Fresh Water for Flowers

by Valérie Perrin

  “You don’t want to be buried beside the count?”

  “Beside my husband for eternity?! Never! I’d be too scared of dying of boredom!”

  “But you’ve just told me it’s the leftovers that are buried here.”

  “Even my leftovers could be bored beside the count. He was a real downer.”

  Nono and Gaston come in to make themselves a coffee. They look surprised to see me roaring with laughter. Nono blushes. He has a crush on the countess. Every time he sees her, he blushes like a schoolboy.

  Father Cédric arrives a few minutes later, and kisses her hand.

  “So, Father, how was it?”

  “It was a funeral, Countess.”

  “Did her children play some music for her?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, what idiots, Odette adored Julio Iglesias.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A woman knows everything about her rival. Her habits, her perfume, her tastes. When a lover turns up at his mistress’s, he should feel like he’s on holiday, not back home.”

  “None of that sounds very Catholic, Countess.”

  “Father, people need to sin, or your confessional would be empty. Sin is your stock-in-trade. If people had nothing more to be ashamed of, there would be no one in the pews of your church.”

  The countess looked around for Nono.

  “Norbert, would you be so kind as to accompany me back, please?”

  “Nono becomes flustered and blushes even more.

  “Of course, Countess.”

  Nono and the countess had barely passed through my door before Gaston broke his cup. As I bend over to sweep up the shards of china with my dustpan and brush, Gaston whispers in my ear, “I’m wondering if Nono’s going to get it on with the countess.”

  79.

  In the time linking heaven and earth,

  the finest of mysteries is hidden.

  IRÈNE FAYOLLE’S JOURNAL

  May 29th, 1993

  Paul is ill. According to our family doctor, he’s showing symptoms of a complication of the liver, stomach, or pancreas. Paul suffers and doesn’t get treatment. Strangely, instead of getting tests done, seeking medical opinions from specialists, in one week he’s consulted three clairvoyants, who predicted that he would have a long and happy life. Paul has never shown the slightest interest in mediums or anything like that. He reminds me of those atheists who start talking to God when their boat is sinking, and I have the feeling that he became ill because of me. That my lies to go and join Gabriel in a hotel room finally got to him.

  Lyons, Avignon, Châteauroux, Amiens, Epinal. For a year now, Gabriel and I have been bed-hopping like others go island-hopping.

  I made two appointments for Paul to have a scan at the Paoli-Calmettes Institute; he didn’t go to them. Every evening, when I tell him that he urgently needs to seek treatment, he smiles at me and replies, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

  I can see that he’s suffering, that he’s lost weight. At night, in his sleep, the pain makes him moan.

  I’m in despair. What is he after? Has he gone mad or become suicidal?

  I can’t force him into my car so I can take him to the hospital. I’ve tried everything—smiles, tears, anger—nothing seems to affect him. He’s letting himself die, he’s drifting away.

  I begged him to speak to me, to explain why he was doing this. Why this giving up. He went off to bed.

  I’m lost.

  June 7th, 1993

  This morning, Gabriel called me at the rose nursery. He sounded happy, he’s in court in Aix all week, he wants to see me, spend all his nights with me. He tells me that he thinks only of me.

  I told him that it was impossible. That I couldn’t leave Paul on his own.

  Gabriel hung up on me.

  I took up the snow globe placed on the counter, and I smashed it with all my might against a wall, screaming.

  Not even real snow, just polystyrene. Not even real love, just nights in hotels.

  We’ve gone mad.

  September 3rd, 1993

  I poisoned Paul’s herbal tea. I put strong sedatives in it so he’d be knocked out and I could call for an ambulance.

  They found Paul flat out in the middle of the sitting room and took him to the ER, where he was examined.

  Paul has cancer.

  He is so weak due to the illness and the drugs I made him swallow that the doctors have decided to hospitalize him for an unspecified amount of time.

  Paul’s toxicology tests showed that he had absorbed a massive dose of sedatives. He made out to the doctors that he had taken them, that he just wanted the pain to go away. He said that so that I wouldn’t be questioned about it.

  I explained to Paul why I had done it; I didn’t have any choice, it was the only way I had found to make him finally go to the hospital. He told me that he was deeply moved that I loved him that much. He thought I didn’t love him anymore.

  Sometime, I would like to disappear with Gabriel. But only sometimes.

  December 6th, 1993

  I phoned Gabriel to tell him about the operation, the chemotherapy. To tell him we wouldn’t be seeing each other anymore for now.

  He replied, “I understand,” and then hung up.

  April 20th, 1994

  This morning, a pretty pregnant woman came into the rose nursery. She wanted to buy some old roses and peonies to plant on the day her baby arrived. We talked about this and that. Particularly about her garden and her house, with its southwest aspect, ideal for planting roses and peonies. She told me she was expecting a girl, which was wonderful, and I replied that I had had a son and that was just as wonderful. That made her laugh.

  It’s so rare that I make others laugh. Apart from Gabriel. And my son, when he was small.

  When it came to paying, the client wrote a check and gave me an identity card, saying:

  “Forgive me, it’s my husband’s. But the surname and address are the same.”

  On the check I saw that she was called Karine Prudent, and lived at 19 Chemin des Contamines, Mâcon. Then I saw that the ID was Gabriel’s. His photo, his date of birth, his place of birth, the same address, 19 Chemin des Contamines, Mâcon, his fingerprint. It took me a few seconds to understand. To make the connection. I felt myself going red, my cheeks burning. Gabriel’s wife looked at me steadily, without lowering her eyes, and then took the ID back from me to slip it into the inside pocket of her jacket, against her heart, above the future baby.

  She left carrying her plants in a cardboard box.

  October 22nd, 1995

  Paul is in remission. We went to celebrate that with Julien. My son lives in an apartment close to his school. I am living alone right now. I feel alone, like before his birth. Children fill our lives and then leave a great void, a massive one.

  April 27th, 1996

  Three years, now, that I’ve not heard from Gabriel. On each of my birthdays, I think he’ll get in touch. I think, I believe, or I hope?

  I miss him.

  I imagine him in his garden with his wife, his daughter, his peonies, and his roses. I imagine him being bored stiff, he who only loves smoky brasseries, courts, lost causes. Me.

  80.

  Speak to me in the easy way which you always used,

  Put no difference in your tone,

  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

  Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we shared together.

  SEPTEMBER 1997

  Four weeks, now, that Philippe had been living in Brancion-en-Chalon. Every morning, the moment he opened his eyes, the silence got him down. In Malgrange, there was the traffic, the cars and trucks that passed their house, that stopped when Violette lowered the barrier, and the bell ringing out, the sound of the trains whizzing by. Here, in this dreary countrys
ide, the silence of the dead terrified him. Even the visitors prowled around. Only the church bell ringing every hour reminded him, with its lugubrious sound, that time was passing and nothing happening.

  Four weeks that he’d been here, and he already hated the place. The tombs, the house, the garden, the whole area. Even the gravediggers. When their van came through the gates, Philippe avoided them. He waved at them from a distance. He didn’t want to get friendly with those three morons. A half-wit who called himself Elvis Presley; another one who was always having a laugh and picking up dubious cats, and all sorts of other creatures, to take care of them; and the third, who went flying the moment he missed a step, and looked as if he was straight out of a lunatic asylum.

  Philippe had always been wary of men who were interested in animals. It was a girly thing, melting in front of a ball of fluff. He knew that Violette dreamt of having cats and dogs, but he refused. He pretended he was allergic to them. The truth was, he was scared of them and found them gross. Animals disgusted him. The trouble was, the cemetery was teeming with cats because Violette, and two of the three morons, fed them.

  For the first time since they’d moved there, a funeral was scheduled for 3 P.M. that day. He’d set off early in the morning for a ride. Usually, he came back at midday, but he was afraid of coming across the bereaved family and the hearse. He’d driven aimlessly around the countryside and had arrived at Mâcon at lunchtime.

  While waiting at a red light, he’d seen some children coming out of a primary school. In a group of little girls, he’d thought he recognized Léonine. Same hair, same hairstyle, same look, same walk, and, in particular, same dress. The pink-and-red one with white spots. At that moment, he’d thought: What if Léonine wasn’t in the room when everything burned down? What if Léonine was still alive somewhere? If she’d been stolen from us? People of Magnan’s and Fontanel’s breed were capable of anything.

  He’d switched off his bike’s engine and walked towards the child. Then, as he approached her, he remembered that the last time he had seen Léonine, she’d been seven. And that today, she’d no longer be in a group of children shouting and skipping, but with middle-schoolers. That she wouldn’t fit into her pink-and-red dress with white spots anymore.

  As he got back on his bike, the hatred had returned. Hatred of his daughter’s death. He lived here, in this wretched place, because of them.

  He’d stopped at a roadside café, wolfed down a steak and fries, and, once again, on a paper napkin, had written:

  Edith Croquevieille

  Swan Letellier

  Lucie Lindon

  Geneviève Magnan

  Eloïse Petit

  Alain Fontanel

  What was he going to do with these names? The names of those guilty of being there, guilty of negligence. Who had lit that damned water heater? And why? Had Fontanel just spun him a yarn? But to what end? Now that Geneviève Magnan was dead, he could have just said that she was to blame. He could have told him that the fire was accidental. Stuck to the domestic-accident theory. He could have said nothing at all, too. For the first time, Alain Fontanel had seemed sincere when he’d spoken all in one breath, without stopping, without thinking. But his words were steeped in alcohol. As was Philippe’s perception of them. They were both drunk in that dining room of the devil.

  Philippe reread the list of names that he was writing too often. He must follow through. Meet the other protagonists, one on one. It was too late not to know.

  * * *

  NOVEMBER 18TH, 1997

  While showing a woman patient into the waiting room, Lucie Lindon had recognized him immediately. She could remember perfectly the face of each parent she had seen in court, those called “the claimants.” And him, Léonine Toussaint’s father, she had noticed him especially because he was on his own and particularly handsome. On his own, without his wife, alongside the couples who were the parents of Anaïs, Nadège, and Océane.

  She had testified right in front of them. Explained that there hadn’t been anything she could do that night except evacuate the other rooms and alert the rest of the staff. That she hadn’t heard the children getting up to go to the kitchen.

  Since the death of the little girls, Lucie Lindon was forever cold. As though she were living permanently in a draft. She could cover herself up, but she still shivered all over. The tragedy had plunged her into a freezing desert that consumed her, just as the fire had consumed the children. A fine layer of frost had slipped beneath her skin. Upon seeing Léonine’s father, she crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down them, as if to warm herself up.

  What was he doing there? None of the families lived in the area. Did he know who she was? Was he there by chance, or specifically to see her? Did he have an appointment, or did he want to speak to her?

  Sitting facing a window, with his motorbike helmet at his feet, he seemed to be waiting his turn. Toussaint. Lucie Lindon looked for the name in the schedule of the three doctors in that morning, at the office where she was a medical secretary, but saw no sign of it. For more than two hours, the doctors went to open the waiting-room door, but they never called for Mr. Toussaint. At midday, he was still there, sitting facing the window. Along with two other patients waiting their turn. Half an hour later, when the waiting room was empty, Lucie Lindon went in and closed the door behind her. He turned his head in her direction and stared at her. Blonde, fine features, quite pretty. In other circumstances, he would have chatted her up. Although he’d never chatted anyone up, merely summoned them before helping himself.

  “Hello, sir, do you have an appointment?”

  “I want to speak to you.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes.”

  It was the first time she was hearing the sound of his voice. She was disappointed. It revealed a somewhat drawling, rural accent. The birdsong didn’t live up to the plumage. She was thinking that for a few seconds, and then began to panic. And her hands to shake. She again rubbed them nervously, up and down her arms.

  “Why me?”

  “Fontanel told me that you asked Geneviève Magnan to supervise the children in your place that evening . . . Is that true?”

  He had said it without the slightest tone. Neither anger, nor hatred, nor passion. He had said it without introducing himself, he knew that Lucie Lindon recognized him, had placed him. That she would understand the significance of the words “that evening.”

  Lying would be pointless. Lucie sensed that she had no choice. Fontanel—just the name horrified her. A lecherous old dog with shifty eyes. She had never understood why he had been employed to work in the château, around children.

  “Yes. I asked Geneviève to stand in for me. I was with Swan Letellier upstairs. I fell asleep. Someone knocked on the door, I went down and I saw . . . the flames . . . There was nothing I could do, I’m so sorry, nothing . . . ”

  Philippe got up and left without saying goodbye to her. So far, Fontanel hadn’t lied.

  * * *

  DECEMBER 12TH, 1997

  “Did someone hate you?”

  “Hate me?”

  “Before the fire, could someone have had a grudge against you?”

  “A grudge against me?”

  “A grudge against you to the extent of sabotaging equipment?”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Toussaint.”

  “Were the water heaters installed in the ground-floor rooms defective?”

  “Defective?”

  Philippe grabbed Edith Croquevieille by the collar. He had waited for her in the underground car park of the Cora supermarket, in Epinal. She had moved to Epinal, with her husband, after being released from prison. Philippe had waited patiently there for her to return with her shopping cart, open the trunk of her car, and fill it with her groceries. She had to be on her own.

  When he had approached her, menacingly, it had taken her a few seconds to
place him. Then she had thought to herself that he was there to kill her, not question her. She had thought: That’s it, it’s over, I’m living my final moments. She lived with the idea that, one of these days, one of the parents would kill her.

  Since knowing where she lived, Philippe had watched her for two whole days. She never went anywhere without her husband. He accompanied her everywhere, the shadow of her shadow. This morning, for the first time, she had left her home on her own, at the wheel of her car. Philippe had, in turn, followed her closely.

  “I’ve never hit a woman, but if you carry on answering my questions with a question, I’m going to smash your face in . . . And believe me, I’ve got nothing to lose. That’s already happened.”

  He loosened his grip. Edith Croquevieille saw that Philippe’s blue eyes had darkened. As though anger had dilated his pupils.

  “To be clear, is it true that the children washed their hands with cold water in their room because the water heaters were past it?”

  She thought for two seconds and then whispered a barely audible “Yes.”

  “Did all the staff know not to touch those water heaters?”

  “Yes . . . They hadn’t been used for years.”

  “Could a child have got one working?”

  She turned her head nervously from left to right before replying:

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “They were more than two meters above the ground and hidden behind a security hatch. There was no risk.”

  “Who could have done so, despite that?”

  “Done what?”

  “Got one of the water heaters working?”

  “Absolutely no one. No one.”

  “Magnan?”

  “Geneviève? Why would she have done that? Poor Geneviève. Why are you talking to me about the water heaters?”

  “Fontanel, did you get on well with him?”