It was a wonderful evening. Angele in her white dress, like a snow princess. The beauty of Didier's loft, the skylight opening out onto the night's cold darkness. We laughed, we drank, we even danced. Melanie proclaimed it was the first time she had danced in a very long time. We all clapped again. I felt dizzy, a mixture of champagne and joy. When Didier asked me how Arno was, I replied flatly, "A disaster." His hyena-like laugh burst out, which got everybody going. I then told them about the man-to-man conversation I'd finally had with my son when he was expelled from school. The talking-to I'd given him, my heart sinking as I realized how much I sounded like my own father, admonishing, rebuking, finger wagging. Then I got up and aped Arno's languid slouch, his disgruntled scowl. And even took on his voice, raspy, drawling, immediately identifiable as that of a hip teenager: "C'mon, Dad, when you were my age, there was, like, no Internet, no mobile phones, you guys were living in the Middle Ages. I mean, come on, you were born in the sixties, what do you understand of today's world?" This triggered another round of hoots. I felt elated, egged on by something I'd never experienced. I was making people laugh. I had never achieved that in my life. Astrid used to be the bubbly, funny one. She cracked the jokes, she had everyone in stitches. I was the silent onlooker. Until tonight.
"You've got to hear about my new boss, Parimbert," I said to my new audience. They had of course heard of him. He had just about plastered himself on every poster on every street corner, and you couldn't turn on the TV or your computer without being confronted with his Cheshire cat smile. I imitated how he marched around a room, fists deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched up, and his peculiar grimace--which I'd mastered to a T--as if to convey how hard, how powerfully he was thinking, an old ladyish pout followed by the rapid intake of his upper and lower lip, making him look like a dried-out prune. And then his way of orally capitalizing certain words to give them emphasis, sotto voce: "Now, Antoine. Remember how strong the Mountain must be in your Back. Remember how each Particle around you is Alive, full of Energy and Intelligence. Remember that Purifying your Inner Space is Absolutely necessary."
I told them about the Think Dome, the nightmarish yet incredibly inspiring complication of the affair, Parimbert peering over my rough copies, too vain to wear glasses. He never seemed to be pleased or displeased by my creations, merely puzzled, as if they triggered colossal concern. I began to suspect that he had no idea what the Think Dome was supposed to be. He just very much liked the idea of it. "Now, Antoine, remember, the Think Dome is a Bubble of Potential, a Liberating cell, a Closed Space that in fact knows how to set us Free." They were hysterical with laughter. Helene was wiping away tears. I told them about the seminar Parimbert had invited me to, where for an entire day, in a modern complex in the chic western suburbs, I had been introduced to his team. His associate was a terrifying Asian personage with a cadaverous mask-like face, whose gender was difficult to determine. All the people who worked with Parimbert seemed either about to collapse or on drugs, sporting glassy, intoxicated expressions. They all wore black or white. Some were very young, barely out of college. Others were seriously getting on. Nobody looked remotely normal. At one o'clock, stomach rumbling, I had been looking forward to lunch. But as the minutes ticked by, to my dismay, no lunch was announced. Standing at the head of the room, screens flashing behind him, Parimbert was droning on about the website's success and how he was Expanding through the Entire World. I discreetly asked the haggard but elegant-looking lady next to me about lunch. She stared at me as if I had said "sodomy" or "gang bang." "Lunch?" she repeated with a revolted whisper. "We don't have lunch. Ever." Distressed, I had asked, "Why not?" belly gurgling away all the more. She had not deigned to answer me. At four o'clock, green tea and bran scones were imperially ushered in. But my stomach balked. And I had spent the rest of the day feeling dangerously faint and had rushed to the nearest boulangerie as soon as I could to wolf down an entire baguette.
"You were so funny," said Melanie as we took our leave. Didier, Emmanuel, and Helene agreed. A mixture of admiration and surprise. "I had no idea you could be so funny."
Later, when I fell asleep, holding my snow princess close to me, I felt happy. A happy man.
Saturday afternoon. Melanie and I stand outside the enormous wrought-iron door that leads into our grandmother's building. We telephoned this morning, informed the placid, good-natured Gaspard that we were coming to visit Blanche. I haven't been here since before the summer. More than six months. Melanie types out the digital code, and we walk into the huge, red-carpeted hall. The concierge peers at us from behind the lace curtain of her loge, nods at us as we go past. Nothing much has changed here. The carpet may look a touch more threadbare, perhaps. An iron and glass, surprisingly silent elevator has recently replaced the creaky old-fashioned one.
Our grandparents lived here for more than seventy years. Since their marriage. Our father and Solange were born here. In those days, most of the imposing Haussmanian building belonged to Blanche's grandfather, Emile Fromet, a well-off property owner who possessed several residences in the Passy area of the sixteenth arrondissement. We were often told about Emile Fromet in our childhood. There was a portrait of him above a mantelpiece, an unyielding-looking man with a redoubtable chin that Blanche luckily did not inherit but passed on to her daughter, Solange. We knew, very young, that Blanche's wedding with Robert Rey had been a grand event, the faultless union between a dynasty of lawyers and a family of doctors and property owners. A cluster of respectable, highly regarded, influential wealthy people with the same upbringing, the same origins, the same religion. Our father's marriage to a rural southerner had probably caused a certain commotion back in the sixties.
Gaspard opens the door to us, his asymmetrical face flushing with contentment. I cannot help feeling sorry for the man. He must be five years older than I am at the most, and he looks as if he could be my father. No family, no children, no life apart from the Reys. Even when he was young, he seemed wizened, shuffling about the place in his mother's tow. Gaspard has been living here forever, in a room up under the roof, devoted to the Reys, like his mother, Odette. Odette had slaved for our grandparents till the day she died. She terrorized us when we were small, forced us to wear felt slippers so as not to mat the freshly polished parquet floor, urging us to keep our voices down, as "Madame" was resting and "Monsieur" was reading the Figaro in his office and did not want to be disturbed. No one knew who Gaspard's father was. No one asked. When Melanie and I were small, Gaspard did odd jobs around the apartment, errands of all sorts, and did not seem to spend much time at school. His mother died ten years ago, and he took over the upkeep of the place. It had given him a new importance he was proud of.
Melanie and I greet him. Our arrival is the highlight of his week. When Astrid and I brought the children in to see their great-grandmother back in the good old Malakoff days, he was ecstatic.
As ever, when I enter this place, I am struck by the darkness of it. The northern exposure does not help. The 450-square-meter apartment never catches a glimmer of sun. Even in the middle of summer it harbors a sepulchral gloom. Solange, our aunt, is on her way out. We have not seen her for a long time. She says hello briefly, not unkindly, pats Melanie on the cheek, does not ask about our father. Brother and sister live in the same vicinity, he on the avenue Kleber, she on the rue Boissiere, five minutes away, but they never see each other. They never got along. They never will. It's too late.
The apartment is a continuous succession of great rooms with molded ceilings. Grand salon (which was never used, too big, too cold), petit salon, dining room, library, office, four bedrooms, two old-fashioned bathrooms, and the out-of-date kitchen far away at the back. Every day, Odette used to wheel a squeaky table laden with food along the never-ending corridor from the kitchen to the dining room. I can still remember the sound of those wheels.
On our way here, we discussed how we were going to tackle our grandmother. We couldn't exactly come out with "Did you know your daughter-in-law
was having affairs with women?" Melanie suggested that we look around the place. What did she mean? I asked. Did she mean to snoop? Yes, she meant to snoop, and her expression was so comical I had to smile. I felt oddly excited, as if she and I were embarking on some new and strange adventure. But what about Gaspard? I had asked. He watched over the place like a hawk. Melanie had waved a nonchalant hand. Gaspard would not be a problem. The problem was where to look.
"Hey, guess what?" she had said with a sprightly voice as I parked the car along the avenue Henri-Martin.
"What?"
"I met a guy."
"Another old lech?"
She had rolled her eyes.
"No. Actually, he's a little younger than I am. He's a journalist."
"And?"
"And."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"For the moment."
The nurse on duty today is one we have never seen. But she seems to know all about us, greeting us by our first names. She informs us that our grandmother is still asleep and that it is not wise to wake her now, as she had a bad night. Can we wait another hour or so? Maybe have a coffee somewhere or do a spot of shopping? she suggests with a bright smile.
Melanie turns in order to locate Gaspard. He is not far off, giving orders to a cleaning lady. She whispers to me, "I'm going to snoop. Keep him busy."
She slips off. For what seems like ages I listen to Gaspard's woes about the difficulty of finding the right staff, the soaring prices of fresh fruit, the new neighbors on the fourth floor who make so much noise. Melanie at last comes back and spreads her hands, as if to say, "Found nothing."
We decide to return in an hour. As we head to the door, Gaspard says in a rush that he's very happy to make tea or coffee for us. We can go sit in the petit salon and he'll bring it to us. It's cold outside today, we can stay cozily here. He seems so eager to have us stay that we feel we can't refuse. We wait for him in the petit salon. A cleaning lady is dusting along the corridor. She nods to us as she passes.
This is the room that brings back the most memories. The French windows looking out to the balcony. The dark green velvet sofa and chairs. A large, low glass table. My grandfather's silver cigarette box is still there. This is where my grandparents gathered for their coffee or to watch television. This is where we played charades. Listened to the grown-ups talk.
Gaspard comes back with a tray, coffee for me, tea for Melanie. He pours out our cups carefully, hands us milk and sugar. He sits on a chair facing us, fists on his knees, his back very straight.
We ask him how our grandmother has been recently. Not too good, he says, her heart has been acting up again and she spends most of her days sleeping. The medication knocks her out.
"You remember our mother, don't you?" says Melanie unexpectedly, sipping her tea.
His smile lights up his face.
"Oh, your mother! Petite Madame Rey. Yes, of course I remember her. Your mother was unforgettable."
Clever girl, I think.
Melanie goes on. "What do you remember about her?"
Gaspard's smile stretches even wider.
"She was such a lovely, kind person. She gave me little presents, new socks, and chocolates--and flowers, sometimes. I was devastated when she died."
The apartment around us is silent all of a sudden. Even the cleaning lady dusting in the grand salon is going about her chores noiselessly.
"How old were you?" I ask.
"Well, Monsieur Antoine, I'm five years older than you, so I was fifteen. Such sadness."
"What do you remember about the day she died?"
"It was terrible, terrible . . . Seeing her carried out . . . on that stretcher . . ."
He seems uncomfortable all of a sudden, twisting his hands, shuffling his feet. He has stopped looking at us. He looks down at the carpet.
"Were you at the avenue Kleber when it happened?" asked Melanie, surprised.
"Avenue--Kleber?" he stutters, confused. "I don't remember, no. It was such a horrible day. I don't remember."
He rushes to his feet, leaves the room hastily. After a split second we get up and follow him.
"Gaspard," says Melanie firmly, "can you please answer my question? Why did you say you saw her being carried out?"
We are standing in the entrance, just the three of us, in the shadow of the dark place. The tall bookshelves seem to lean forward; the pale faces in the old paintings above us have expectant, watchful expressions. The marble bust on the writing table next to us waits too.
Gaspard is tongue-tied, his cheeks flushed. He is trembling. His forehead glistens with a sudden sweat.
"What is wrong?" asks Melanie quietly.
He swallows audibly, his large Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
"No, no," he whispers, backing off, shaking his head. "I can't."
I grab him by the shoulder. His upper arm feels bony and weak beneath the cheap fabric of his suit.
"Is there something you need to tell us?" I say, using a firmer voice than my sister's.
He shudders, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, steps away again.
"Not here!" he manages to croak.
Melanie and I exchange glances.
"Where, then?" she asks.
He is already halfway down the corridor, his skinny legs quivering.
He whispers, "In my room. On the sixth floor. In five minutes."
He disappears. The vacuum cleaner is abruptly turned on, startling us. We look at each other for a moment. Then we leave.
The way to the service rooms is up a narrow, snaking staircase that has no elevator. This is where the poorer residents of the prosperous building live, slogging up those steep steps every day. The higher you go, the flakier the paint. The stronger the smell. The stench of minuscule, airless rooms, promiscuity, the lack of proper bathrooms. The unpleasant reek of a common toilet on the landing. I have never been up here. Neither has Melanie. There is an uncomfortable contrast between the opulence of the grand apartments and this squalid, overcrowded area tucked away under the roof.
Six stories to climb. We do so in silence. We have not said a word to each other since we left Blanche's place. Questions whirling round and round in my head, and in Melanie's too, I know.
When we get to the top floor, it is like another world. Bare floorboards, a winding passageway lined with dozens of numbered doors. The whine of a hair dryer. Loud, metallic TV voices. People quarreling in a foreign language. A mobile phone twittering. A baby's squeal. A door opens, and a surly woman stares out at us. The room behind her has a slanting, blotched ceiling, grimy carpets, grubby furniture. Which one is Gaspard's door? He did not tell us. Is he hiding? Is he scared? Somehow I know he is waiting for us, twisting his hands, trembling. He is plucking up his courage.
I watch Melanie's small, square shoulders underneath her winter coat. Her step is sturdy and sure. She wants to know. She is not afraid. Why am I afraid, and not my sister?
Gaspard stands at the end of the passageway, his face still flushed. He lets us in quickly, as if he does not want us to be seen. His confined little room is stifling after the chilly stairway. The electric heater is on full blast, letting out a faint humming noise and the smell of burned hair and dust. The room is so small that he, Melanie, and I bump into one another. The only thing to do is to sit on the narrow bed. I look around, taking in the scrupulously clean surfaces, the crucifix on the wall, the cracked washbasin, the makeshift cupboard area with a plastic curtain. Gaspard's life exposed in all its wretchedness. What does he do with himself when he comes back up here after leaving Blanche with the night nurse? No TV. No books. On a small shelf, I notice a Bible and a photograph. I look at it as discreetly as possible. With a jolt, I realize it is a photograph of my mother.
Gaspard stands, as there is no place for him to sit. He waits for us to speak, his eyes darting from Melanie to me. I can hear a radio in the next room. The walls are so thin I can make out every single word of the news.
"You can trust
us, Gaspard," says Melanie. "You know that."
He puts a quick finger to his lips, his eyes round with fear.
"You must talk quietly, Mademoiselle Melanie," he whispers. "Everyone here can hear!"
He comes closer to us. I smell the rank odor of his armpits. Instinctively, I shrink back.
"Your mother . . ." he murmurs. "She was my only friend. She was the only person who really . . . understood me."
"Yes," says Melanie, and I marvel at her patience. I'm not interested. I want him to get to the point, fast. She puts a soothing hand on my arm, as if she knows exactly what I am thinking.
"Your mother was like me. She came from a humble background, from the south, and she wasn't complicated and fussy. She was a simple, good person. She never thought only about herself. She was generous, warm."
"Yes," says Melanie again, while I clench my fists with impatience.
The radio in the next room is turned off, and silence fills up the little place. Gaspard starts to get that sweaty, anxious look again. He keeps glancing toward the door, wringing his hands. Why is he so uneasy? He ducks down and pulls a small transistor radio from under the bed, fumbles to switch it on. Yves Montand's sultry voice: " 'C'est si bon, de partir n'importe ou, bras dessus bras dessous . . .' "
"You were going to tell us about the day our mother died," I say finally, ignoring Melanie's pacifying gesture toward me.
Gaspard gathers up enough courage to look me fully in the face.
"You must understand, Monsieur Antoine. This is . . . difficult for me--"
" 'C'est si bon . . . ' " hums Montand, debonair, insouciant.
We wait for Gaspard to go on. He does not.
Melanie puts a hand on his arm.
"You have nothing to fear from us," she whispers. "Nothing at all. We are your friends. We have known you since we were born."
He nods, the flesh on his cheeks wobbling like jelly. His eyes brim over. To our horror, his face crumples up and he starts to sob without a sound. There is nothing else to do but to wait. I avert my eyes from the sorry spectacle of Gaspard's pasty, ravaged face. The Montand song finally ends. Another tune starts, a familiar one. I can't remember who sings it.
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