I don't feel the cold. I run as fast as I can. My legs are like lead. My breath billows around me. My tar-filled lungs throb. Port Royal is twenty minutes away. When I get to the school, there are groups of teenagers and adults standing outside the building. Everybody has bleary, puffy eyes, upset expressions. I finally see Margaux. Her face is ashen, glistening with tears. People are queuing up to hug her, to cry with her, and at first I wonder why. Then it hits me. She was Pauline's best friend. They've been going to this school since they were toddlers. That means more than ten years. Ten years in a fourteen-year-old life. A couple of teachers I know come up to talk to me. I mutter something, making my way through the crowd to my daughter. When I get to her, when I take her in my arms, she feels waiflike and fragile. I haven't hugged her for such a long time.
"What do you want to do?" I ask her.
"I want to go home," she replies very quietly.
I assume that given the circumstances, classes have been canceled. It is already four o'clock and dusk is setting in. She says goodbye to her friends, and we trudge along the avenue de l'Observatoire. The traffic is noisy, horns blaring, engines rumbling, but between us is only silence. What can I say to her? The words aren't coming. I can only wrap my arm around her and hold her tight as we walk on. I suddenly notice that she is burdened with a couple of different bags. I try to pry one from her, to ease her load, but she savagely hisses, "No!" She hands another one to me, one I recognize, her familiar battered Eastpak. She holds on to the other one for dear life. It must be Pauline's.
We pass the Saint-Vincent de Paul Hospital. This is where my children were born. And Pauline too. Pauline was born here fourteen years ago. That was how we met Patrick and Suzanne, as the girls were born two days apart. Astrid and Suzanne were in the same ward. When I first laid eyes on Pauline, it was in this very hospital, in the small plastic crib next to my daughter's.
Pauline is dead. I cannot take it in. The words make no sense. I want to make sure, I want to bombard Margaux with questions, but her haggard face puts me off. We walk on. It's getting darker. It is freezing. The way back seems endless. I finally glimpse the enormous bronze rump of the Denfert-Rochereau lion. Only a few minutes now.
As soon as we walk into the apartment, I make tea. Margaux sits on the sofa, her face in her hands, Pauline's bag on her lap. When she glances up at me as I come in with the tray, she has the hard, closed face of an adult. I place the tray down on the coffee table, pour out a mug for her, add milk and sugar, hand it to her. She takes it in silence. I fight the strong need for a cigarette. I could do with one, but it seems wrong to smoke now.
"Can you tell me what happened?"
She sips slowly. Then she says in a low, tense voice, "No."
Suddenly the cup clatters to the floor, making me jump, spilling milky tea into a star-shaped stain. Margaux chokes, and tears well up. I draw her to me, but she pushes me away furiously. Never have I seen her so angry, her features contorted, crimson, swollen with rage. She screams at the top of her voice, spitting specks of saliva into my face.
"Why did this happen, Dad? Why Pauline? She was only fourteen!"
I don't know how to calm her. No soothing words come to my lips. I feel useless. Nothing comes to mind. I am stranded, lost. What can I say to my daughter? How can I be of any help? Why don't I know how? If only Astrid were here, I think. She would know what to do, what to say. Mothers always know. Fathers don't. At least not this one.
"Let's call your mother," I mumble ineffectually, trying to calculate the time difference with Japan. "Why don't we give her a call."
My daughter stares at me with disdain. She stands facing me, clutching Pauline's bag to her.
"Is that all you can come up with?' " she whispers, outraged. "Let's call your mother? Is this how you think you are helping me right now?"
"Margaux, please . . ." I mumble.
"You're pathetic," she hisses. "This is the worst day of my life. And you don't even know how to fucking help me. I hate you. I hate you."
She turns away and strides into her room. The door slams shut. Her words bite into me. They sting. I don't care what time it is in Japan. I go and find the piece of paper with the hotel number in Tokyo. I dial the number with fumbling fingers. I hate you. I hate you. I can't get those words out of my head.
The front door bangs, and the boys walk in, Arno on his phone, as usual. Lucas starts to say something to me as the hotel picks up in Tokyo. I raise my hand to silence him. I ask for Astrid, using her maiden name, then suddenly remember that she is registered under Serge's name. The receptionist informs me flatly that it is nearly one a.m. local time. I say it is an emergency. The boys glance at me, surprised. Serge's droning voice comes on. He starts to complain about being woken up, but I snap at him and ask for Astrid. Then her voice, thin with alarm.
"What is it, Antoine?"
"Pauline is dead."
"What?" she breathes, all those miles away.
The boys stare at me, horrified.
"I don't know what happened. Margaux is in shock. Pauline collapsed during gym class. I only just found out. "
Silence. I imagine her sitting up in the bed, her hair tousled, him beside her, one of those high-tech, sleek hotel rooms in a skyscraper, the ultramodern bathroom, the view, the blackness of the middle of the night. The "sushi" catalog laid out on a large table with his photo gear. An open computer. A spiraling screen saver glowing in the dark.
"Are you there?" I say as the silence stretches on.
"Yes," she finally replies, calm, almost cold. "Can I speak to Margaux?"
The boys, openmouthed and gawky, stumble back to let me pass, phone in hand. I knock on my daughter's closed door. No answer.
"It's your mother."
The door opens a crack as the phone is plucked from my hand, then slams shut again. I make out a stifled sob, Margaux's fearful voice. I go back to the living room, where the boys await me, petrified. Lucas has gone white. He is fighting back tears.
"Dad," he murmurs, "why did Pauline die?"
Before I can answer him, my mobile phone buzzes. Patrick's number shows up. Pauline's father. With a sinking heart I take the call. My mouth goes dry. I've known this man ever since the day his daughter was born. For the past fourteen years we have had endless conversations about kindergartens, schools, vacations, trips, bad teachers, good ones, who picks up who and when, Disneyland, birthday parties, slumber parties, summer camps. I can only utter his name as I press the phone to my ear.
"Hi, Antoine . . ." His voice is exhausted, barely audible. "Listen . . ." He sighs. I wonder where he is. Probably still at the hospital. "I need your help."
"Yes, of course! Anything . . ."
"I think Margaux has Pauline's stuff. Her schoolbag and her clothes."
"That's right. What do you want me to do?"
"Just hang on to them. Pauline . . . has her ID card, keys, and her phone in there. Her wallet--I guess. Just hang on to them, okay? Just keep them, for the moment . . ."
His voice breaks. His tears immediately bring out the wet in my own eyes.
"God, Patrick--" I blurt out.
"I know. I know," he says, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Thank you. Thank you, pal."
He hangs up abruptly.
Tears gush. Huge, fat tears. There is no way I can hold them back. It is odd because there are no sobs, no hiccuping, as when I cried the night of the accident. Just a thick stream of tears pouring out of me.
Very slowly I set the phone down, collapse onto the sofa, my face in my hands. My sons stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Lucas comes to me first, pushing his head under my arms to fit against me, his wet cheeks slippery against mine. Arno lands at my feet, his bony arms encircling my calves.
This is the first time in their lives my boys have ever seen me cry. It's too late now. I can't stop it. I give in to it.
We stay like that for a long time.
Pauline's bag is in the entrance, a pile of clothes neatly folded ne
xt to it. My eyes turn back to the bag and the clothes again and again. It is late, two or three in the morning. The night feels like a bottomless pit. I am emptied of all tears. Dried out. I have smoked half a pack. My face is a puffy mess. My limbs ache. But the thought of going to bed scares me.
Margaux's light is still on. I can hear regular breathing when I stick my ear to her door. She has passed out. The boys have too. The apartment is silent. There is hardly any traffic on the rue Froidevaux. I try not to look at the bag, but it seems to be calling out to me. After a while I give in. I tiptoe over to it, pick it up gingerly. I sit down, the bag and clothes on my lap. How is this possible? I wonder. Pauline is dead. And yet her stuff is here, on my lap. I zip the bag open. Fish around. A hairbrush. Long blond hairs still trapped in it. Pauline is dead, and strands of her hair are right here, shimmering between my fingers. I cannot understand it. Her phone is on silent mode. Thirty-two missed calls. Had her friends called her phone today just to hear her voice? Maybe I would have done just the same if my best friend had died. Schoolbooks. Neat handwriting. She was a good student. Better than Margaux. She wanted to be a doctor. Patrick was proud of that. Fourteen years old, and she already knew what she wanted to do. Her wallet. A purple diamante affair. ID card. It was two years old. The photo was the Pauline I knew. The skinny kid I used to play hide-and-seek with. Makeup, lip gloss, a deodorant. Her date book. Homework for the next two weeks. I flip the pages. "Dallad on Sunday." A pink heart. Dallad was Margaux's nickname. Pauline was Pitou. Ever since they were small. Her clothes. The ones she had taken off to put her sport gear on. A white sweater and jeans. I put the sweater gently to my face. A mixture of cigarette smoke and fruity perfume. Pauline is dead, and her smell is still on that sweater.
I think of Patrick and Suzanne. Where are they now? With their daughter's body? At home, where no sleep will come? Could Pauline have been saved? Perhaps she had a heart condition. Did anyone know? If she hadn't been playing basketball, would she still be alive? The questions run round and round in my head. I feel a horrible panic grow. Getting up, I go to the window, wrench it open, letting the icy air seep through me. The cemetery stretches out in front of me, vast and dark. I keep thinking of Pauline, her dead body. Her braces. What will they do about her braces? Will she be buried with them? Will some dentist need to pry them out? Or is that a mortician's job? My hand reaches out to grab my phone. I need to talk. I need to talk to Angele.
A couple of rings, and she picks up. Warm, sleepy voice.
"Hello there, Monsieur Parisian. Are you that lonely?"
I am so relieved to hear her voice in the middle of the night, at this abominable moment, that I nearly cry out. I tell her quickly what happened.
"Ouch," she says. "Your poor daughter. She saw her friend die. That's bad. How is she doing?"
"Not so good," I admit.
"And your wife is not there, right?"
"Yes."
Silence.
"Do you want me to come?"
This is so blunt that I gasp.
"Would you?"
"If you want me to."
Of course, yes, of course, please come, do come, get onto that Harley right now and drive like a bat out of hell, yes, please, please come, Angele, I need you, come. Come! What would she think of me if I said that, if I beseeched her to come right now? Would she find me weak? Would she pity me? Does she pity me?
"I wouldn't want to be a pain. It's such a long drive."
She sighs. "You men. You just can't say things outright, can you? I'll come if you need me. Just let me know. Bye now. Early start tomorrow."
She hangs up. I feel like calling her back, but I don't. I tuck the phone into my pocket and lie back on the sofa. I finally doze off. When I wake up, the boys are making their breakfast. I glance in the mirror. I look like a rumpled cross between Mr. Magoo and Boris Yeltsin. Margaux is already in the bathroom and will probably stay there for a while. I hear the shower running.
As I pass in front of her room, I glance in. Her bedsheets are thrown back. Strange, I think, new sheets. I have never seen these before. Large red flowers. I come closer. These are not large red flowers. They are bloodstains. Margaux has had her period during the night. And from what Astrid has told me, this is her first time.
Is she all right? Is she shocked? How does she feel? Is she afraid, relieved, disgusted, embarrassed, in pain, all of these things? Margaux has her period. My little girl. She can have babies. She is ovulating. Producing eggs. I don't know if I like the thought of it. I don't know if I'm ready for it. But Astrid is not here, and I need to take this in my stride. Of course I knew my daughter would have her period one day. But I believed, in a cowardly and obscure fashion, that this was Astrid's feminine realm, not anything to do with me. How on earth do fathers deal with this? What I am supposed to do? Let her know that I know? That I'm proud? That I'm here to help, if she needs me, with a sort of burly John Wayne swagger, because, yes, of course, I know all about tampons (with or without applicators) and sanitary pads (light and heavy flow) and the throes of PMS. I'm a modern man, right? How can I talk to my daughter about her period? Especially today, after what happened last night. It seems impossible. The only thing that jumps to mind is calling Melanie. I have no memory about Mel's period and how old she was when she got it, but in Astrid's absence, she is the only feminine ally I can think of.
I hear the bathroom bolt unlock and furtively step out of her room.
Margaux appears, her hair gathered up in a towel. Purple circles under her eyes. She mumbles good morning and brushes past me. I reach out and graze her shoulder. She moves away.
"How are you, sweetie?" I ask tentatively. "How--are you feeling?"
She shrugs. The door closes with a loud click. Does she know what to do? I wonder. About her period. Sanitary pads and tampons. Of course she does. Astrid probably explained all this to her, her friends did. Pauline probably did. I go and make myself a coffee. The boys are on their way to school. They both hug me clumsily. As they leave, the doorbell rings.
It is Suzanne, Pauline's mother. There is a painful, emotional moment as we face each other on the doorstep. Her hands find mine as the boys peck her cheeks and slip away, overwhelmed.
Her face is bloated, her eyes little slits. Yet she bravely smiles at me. I take her into my arms. She smells of the hospital, of pain, of fear, of loss. We stand together, rocking slowly. She is a small woman. Her daughter used to tower above her. She looks up at me. Watery irises.
"I could do with some coffee."
"Sure! Right away."
I lead her into the kitchen. She sits down, taking off her coat and scarf. I pour out a cup for her, my hands unsteady. I sit down to face her.
"I'm here for you, Suzanne" is all I can come up with.
But she seems to like that, however feeble it must sound, for she nods and takes a trembling sip of the coffee. She says, "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up. That this thing is just a nightmare."
"Yes," I say softly.
She is wearing a green cardigan. White blouse. Black trousers. Low-cut boots. Was she wearing those clothes when they called her yesterday to tell her her daughter was dead? What was she doing when they called her? Was she at her office? In her car? What did she think when she saw the school's number show up--that Pauline had cut class, or that there had been a problem with a teacher? I want to tell her how ghastly I have felt since Margaux's call.
I want to express all my sympathy, all my sadness, all my wretchedness, yet nothing comes out. I can only take her hand and hold on to it for dear life. That's all I can do.
"The funeral is on Tuesday. Out in the country. At Tilly. Where my dad is buried."
"We'll be there. Of course."
"Thank you," she murmurs. "I came by to pick up Pauline's things. Her bag, I think, and some clothes."
"It's all here."
As I get up to fetch the bag and clothes, Margaux comes in. She sees Suzanne, and with a sharp little yelp that hurts me, she flin
gs herself on Suzanne, burying her head in her shoulder, sobs racking her slim frame. I watch Suzanne comfort her, patting her hair. Margaux cries, and words come gushing out, the words she wouldn't say to me yesterday.
"We were in gym class, like every Thursday. We were playing basketball. Pitou sort of crumpled up on the floor. When the teacher turned her over, I knew. Her eyes had rolled up. You could only see the whites. The teacher tried to resuscitate her, did all the stuff you see on TV. It lasted forever. Somebody called an ambulance. But by the time they got there, it was over."
"There was no pain," Suzanne whispers, stroking Margaux's damp hair. "She felt no pain. It was over in seconds. The doctors told me."
"Why did she die?" asks Margaux simply, leaning back on her heels to look up at Suzanne.
"They believe there was a problem with Pauline's heart. A problem that none of us knew about. Her little brother is being tested this week to find out if he has the same problem."
"I want to see her," says Margaux. "I want to say goodbye to her."
Suzanne's eyes meet mine.
"Don't stop me, Dad," Margaux says quickly, not looking at me. "I want to see her."
"I'm not stopping you, sweetie. I understand."
Suzanne finishes her coffee. "Of course you can see her. She is still at the hospital. I can take you there, or your mother can later."
"My mother is in Japan," says Margaux.
"Your father can take you," says Suzanne, getting up. "I have to go now. So many things to do. Paperwork. The funeral. I want it to be a lovely funeral." She pauses and bites her lip. Her mouth twitches. "For my lovely daughter."
She quickly turns away, but I see her face crumble. She scoops up the bag and clothes and heads out. When she gets to the door, she squares her shoulders, like a soldier getting ready for battle. My admiration for her is immense.
"See you later," she whispers, not looking up, opening the front door and fumbling with the handle.
I seem to be spending a lot of time in hospital morgues, I reflect, as Margaux and I wait at la Pitie-Salpetriere to see Pauline's body. This Parisian one is a tenebrous, depressing affair compared with the luminous place Angele works in. No windows, the paint is flaking, the linoleum scratched, and no effort seems to have been made to cheer up the room. We are alone, and the only sounds we hear are footsteps clicking up and down the corridor and the murmur of low voices. The mortician is a portly man in his forties. He offers no words of condolence, not even a smile. He probably deals with so many deaths that he has become blase. Even a fourteen-year-old dying of heart failure means little to him, I guess. But I am wrong. When he comes back to get us, he leans toward Margaux and says, "Your friend is ready. Are you going to be all right, miss?"
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