The Sermon on the Fall of Rome

by Jérôme Ferrari

  “For all God has made

  for you is a perishable world”

  In this village the dead walk to their graves alone—not truly alone but upheld by strangers’ hands, which comes to the same thing, and so it is proper to say that Jacques Antonetti took the path to the tomb alone, while his family, gathered together outside the church beneath the June sun, were receiving condolences far removed from him, for grief, indifference and sympathy are manifestations of life, the offensive sight of which must henceforth be concealed from the one who has passed away. Three days earlier Jacques Antonetti had died in a hospital in Paris and the aircraft bringing him home had touched down at Ajaccio that very morning, just when his son Matthieu was getting up from the waitresses’ bed and heading down to the bar to make himself a coffee. Libero was already behind the counter dressed in a suit, and starting the coffee machine, Matthieu was grateful to him for being up already to keep him company.

  “Did you sleep here?”

  Matthieu nodded in confirmation. He would have preferred to be able to spend the past two nights at home, he had intended to do so, and even attempted it the evening before last, but his grandfather had just sat there without saying a word and had not even seemed to be aware of his presence, so that Matthieu, too, had sat there in an armchair staring at the closed shutters and when night began to fall he had got up to light a lamp but his grandfather had said,

  “No,”

  without stirring, without raising his voice, simply said,

  “No,”

  and had added,

  “That’s not the way things are done,”

  and made a gesture which Matthieu hastened to interpret as a license to take his leave, or it may even have been something more absolute and violent, an imperious invitation to distance himself immediately from a solitude that called only for the silence of the night and Matthieu had obeyed, he had freed his grandfather from his importunate presence at the same time as freeing himself and had not been back to see him since. Libero set down a coffee in front of Matthieu and came to sit beside him, scrutinizing him from head to toe.

  “Are you going to go like that? Are you going to go to your father’s funeral like that?”

  Matthieu was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a black shirt which he had rather vaguely ironed. He reviewed his attire with a puzzled air.

  “Won’t this do?”

  Libero leaned over and took hold of him by the neck.

  “No, it won’t. You can’t bury your father like that. You smell of sweat. You smell of perfume. You stink. You look dreadful. We’ll go to my mother’s, and first off you’ll take a shower. And then you’ll shave. And we’ll find you a suit and tie. We’ll find something that’ll fit you. And it’ll all be fine. You’ll do everything you have to do. It’ll be O.K. You’ll see. I promise you.”

  Matthieu felt the tears welling up into his eyes but they stopped short at the brink of his eyelids, lingering for a moment before retreating abruptly. He caught his breath and briefly hugged Libero before going after him and two hours later as the hearse, followed by an interminable line of cars, entered the village to the sound of the bell tolling, Matthieu was standing there waiting in front of the church, at his grandfather’s side, swamped in a suit much too big for him, whose jacket he was under strict instructions not to unbutton for any reason, so that the disgraceful folds in the pants which a belt now held suspended above his navel should remain hidden. Libero gave him a thumbs-up sign, it’s all going fine, and all of a sudden, at the moment when the coffin was being lifted out of the hearse, a crowd of people emerged from their cars and rushed up to him to kiss him in an appalling melee, women who did not know him squeezed him against the black lace of their mourning dresses, his cheeks were sticky with strangers’ tears, he caught the pungent smells of eau de cologne, day creams and cheap perfumes, and out of the corner of his eye he could see yet more unknown people jostling one another to hurl themselves at Marcel, and one of the undertaker’s men called out,

  “Afterward! Condolences afterward. After the service!”

  but no one was listening to him, and the crowd had backed Matthieu up against the wall of the church and were overwhelming him with their clammy embraces, he felt giddy, he could see his mother holding out her arms toward him and called out to her, but she was trapped by shoals of relentless hands seeking to touch the bruised flesh of bereavement, Aurélie was weeping beside the hearse, overwhelmed by a dense surge of hungry compassion, moist lips proffered well before the contact of the kiss, gold teeth gleaming with saliva between opened lips, and Matthieu felt as if he were dissolving in a soup of human warmth, his shirt was drenched with sweat, the pressure of the belt against his stomach was painful, and then all at once calm descended, the crowd parted to let the dead man through. He was carried by Virgile Ordioni, Vincent Leandri and four of Libero’s brothers, and Matthieu followed him, on his mother’s arm, for she had finally met up with him, walking beside his grandfather and Aurélie, and, as he entered the church he closed his eyes beneath the soothing caress of the cool air while behind the altar Pierre-Emmanuel Colonna and the men from Corte sang the Requiem. Throughout the ceremony Matthieu searched high and low for his own grief, but could find it nowhere, he gazed at the carved wood of the coffin, at his grandfather’s mummified face, he heard his mother’s and Aurélie’s mingled sobs and nothing happened, in vain did he close his eyes and strive after sad thoughts, his grief did not respond to any of his calls, he sometimes sensed it passing quite close by, his lip trembled slightly from it, and then, at the moment when he thought his tears were finally going to begin to flow, all the sources of moisture in his body ran dry and he abruptly became impassive and desiccated, standing before the altar like a dead tree. The priest swung the censer around the coffin one last time, imploring voices arose within the church,

  Deliver me, o Lord, from eternal death,

  and the coffin moved off slowly toward the door, Matthieu followed it knowing he was walking behind his father for the last time, but he did not weep, he placed a kiss on the crucifix with a piety he wished was not simulated, but neither his father nor God were waiting for him there in the cross and he felt nothing more than the touch of cold metal against his lips. The doors of the hearse closed. Through her tears Claudie murmured her husband’s name, which was also the name of her brother in childhood, and Jacques Antonetti set out on his walk toward the tomb and he was alone, in accordance with the rule of this village, for the strangers making their way along beside him to the rhythm of his silence counted for nothing. The condolences were interminable. Mechanically Matthieu kept replying,

  “Thank you,”

  and smiled faintly at the approach of familiar faces. Virginie Susini was radiant and hugged him so tightly that he could feel the slow throbbing of her heart, which had had its fill of death. The waitresses were sitting on a wall, giving time for the crowd to thin out before coming over and Matthieu had to make an effort not to kiss Izaskun on the lips. After half an hour some thirty people were left and they repaired to the Antonetti family home, where Libero’s sisters served coffee, eau de vie and cakes. At first conversations were in hushed tones, then gradually louder, a little laughter was heard and soon life returned, pitiless and gay, as always happens, even if the dead are not supposed to know this. Matthieu went out into the garden with a little glass of eau de vie. Virgile Ordioni was pissing against a pile of logs in the corner. Over his shoulder he looked toward Matthieu with his great red eyes. He was full of contrition.

  “I didn’t want to ask where the bathroom was. Because of your mother.”

  Matthieu absolved him with a wink. He was dreading the inevitable moment when everyone would have left. He dreaded finding himself alone with his nearest and dearest, whose grief he was quite unable to share because his own was still nowhere to be found. At nightfall they would all go to the cemetery together, the stone covering the vault would be sealed, they would be arranging the wreaths and bouquets of flowers
, and that is all Matthieu would see, flowers and stone, nothing else, no trace of the father he had lost, not even any trace of his absence. Perhaps he would have been able to weep if he had understood the language of symbols, or if he had at least been able to make an effort of imagination, but he understood nothing and his mind stumbled against the wholly concrete presence of the things that surrounded him, beyond which there was nothing. Matthieu looked at the sea and knew that his insensitivity was no more than an undeniable symptom of his doltishness, he was a creature who enjoyed the constant but narrow happiness animals enjoy, and a hand came to rest on his shoulder, which he took to be that of Izaskun having come into the garden because she was unhappy to see him alone and missed him. He turned and found himself face to face with Aurélie.

  “How are you, Matthieu?”

  She was studying him without anger but in her presence he lowered his eyes.

  “I’m fine, I’m not even sad.”

  She went up to him and took him in her arms.

  “Of course you are. You’re sad, you’re very sad,”

  and the grief he had been hunting for in vain all afternoon was there, wrapped up in his sister’s words, far removed from the useless props of symbol or imagination, it swept over Matthieu and he began weeping like a child in Aurélie’s arms. She stroked his hair and kissed his brow and made him look at her.

  “I know you’re sad. But it’s no use, don’t you see? Your sadness is no use to anyone or anything. It’s too late.”

  On July 15 he received a letter from Judith Haller, telling him that she had passed her exams for her public teaching qualification with flying colors, she wanted to share her joy with him, albeit from afar, she expected no reply, she hoped he was happy—was he happy? but Matthieu did not put this question to himself, he stared at the letter as if it had come to him from a remote yet strangely familiar galaxy, one whose glimmering light awoke in him faint echoes of another life. He stowed the letter in his pocket and forgot about it as he began uncorking bottles of champagne in honor of Sarah’s departure. She had fallen in love with a horse breeder who had recently asked her to go and live with him, somewhere in the Taravo valley. He was a man of about forty who throughout the winter had been notable only for his suspicious sobriety and his persistence in traveling the miles that lay between the bar and his remote village in the back of beyond whatever the weather. He would settle down at one end of the counter with a sparkling mineral water in front of him, apparently absorbed in mysterious meditation. He did not look at the waitresses, did not try to touch their buttocks or make them laugh, even going so far as to politely refuse Annie’s caresses of welcome, and it was impossible to guess at what moment and by what means he had somehow managed to form a romantic attachment to Sarah, who now had her arms around his neck and was covering him with kisses and making him drink champagne. Pierre-Emmanuel was singing love songs with comic emphasis, he put down his guitar to be given a drink and ruffled Virgile Ordioni’s sparse hair as he pointed to the happy couple,

  “Just look at them, Virgile. One day you might find yourself a sweetheart too!”

  and Virgile blushed and laughed and said,

  “I might, why not? You never know,”

  and Pierre-Emmanuel tweaked his ear and shouted out,

  “Oh, you dirty old man! So you like the girls, do you? You’re a right one, you are!”

  and picked up his guitar again, not sparing the tremolos, and embarked on the tale of a young woman so beautiful that her godmother could only have been a fairy. At two o’clock in the morning Sarah got her things together, loaded them into her new partner’s mud-spattered 4x4 and came to say her farewells. Rym cried as she hugged her and made her promise to send news of her happiness, Sarah promised to do so and wept a few tears as she kissed each of the people she was leaving, she told Matthieu and Libero that having met them was the best thing that had ever happened to her, she would never forget them, the place she was going to would be always their home from home, which the horse breeder from Taravo confirmed with a nod, and Matthieu watched her leaving with an almost paternal emotion, for he was convinced that his protective shadow would forever extend over Sarah’s life. Matthieu was particularly pleased with himself and was vexed to note that Libero did not share this happy mood, he was pacing up and down impatiently, going out onto the terrace for repeated consultations with Vincent Leandri, and berated the girls for persisting in their foolish sobbing instead of finishing their work and clearing the floor before going off to snivel in bed, or wherever, if that was what they preferred. When the girls had left Annie suggested remaining behind to receive any insomniac customers who chanced by. Libero looked daggers at her.

  “No! you get going as well. You’d do better to get some sleep. You look an absolute wreck.”

  She opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind and went out without a word, leaving Libero alone with Vincent Leandri and Matthieu, who seemed at a complete loss.

  “Is it seeing Sarah go that’s made you lose it like that?”

  “No. It’s Annie. She’s robbing us, the bitch. I’m sure of it.”

  Since the start of the season Annie had adopted the habit of staying behind in the bar after closing time, which an arbitrary by-law had unreasonably fixed at three o’clock in the morning. When Libero or Matthieu had gone home with the contents of the till and the revolver in his belt, she remained heroically perched on her stool behind the counter, ready to serve the last of the drunkards who were scouring the area in search of a hospitable haven where they could complete their excursion into alcoholic oblivion. In the unlikely event of a visit from the forces of law and order she could claim that the bar was closed, the till cashed up and she was simply enjoying a private drink with friends. She only made up the receipts at the very last moment, when it was certain there were no police at large in the area. At first this stratagem, which could only be applauded as an act of civil resistance to the tyranny of the State, made everyone happy: the wandering drunkards, overwhelmed with gratitude, could now count on a stopping-off place, Annie was rewarded for her devotion by generous tips, which were added to her overtime payment, and the bar’s turnover was increased. It could sometimes happen, of course, that Annie waited for customers in vain, and indeed this was occurring more and more frequently, but this did not alert Libero until Vincent Leandri chanced to mention to him that some friends from Ajaccio had dropped in for a drink the previous Saturday after leaving a club, although Annie had told him she had not seen anyone that night. Libero asked Vincent Leandri if he was certain of the date and what drinks his friends had had and in what quantities, so Vincent had called and asked them to confirm for themselves that his information was correct. Libero was incensed and it seemed nothing would calm him, in tones of fatalism tinged with wisdom Vincent pointed out that waitresses had always helped themselves from the till, it was a law of nature and vainly urged him to be indulgent, while Matthieu kept repeating that it was not as serious as all that, but he refused to listen to them, he wanted to unmask Annie by catching her in the act, it was the only way to do it otherwise she would completely deny everything, the fucking whore, the slut, the vile bitch, and he only calmed down when he had found a way to arrange the in flagrante delicto that his vengeful fury demanded. He recruited a group of young people in the town, making sure that Annie did not know any of them, and gave them money they were under orders to spend in the bar down to the last cent the following night. They were to claim they were just passing through the area and had no plans ever to set foot there again, and, above all, they must keep a careful note of all the drinks they had had, prior to making a precise report to Libero of what they had consumed, a mission they carried out to the letter. So the next day, when Annie came on duty in the afternoon, Libero was waiting for her in the bar with a big smile.

  “You had a few people in last night.”

  His smile froze for a moment when Annie replied “yes” and handed over the money together with the
till receipts. Libero counted it and his smile returned.

  “Not many people, then.”

  No, not many, just a couple of fellows from Zonza who’d stopped off for a drink for a few minutes on their way home, she’d waited there and closed up at about five in the morning, it had been a long night, it couldn’t work every time, but no matter, and then Libero started to yell, paying no attention to the customers who nearly jumped out of their skins,

  “When are you going to stop giving me all this crap?”