"But why?" she asked, baffled.
"Because that's the way it is. My father is not the kind of person you can have a conversation with. He never shows love, never shows affection. He wants to be the boss, every time."
"And do you let him?"
"Yes," I admitted, "I did let him, because it was the easy way out. Because he left me alone. Sometimes I admire my son's outbursts because I never dared confront my own father. No one talks to each other in my family. It's something we were not taught to do."
She kissed the side of my neck.
"Hmm, don't let that happen with your own kids, buddy."
It had been interesting watching her with Melanie, Lucas, Arno, and Margaux, who finally came home later on. They could have been cold to her, could have resented her presence, especially at this thorny moment, where so many different, destabilizing events had sandwiched us with pain, fear, and anger. But Angele's shrewd sense of humor, her directness, her warmth appealed to them, I could tell. When she said to Melanie, "I'm the famous Morticia, and I'm very happy to meet you," there was a split second of awkwardness, but then Melanie laughed outright and seemed genuinely pleased to lay eyes on her. Over a cup of coffee, Margaux had asked her about her job. I slipped out of the kitchen discreetly. The only person who did not seem seduced by Angele was Lucas. I found him sulking in his room. I didn't need to ask him what was wrong, I sensed it intuitively. He was being loyal to his mother, and the sight of another woman in our house, a woman I was obviously smitten with, offended him. I didn't have the heart to talk to him about it straightaway. There was too much on my plate right now. I'd find a way. I'd talk to him. No, I would not be like my own father, putting a lid on everything.
When I came back into the kitchen, Margaux was crying silently and Angele was holding her hand. I hovered at the door, unsure of what to do. Angele's eyes met mine. Her golden eyes were sad and wise, almost like an elderly person's. I drew away again. In the living room, Melanie was reading. I went to sit next to her.
"I'm glad she is here," said my sister after a while.
I was glad too. But I knew she would be leaving later on that night. The long and cold drive home to Vendee. And me counting the days until I'd be seeing her again.
On Monday morning, the day before Pauline's funeral, I meet Xavier Parimbert, the boss of a renowned feng shui Internet site, at his office near the avenue Montaigne. This meeting has been scheduled for a while. I don't know the man personally, although I have heard of him. He is small and wiry, probably in his early sixties, with dyed hair like that of Aschenbach from Death in Venice and the spruce figure of one who watches his weight with an eagle eye. The same kind of man as my father-in-law--a kind I find I have waning patience with. He leads me into his vast silver and white office, waves off an obsequious assistant, sits me down, and gets straight to the point.
"I've seen your work, in particular the day-care center you designed for Regis Rabagny."
At another time in my life my heart would have sunk at such a sentence. Rabagny and I did not end our business collaboration in a happy fashion. I feel certain he has not spread good publicity for me. But since then, Pauline has died and is to be buried tomorrow, and a hard truth concerning my mother has come boomeranging back, not to mention Arno's little foray into insurgence. So I now find that Rabagny's name brushes off me like water off a duck's back, and I also find that I don't really care if this dapper sexagenarian is about to bad-mouth me.
However, he doesn't. He graces me with an astonishingly mellifluous smile.
"Not only is the day-care center impressive, but there's another point that is, in my opinion, most attractive."
"And what would that be? That it is feng shui?"
My irony triggers a polite chuckle.
"I am referring to the way you dealt with Monsieur Rabagny."
"Could you be more specific?"
"You are the only person I know, apart from me, who has told him to go to hell."
It is my turn to chuckle, as the memory of that day comes back. There had been a final, brutal onslaught on his part, once again about a matter that did not concern me or my men. Sickened by the sound of his voice, I had said very clearly into the phone, to Florence's amazement, "Now fuck off."
How Xavier Parimbert has any inkling of this escapes me.
He smiles again, as if to offer an explanation.
"Regis Rabagny happens to be my son-in-law."
"How unfortunate," I remark.
He nods. "I've often thought so myself. But my daughter loves him. And where love is concerned--"
The phone on his desk rings, and he reaches out an elegant manicured hand.
"Yes? No, not now. Where? I see."
As the conversation continues, I turn my eyes to the deceptively simple surroundings. I know nothing about feng shui, only that it is an ancient Chinese art about wind and water affecting our well-being. Something to do with how our surroundings influence us. This must be the tidiest office I have ever seen, no clutter, no paperwork, nothing to upset the eye. On one side, an aquarium takes up an entire wall. Strange, squiggly black fish languidly swim up and down among the bubbles. Luxuriant exotic plants stand in another corner. A cluster of burning incense sticks gives off a subtle, soothing aroma. On the board behind his desk, I see photograph after photograph of Parimbert with celebrities.
He at last puts the phone down and turns all his attention to me.
"Would you care for some green tea and bran scones?" he says cheerfully, as if proposing a special treat to a reluctant child.
"Sure," I reply, sensing that a refusal might not go down so well.
He rings a special buzzer on his desk, and a sleek Asian woman dressed in white comes in holding a tray. She bows, eyes downcast, and with practiced, graceful movements ceremoniously pours out the tea from a heavy, ornate pot. Parimbert watches with a placid expression. I am offered a stodgy-looking piece of pastry, which I assume is the bran scone. There is a moment of stillness while he eats and drinks in almost ecclesiastical silence. I bite into the scone and instantly regret it. It has the rubbery consistency of chewing gum. Parimbert takes great, swooping sips of his tea, smacking his lips with relish. I find the beverage far too hot to swallow with such enthusiasm.
"Now," he says with one last smack, "let's get to business."
A Cheshire cat smile. The tea has left an unfortunate green residue speckled across his teeth, as if a lush mini-jungle had suddenly sprouted from his gums. I want to burst out laughing, and I realize in the same aching moment that this is the first time I have felt like laughing since Pauline died. Culpability takes over. The laughing fit subsides.
"I have a plan," says Parimbert mysteriously. "And I honestly believe that you are the one who is going to carry out this plan."
He waits sententiously. I nod. He goes on.
"I want you to imagine a Think Dome."
He pronounces the last two words with tremulous awe, as if he had said "Holy Grail" or "Dalai Lama." I wait and nod, trying to understand what a Think Dome is and praying I don't look too dim-witted.
Parimbert gets up, hands thrust into his impeccably pressed gray trouser pockets, and paces across the polished floorboards. He pauses theatrically in the middle of the room.
"A Think Dome is a place where I would take only a handful of people--people selected very carefully--in order for us to gather and reflect in harmony. This place would be here, in these premises. I want it to resemble an Igloo of Intelligence. Do you understand?"
"Absolutely," I say. Once again, the impulse to snigger is irresistible.
"I have not spoken to anyone about this. I want you to have carte blanche. I know you are the perfect man for this. That is why you have been chosen. And you will be paid very well."
He mentions a sum that is on the generous side, although I still have no idea how large the Think Dome is supposed to be and in what material it should be completed.
"I want you to come up with thoughts. Ju
st get them down on paper and come back to me with them. Let your positive energy flow. Be creative. Be daring. Go with your inner force. No need to be timorous here. The Think Dome has to be near my office. You will be sent a layout of this floor."
I take my leave and head down the avenue Montaigne. The luxury shops are in overdrive for Christmas. Elegant women laden with designer shopping bags totter past on high heels. The traffic roars. The sky is dark gray. As I make my way to the Left Bank, I think of Pauline. The funeral. Her family. I think of Astrid, on her way home right now, landing later on today. I think of how, despite the death of a teenager, Christmas still approaches, inexorable, women still shop on the avenue Montaigne, and men like Parimbert take themselves seriously.
I am at the wheel, Astrid on my right, the boys and Margaux in the back. This is one of the first times since the divorce that we are all together in the Audi. Like the family we used to be. Ten o'clock in the morning, and the sky is as overcast as it was yesterday. Astrid is fighting jet lag. She has not spoken much. I went to pick her up at Malakoff earlier on. I had asked if Serge was coming and she said he was not.
It is a one-hour drive to Tilly, the small town where Suzanne's family owns a house. Pauline's entire class will be there. Lucas has decided he wants to come. His first funeral. What was my first after my mother's? Probably Robert's, my grandfather. Later on, a close friend who died in a car crash. Another who had cancer. I realize that this is also Margaux's first funeral, and Arno's. I glance at their faces in the rearview mirror. No iPods, I notice. Their faces are drawn and pale. They will remember today. They will remember today for the rest of their lives.
Since Saturday, Arno has been withdrawn. I still have not had my father-son talk with him. I know I need to schedule this, that there is no point avoiding it. Astrid does not know about Arno yet. It's my job to tell her. After the funeral.
After the funeral. Will it bring closure? How will Suzanne and Patrick ever recover? Will Margaux be able to heal slowly? The country roads are empty and silent. Monotonous winter scenery. Leafless, lifeless trees. If only the sun could come out and light up the gloominess. I find myself craving that first morning sunlight, the warm touch of the rays on my skin, closing my eyes to it, basking in it. Please God, or whoever it is up there, please send some sun for Pauline's funeral. I don't believe in God, Margaux had said fiercely at the morgue. God wouldn't let a fourteen-year-old die. I think of my religious upbringing, Mass every Sunday at Saint-Pierre de Chaillot, my first Communion, Melanie's. When my mother died, did I question God's existence? Did I resent Him for letting my mother die? When I think of those dark years, I find myself remembering so little. Only pain and sorrow come back. And yes, incomprehension. Maybe I did feel, as my daughter does today, that God had let me down. But the difference is that Margaux can say this to me. There was no way I could ever have voiced this to my own father. I would never have dared.
The little church is packed. The entire class is here, all Pauline's friends, all her teachers. But also her friends from other classes, from other schools. I have never seen such a young assembly at a funeral. Rows and rows of teenagers dressed in black, each holding a white rose. Suzanne and Patrick, standing at the door, greet every person coming in. Their bravery impresses me. I cannot help imagining Astrid and me in the same circumstances. I can tell that Astrid is thinking the same thing. She hugs Suzanne desperately. Patrick kisses her. Astrid is already in tears.
We sit just behind the first row. The noise of chairs grating the floor slowly abates. Then a woman's voice singing the purest and saddest hymn I have ever heard rises from somewhere. I cannot see the singer. The coffin comes in, carried by Patrick, his brothers, his father.
Margaux and I have seen Pauline's body. We know she is in that coffin, wearing her pink shirt, her jeans, her Converse sneakers. We know because we have seen her, we have seen the way her hair is brushed back, the way her hands are folded on her stomach.
The priest, a youngish man with a flushed face, begins to speak. I hear his voice, but I cannot make out his words. I find it unbearable being here. My heart begins a fast, thick thud that hurts. I watch Patrick's back, directly in front of me. How can he stand so straight? Where does he get his strength from? Is this what believing in God is all about? Is God the only way to help deal with this nameless awfulness?
The priest's voice drones on. We sit and stand. We pray. Then Margaux's name is called. I am startled. I did not know she was going to say something during the ceremony. Astrid glances at me questioningly. I shake my head.
Margaux stands near her friend's coffin. There is a moment of silence. I wonder fearfully whether she is going to make it. Whether she will be able to speak, to say anything at all. Then my daughter's voice rings out with a vigor that surprises me. Not the voice of a timid teenager. The voice of an assured young woman.
" 'Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.' "
W. H. Auden. "Funeral Blues." She doesn't need to read from a piece of paper. She says the verses as if she had written the poem herself. Her voice is hard, deep, full of restrained anger and pain.
She continues with the same strength and conviction.
But then, for the first time, her voice falters. She closes her eyes. The church is absolutely quiet. Astrid holds my hand so tight it hurts. Margaux takes a deep breath, and her voice comes back, but it is a whisper now, so low we can barely hear it.
"She is telling us now about hopelessness."
When she returns to her chair, the church fills with a tense and poignant silence that seems to last forever. Astrid is holding Lucas. Arno has grabbed his sister's arm. The very air swells and vibrates with tears. Then the priest's voice buzzes on, and other teenagers come to speak, but again, I don't make out the words. I stare at the paved stoned floor and wait for it to be over, gritting my teeth. I find I cannot cry.
I remember the stream of tears that had gushed from me the day Pauline died. Now it is Astrid who is crying in the chair next to me. Crying as I did that day, crying her eyes out. I put my arm around her, hold her close. She hangs on to me for dear life. Lucas watches us. He hasn't seen us do that since before Naxos.
Outside, it appears that my prayers have been answered, because a whitish sun timorously shines from behind clouds. We slowly follow Pauline's coffin to the adjoining graveyard. We are quite a crowd. Villagers peer at us from their windows. So many young faces. Margaux has gone ahead to join her classmates. They are the first ones to see Pauline's coffin lowered into the grave. One by one they each throw a rose into the opening.
Most of them are crying openly. Parents and teachers silently wipe away tears. This too seems to last forever. A young girl collapses with a thin scream. There is a rush toward her. A teacher gently picks her up, carries her away. Astrid's hand finds her way into mine again.
After the burial, there is a gathering at the family house. But most people take their leave, eager to get back to their day, their life, their work. We stay on for lunch because Pauline was Margaux's best friend. Because we feel we need and have to be there. The dining room fills up with close friends and family. Most of them we know. The four teenagers here were Pauline's closest friends. Part of the tightly knit gang.
We are familiar with all these girls. Valentine, Emma, Berenice, and Gabrielle. We know all their parents. I observe their mournful faces, and I can guess what they are thinking, what we are all thinking, each and every one of us. This could have been our daughter's funeral. This could have happened to us. That could be our daughter's body back at the small graveyard, in that grave, in that coffin covered with white roses.
In the late afternoon, as dusk is already darkening the sky, we leave. We are one of the last families to go. My children seemed drained, as after a long trip. Once in the car, they close their eyes and seem to fall asleep. Astrid remains silent too. She keeps her hand on my thigh, as she used to during those long drives to the Dordogne.
When we arrive at the major road, the one that le
ads to the highway, the car wheels skirt over a thick coat of mud. A squelching, hissing sound. I peer out at the road but cannot make out what is covering it. A stifling stench finds its way into the car and jolts the children awake. Something rotten, putrid. Astrid clamps a Kleenex to her nose. We drive on slowly, the wheels still churning. Then Lucas gives a little cry, points ahead. A lifeless form lies in the middle of the road, and the car in front of us swerves abruptly to avoid it. It is the meaty carcass of an animal. Now I see that the ground is strewn with viscera. Fighting the fetid stink, I keep my hands steady on the wheel. Lucas screams again. Another shapeless figure suddenly looms, the broken limbs of another animal. Police lights flash, slowing us down. We are told that a truck carrying waste animal remains from a nearby slaughterhouse has lost its entire load. Pails of blood riddled with organs, hides, skins, fatty tissue, guts, and remains of dead stock litter the road for another five kilometers.
It is like a vision from hell. We inch along. The smell of rot is unbearable. Finally the sign indicating the highway appears. Sighs of relief are heard. We speed toward Paris. I drive them to Malakoff, right up to the house on the rue Emile Zola. I leave the motor running.
"Why don't you stay for dinner?" suggests Astrid.
I shrug. "Why not?"
The children file out of the car. I hear Titus's joyful bark from the other side of the fence.
"Is Serge there?" I ask carefully.
"No, he's not."
I don't ask where he is. After all, I don't care. I'm just glad he is not there. I cannot get used to this guy in my house. Yes, it still feels like my house. My house, my wife, my garden. My dog. My old life.
We have dinner just like in the old days, in the open kitchen area that I designed with such care. Titus is beside himself with joy. He keeps putting his humid jaw on my knee, gazing up at me with incredulous ecstasy. The children stay with us for a while, then finally go up to bed. I wonder where Serge is. I keep expecting him to barge through the front door. Astrid does not talk about him. She talks about the children, about today. I listen. How can I explain that I feel I am light-years ahead? That I was there when all this took place?
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