not the crisis. Not even the liquor, really. It was destiny, their life, she wasn’t ashamed. From time to time, when Anthony was being too hard or stubborn, she would say he was just like his father. It wasn’t a compliment. He was proud.
“He’s just as well off where he is.”
“Yeah,” Anthony agreed.
Then Hélène changed the subject. Her sister was due for tests of her thyroid. She had high hopes. According to her new doctor, it might explain quite a few things.
“She thinks her thyroid’s been the cause of everything. Except that she’s been a pain in the ass for long before that.”
They spoke ill of people they knew while eating with gusto. It was a pleasant pastime. At least they found points of agreement there. The bottle of wine was soon polished off. The kids farther down let out loud gales of laughter. Evening fell.
“I should have brought another bottle,” said Anthony.
“No, we’re fine like this. Anyway, it’s already late.”
It was time, the summer soap opera was about to start on La Une. Anthony felt like staying for a while longer. He helped Hélène pack up her things. She kept sneaking glances at him. He really did seem out of sorts.
“Okay then, kiss-kiss,” she said.
“Yeah, see you soon.”
She brushed his cheek. Barely touching.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry.”
“Okay. Tomorrow is another day.”
Hélène carried her heavy shopping bag to the car, a bit shaky in her platform sandals. She was still thin. Her elbows looked like dry fruits. Her jeans were a little loose around her hips.
Now alone, Anthony lit a cigarette. He thought of his old man. The life that was imposed on them. He was very sorry not to have anything more to drink. He rummaged in his pockets to see if he had money to buy a beer or two from the kids down below. But his pockets were empty. He watched the sun sliding toward the west. Soon the horizon was ablaze. The boy who had brought the guitar was now playing a complicated piece, probably Spanish. Two of the girls were clapping in time. Then two teens in the group decided to go for a swim. They got undressed while the others teased them good-naturedly. The boy had a very beautiful body, long and slim, sculpted by swimming. His girlfriend was huskier, big calves, not much chest, very pretty, the super-healthy hiker type, always smiling with a bright future ahead. Once in the water, they spent some time fooling around, diving and splashing each other. Then the boy with the guitar challenged them to swim across the lake.
“You’re crazy, it’ll be dark soon.”
“It’s dead straight, it’s easy.”
“Go on!”
“How much do you wanna bet?”
“A hundred francs,” said the guitar player.
They started swimming toward open water. All the others gathered on the shore to cheer and whistle, and shout encouragement. They were enthusiastic, absolutely young, and their two friends cut through the water with perfect grace, their strokes barely disturbing the lake’s heavy repose.
Anthony preferred not to watch. He climbed on the Suzuki and quickly reached the departmental highway. In his hands he experienced the motor’s panicky vibration, the infernal noise, the delicious smell of the exhaust. And a certain unctuous quality of the light, when July in Heillange settled with a sigh and the sky took on that pink, feathery look at the end of the day. Those same impressions of summer evenings, the shadow of the woods, the wind on his face, the exact smell of the air, the texture of the road as familiar as a girl’s skin. That imprint that the valley had left on his flesh. The terrible sweetness of belonging.
NICOLAS MATHIEU was born in Épinal, France, in 1978. His first novel, Aux animaux la guerre, was published in 2014 and adapted for television by Alain Tasma in 2018. He received the Prix Goncourt, France’s most prestigious literary award, in 2018 for his second novel, And Their Children After Them. He lives in Nancy.
WILLIAM RODARMOR is a former journalist who has translated some forty-five books and screenplays in genres from literary fiction to espionage and fantasy. In 2017 he won the Northern California Book Award for fiction translation for The Slow Waltz of Turtles, by Katherine Pancol. He lives in Berkeley, California.
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