Arno wolfs down an entire chocolate eclair.
"Travels a lot."
"And your mother? How is she?"
Arno peers at me, munching away. "Dunno. Ask her. She's looking right at us."
I pour myself some champagne as Gaspard rushes to assist me.
"When are you seeing Angele again?" Arno asks.
The champagne tastes icy and bubbly on my tongue.
"In a couple of weeks." And I nearly add, "I can't wait."
"Does she have kids?"
"No. She has a couple of nephews and nieces who are your age, I think."
"Are you going to Nantes?"
"Yes. She doesn't much like coming to Paris."
"That's a pity."
"Why?"
He blushes. "She's cool."
I laugh and rumple his hair the way I used to when he was a kid.
"You're right. She's cool."
The minutes tick by. Arno discusses his school, his new friends. I listen and nod. Then Astrid comes to talk to us. After a while Arno takes off for more food, and she and I are left en tete a tete. She seems happier. It appears that Serge and she have made a new start. I'm glad to hear it. I say so. She wants to know about Angele, she is curious about her. She has heard so much about her from the children. Why don't I bring her to Malakoff one evening for dinner? Sure, I say, but Angele doesn't come to Paris often. She likes to stick to her beloved Vendee.
And all of a sudden, despite the pleasant conversation with my wife, the kind of conversation I haven't had with her for a while, it seems absolutely impossible not to peek right now, this very minute, at my mother's medical file. There is no way I can wait till I get home.
I murmur something about going to the bathroom, back away, and inconspicuously pick up the envelope, slip it under my jacket, and dash to the large bathroom down the long corridor. Once inside, the door locked, I open it feverishly. Laurence Dardel has written a note.
Dear Antoine, please find enclosed your mother's complete medical dossier. These are photocopies, as you may notice, but nothing has been omitted. My father's notes are all there. I do feel this is not useful for you in any way, but you have a right, as Clarisse Rey's son, to look at this file. If you have any further questions, please get back to me. All best, LD.
"Snobbish bitch," I find myself muttering out loud. "Never liked her."
The first document is the death certificate. I pore over it, turning the light on to see it better. Our mother indeed died at avenue Henri-Martin. Not avenue Kleber. "Cause of death: Aneurysm." An unexpected thought comes to me. "Wait a minute . . ." I mumble aloud to myself. "Wait a minute . . ." February 12, 1974 . . . we came home from school with the au pair in the afternoon . . . I was told, as soon as we arrived, by our father, that Clarisse suddenly died, that her body was at the hospital. . . . I didn't ask where she died. I naturally assumed she died at avenue Kleber. So I never asked. Neither did Mel.
I know I am right. Melanie and I were not told, because we never asked. We were so small. We were in shock. I distinctly remember our father explaining about the aneurysm, how it happened, a vein bursting in the brain, how Clarisse had died, very quick, very fast, painlessly, but that's all he ever said about her death. And if Gaspard had not committed that slip of the tongue, we would have gone on thinking that our mother died at avenue Kleber.
As I flip through the pages of the file, the doorknob rattles and startles me.
"Coming!" I say hastily, folding up the sheets of paper and hiding them under my jacket. I flush the toilet, turn on the tap, and wash my hands. When I open the door, Melanie is waiting for me, her fists on her hips.
"What are you up to?" she asks. Her eyes dart around the room.
"Just thinking. About a couple of things," I say, drying my hands busily.
"Are you hiding anything from me?"
"Of course not. I'm working on something, for both of us. I'm piecing it all together."
She steps into the bathroom, closes the door quietly behind her. Once again I am struck by her resemblance to our mother.
"Listen to me, Antoine. Our father is dying."
I stare at her. "He told you? About his cancer?"
She nods.
"Yes. He told me. Recently."
"You never said anything to me."
"He asked me not to."
I gape at her, stunned. Then I hurl the towel to the ground, anger sparking through me.
"This is outrageous. I'm his son, for Christ's sake."
"I know how you must feel. But he cannot talk to you. He doesn't know how. And you aren't good at that with him either."
I lean back against the wall and fold my arms across my chest. The anger bubbles up inside me. Fuming, I wait for her to speak.
"He hasn't got much time, Antoine. He has stomach cancer. I spoke to his doctor. The news isn't good."
"What are you trying to tell me, Melanie?"
She goes to the basin, opens the tap, passes her hands under the running water. She is wearing a dark gray wool dress, black tights, black patent leather flats with gold buckles. Her silvery streaked hair is tied back with a black velvet bow. She bends to retrieve the towel, wipes her hands.
"I know you're on the warpath."
"The warpath?" I repeat.
"I know what you've been doing. I know you asked Laurence Dardel to give you our mother's medical file."
I am silenced by the seriousness in her voice.
"I know Gaspard gave you a document. He told me. I know you probably know who the blond woman was. And I overheard you questioning Solange just now."
"Wait, Melanie," I blurt out, my face reddening with mortification at the idea of her thinking I could be hiding such important details from her. "You must understand that I was going to tell you all this. I--"
She holds up a slender, white hand.
"Just listen to me."
"Okay," I say, unnerved, smiling uneasily. "I'm all ears."
She doesn't smile back. She leans forward, her green eyes inches from mine.
"Whatever you find out, I don't want to know."
"What?" I breathe.
"You heard me. I do not want to know."
"But why? I thought you did. Remember? The day you remembered why we had the crash. You said you were ready to face the pain of knowing."
She opens the door without answering, and I fear she is about to slip off without another word. But she whips around, and when she faces me once more, her eyes are filled with such sorrow I want to take her into my arms.
"I've changed my mind. I'm not ready. And when you do find out--whatever it is--don't talk to our father. Don't ever tell him."
Something in her voice breaks, and she dashes away, face lowered. I stand there, unable to move. How is it that a brother and a sister can be so dissimilar? How is it that Melanie prefers silence to the truth? How can she live, not knowing? Not wanting to know? Why does she want to protect our father so?
As I stand there, disconcerted, my shoulder against the door frame, my daughter emerges from the long corridor.
"Yo, Dad," she says. Then she sees my face. "Bad day?"
I nod.
"Me too," she says.
"So that makes two of us."
And to my wonder, she hugs me, hard. I hug her back, kissing the top of her head.
It is not till later, much later, when I am back home, that the idea comes to me.
My mother's note to June Ashby is in my hands, and I am reading it for the umpteenth time. Then I glance at the article I printed out about June Ashby's death. The name of her associate, Donna W. Rogers. I know what I want to do. It is very clear to me. I find the telephone number on the June Ashby Gallery website. I look at my watch.
Five o'clock in the afternoon in New York City. Do it, says the little voice. Just do it. You have nothing to lose. She may not even be there, she may not remember a thing about your mother, she may not even take your call, but just do it.
After a couple of rings a masculine voi
ce says breezily, "June Ashby Gallery, how may I help you?"
My English feels rusty; I haven't spoken the language in months. I hesitatingly ask for Madame Donna Rogers.
"May I ask who is calling?" says the amiable voice.
"Antoine Rey. I am calling from Paris, France."
"And may I ask what this is about?"
"Please tell Madame Rogers that this--this is a very personal matter."
My French accent comes out so strongly it makes me squirm. He asks me to hold on.
Then a woman's firm tones are heard, and I know it must be Donna Rogers. I feel tongue-tied for a couple of seconds. Then I blurt out, "Yes, hello . . . My name is Antoine Rey. I'm calling you from Paris."
"I see," she says. "Are you one of my clients?"
"Um, no," I reply awkwardly. "I am not a client, Madame. I'm calling you about something else. I'm calling you about . . . about my mother . . ."
"Your mother?" she asks. Then she says courteously, "Excuse me, what did you say your name was?"
"Rey. Antoine Rey."
A pause.
"Rey. And your mother's name . . ."
"Clarisse Rey."
There is such a long silence on the other end of the line that I fear I have lost her.
"Hello?" I say tentatively.
"Yes, I'm still here. You are Clarisse's son."
This is statement, not a question.
"Yes, I am her son."
"Can you hold on, please?"
"Of course."
I make out a couple of muffled words, some rustling and crumpling. Then the man's voice: "Hold on, sir, I'm transferring you to Donna's office."
She finally says, "Antoine Rey."
"Yes."
"You must be in your forties, I presume?"
"Forty-four."
"I see."
"Did you know my mother, Madame?"
"I never met her."
I am puzzled by her answer, but my English is too stilted for me to react fast enough.
She goes on. "Well, you see, June told me all about her."
"What did she tell you about my mother? Can you tell me?"
There is a long hush. Then she says quietly, so quietly I have to strain my ears to make out her words, "Your mother was the love of June's life."
From where I sit, the countryside scuttles by, a drab blur of gray and brown. The train is too swift for raindrops to settle on the windowpanes, but I know it is raining. It has been wet for the past week. Sodden, end of winter weather at its worst. I crave Mediterranean luminosity, the blue and white of it, the scorching heat. Oh, to be somewhere in Italy, on the Amalfi coast, where I went years ago with Astrid, the dry, powdery scent of pines swaying on rocky coves, the sun-kissed, salty breeze strong on my face.
The high-speed train to Nantes is jam-packed. It is Friday afternoon. Mine is a studious passenger car, people reading books or magazines, working on their laptops, listening to music from their earphones. In front of me, a young woman writes zealously in a black Moleskine notebook. I can't help looking at her. She is outstandingly attractive. Perfect oval of a face, luxuriant chestnut hair, fruitlike mouth. Her hands are exquisite too, long, tapered fingers, graceful wrists. She does not look up at me once. It is only when she glances outside from time to time that I can glimpse the color of her eyes. Amalfi blue. Next to her is a fleshy guy dressed in black who is engrossed in his BlackBerry. And by my side is a seventy-year-old woman reading poetry from a small book. She looks impossibly British, a mop of silver hair, aquiline nose, toothy smile, and immense hands and feet.
From Paris to Nantes is barely a two-hour trip, but I am counting the minutes, which seem to be crawling by at a snail's pace. I haven't seen Angele since she turned up for my birthday in January, and the yearning for her seems bottomless. The lady next to me gets up and comes back from the bar with a cup of tea and crackers. She flashes a friendly smile at me, and I smile back. The pretty girl is still scribbling away, and the man in black finally puts his BlackBerry down, yawns, and rubs his forehead jadedly.
I think of the past month. Melanie's unforeseen warning after Blanche's funeral: Whatever you find out, I don't want to know. Solange's hostility when I mentioned June Ashby's name: I remember nothing about her and your mother. And the emotion in Donna Rogers's voice: Your mother was the love of June's life. She had asked me for my address in Paris, that day, on the telephone. A couple of things she could send me that June had kept and that maybe I would like.
I had received the parcel a few weeks later. It contained a stack of letters, some photographs, and a small reel of Super 8 film. And a card from Donna Rogers.
Dear Antoine,
June kept these preciously till she died. I am sure she would be happy thinking they are now in your keep. I don't know what the little film reel is, she never told me, but I'd rather you find out for yourself.
All best to you,
Donna W. Rogers
As I opened the letters with slightly trembling fingers and started reading, I thought fleetingly of Melanie, wishing she could be there with me, sitting next to me in the privacy of my bedroom, sharing these precious vestiges of our mother's life. The date read "July 28, 1973. Noirmoutier, Hotel Saint-Pierre."
Tonight I waited for you on the pier, but you did not come. It grew cold, and after a while I left, thinking maybe it was difficult for you to get away this time. I told them I just needed a quick walk on the beach after dinner, and I wonder if they believed me. She always looks at me like she knows something, although I am sure, perfectly sure, that nobody knows. Nobody knows.
My eyes teared up, and I sensed I could no longer go on reading. It didn't matter. I could always read them later. When I felt stronger. I folded the letters away. The photographs were black-and-white portraits of June Ashby taken by a professional photographer. She looked rather beautiful--strong, arresting features, piercing eyes. On the back of the photographs was my mother's round, childish handwriting: "My sweet love." There were other photographs, a color one of my mother wearing a blue and green evening dress I had never seen, standing in front of a full-length mirror in a room I did not recognize. She was smiling into the mirror at the person taking the photo, who I assumed was June. In the next photograph, my mother was in the same pose, but stark naked. The dress lay at her feet, a crumpled blue and green heap. I sensed my face growing red, and I quickly averted my eyes from my mother's body, a body I had never seen in the nude. I felt like a Peeping Tom. I did not want to look at the other photographs. Here was my mother's love affair exposed in all its blatancy. Would it make any difference if June Ashby had been a man? I forced myself to think about this, hard. No, I did not think so. At least not for me. Was the fact that she was having a lesbian affair more difficult to stomach for Melanie? Was it worse for my father? Was that why Melanie did not want to know? I felt relieved that my sister was not here with me after all, that she had not seen the photographs. I then picked up the small Super 8 reel. Did I really want to know what was on it? What if it was intolerably intimate? What if I regretted watching it? The only way to find out was to have the film converted to a DVD. It was easy to locate a place on the Internet that did just that. If I sent the film first thing next morning, I would receive my DVD in a couple of days.
The DVD is now in my backpack. I got it just before I left to catch the train, and I have not yet had time to view it. "5 minutes," reads the data printed on the cover. I take it out of my bag and finger it nervously. Five minutes of what? The expression on my face must be overwrought; I feel the pretty girl watching me. Her eyes are inquisitive, not unkind. She looks away.
The daylight dims as the train dashes forward, swaying slightly as it reaches its full speed. Another hour to go. I think of Angele waiting for me at the Nantes station, and then the wet ride on the Harley to Clisson, thirty minutes away. I hope the rain will have abated. But she never seems bothered by rain. She has all the right gear.
I take my mother's medical file out of my bag.
I have read it carefully but have learned nothing from it. Clarisse started seeing Dr. Dardel just around the time of her marriage. She often had colds and migraines. She measured 1 meter 58, smaller than Melanie. She weighed 48 kilos. A tiny wisp of a woman. All her vaccines were in order. Her pregnancies were supervised by an obstetrician, Dr. Giraud, at the Belvedere Clinic, where Melanie and I were born.
All of a sudden a loud, ominous thwack is heard, and the train lurches sideways violently, as if its wheels have struck branches or a tree stump. Several people cry out in shock. My mother's file slinks to the ground and the English lady's tea spills all over the table. She exclaims, "Oh dear!" and dabs at the mess with a napkin. The train slows down instantly and comes to a shuddering halt. We all wait in silence, looking at one another. The rain beats down on the windowpanes. Some people get up, try to peer outside. Panicked murmurs arise from each side of the coach. Nothing happens for a while. A child whimpers. Then a cautious voice is heard on the loudspeaker: "Ladies and gentleman, our train is blocked due to technical difficulty. More information to come. Apologies for the delay." The stout man in front of me lets out an exasperated sigh and grabs his BlackBerry. I text Angele and describe what has happened. She texts back almost instantly, and her message makes my blood run cold.
I hate to tell you this, but that's not a technical difficulty. That's a suicide.
I get up, startling the English lady, and walk toward the head of the train. Our coach is situated in the front, near the engine. Passengers in the adjoining carriages are just as restless and impatient. Many of them are using their phones. The noise level gets increasingly louder. Two ticket inspectors appear in their dark uniforms. Their faces are positively morose.
With a sinking heart, I know Angele is right.
"Excuse me," I say, cornering them in the small space between two coaches, near the toilets. "Can you tell me what's going on?"
"Technical problems," mumbles one of them, wiping his damp forehead with a shaking hand. He is young, and his face seems awfully white.
The other man is older and perceptibly more experienced.
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