You won’t leave home. You won’t change address.
I’ll never know whether you bite your nails, wear nail polish, eye shadow, mascara.
Or whether you have a gift for foreign languages.
You’ll never change the color of your hair.
You’ll keep Alexandre, your primary-school crush, forever in your heart.
You’ll marry no one.
You’ll always be Léonine Toussaint. Mademoiselle.
You’ll only ever like eating French toast, omelettes, fries, pasta shells, pancakes, breaded fish, floating islands, and Chantilly cream.
You will grow up differently, in the love I will always have for you. You will grow up elsewhere, among the murmurs of the world, in the Mediterranean, in Sasha’s garden, in the flight of a bird, at daybreak, at nightfall, through a young girl I will meet by chance, in the foliage of a tree, in the prayer of a woman, in the tears of a man, in the light of a candle, you will be reborn later, one day, in the form of a flower or a little boy, to another mother, you will be everywhere my eyes come to rest. Wherever my heart resides, yours will continue to beat.
69.
Nothing can wilt it, nothing wither it,
this charming flower is called memory.
Hello, madame.”
“Hello, young man.”
An adorable little boy is sucking on his straw to capture the last drops of apple juice in his bottle. He’s sitting at my kitchen table, alone.
“Where are your parents?”
He indicates the cemetery to me with a nod of the head.
“My father told me to wait for him here because it’s raining.”
“What’s your name?”
“Nathan.”
“Would you like a slice of chocolate cake, Nathan?”
His eyes widen in anticipation.
“Yes, thank you. Is this your house?”
“Yes.”
“Do you work here?”
“Yes.”
He blinks. He has long, dark eyelashes.
“Is this where you sleep as well?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me as if I were his favorite cartoon.
“Aren’t you scared at night?”
“No, why would I be scared?”
“Because of the zombies.”
“What are zombies?”
He swallows a large piece of chocolate cake.
“The living dead that mega-terrify people. I saw a film, and it was mega-terrifying.”
“Aren’t you a bit young to watch that kind of film?”
“It was at Antoine’s, on his computer, we didn’t watch all of it, we were too scared. But I am seven, you know.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
“Have you ever seen any zombies?”
“No, never.”
He looks terribly disappointed. He pulls a delightful face. Tutti Frutti comes in through the cat flap. His fur is soaked. He joins Eliane in her basket, to share some of her warmth. The dog opens one eye and then goes right back to sleep. Nathan leaves his chair to go and pet them. He yanks up his jeans with both hands, and tugs on the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He’s wearing trainers with soles that light up with his every step. They remind me of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” video.
“Is the cat yours?”
“Yes.”
“What’s its name?”
“Tutti Frutti.”
He bursts into laughter. He’s got chocolate all over his teeth.
“That’s a funny name.”
Julien Seul knocks on my cemetery-side door and comes in. He’s as soaked as the cat.
“Hello.”
He glances towards the child, and smiles at me, tenderly. I sense he would like to come over to me, touch me, but he doesn’t move. He merely does so with his eyes. I feel him undressing me. Removing winter to see summer.
“Everything O.K., kiddo?”
I freeze.
“Daddy, do you know what the cat’s name is?”
Nathan is Julien’s son. My heart races as fast as a galloping mustang, as if I’d just charged up and down the stairs several times.
Julien answers straight back:
“Tutti Frutti.”
“How come you know?”
“I know the cat. It’s not the first time I’ve been here. Nathan, have you said hello to Violette?”
Nathan stares at me.
“You’re called Violette?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve all got funny names around here!”
He returns to the table, sits down, and polishes off his cake. His father watches him with a smile.
“We have to go now, kiddo.”
It’s my turn to feel terribly disappointed. Like when Nathan heard that I’d never seen a zombie.
“You won’t stay a little longer?”
“We’re expected in Auvergne. A cousin getting married this afternoon.”
He stares at me. Then says to his son:
“Kiddo, go and wait for me in the car, it’s open.”
“But it’s pissing cats and dogs!”
We’re so surprised by the child’s reply that we both burst out laughing.
“The first one to the car gets to pick the music.”
Nathan promptly comes over to kiss me on the cheek.
“If you see any zombies, just call my father, he’s a policeman.”
He runs out through the cemetery-side door, heading for the car park.
“He’s totally adorable.”
“He gets that from his mother . . . Have you read mine’s journal?”
“I haven’t finished it. Would you like to take a coffee with you, for the road?”
He shakes his head.
“I’d rather take you with me, for the road.”
This time, he comes over to me and hugs me. I can feel him breathing in my neck. I close my eyes. When I open them, he’s already at the door. He’s made my clothes damp.
“Violette, I have absolutely no desire that, one day, your ashes end up on my tomb. I couldn’t care less, in fact. I want to live with you now, right now. While we can still gaze at the sky together . . . Even when it’s pouring like today.”
“Live with me?”
“I would like this story . . . this encounter between my mother and that man, to be for that purpose, for us, in fact.”
“But I’m not fit for it.”
“Fit for it?”
“Yes, fit for it.”
“But I’m not talking about you doing military service.”
“I’m dysfunctional, broken. Love is impossible for me. I’m unbearable to live with. More dead than the ghosts lurking in my cemetery. Haven’t you understood that? It’s impossible.”
“No one can be expected to do the impossible.”
“Yes, they can.”
He smiles at me, sadly.
“Shame.”
He closes the door behind him, and then comes back in without knocking, two minutes later.
“You’re coming with us.”
“ . . . ”
“To the wedding. It’s a two-hour drive away.”
“But I . . . ”
“I’ll give you ten minutes to get ready.”
“But I can’t . . . ”
“I’ve just phoned Nono, he’ll be here in five minutes to replace you.”
70.
One day we will come to sit
beside you in the house of God.
AUGUST 1996.
Philippe had left Geneviève Magnan’s place feeling more wretched than the stones—a strange expression his Uncle Luc often used. He had driven to the cemetery. There was a funeral on that day. The mourners were gathered in the heat, in
clusters, far from Léonine’s tomb. He hadn’t brought any flowers. He’d never brought any. Usually, his mother took care of that.
It was the first time he was visiting her on his own. He came twice a year, always with his parents.
His father and mother would park next to the barrier, no longer coming inside for fear of encountering Violette, of facing her despair. He, like a good son, sat at the back of the car, like when he was a child and they set off on holiday, and the back seat seemed vast to him, but at the end of the journey, there was the sea.
Philippe had always told himself that he was an only son because his parents had only made love once, by accident. Philippe had always told himself that he was an accident.
His father, stooped with grief and years of living with his wife, drove badly. Slowed down, no one knew why, accelerated, no one knew why, either. Drove on the left and then too far to the right. Passed when he shouldn’t, didn’t pass on straight roads. Got lost too often. Seemed to ignore signposts.
The journey between the barrier and the cemetery seemed interminable to Philippe. The first time they had done it, he had picked up the smell of burning when they were still several kilometers from the château. The air smelt as acrid as after a major fire.
First, they had stopped in front of the gates of the château to park. Hadn’t felt able to go in straight away, had remained prostrate, all three of them, just like that, in the car. Then they had walked the two hundred meters to the imposing building, its left wing blackened and destroyed. There were firemen, policemen, dazed parents, local councilors. Confusion amidst the horror. Lots of silence, awkward gestures, as though frozen. Everything in slow motion. Not really felt, seen from a distance, wrapped in cotton wool, or wadding. Like when body and mind separate so as not to let go. When the combination is too much to bear. The weight of the pain.
Philippe hadn’t been able to get near Room 1. The entire area had been cordoned off—an expression out of an American TV series, but there in Burgundy, and in real life. Lines of red plastic tape to contain the horror. Experts were examining the ground and the walls, taking photographs. Studying the fire’s trajectory, rewriting history while looking for what was explicit: evidence, clues, prints. A precise report was required for the public prosecutor, the death of four children couldn’t be taken lightly. There would be punishment and sentencing.
He’d heard plenty of “I’m so sorry, we’re so sorry, all our condolences, they didn’t suffer.” He hadn’t seen the château staff, or maybe he had but he’d forgotten. The other children, the lucky ones, those spared, had already left. They had been swiftly evacuated.
He didn’t have to identify Léonine’s body, there was nothing left of it. He didn’t have to choose a coffin or readings for the ceremony, his parents had taken care of that. So he’d have nothing to choose. He’d thought: I never bought a pair of shoes, a dress, a barrette, socks for my daughter. It was Violette who did that, who liked doing that. But for the coffin, Violette wouldn’t be there. Violette would no longer be there. So he wouldn’t have to look after anyone.
In the evening, he’d phoned her from the hotel. It was the Marseillaise who’d answered. That’s what he called Célia. He’d remembered that he had asked her to come. Violette was sleeping. The doctor had made several visits to give her sedatives.
The funeral took place on July 18th, 1993.
The others, they held each other by the hand or arm, they supported each other. He hadn’t touched or spoken to anyone. His mother had tried, he had recoiled, like when she wanted to kiss him when he was fourteen.
The others, they had wept, wailed. The others, they had collapsed. Some women, flattened like reeds in a gale, had to be helped up. During the burial, one might have thought everyone there was drunk, no one could stay upright. He’d stood straight, without tears.
And then, in the huge crowd gathered around the tomb, he’d seen her. Dressed all in black. Very pale. With a faraway look. What the hell was Geneviève Magnan doing there? He had let it go. His heart wasn’t in anything anymore. He’d opened his heart to Françoise. He’d opened his heart to Violette and Léonine. That was the end of it.
The only sentence that crossed his mind a thousand times during those four days in Burgundy was: I didn’t even manage to protect my daughter.
Afterwards, the others, they’d go on holiday. Afterwards, the others, they’d remain there, in that wretched cemetery. And he would go home in his parents’ car, on the vast back seat, and at the end of the journey, there wouldn’t be the sea, but Violette and her untold grief.
An empty bedroom. A pink bedroom he’d always avoided. From which laughter could be heard, and the words Violette read aloud every evening.
Three years after this tragedy, alone in front of his daughter’s tomb, he had said nothing. Uttered not a word, not a prayer for her. And yet he knew plenty of prayers. He’d attended catechism classes, done his First Communion. That was the day he’d seen Françoise for the first time, on the arm of his uncle. The day he’d secretly recited, along with the big brother of a friend, while sipping the Communion wine:
Our Father who farts forever
Hallowed be thy bum
Thy condom come
Thy willy be done
On turds as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily beer
And forgive us our burps
As we forgive those who burp against us
And lead us not into penetration
But deliver us from perverts. Omen.
They’d laughed until they cried, especially after slipping their white surplices over their T-shirts and jeans. And they’d all mocked each other:
“You look like a priest!”
“And you like a sissy!”
And then he had seen Françoise. And had seen only her from then on.
She looked like his uncle’s daughter. She looked like a big sister. She looked like a dream mother. She looked like perfection. She looked like the love of one’s life. She looked like the love of his life.
He had wanted to see her again, and the more he saw her again, every year, the more he wanted to see her again.
Three years after the tragedy, standing before his daughter’s tomb, he’d thought he wouldn’t come to Brancion-en-Chalon anymore, seeing as not a word came out of him. Seeing as he was incapable of talking to Lèonine. He’d wanted to get back on his bike and go and see Françoise, throw himself into her arms. But the years had gone by and she had to be forgotten.
He must return to Violette, fall on his knees before her, beseech her, apologize to her. Seduce her like he’d seduced her at the beginning. Before the barrier and the trains. Try to look after her, make her laugh. Give her another child. After all, she was still so young, Violette. Tell her he was going to find out what really happened that night at the château, admit to her that he’d smashed Fontanel’s face in, and, in the past, had sex with Magnan. Admit to her that he was pathetic, but that he would get to the truth. Yes, give her another kid, and this time look after it. Maybe they would have a boy, a little lad, his dream. And he’d keep his nose clean. Stop sleeping around. Move to a new place, perhaps. Change his life with Violette. It was possible to change one’s life, he’d seen it on TV.
First, he must go back to see Magnan. “I’d never have done any harm to kids.” Why had she said that? He must go back there to make her spit it out; she’d almost spoken earlier on, but he hadn’t let her. Wasn’t ready.
He looked at Léonine’s tomb one last time, failed, once and for all, to open his mouth, like when she was alive and he already didn’t say much to her. Never answered her questions. “Daddy, why is the moon switched on?”
When he left Léonine’s tomb and was walking briskly to the gate, he saw them. Violette and the old man, on the avenue. Violette was holding his arm. Philippe had seen the deception. He’d heard his mother saying to him: “Trust no
one, think only of yourself, of you.”
He thought she was in Marseilles, at Célia’s chalet. He thought she was on a kind of pilgrimage. And there she was, with another man. She was smiling. Philippe hadn’t seen Violette smile once since Léonine’s death.
For six months, Violette had come, every other Sunday, to this cemetery. So that was it. She’d borrowed the red car from the twit at the Casino to make Philippe think she was visiting Léonine’s tomb. She’d hidden her game very well. She had a lover? This old man? How had she met him? Where? A lover, Violette, impossible.
He hid behind a large stone cross and watched them for a while. They walked arm in arm to the house at the entrance to the cemetery. The old man came back out, at around 7 P.M., to close the gates. So that was it, he was the keeper of this wretched place. His wife was sleeping with the keeper of the cemetery in which their daughter was buried. Philippe heard himself laugh, an evil laugh. An intense desire to kill, to strike, to slaughter.
Violette remained inside. He saw her, through a window, laying the table for two, like she did at their home, with a tea cloth tied around her waist. It hurt him so much, he gnawed his fingers until they bled. Like in the Westerns he watched as a child, when the cowboy bites into a piece of wood while the bullet in his stomach is extracted. Violette had a double life and he hadn’t been aware of a thing.
Night fell. The old man and Violette switched off the lights. Closed the shutters. And she had remained inside. She had slept there. No longer any question about it.
Two months previously, he’d forbidden Violette from returning to Burgundy. When she’d spoken to him about that Magnan, told him she’d been to see her, he’d been scared. Scared of being found out. Scared of Violette knowing that she had been her husband’s mistress, the very woman who did the cooking at the château.
But the story was very different, she had a lover. That’s why she seemed more lighthearted the day before going there. Every other Sunday. She had dared to announce to him, “I will go to the cemetery every other Sunday.” And he’d seen nothing; now he understood why his wife seemed to improve from week to week.
Fresh Water for Flowers Page 28