“It had to be my mother.”
The sun was setting, the green of Blanche’s eyes deepening in the twilight. Before she set off down the path beyond Marianne’s wooden sign, he said:
“All of this will be over soon, you know.”
He beamed, the grin of a conquering hero, his face superbly handsome.
“Very soon. And we’ll be able to leave.”
She waved a hand dismissively.
“Out of the question,” she said. “If I go, who will guard the gates of Paradise?”
Alexandre took a step backward.
“You’ve never dreamed of something else? Far away from here?”
He turned on his heel, tossing a slight nod over his shoulder and blowing a quick kiss in her direction.
PERCEIVING
The bales of hay stacked in the barn, bound with green cords, seemed light, as if they might collapse at any moment, but they never did. In truth, they were much heavier than they looked. When Blanche was little, she used to play with them, pushing as hard as she could on the bottommost one in the pile, arms straining with the effort. She would throw all of her weight against the unmoving bale, her left leg taut, heel digging into the ground, right leg flexed at the knee, shoulders hunched, trying with all her might to move the bale. She sweated, grunted, the wall of hay scratching her hands, her fingers sinking into it, tiny insects skittering up her arms. She would end up panting, her hair a tangled bird’s nest atop her small head, the stack of hay bales towering over her. She knew perfectly well that she couldn’t move a wall that size with her strength alone, but she wore herself out trying, and that soothed her.
A few days after the frog-dissecting session, Blanche went into the barn. She glanced around the yard, fearful of being seen, and took a firm grip on the second hay bale from the bottom, climbing easily up the stack of rolled bales, dry, prickly strands clinging to her clothing. Reaching the top of the pile, she settled herself comfortably and took a deep breath.
It was almost the end of the year. Teachers were asking the best students to see them after class so they could “talk about the future,” and yesterday had been Alexandre’s turn. Blanche had seen him waiting in the hall, excited as a worm wiggling on a fishhook, shifting from one foot to the other in front of the door. She’d just been coming up behind him when the lead hall monitor had come out of a classroom at the other end of the corridor; Alexandre had waved to her so enthusiastically, so easily, so warmly that Blanche had come to a dead stop. The young woman had smiled with pleasure and held out a hand, first and middle fingers crossed—Good luck, Alexandre, it meant—and a wave of jealousy had swept over Blanche, standing frozen behind her boyfriend. Suddenly she felt very young, and very stupid. Alexandre wasn’t even eighteen yet, but women already saw him as a grown man. This hall monitor believed in him; she was supporting his hopes and nurturing his ambitions. Blanche felt humiliated, tossed aside in a world she’d always dismissed, one which, as adulthood knocked at the door of adolescence, had suddenly become so attractive to Alexandre. Now the classroom door opened, and the boy stepped inside proudly, confidently. Blanche had heard him speaking to the teacher for a few seconds. She had wanted to press her ear to the keyhole, but some students had come down the stairs just then, their voices had drawn her backward, away from this Alexandre whom women eyed with such desire.
A solitary queen atop her tower of hay, Blanche relived the scene now, burning at the memory of the hall monitor’s encouraging gaze, of Alexandre fidgeting with anticipation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Nausea gripped her and she flung herself onto her back on the hard-packed hay. She was like a heavy winter coat, cumbersome, pleasant to wear, but heavy. She’d always thought she was Alexandre’s dream. The rest seemed marginal, unimportant. Until yesterday, she’d never imagined a future for them other than Paradise, the bedroom, the cows, the coffee on the table. Love.
She flattened her palms against the surface of the hay, pressing hard to feel the sprigs of it biting into her skin. A shiver ran through her wrist and up her forearm. A spider, round and black, crept in fits and starts up her elbow, lifting its tiny claws high with each step. Blanche found it almost beautiful in the half-light. A strange feeling rose slowly from somewhere deep within her. She sat up carefully, so as not to disturb the spider in its progress along her elbow; then, suddenly, she began to tremble. Feverishly, she imagined crushing it with a single press of her thumb, just for the pleasure of doing it. As if the creature had sensed the threat, it jumped from her arm and skittered to the edge of the haystack, and Blanche sighed with relief. Her heart thumped to the rhythm of the spider’s steps; a series of images flitted through her head, she could have killed it, felt its flesh and blood mingling beneath her fingertips. For an instant, the round, black body was replaced by the hall monitor’s face. A second later, Émilienne was calling her from the porch.
KNOWING
What were you thinking?”
In the passenger seat, Gabriel stared down at his lap. Louis, both hands on the steering wheel, bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Gabriel, unmoving, knew he was holding back a barrage of curses.
“Honestly, Gabriel, I would have understood this coming from your sister, but you?!”
The school had called Paradise an hour ago. Gabriel had attacked a classmate. No one had ever seen the timid child in such a rage. Christophe, a stocky older boy Gabriel knew by sight because they were both at the market every week, had broken up the fight.
He’d been waiting at the school gate. When Louis got out of the car, Christophe shook his hand warmly and asked him what he’d “been doing with himself.”
“Go easy on him,” he said, watching Gabriel climb into the passenger seat. “It was just a little scrap.”
“Has he been punished?”
“A warning.”
The boy sat still, head down.
“I’ll deal with it. Thanks, anyway.”
“No problem. Gabriel’s not a bad kid.”
The bell rang. Blanche and Alexandre would be out in a few minutes.
Louis heaved a sigh and got into the car, slamming the door. Hordes of teenagers were filing past outside, some of them walking ahead, proud and sure of themselves. Alexandre was like that already, he thought. Fearless.
“Why aren’t you starting the car?”
Gabriel had spoken without looking up. The words came out softly, slowly.
“I’m taking Blanche back too.”
Louis asked Gabriel twice to explain the fight, and both times the boy simply shook his head, as if trying to shoo away the questions, refusing to say anything at all. When Blanche came through the gate, Louis sighed again. The boyfriend was trotting at her heels, and when he’d slipped into the back seat of the car on the passenger side he leaned forward and said, cheerfully:
“He had it coming, Gabriel! You were right.”
The boy was visibly gloating. There was a triumphant smile on his handsome face. Louis sought Blanche’s gaze in the rearview mirror. She had her eyes closed, lulled by the car’s movement, allowing herself to be driven. Alexandre kept squeezing Gabriel’s shoulders, repeating, “Good job, good job,” despite Louis’s clear exasperation. When they pulled up in front of the road leading to Paradise, the farmhand asked, without waiting for Émilienne’s permission or Blanche’s:
“You want to stay for dinner tonight?”
Alexandre stopped midsentence.
“Are you sure, Louis?” Blanche asked, sleepy-voiced.
“Absolutely sure. You’ve been together for a while now, and around here”—Louis flicked a glance at Alexandre—“we show respect to people who’ve become part of the family.”
Alexandre laughed.
“I’d love to!”
Louis drove down the road, dirt clods and pebbles turning the car into a rattletrap. The farmhand’s eyes glittered. He led the
herd; Alexandre, his head sheep, followed docilely. After he’d parked, he instructed Gabriel to go and warn his grandmother. Then he vanished behind the barn.
Alexandre ran his hands along his girlfriend’s waist, murmuring:
“We’ve got time, don’t we?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to,” she said, disentangling herself from his embrace.
Alexandre stood alone on the porch. Blanche’s refusal had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm. Enchanted, he turned and gazed out at Paradise. The fields were bursting with spring colors, the forest humming with birds. Alexandre swept his hand across the landscape. Just then, Blanche’s brother tripped slightly on a step. Alexandre could hear the boy breathing behind him; he knew Gabriel wanted to say something—to thank him, maybe, for his support in the car.
“Does the whole school know already?” the boy asked, finally.
The chickens were gathering near the gate.
“You never do anything, so word gets around pretty fast when you do.”
Gabriel stared at Alexandre’s body, his adult male body, sure that his own body would never look like that.
“He was saying stuff about my parents.”
Alexandre turned suddenly to face him.
“It was just to get you riled up. Don’t be stupid.”
Gabriel sniffed. Fat tears, like the ones his grandmother had left him to cry himself all out of that night, here on this very porch, rose in his throat. Alexandre didn’t want to touch him or even look directly at him. Gabriel was too fragile for that kind of attention. Before going into the house to find Blanche, he murmured:
“Don’t think about it anymore.”
LEAVING
Émilienne was the last to sit down.
The week’s leftovers, in a large casserole dish: potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, zucchini, chicken stock. The carcass tossed outside, in front of the barn, for the dog. At one end of the table, a basket of thick-sliced bread, dark brown, almost black.
Gabriel’s gaze shifted discreetly from Émilienne to Alexandre. When he’d informed his grandmother that they had a guest for dinner a couple of hours ago, she hadn’t even asked his name.
Louis occupied the “father’s” place at the table, Gabriel sitting obediently next to him. Blanche and Alexandre sat across the table, their backs held very straight, the girl hiding her nervousness with difficulty, her legs jiggling under the bench. She hadn’t said anything since the car ride home. Something was building within her, like a wave rising; Louis could sense it roiling inside her. Alexandre seemed indifferent; he was glowing, even more than usual, delighted to be there, though slightly discomfited by Émilienne’s silence from the head of the table, where she presided over this odd gathering, passing plates and dishes, observing. Émilienne didn’t ask him any questions; she simply let him speak, smiling occasionally when he mentioned his teachers. Here the young man was in the spot Blanche had set aside for him, the one Louis would never occupy. When the farmhand offered him a glass of wine, Alexandre refused.
“You act like the lord of the manor,” said Louis, teasingly, but with an edge in his voice, “and yet you can’t handle alcohol?”
The other young man smiled.
“I don’t need that to give me courage,” he said lightly, reaching for the pitcher of water.
Louis grunted and drained his glass but, to Blanche’s surprise, didn’t refill it.
“Did something happen today?” asked Émilienne.
Gabriel shrank back in his chair. Louis and Blanche hesitated. The old lady looked at them both and then her eyes shifted to Gabriel, who was pushing his potatoes around his plate, trying to remove himself from the conversation.
“Well?” she pressed, suspicion mounting in her voice.
Before Louis could say a word, Alexandre leaned forward in his chair and said, unbelievably:
“Yes, something happened: Blanche and I got our results!”
Gabriel let out a long breath. Louis elbowed him, just hard enough to make him sit up straight and take a bite of his vegetables.
Émilienne gave a soft whistle, part scoffing, part satisfied. Neither she nor Louis ever asked Blanche about her grades or her teachers’ approval; they already knew what her answers would be. Hard-working student. Excellent results.
“Not now, Alexandre.”
Blanche was shaking her head like a horse irritated by its halter. Émilienne opened her mouth to intervene, but Louis held up a hand and said, his voice a bit sharper now:
“Blanche is used to getting good marks—but it must be quite a shock for you, eh, my friend?”
Alexandre nodded.
“Oh, yes,” he said, very seriously. “It’s thanks to Blanche that I’m third in our class.”
He rested a hand on his girlfriend’s back as he said the words. She flinched. Trapped, Blanche stood and picked up her plate, keeping her hands busy, while Louis looked Alexandre right in the eye.
“So, what are you going to do with them? Your good little schoolboy’s grades?”
Émilienne let out a soft snort, annoyed by the conversation. Gabriel loaded his fork with carrots.
Alexandre’s eyes gleamed.
“I’m starting a business course in September.”
There was a sound of crockery breaking. They all turned, silently, gripped by a sense of foreboding. Blanche stood in the passage leading from the dining room to the kitchen, her body stiff, her fingers still curled as if holding an invisible plate, staring at Alexandre, her bare feet littered with wet shards of ceramic.
“Does that mean you’re going away?”
Émilienne made a move as if to rise. Blanche ignored her.
“You could stay, but you’re going to leave?”
Alexandre got up and walked toward her, his mouth twisted in an apologetic smile.
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
He knelt and gathered up the pieces of the plate, setting them one by one on the table. Louis refilled his glass. Émilienne shot him a dark glance. He shrugged.
“You could stay,” Blanche said again in a strangled voice.
She hadn’t moved.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“You brought it up!” she snarled, pushing him away.
Louis stifled a nervous laugh. Émilienne shot up from her chair, seized Blanche by the arm, and pushed her back against the wall. Her granddaughter was quivering with fury.
“Blanche, it’s not a big deal. Calm down.”
“It is a big deal.”
Alexandre stared at Blanche as if he were seeing her for the first time. He took a step toward her, but Émilienne held up a restraining hand.
“Blanche, it’s only three years,” he murmured, chagrined. “I’ll be back on the weekends, and you can come see me during the week—”
She exploded, shrieking hideously. Suddenly, the air in the house seemed saturated with her anger; the others were petrified, gawking at her transformation, rage magnifying the power of her young body, so fragile, so incapable of violence. Her grandmother held on to her with all her strength, to keep her from launching herself at Alexandre. Gabriel huddled in his chair, terrified, and Louis stood and glared threateningly at the young man, emboldened by the full force of his love for Blanche.
“I can’t leave, and you won’t come back! You hate this place! You hate your parents! You hate everything here!”
Gabriel wanted to go to his sister, to tell her that he understood, that he screamed and wept sometimes, too. At that precise moment, he was the only one who could have calmed her, but he didn’t move. Holding back despite himself, resigned, he waited for his sister’s choking cries to drown out her words. The sound grew louder and louder, like a flock of frenzied birds. Alexandre, thunderstruck and shaking, stared at this seventeen-year-old witch.
Blanche sobbed, hiccupping,
for a long moment, caught between Émilienne’s heavy body and the stone wall, its coolness vying with the terrible heat burning in her cheeks, her skull, her hands. Louis took a step toward Alexandre.
“Get out,” he hissed quietly.
HEALING
Blanche became a shadow. A dutiful, plodding, closed-off shadow, a shadow of rage and abandonment. She moved through her life like a ghost in a fortress, skulking in the shadows, sinking into darkness, becoming invisible to Louis, Émilienne, and Gabriel, who had watched her fall and fade. They didn’t avoid the subject; it was just that they had experienced the disintegration along with her, Émilienne holding her pressed to the wall, Louis throwing Alexandre out of Paradise, Gabriel haunted by the same past, their shared past, the deep wound of unbearable separation.
Alexandre would not come back. Blanche knew it. He might come back the first weekend, maybe, but after that? The high life. “Real life,” he called it. Maybe he thought he could be both at once, a city boy and a country boy, an ambitious man and an amorous one, a prodigal son and a loving one, but Blanche knew, from the way he talked about his parents, his “poor” parents and their “small” house, that there was nothing left for him here, really. There was only her, and she couldn’t leave Paradise; Alexandre had known that from the beginning—she would never leave Émilienne, Gabriel, the pigs in the pen and the chickens in the yard. She couldn’t follow him, because that would mean leaving Émilienne to die, Louis to grow old, Gabriel to suffer. What would become of Paradise, if Blanche left? Even for only a year, or two, or three? Louis, alone, would take care of the animals and the buildings and the fields. Émilienne, hunched over the big dining-room table, would calculate what the farm brought in each week, and what it cost, thinking they would have to hire someone, but knowing they couldn’t. Gabriel could have stepped into Blanche’s role, but he wasn’t capable of it, of course he wasn’t; you can’t run an estate with your eyes full of tears.
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