My aunt leads me this time to the empty petit salon. The chatter and low voices of her guests can hardly be heard here. She closes the door. Her face, which reminds me so much of my father's, with a larger chin, seems rigid all of a sudden, less forthcoming. I am aware that this may not be a pleasant moment. Being in this room is already uncomfortable. I keep glancing down at the carpet. This is where my mother's body fell. Right here, by my feet.
"How is Francois tonight?" she asks, toying with the pearl necklace.
"I didn't see him. He was asleep."
She nods. "I hear he is being brave."
"About Blanche?" I ask.
A small stillness. The pearls click.
"No. About his cancer."
I remain rooted to the spot. Cancer. Of course. Cancer. My father has cancer. For how long? Cancer of what? How bad is it? No one in this family ever talks.
Silence is preferred. Slow, chloroformed silence. Stealthy silence, covering everything up like a deadly, smothering avalanche.
I wonder if she knows. If she can guess, just by watching my face, that this is the first time I am told about my father's illness. The first time it has been named.
"Yes," I say, unsmiling. "You're right. He's being brave."
"I must be getting back to my guests," she says finally. "Goodbye, Antoine. Thank you for coming."
She leaves, her back stiff. As I walk to the entrance, Gaspard comes out of the grand salon carrying a tray. I make a sign to him, indicating that I will be waiting for him downstairs. I go down and light up a cigarette, just outside the building.
Gaspard turns up a few minutes later. He seems composed, a little weary. He gets straight to the point.
"Monsieur Antoine, I need to tell you something."
He clears his throat. He looks calmer. Not like the other day in his room.
"Your grandmother is dead now. I was afraid of her--so afraid, you understand? Now she cannot scare me anymore." He pauses, pulls on his tie. I decide not to rush him. "A couple of weeks after your mother died, a woman came here to see Madame. I opened the door to her. An American lady. When your grandmother saw her, she lost control. She shouted at the lady and told her to leave right away. She was furious. I had never seen her so infuriated. There was no one at home that day except for your grandmother and me. My mother was out shopping, and your grandfather was away."
A stylish woman wearing a mink coat walks up to where we are standing. Whiffs of Shalimar. We remain silent as she enters the building. Then Gaspard goes on, moving closer to me.
"The American lady spoke good French. She screamed back at your grandmother. She said she wanted to know why your grandmother had never answered her calls, why your grandmother had her followed by a private detective. And then she yelled this at the top of her voice, 'You better tell me how Clarisse died, right now!' "
"What did she look like, this American?" I ask, my pulse quickening.
"She was in her forties, long blond hair that was almost white, tall, the sporty type."
"And then what happened?"
"Your grandmother told her that if she did not leave at once, she would call the police. Then she ordered me to show the lady out. She left the room, and I was alone with the American lady. She said something in English that sounded horrible, and she slammed the door without once looking at me."
"Why didn't you tell us this the other day?"
He blushed. "I couldn't bring myself to tell you anything until your grandmother was no longer here. This is a good job, Monsieur Antoine. I have been doing it all my life. The pay is decent. I respect your family. I didn't want any trouble."
"Is there anything else you need to tell me?"
"Yes, there is." He nods eagerly. "When the American lady talked about the detective following her, I suddenly remembered a couple of phone calls for your grandmother from an agency. I don't have a curious nature, and I hadn't found those calls strange, but with the quarrel, it all came back to me. And then I found something--er--helpful in your grandmother's wastepaper basket the day after the American lady came."
His face goes even redder. "I hope you don't think--"
I smile.
"No, of course I don't think you were doing anything wrong, Gaspard. You were just emptying her trash can, right?"
He looks so relieved I almost chuckle.
"I have kept this for all these years," he whispers, and hands me a crumpled piece of paper.
"Why did you keep this, Gaspard?"
He draws himself up to his full height. "For your mother's sake. Because I revered her. Because I want to help you, Monsieur Antoine."
"Help me?"
His voice remains steady. His eyes are very solemn.
"To help you understand what happened. The day she died."
I smooth the paper out slowly. It is an invoice, addressed to my grandmother from the Viaris Agency, Private Investigators, on rue d'Amsterdam, in the ninth arrondissement. Quite a hefty sum, I note.
"Your mother was a lovely person, Monsieur Antoine."
"Thank you, Gaspard," I say. I shake his hand. It is a clumsy moment, but he seems content.
I watch him go into the building, his twisted back, his skinny legs. I drive home as swiftly as I can.
A quick check on the Internet confirms what I feared. The Viaris Agency no longer exists. It merged with a larger group called Rubis Detective: Professional Investigation Services, "surveillance, shadowing, undercover operations, activity checks, credit standing." I had no idea this sort of business still existed. And theirs is flourishing, according to the stylish, modern website with ingenious plug-ins. Their offices are near the Opera. I notice an e-mail address. I decide to write to them, to explain the situation. That I would need the results of the investigation my grandmother, Blanche Rey, commissioned in 1973. I include the invoice number on my grandmother's bill. Could they get back to me as soon as possible? Urgent, thank you. I include my mobile number.
I want to call Melanie about all this, and nearly do, but it is getting on for one o'clock in the morning. I lie in bed for a long time, tossing and turning, before sleep finally sinks in.
My father's cancer. My grandmother's upcoming funeral. The tall, blond American.
You better tell me how Clarisse died, right now.
The next morning, when I get to the office, I look up Laurence Dardel's number. She is Dr. Dardel's daughter, probably in her mid-fifties now, I presume. Her father was the close friend, the family doctor who signed my mother's death certificate as, according to Gaspard, he was the first to arrive at the avenue Henri-Martin on that fateful day in February 1974. Laurence became a doctor herself, taking on most of her father's clientele and their families. I hadn't seen her in years. We were not particularly friendly. When I call her office, I am told that she is tending to patients at the hospital where she works. The only thing to do, it appears, is to book an appointment. The next possible slot with Dr. Dardel is in a week. I say thank you and hang up.
I remember that her father lived on the rue Spontini, not far from the rue de Longchamp. He had his medical office there. Hers is on the avenue Mozart, but I am quite certain she still lives in the rue Spontini apartment, which she inherited from her father. I remember going there as a boy, after my mother's death, to have tea with Laurence and her husband. There were children, much younger than we were. I have little recollection of them. Laurence Dardel married a man whose name I cannot recall. She kept her maiden name for work purposes. There is no way I can check if she still lives on the rue Spontini without going there myself.
After a morning of steady work I call my father at lunchtime. I get Regine on the phone, and she tells me he is with his sister, organizing Blanche's funeral, which will take place at Saint-Pierre de Chaillot church, as expected. I inform her that I will call back tonight, not too late. In the late afternoon I have a meeting, one of the last ones, with Parimbert at his office. The Think Dome is in the process of being installed, and minor details need to be ir
oned out.
When I arrive, I note with alarm that Rabagny, his insufferable son-in-law, is also there. I am even more astounded when the man scrambles up to shake my hand with a smile, one I have never seen him use, exposing an unappetizing expanse of gum, telling me what a fantastic job I did on the Think Dome. Parimbert looks on with his customary self-satisfied smirk, and I can almost hear him purr. Rabagny is all worked up; his face is sweaty, just about puce. To my astonishment, he actually stutters. He is convinced that the Think Dome and its structure of light panels changing color is a revolutionary concept of the utmost artistic and psychological significance, and he wants to develop it, with my permission. "This could be huge," he breathes. "This could go worldwide." He's got it all planned out, he's been giving a lot of thought to it. I need to sign a contract, get my lawyer to look at it of course, but this should be moving fast, and if all goes well, I will soon be a billionaire. He too. There is nothing much else to do but wait till he stops to draw breath, which he does eventually, spluttering and purple around the gills. I remain aloof, pocket the proffered contract, and tell him frostily that I will give it some thought. The colder I am, the more he grovels. After a terrifying moment when he hovers near me like an over-affectionate puppy and I fear he is actually going to kiss me, he finally leaves.
Parimbert and I get to work. He is not wholly satisfied with the sitting areas, which are too comfortable in his opinion, not suitable for the immense intellectual exertion that will take place within the dome. He would prefer hard, ascetic seating in which one is forced to sit bolt upright, as if in the classroom of an inflexible teacher. No subsiding into tantalizing indolence.
No matter how soft-voiced he is, Parimbert is a demanding client, and I leave his office much later than I had anticipated, feeling bludgeoned. I decide to drive straight to the rue Spontini. The traffic at this hour is slow, but it shouldn't take me more than twenty minutes to get there. I park the car near the avenue Victor-Hugo and go into a cafe to wait a little while more. I still have not heard from the Rubis agency. I toy with the idea of calling my sister and telling her what I plan to do, but as I take out my phone, it starts ringing. Angele. My heart leaps, as always, whenever she calls. I am on the verge of telling her about my visit to Laurence Dardel's home, but at the last minute I hold back. I want to keep this to myself, this quest, or whatever it is. This mission for the truth. I talk about something else, about our next weekend together, which is coming up.
I then call my father. His voice sounds feeble. Not at all like him. As usual, our conversation is brief and dispassionate. It seems my father and I are separated by a towering, hefty wall. We converse with each other, but nothing is exchanged, no tenderness, no affection. No closeness. And it has been like this all our lives. Why should it ever change? I wouldn't even know how to begin. Ask him about his cancer? Tell him I know? Tell him I care? Impossible. He has not programmed me to do that. And as usual, like every time I hang up after talking with my father, hopelessness rears its weary head.
It is now nearly eight o'clock. Laurence Dardel is most probably at home: 50 rue Spontini. I don't have the code to get in, and I wait outside, smoking, pacing up and down to keep warm, until a person finally walks out of the building. The list outside the concierge's door informs me that the Fourcade-Dardel family lives on the third floor. These dignified, red-carpeted Haussmanian buildings all have the same odor, I think as I go up--savory wafts from cooking pots, beeswax polish, flowery interior fragrances.
My ring is answered by a young man in his twenties who is wearing headphones. I explain who I am and ask him if his mother is there. Before he can answer me, Laurence Dardel appears. She peers at me and says, smiling, "You're Antoine, aren't you? Francois's son?"
She introduces me to her own son Thomas, who wanders off with his headphones, and takes me into the living room. She hasn't changed much with the passing of time. Her face is as I remembered it, small, sharp, and pointed, her eyelashes sandy, her hair drawn back in a neat ponytail. She offers me a glass of wine, which I accept.
"I read about your grandmother's death in the Figaro," she says. "You must all be upset. We will of course be at the funeral."
"I wasn't particularly close to her," I say.
She raises an eyebrow.
"Oh. I thought you and Melanie doted on her."
"Not exactly."
There is a silence. The room we are sitting in is conventional and bourgeois. There is nothing out of place here. Not a spot on the pale gray carpet, not a speck of dust to be seen. Traditional furniture, unimaginative paintings, rows and rows of medical books. Yet this apartment could be made into a gem, I note, as my expert eye singles out ungainly false ceilings, superfluous paneling, unwieldy doors. My nose picks up a persistent cooking odor. It is dinnertime, I realize.
"How is your father?" Laurence asks politely.
She is a doctor, after all. I don't need to pretend.
"He has cancer."
"Yes," she says.
"You know that, don't you?"
"I've known for a while."
"How long have you known?"
She puts a hand under her chin, purses up her mouth. "My father told me."
I feel a slight wrench in my chest.
"But your father died in the early eighties."
"Yes," she says, "1982."
She has the same stocky build as her father, the same stubby hands.
"You mean my father was already ill in 1982?"
"Yes, he was. But he pulled through with treatment. Then he was all right, I believe, for a while. Until recently."
"Are you his doctor?"
"No, but my father was until he died."
"He seems very tired," I say. "Exhausted, even."
"That's because of the chemo," she says. "It knocks you out."
"Is it working?"
She looks at me levelly. "I don't know, Antoine. I'm not his doctor."
"Then how did you know he was ill again?"
"Because I saw him recently, and I could tell."
So she too, like Dr. Besson, had noticed it.
"My father has not told Melanie nor me that he is ill. His sister knows--God knows how, because they hardly speak to each other. I don't even know what sort of cancer he has. We know nothing. He will say nothing."
She nods but makes no comment. She finishes her glass of wine and puts it down.
"Why are you here, Antoine? Can I help you?"
Before I can answer her, the front door clicks and a burly, balding man comes in. I vaguely recognize her husband. Laurence tells him who I am.
"Antoine Rey. It's been a while! You look more and more like your father."
I hate it when people say that. His name comes back to me--Cyril. After a couple of minutes of small talk in which he expresses his condolences for Blanche's death, he leaves the room. I notice Laurence glancing at her watch.
"I won't take up too much of your time, Laurence. And yes, I do need your help." I pause.
She looks at me expectantly. She has a vigorous, capable look that lends her a certain toughness. Almost like a man.
"I want to look at my mother's medical file."
"May I ask why?"
"There are a couple of things I want to check. Like her death certificate, for example."
Her eyes narrow. "What do you need to know exactly?"
I lean forward and say with a purposeful tone, "I need to know exactly how and where my mother died."
She seems taken aback. "Is this necessary?"
Her attitude jars me. I let it show.
"Is there a problem?"
My voice comes out a lot sharper than I had planned.
She jumps back as if I had poked her.
"There is no problem, Antoine, no reason to get angry."
"Then can I have the file?"
"I have to look for it. I'm not quite sure where it is. It may take a while."
"What do you mean?"
She looks at her watch aga
in.
"My father's files are all here, but I don't have time to get it for you right now."
"And when will you have the time?"
Once again, my voice has a nasty undertone that I can't help. There is a mounting tension between us, a palpable hostility that surprises me.
"I will find it as soon as possible. I will call you when I have done so."
"Fine," I say, getting up hastily.
She rises too, her pointed face red. She looks up at me.
"I remember your mother's death well. It was a terrible moment for your family. I was about twenty years old, I had just met Cyril, and I was studying to be a doctor. I remember my father calling me and telling me that Clarisse Rey had died of an aneurysm. That she was dead by the time he got to her, that there was nothing he could do."
"I still need to look at that file," I say firmly.
"Going back into the past never does any good. You are old enough to know that."
I say nothing. Then I find one of my cards in my pocket. I hand it to her.
"Here is my number. Please call me as soon as you have located the file."
I walk out as fast as I can, not saying goodbye, my cheeks burning. I close the door behind me and scuttle silently down the stairs. I don't even wait till I'm outside to light a cigarette.
Despite the resentment, the fear of what I don't know and don't understand, as I run to my car in the cold darkness, I feel close to my mother, closer than I have felt in years.
The Rubis agency calls me at the end of the following day. A charming, efficient woman called Delphine. No problem giving me the file. It has been thirty-odd years after all. All she needs is for me to drop by at their bureau. She'll check my ID and have me sign a piece of paper.
It takes me a while to get from Montparnasse to the Opera. Trapped in heavy traffic, I listen to the radio, take deep breaths, try not to let my unease take over. I haven't slept well for the past weeks. Sleepless nights, endless questions. Feeling dwarfed by something I cannot comprehend. I keep meaning to call my sister, tell her all I have learned, but I hold back, still. I want to know the whole story for myself. I want to have all the cards in my hand. The Rey dossier the Rubis agency is about to give me. Dr. Dardel's medical file concerning my mother. And then it seems to me I shall know what to do and how to tell Melanie.
A Secret Kept Page 21