Fresh Water for Flowers

by Valérie Perrin

  He had to phone her every other day. It was a ritual. And the words were always the same: “How are you, son? Eating well? Sleeping enough? Health O.K.? Take care on the road. Don’t ruin your eyes on your video games. And your wife? Work O.K.? Is the house clean? Does she wash the sheets every week? I’m keeping an eye on your accounts. Don’t worry, you’re not short. Your father transferred money into your life insurance last week. My pains are troubling me again. Really, we’ve never had any luck, oh no, we really haven’t. People are so disappointing. Watch out. Your father is trying less and less. Thank goodness I’m here to watch over you two. Bye for now, son.” Every time he hung up, Philippe felt bad. His mother was a razor blade causing him increasing irritation. Sometimes he wondered if she had any news of her brother, Luc. He missed his uncle. And Françoise’s absence killed him. But his mother would reply, with annoyance, or sadness if she wanted to make him feel guilty: “Don’t speak to me of those people anymore, please.” His mother threw Françoise and Luc into the same trash bag.

  Apart from these conversations, which irritated him, Philippe’s life was, seemingly, a well-oiled machine. He had remained the boy Françoise had accompanied that last time to the station at Antibes in 1983: a capricious child. An unhappy child.

  But two pieces of news arrived, within five minutes of each other, to bring his seamless days to a halt. The first came by mail.

  Just as he was tucking into one of his pieces of toast, hot and crusty just as he liked it, Violette announced to him that the barrier was going to be automated in May of 1997. They had eight months to find new jobs. She placed the letter addressed to them both on the table, between the pot of jam and the melted butter, and went off to lower the barrier for the 9:07.

  I’m going to lose Violette. That was Philippe’s first thought upon reading the letter. There would be nothing left to keep her now. Their roof and their work still linked them, he wasn’t even sure why. Linked them by a thread so fine, it was almost invisible. Apart from Léonine’s bedroom, with its permanently closed door, they had nothing left in common. Once she lost the barrier, she would leave forever, to be with the old man at the cemetery.

  He saw a woman talking to Violette through the kitchen window. He didn’t recognize her immediately. His first thought was that it was one of his mistresses, come to grass on him, but it was fleeting: the women he frequented weren’t the sort to be jealous. He took no risks. He sullied himself, sullied Violette, but took no risks.

  In the meantime, he saw that Violette was growing paler as the woman spoke to her.

  He went straight outside and found himself face to face with Léonine’s teacher. What was her name again?

  “Hello, Mr. Toussaint.”

  “Hello.”

  She, too, was pale. She seemed distraught. She turned her back on him and quickly walked away.

  The 9:07 went by. Philippe saw a few faces at the carriage windows and thought of when Léonine would wave at them. Silently, as if on automatic pilot, Violette raised the barrier, and then said to Philippe:

  “Geneviève Magnan committed suicide.”

  Philippe recalled the last time he had been outside Magnan’s place, a little over two weeks ago. The cops’ van, the women in dressing gowns under the streetlights. She must have committed suicide after seeing him. He had wept in front of her. “I’d never have done any harm to kids.” Was it the weight of guilt that had pushed her toward death?

  Violette added:

  “Please see to it that she’s not buried in the same cemetery as Léonine.”

  Philippe promised. Even if it meant digging her up with his own hands, he promised Violette.

  Violette repeated several times:

  “I don’t want her defiling the earth of my cemetery.”

  Philippe didn’t take a shower that morning. After hastily brushing his teeth, he got on his bike and left. Leaving Violette behind him, desolate, standing beside a barrier she wouldn’t need to lower for a good two hours.

  74.

  You’ll see my pen feathered with sunlight,

  snowing on the paper the archangel of awakening.

  Why does the time that passes

  Look hard at us and then part us

  Why don’t you stay with me

  Why are you leaving

  Why do life and boats

  That go on water have wings . . . ”

  The event room is empty. Just two waitresses finish clearing the tables, one pulling off the last paper tablecloths, the other sweeping up white confetti.

  Julien and I are dancing alone on a makeshift dance floor. The remaining lights from a disco ball reflect tiny stars on our creased clothes.

  Everyone has left, even the newlyweds, even Nathan, who is sleeping over at his cousin’s. Only Raphaël’s voice rings out from the speakers. It’s the last song. After that, the DJ, a rather portly uncle by marriage, will pack up and go.

  I want to draw out the day I’ve just had. Stretch it out. Like when we were in Sormiou, and night had long fallen, and we couldn’t bear to retire to the chalet. Our toes couldn’t bear to leave the water lapping the shore.

  I hadn’t laughed like that since then. Since never. I’d never laughed like I did today. I laughed with Léonine, but you don’t laugh with your child the way you do with other people. They’re laughs that come from somewhere else, elsewhere. Laughter, tears, terror, joy, they’re all lodged in different parts of our bodies.

  “And there goes another day

  In this small life, one mustn’t die of boredom . . . ”

  The song is finished. Through the mike, the DJ wishes us good evening. Julien calls out, “Good night, Dédé!”

  I’d never been to a wedding, apart from my own. If they’re all as joyful and amusing, I’ll gladly change my habits.

  While I slip on my jacket, Julien disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of champagne and two plastic flutes.

  “You don’t think we’ve drunk enough already?”

  “No.”

  Outside, the air is sweet. We walk side by side, Julien holding my arm.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s three in the morning, where do you think we’re going? I’d love to take you home with me, but it’s about five hundred kilometers from here, so we’re going to a hotel.”

  “But I have no intention of spending the night with you.”

  “Ah, well, that’s a great shame, because I do. And this time, you won’t run away.”

  “You’re going to lock me up?”

  “Yes, until the end of your days. Don’t forget I’m a cop, I have all the powers.”

  “Julien, you know that I’m unfit for love.”

  “You’re repeating yourself, Violette. You’re exhausting me.”

  And here it is again. It’s like bubbles of silliness, bubbles of joy that rise up to my throat, caress my mouth, shake my stomach with elation, and make me explode with laughter. I didn’t know that this sound, this particular note existed inside me. I feel like a musical instrument with an extra key. A happy design flaw.

  Is that what youth really is? Can one make its acquaintance at almost fifty years old? I, who never had a youth, might I have kept it preciously without realizing? Might it never have left me? Is it making its appearance today, a Saturday? At a wedding in Auvergne? In a family that isn’t mine? Beside a man who isn’t mine?

  We arrive at the hotel, and its door is double locked. Julien looks distraught.

  “Violette, you have before you a prize idiot. Yesterday, I had the receptionist on the phone, asking me to come and collect the keys and entry codes on arrival this afternoon . . . And I forgot.”

  I’m off again. I can’t stop myself anymore. I laugh so hard that my peals of laughter all seem to echo each other, as if my sound system were at peak volume. It feels so good, it hurts m
y stomach. I’m out of breath, and the more I try to catch it, the more I laugh.

  Julien watches me, amused. I try to say to him: “You’re going to struggle with locking me away until the end of my days,” but the words won’t come out anymore, my laughter’s blocking everything. I can feel tears rolling down, which Julien wipes away with his thumbs, while laughing all the more himself.

  We walk over to his car. We make a funny couple, me bent double, and him, clutching his bottle of champagne, trying his best to move me forward, plastic flutes in both trouser pockets.

  We settle side by side at the back of the car, and Julien shuts my laughter up by kissing me. A silent joy takes root deep inside me.

  I have the feeling that Sasha’s not far away. That he’s just given Julien directions for planting little shoots of me in my every vital organ.

  75.

  I’m a stroller, I have “other side of the river” syndrome.

  Today, Pierre Georges (1934–2017) was buried. His granddaughter had painted the coffin. Images of moving naivety. She had spent three days painting some countryside and a blue sky on the bare wood. No doubt thinking that her grandfather would stroll around it, in the beyond.

  Pierre was called Elie Barouh, like the singer, but before the war his parents, both buried in Brancion, had to change his first name and surname. A woman rabbi came from Paris to pay final homage to him. She is France’s third woman rabbi. She sang her prayers, it was very beautiful. She recited the Kaddish when the coffin was lowered into the family vault, where Pierre’s parents have lain for decades. Then everyone threw a little sand onto the coffin. After the countryside and the blue sky, by throwing white sand, Pierre’s family and friends also gave him the seaside.

  Since it wasn’t his God being invoked, Father Cédric stayed in my kitchen during the ceremony.

  It is said that a man has the family he deserves. Seeing Pierre’s children and grandchildren around his tomb, all united around the same farewell, I thought what a fine person Pierre must have been.

  Afterwards, drinks had been organized in the small event room at the town hall. Pierre’s family and friends gathered there to sing songs for him. The doors were open and I could hear the voices and music from my house.

  The woman rabbi, whose name is Delphine, came for a coffee at the house. Cédric was still there. The man of the church and woman of the synagogue were a nice sight, together, in my kitchen. Their faiths, their laughter, and their youth all blended together. I thought how Sasha would have loved it.

  Since it was sunny, I went out to work in the garden. Delphine and Cédric sat under my arbor and stayed more than two hours, talking and laughing some more.

  Delphine seemed entranced by the beauty of my plants and fruit trees. Cédric took her around as if he were the proud owner. As if it were his God, whose house was nearby, who had produced all these little miracles.

  While planting my eggplants, I heard one of the songs the family and friends of Pierre Georges were singing on the town hall square. They must have left the event room to sit under the trees.

  Even Delphine and Cédric went quiet to listen to it.

  No, I no longer feel like flattering myself

  By desperately seeking the echo of my “I love you”

  No, I no longer have the heart to break my heart

  By parodying games that I know off by heart . . .

  You, who today offers me the finest of spectacles

  With such beauty, you could have found obstacles . . .

  But I no longer see any of its lovely mystery

  I’m scared nothing will come of what I fear or hope

  Because despite all the dreams locked in my soul

  I will never again have the courage to love . . .

  Bent over my soil, I wondered whether it was for Pierre or for me that they were singing it.

  At around 6:30 P.M., everyone returned to their cars to head back to Paris. Once again, I heard the sound that I hate so much, that of car doors slamming.

  My three guys had supper with me, outside. I made them an improvised salad, along with sautéed potatoes and fried eggs. We thoroughly enjoyed it. The cats joined us, as if to listen to our disjointed, banal, but cheerful chatter. Nono repeated all through supper, “Isn’t it good to be here, at our Violette’s?” And we responded, in unison, “So good.” And Elvis added, “Donte live mi nao.”

  They left at around 9:30 P.M. The days are longest during the month of June. I stayed in the garden, sitting on a bench, to listen to the silence. To listen to all that noise that Léonine will never make again, apart from a little love song in my heart, whose tune only I know.

  I think again of Nathan on the back seat. Of our return on Sunday morning, all three of us, in the car. Our hangovers, Julien’s and mine, notched into a twig, green wood, a young shoot, a mere leaf, barely peeping out of the soil, two or three roots, more like threads, so easy to pull out. A sprouting of childish love to uproot. Now you see it, now you don’t.

  The gel had left white patches in Nathan’s hair. A bit like snow. Julien told him that, as soon as they arrived in Marseilles, he must wash his hair several times before returning to his mother’s house. Nathan made a face, searching my eyes for support.

  They dropped me outside my house, at the road-side door. They were about to set off, but Nathan wanted to see the animals. Florence and My Way came and rubbed themselves against his little legs. Nathan petted them for a long time. He asked me:

  “How many cats have you actually got?”

  “Right now, eleven.”

  I recited their names, it sounded like a poem by Prévert.

  He chuckled with laughter. We refilled the bowls with dry cat food, throwing the old stuff to the birds. Gave them fresh water. Julien, meanwhile, had gone to Gabriel’s tomb to see his mother’s urn.

  When he returned, Nathan begged him to stay a bit longer. And me, I wanted to beg his father to stay a lot longer. But I said nothing. They had tea in my garden and then set off. I walked with them to the car. Before getting in, Julien tried to kiss me on the mouth, I drew back. I didn’t want to be kissed in front of Nathan.

  Nathan wanted to sit in the front, his father told him, “No, when you’re ten years old.” Nathan moaned, and then planted a kiss on my cheek. “Goodbye, Violette.”

  I had a burning desire to cry. As they slammed shut, their car doors were louder than the others had been. And yet I behaved as if their leaving didn’t bother me. As if I were relieved. As if I had a thousand other things to do.

  After thinking about all that on my bench, I go into the house and close both doors, road-side and cemetery-side. Eliane follows me up to my bedroom and stretches out at the foot of the bed. I open the windows to let in the sweet evening air. I apply my rose cream, open the drawer of my bedside table, and sink back into Irène’s journal.

  Before browsing through her pages of writing, it dawns on me that she knew her grandson for a few years. I wonder what kind of grandmother she was. How she had greeted Nathan’s birth. I work out that he was born one year after Gabriel’s death.

  Irène’s and Gabriel’s love reminds me of the game Hangman, where you have to guess a word. And I haven’t yet found the one that defines that love.

  When he had entered my house, Julien had brought his mother and Gabriel with him.

  How will our encounters end?

  76.

  The family isn’t destroyed, it changes.

  A part of it merely becomes invisible.

  SEPTEMBER 1996

  That morning, after promising Violette that Geneviève Magnan wouldn’t be buried in the Brancion cemetery, Philippe had first headed for Mâcon, but at the last moment, he’d kept going and descended to Lyons, and then Bron. He’d reached the Pelletier garage by mid-afternoon. He had parked far enough away not to be seen. The garage was just as he re
membered it. White and yellow walls. He hadn’t set foot in there for thirteen years, and even though he was too far away, he could smell that blend of engine oils. That smell he loved so much.

  Only the models and makes of the cars on show, seen through his visor, had changed. He had kept his helmet on his head for hours. He had waited a long time to see them.

  At around 7 P.M., upon seeing Françoise and Luc, side by side, in their Mercedes, her at the wheel, him beside her, his heart had let rip like a crazed boxer. Its pounding had reached his throat. The car’s rear lights had long disappeared when Philippe thought back to the best moments of his life with them. Those moments when he had really felt loved and protected. Those moments when no one expected anything of him. Those moments far away from his parents. He hadn’t followed the Mercedes. He just wanted to see them, be sure that they were still there, alive. Just that, alive.

  And then he had headed for La Biche-aux-Chailles. The wretched place where Geneviève Magnan and Alain Fontanel lived. He had driven through the night. He liked riding his bike at night, with the dust and the moths in the headlights.

  He had parked outside their house. A light was on in a downstairs room. Despite the circumstances, Philippe hadn’t hesitated to knock on the door. Alain Fontanel was alone, and somewhat tipsy. The black eye Philippe had given him two weeks earlier had almost gone.

  “Geneviève’s did herself in. You won’t be getting it off tonight.”

  That’s what Fontanel had said to Philippe on finding him at the door. The words had knocked Philippe for six and made him heave. He had almost thrown up. How could he have sunk so low?

  The man standing before him was the lowest of the low, but so was he. He was the one who’d had a thing with Magnan. Who had “lent” her to a pal one night, without a second thought.