Fresh Water for Flowers

by Valérie Perrin

  “Yes.”

  “It made me feel better knowing that Philippe Toussaint hadn’t left because of me. But because of his parents.”

  Célia gripped my arm even tighter.

  I didn’t manage to sleep a wink. I thought again of the old Toussaints. They had been dead a long time. A solicitor from Charleville-Mézières had contacted me in 2000. He was looking for their son.

  When daylight came through the windows and the draft became gentler, Célia opened her eyes.

  “We’re going to make ourselves a good coffee.”

  “Célia, I’ve met someone.”

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  “But it’s over.”

  “Why?”

  “I have my life, my habits . . . For such a long time. And he’s younger than me. And he doesn’t live in Burgundy. And he has a seven-year-old child.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘ands.’ But a life and habits can be changed.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes.”

  “You would change your own habits?”

  “Why not.”

  92.

  Life is but an endless losing of all that one loves.

  MAY 2017

  Nineteen years, now, that Philippe had been living in Bron. Since he’d done that journey between Charleville-Mézières and Françoise. Nineteen years since he’d turned up one morning at the garage, in a pitiful state. He had decided to be born on that day. To kill the day preceding his arrival. The day before, when he’d spoken to his parents for the very last time. He had drawn a big, black marker line through a past he wanted to leave behind. Put a lid on the Violette years, and double-locked his parents in the dark chamber of his memory.

  It had been so easy to be called Philippe Pelletier, to become the son of his uncle. Nephew or son, in people’s minds, it amounted to the same thing. Philippe was “part of the family,” so a Pelletier.

  It had been so easy to put his identity papers away in a drawer. To empty his bank account so his mother was out of the picture. To change this money into bonds. Not to vote. Not to use his social-security card.

  Françoise had told him that Luc had died in October of 1996. Luc, dead and buried. Philippe had found the blow hard to take. But he had refused to pay his respects at Luc’s tomb. He never wanted to set foot in a cemetery ever again.

  Françoise had sold the house a year back, and was living in Bron, two hundred meters from the garage. She’d been very ill, lost a lot of weight, aged a lot, too. Yet Philippe had found her even more desirable than in his memories, but had said nothing. He’d done enough harm around him. Used up his quota of misfortune on others.

  He had settled in the guest room. The son’s room. The room of a child who had never existed. Just been hoped for. He had bought himself new clothes with the first wage Françoise had paid him in cash. When, a few months after settling in Bron, he’d mentioned moving into a small studio apartment not far from the garage, Françoise had carried on as if she hadn’t heard him. So, he had stayed there. In that bizarre cohabitation. Shared bathroom, shared kitchen, shared lounge, shared meals, separate bedrooms.

  He had told Françoise everything. Léonine, Geneviève Magnan, the water heater, L’Adresse, the orgies, the cemetery, his parents’ confession on the sofa in Charleville. Everything, except Violette. He had kept her to himself. On Violette, he’d just said to Françoise, “She’s not to blame.”

  As the years passed, he’d forgotten that he’d been called Philippe Toussaint in another life.

  Through living with Françoise, he’d got his spirits back. He’d learned to work well in the garage, to enjoy his days of oil, grease, breakdowns, dented bodywork. Through repairing engines, he’d become reconciled with desire.

  In December of 1999, Françoise had been ill; a high fever, too high a fever, a bad cough. Anxious, Philippe had called a duty doctor. While writing his bedside prescription, the doctor had asked Philippe whether Françoise was his wife, and he’d said yes without thinking. Just yes. Françoise had smiled at him from under the sheets without a word. A faint, tired smile. Resigned.

  On the doctor’s advice, Philippe had run a bath to a temperature of thirty-seven degrees, had guided Françoise to the bathroom, undressed her, and helped her step into the bath, while she clung on to him. It was the first time he was seeing her naked. Her body shivering under the clear water. He had wiped a washcloth across her skin, her stomach, her back, her face, her nape. He had poured water on her forehead. Françoise had said to him, “Watch out, I’m contagious.” Philippe had replied, “That I’ve known for the past twenty-eight years.” On the night of December 31st, 1999, to January 1st, 2000, they’d made love for the first time. They’d changed centuries in the same bed.

  Nineteen years, now, that Philippe had been living in Bron. That morning, with Françoise, they’d brought up the idea of selling the garage. It wasn’t the first time, but this time, it was serious. They wanted some sun. To go and settle around Saint-Tropez. They had enough money to take it easy. And Françoise was going to be sixty-six, with years of work behind her. It was time to reap the rewards.

  At lunchtime, Françoise had gone to an estate agent that specialized in the sale of commercial properties and businesses. Philippe had gone back to their apartment to change clothes. He had dressed too warmly that morning, had sweated under his blue overalls. He’d taken a quick shower, pulled on a clean T-shirt. In the kitchen he’d made himself two fried eggs, along with cheese spread on yesterday’s bread. While his coffee was brewing, he’d heard the mail falling on the tiled floor. The postman had just slipped it through the gap in the front door. Philippe had automatically picked it up and thrown it on the kitchen table. Apart from Auto-moto magazine, to which Françoise had subscribed to please him, he never read the mail. It was Françoise who did all the paperwork.

  He was just turning his spoon in his cup when he read, without really reading: “Mr. Philippe Toussaint, c/o Mme. Françoise Pelletier, 13 Avenue Franklin-Roosevelt, 69500 Bron.”

  He read it again, incredulous at the name, Philippe Toussaint. He hesitated, finally picking up the envelope as if it were a parcel bomb. The envelope was white and bore the stamp of a Mâcon solicitors’ office. Mâcon. He remembered the day he’d watched little girls coming out of a primary school. The one that was wearing the same dress as Léonine. The day he’d thought she was alive.

  Everything came back to him. It hit him hard and fast, like an uppercut to the stomach. The death of his child, the funeral, the trial, the move, his unease, his parents, his mother, his games consoles, the hot bodies of thin women, the puckered breasts, the fat bellies, the faces of Lucie Lindon and Eloïse Petit, Fontanel, the trains, the tombs, the cats.

  Mr. Philippe Toussaint.

  He opened the envelope, shaking. He remembered Geneviève Magnan’s hands the last time he’d seen her, when she’d said, “I’d never have done any harm to kids.” She had said “vous” to him, while shaking.

  Violette Trenet, married name Toussaint, had instructed a solicitor to settle their divorce amicably. The solicitor was asking Mr. Philippe Toussaint to call the office without delay to make an appointment.

  He read snatches of sentences: “bring some identification . . . name of the solicitor’s office . . . marriage contract was drawn up . . . profession . . . nationality . . . birthplace . . . same information for each child . . . spouses’ agreement to the separation . . . no alimony . . . Mâcon high court . . . desertion of the conjugal home . . . no further action.”

  Impossible. This had to be stopped, immediately. The time-machine jammed. He stopped reading, slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his biker jacket, fastened the strap of his helmet, and set off for that place. Even if he had sworn never to set foot there ever again.

  How had Violette discovered his address? How did she know about Françoise? How did sh
e know her name? His parents couldn’t have said anything, they were long dead. And even before dying, they hadn’t known where Philippe was living. They had never known that their son was living in Bron with Françoise. Impossible. Philippe would not go to that solicitor’s. Ever.

  She must leave him in peace. He must leave, move with Françoise, be called Philippe Pelletier. The other surname would always bring him bad luck. Toussaint. A name associated with cemeteries, death, chrysanthemums. A name that stank of the cold and the memory of cats.

  Two lives, some hundred kilometers apart. He’d never realized that Bron was so close to Brancion-en-Chalon.

  He parked outside the house, on the road-side. A stranger outside a house he’d always hated. That old cemetery keeper’s house. The trees Violette had planted in 1997 had grown tall. The gates had been repainted a dark green. He went in without knocking. Nineteen years, now, that he hadn’t set foot here.

  Did she still live here? Had she made a new life for herself? Of course, that’s why she wanted a divorce. To get remarried.

  A strange taste in his mouth. Like the barrel of a gun stuck down his throat. An itching to punch something. Hatred was bubbling up. Such a long time since he’d felt this bitterness. He thought back to the gentle, carefree life of the past nineteen years. And now evil was back again. He was returning to being the man he didn’t like, the man who didn’t like himself. Philippe Toussaint.

  He must go back to how he was, that very morning. Clear away this sordid past, once and for all. Not feel pity. No, he would not go to that solicitor’s. No. He had torn up his identity papers. Torn up his past.

  On the kitchen table, empty coffee cups sitting on gardening magazines. Three scarves and a white cardigan hanging on the coatrack. Her perfume hanging on them. A rose pefume. She was still living there.

  He went up to the bedroom. Kicked some plastic boxes containing ghastly dolls. Couldn’t stop himself. If he could have punched the walls, he would have. He found the bedroom repainted, a sky-blue carpet, a pale-pink bedcover, almond-green window coverings and curtains. Hand cream on the white bedside table, books, a blown-out candle. He opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers, underwear the same pink as the walls. He lay down on the bed. Imagined her sleeping here.

  Did she still think of him? Had she waited for him? Looked for him?

  He had put a lid on the Violette years, but for a very long time, he had dreamt of her. He would hear her voice, she was calling him and he didn’t reply, he was hiding in a dark corner so she wouldn’t notice him, and he would end up covering his ears to stop hearing her pleading voice. For a long time, he had woken up bathed in sweat, between sheets drenched in his guilt.

  In the bathroom, perfumes, soaps, creams, bath salts, more candles, more novels. In the laundry basket, lingerie, a short white-silk nightie, a black dress, a gray cardigan.

  There was no man in this house. No communal living. So why fucking bother him? Why rake over the shit? To get money? A pension? That’s not what the solicitor’s letter had said. “Amicably . . . no further action.” He could hear his mother: “Watch out.”

  He went back downstairs. Knocked over the last dolls still standing. He felt like going into the cemetery to visit Léonine’s tomb, but decided against it.

  A shadow moved behind him, he jumped. An old mutt was sniffing him from a distance. Before he had time to give it a kick, the creature had curled up in its cozy basket. In a corner of the kitchen, he saw bowls of pet food on the floor. He gagged at the thought of living with hairs on his clothes. He went out the back of the house, through the door that led to the private garden.

  He didn’t spot her straight away. Here, too, all the greenery had climbed upwards, like in Léonine’s storybooks. Ivy and creeper on the walls, yellow, red, and pink trees, beds of multicolored flowers. It was as if, just like the bedroom, the garden had been redecorated.

  There she was. Crouching in her vegetable garden. Nineteen years, now, that he hadn’t seen her. How old was she now?

  Don’t feel pity.

  She had her back to him. She was wearing a black dress with white spots. She had tied an old gardening apron around her waist. Pulled on rubber boots. Her shoulder-length hair was gathered in a black elastic band. A few tendrils were tickling the nape of her neck. She was wearing thick gloves. She raised her right wrist to her forehead as if to wipe away something bothering her.

  He felt like wringing her neck and hugging her. Loving her and strangling her. Making her shut up, so she didn’t exist anymore, so she disappeared.

  Stop feeling guilty.

  When she got up and turned toward him, Philippe saw only terror in her eyes. Not surprise, or anger, or love, or resentment, or regret. Just terror.

  Don’t feel pity.

  She hadn’t changed. He saw her once more behind the Tibourin bar, her small, delicate form, serving him as many drinks as he wanted. Her smile. Now, wrinkles and strands of hair were mingled on her face. The features were still fine, the mouth still well defined, and the eyes still radiated great gentleness. Time had deepened the furrows on either side of her mouth.

  Keep your distance.

  Don’t say her name.

  Don’t feel pity.

  She had always been more beautiful than Françoise, and yet it was Françoise he had chosen over her. No accounting for taste . . . That’s what his mother used to say.

  He saw a cat sitting beside her, he got goose bumps, remembered why he was there, back in this wretched cemetery. He remembered that he didn’t want to remember anymore. Not her, or Léonine, or the others. His present was Françoise, his future would be Françoise.

  Suddenly, he grabbed Violette, gripped her arms hard, too hard, as though to crush her. Like when a man becomes a torturer to stop feeling anything. He must summon hatred. Think of his parents on the flowery sofa. Léonine’s suitcase in the Caussins’ trunk, the château, the water heater, his mother in her dressing gown, his father stupefied. He gripped Violette’s arms without looking her in the eye, he stared at a fixed point, between the eyebrows, a slight dip where the nose began.

  She smelled good. Don’t feel pity.

  “I received a solicitor’s letter, I’m returning it to you . . . Listen to me carefully, very carefully, NEVER write to me again at that address, do you hear? Not you, not your solicitor, NEVER. I don’t want to read your name anywhere anymore, otherwise I will . . . I will . . . ”

  He let go of her as suddenly as he had grabbed her, her body slumped like a puppet, he shoved the envelope in her apron pocket, and in doing so, felt her stomach under the fabric. Her stomach. Léonine. He turned his back on her and returned to the kitchen.

  As he banged into the table, he made L’Oeuvre de Dieu, la part du Diable fall. He recognized the red apple on the cover, it was the book Violette had owned since Charleville, the one she was forever rereading. Seven photos of Léonine escaped from between its pages and scattered over the carpet. He hesitated, and then bent down to pick them up. One year, two years, three years, four years, five years, six years, seven years. It’s true that she looked like him. He slipped them back inside the book, which he put back on the table.

  The lid he had put on the Violette years, for the past nineteen years, blew up in his face right then. His child came back to him, first in ripples, then in breaker waves. At the maternity hospital when he’d seen her for the first time, between him and Violette in their bed, snuggled in a blanket, having her bath, in the garden, in front of doors, crossing a room, doing drawings, modeling clay, at the table, in the inflatable swimming pool, in the school corridors, in winter, in summer, her red, slightly shimmery dress, her little hands, her magic tricks. And him, always distant. Him, as though just a visitor in the life of his daughter, whom he’d wanted to be a son. All the stories that he hadn’t read to her, all the journeys that he hadn’t taken her on.

  When he got b
ack on his motorbike, he felt tears dripping from his nose. His Uncle Luc had told him that when you cry from the nose, it’s taking over because the eyes’ gauge is overflowing. “It’s like with engines, son.” Luc. He was such a shit, he’d even stolen Luc’s wife.

  He sped off, telling himself that he’d stop a bit further on to get his breath back, and his senses. Glimpsing the crosses through the gates, he thought about how he’d never believed in God. Doubtless because of his father. The prayers he loathed. He remembered the day of his First Communion, the Mass wine, Françoise on Luc’s arm.

  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.

  Over the three hundred and fifty meters he skimmed the wall of the cemetery, faster and faster, three thoughts came crashing into his skull, like some violent pileup. Turning back and saying sorry to Violette, sorry, sorry, sorry. Going home as fast as possible to Françoise and leaving for the South, leaving, leaving, leaving. Being back with Léonine, back, back, back with her.

  Violette, Françoise, Léonine.

  Seeing his daughter again, feeling her, hearing her, touching her, breathing her in.

  It was the first time he truly wanted Léonine. He had wanted her in order to keep Violette close to him. Today, he wanted her like one wants a child. This desire was stronger than the South, Françoise, and Violette. This desire took over everything. Léonine must be waiting for him somewhere. Yes, she was waiting for him. He had understood nothing because he had been a bad father, he would become a daddy for the first time, there, where he would be back with her.