Angele's arms snake their way around my neck, and her hot mouth kisses the back of my neck. I steady my shoulders. I am coming to the end of the story.
"Blanche receives the file from the detective in January 1974. It is all there. All of it. How many times the women met, where, when. Photographs and all. It repels her. It drives her mad. She nearly tells her husband. She nearly shoves it under his nose, she is so outraged, so disgusted, so appalled. But she doesn't. June Ashby notices that they are being followed. She traces the detective back to the Rey residence. She calls Blanche to order her to mind her own fucking business, but Blanche never takes her calls. June gets the maid or the maid's son. June tells Clarisse to be careful, she tries to warn her, to explain that it all needs to die down a bit, that they should lie low, that they should wait. But Clarisse can't stand it. Clarisse can't stand the idea of being followed. She knows Blanche is going to call her in, to show her the incriminating photos. She knows Blanche will force her to never see June again, that she will threaten to take the children away from her. And so one morning, one cold, sunny winter morning in February, Clarisse waits till her children are on their way to school, she waits till her husband has gone to his office, and she puts on her pretty red coat and walks from the avenue Kleber to the avenue Henri-Martin. It is a short walk, one she has often done with the children, with her husband, but not recently, not since Christmas, not since she knows that Blanche wants June out of her life. She walks quickly until she is breathless, until her heart pumps too hard, too fast, but she walks on, heedless, intent on getting there as soon as possible. She walks up the stairs and rings the bell with a trembling finger, and Gaspard, her friend, her only friend, opens up and smiles. She says she needs to see Madame right away. Madame is in the petit salon, finishing her breakfast. Odette asks if she wants some tea, some coffee. She says no, she won't be a minute, she just has something to say to Madame and she'll be gone. Is Monsieur there? No, Monsieur is not here today. Blanche is sitting down reading her mail. She is wearing her silk kimono and she has curlers in her hair. When she looks up at Clarisse, she does not look happy to see her. She orders Odette to close the door and to leave them. Then she gets up. Wielding a document under Clarisse's nose, she snarls, 'Do you know what this is, have you any idea?' 'Yes, I know,' says Clarisse quietly. 'These are photographs of June and me, you had us followed.' Blanche feels an unprecedented gush of fury. Who does this peasant think she is? No upbringing. No breeding. From the gutter. Uncouth, slatternly, coarse little peasant. 'Yes, I have photos of your disgusting affair. I have it all here, let me show it to you. See? It's all here, when you see her, where you see her. And now this shall go straight to Francois so that he knows who his wife really is, so that he sees she is not fit to be the mother of his children.' Clarisse replies, very calmly, that she is not afraid. Blanche can do just that, Blanche can show it to Francois, to Robert, to Solange. Blanche can show it to the entire world. 'I love June and she loves me, and we want to spend the rest of our lives together with the children. This is exactly what should happen, no more hiding, no more lies. I will tell Francois myself. There will be a divorce. We will explain it to our children as gently as possible. Francois is my husband, and I should tell him myself because I respect him.' Blanche's venom swells, huge, bloated, out of proportion. 'What do you know about respect? What do you know about family values? You are nothing but a slut. And I will not have you tarnishing our name with your revolting lesbian business. You will stop seeing that woman as of right now, and you will do exactly as you are told. You will maintain your rank--' "
I stop, my voice now a mere croak. My throat is parched. I go into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water with shaking hands. I drink it down in a gulp, the glass rattling against my front teeth. When I go back to Angele, the most unexpected and uncomfortable image jumps to my eyes, like a slide being propped there against my will.
I see a woman kneeling on rail tracks at dusk, and I see the train zooming up to her at a very fast pace. The woman is wearing a red coat.
"Odette is standing just outside the closed door. She has been standing there since Madame ordered her to leave, her ear glued to the panel, although that isn't necessary, as Madame is shouting so loudly. She has heard it all, the entire wrangle. She now hears Clarisse's firm, 'No. Goodbye, Blanche,' and then there is a skirmish, the echo of a brief struggle, the sharp intake of breath, an exclamation, but whose voice is it, she can't make out, and then a dull thud, something heavy falling to the floor. Madame's voice saying, 'Clarisse! Clarisse!' and then, 'Oh, my God.' The door opens, Madame's face is haggard, she seems petrified. She looks utterly silly with the rollers bobbing up and down on her head, and it takes her a couple of minutes to talk, to actually speak to Odette. 'There's been an accident. Call Dr. Dardel, fast. Hurry!' What accident? thinks Odette as she rushes to get her son, orders him to call Dr. Dardel immediately, and comes running back to the petit salon on her squat legs, where Madame is waiting, prostrate on the couch. What accident? What happened? 'There was an argument,' moans Madame, her voice strangled. 'She was going to leave, and I held her back. I hadn't finished with what I was telling her, and I grabbed her sleeve, and she stupidly fell, she fell forward, and she banged her head on the table corner right there, look, where it is at its sharpest.' And Odette looks and sees the sharp corner, the glass corner, and she sees how still Clarisse is lying on the carpet, no movement, no breathing, her face drained of all color, and she says, 'Oh, Madame, she is dead.' Then Dr. Dardel arrives, the reliable family doctor, the old, faithful friend. He examines Clarisse, and he says the same words, 'She is dead.' Blanche wrings her hands, she sobs, she tells the doctor it was all a frightful accident, such a stupid, monstrously stupid accident. He looks at Blanche as he signs the death certificate, pen poised, and he says, 'There is only one thing to do. There is only one solution, Blanche. You must trust me. Let me do what I have to do.' "
I stop. That is the end of the story.
Angele gently turns me around so I can see her face. She puts both hands on my cheeks and looks at me for a long time.
"Is that how it happened, Antoine?" she says very softly.
"I will never know the truth. That is the closest I can get to it."
She goes to the fireplace, leaning her forehead against the smooth wood of it, then glances back at me.
"Did you ever manage to talk to your father about this?"
My father. How can I begin to tell her? How can I describe our last talk, a few days ago? I felt compelled that evening, as I left the office, to confront him. No matter what Melanie said. No matter how hard she had tried putting me off for reasons of her own. I needed to talk to him then. There would be no more waiting. No more guesswork. What exactly did he know about Clarisse's death? What had he been told? Did he know about June Ashby?
When I turned up, my father and Regine were having dinner in front of the television. They were watching the news. The upcoming American presidential elections. The tall, thin man, barely older than I am, the one people were calling "the black Kennedy." My father was silent, tired. Little appetite. Loads of pills to swallow. Regine whispered that next week he was scheduled to stay at the hospital for a while. A bad patch was coming up. She shook her head despondently. When the meal was over and Regine was on the phone with a friend in another room, I said to my father, hoping he'd tear his eyes away from the television, that I would like to talk to him if he didn't mind. He nodded and gave a sort of grunt, which I assumed was a positive response. But when he finally turned his eyes to me, they were so full of weariness that I was instantly silenced. The eyes of someone who knew he was dying, who could not bear being on the face of this earth any longer. There was sheer misery in those eyes, as well as a quiet submission that stirred me. Gone was the maverick lawyer. Gone was the dictatorial father. Gone was the arrogant censor. I was looking at an old, sick, foul-breathed man who was ready to die, and who didn't want to listen to me, or to anyone else, anymore.
&nb
sp; It was too late. Too late for me to reach out and tell him I cared, too late for me to tell him that I knew he had cancer, that I knew he was dying, too late to ask him about Clarisse and June, too late to risk myself in that territory with him. He blinked slowly, not even puzzled. He waited for me to speak, and when I finally did not, he shrugged weakly and looked back at the television. He did not even ask me what I wanted. I felt as if he had dropped a curtain onto a stage. The show was over. Come on, Antoine, this is your father. Reach out, take his hand, make sure he knows you're there, even if you can't bring yourself to do it, make an effort, tell him you do care, tell him before it is too late. Look at him, he is dying, there is not much time. There is no time.
I remembered when he was young, his smile shining out like a beacon in his otherwise severe face, when his hair was dark and thick, not the meager, scanty roots of today. I remembered when he would take us into his arms and kiss us lovingly, when Melanie used to ride on his shoulders at the Bois de Boulogne, when his protective hand at the small of my back, propelling me ahead, made me feel I was the most powerful boy in the world. I remembered, after my mother's death, how he clammed up, how the tender kisses stopped, how he became demanding, inflexible, how he criticized, how he judged, how he made me feel wretched. I wanted to ask him why life had made him so acrimonious, so hostile. Was it losing Clarisse? Losing the only person who ever made him happy? Was it finding out she had been unfaithful? That she loved someone else? That she loved a woman? Was it that, that final humiliation, that had broken my father's heart, broken his soul?
But I asked him nothing. Nothing at all. I got up. He did not move. The television blared on. So did Regine's voice next door.
"Goodbye, Father."
He grunted again, not even looking at me. I left, closing the door behind me. On the stairs, I could no longer contain the bitter tears of remorse and pain that seemed to sear into my flesh.
"No, I could not talk to my father. I couldn't do it."
"Don't blame yourself, Antoine. Don't make it even harder on yourself."
The urge to sleep takes over like a heavy blanket thrown over my head. Angele leads me to bed, and I marvel at the gentleness of her hands, those respectful, caring hands that deal with death every day. I drop into an uneasy sleep, like sinking into a bottomless, murky sea. Such strange dreams come to me, my mother kneeling in her red coat facing the train, my father with his happy smile of long ago, climbing a treacherously steep, snowy peak, his face burned by the sun, Melanie, wearing a long black dress, floating on the surface of a black swimming pool, arms outstretched, sunglasses perched on her nose, and me striding through a thick, overgrown forest, bare feet on muddy, insect-ridden soil.
When I wake up, morning has broken, and for a panic-stricken second I don't know where I am. Then I remember. Angele's place. In her remarkably renovated nineteenth-century house that used to be a small primary school. Situated by a river in the heart of Clisson, that quaint historical town near Nantes I had never heard of before I met her. Ivy creeping up granite walls, two broad chimneys overlooking the tiled roof, and an enchanting walled garden, the pupils' old playground. I am in Angele's comfortable bed. But she is not lying next to me. The space next to me is cold. I get up, patter downstairs. The appetizing aroma of coffee and toast greets me. A pale, lemony sunshine pours through the windowpanes. Outside, the garden is covered with a delicate sprinkling of frost, like icing on a cake. From where I stand, I can just glimpse the top of the ruins of Clisson's medieval castle.
Angele is sitting at the table, hugging one knee, deeply immersed in a document. Her open laptop is nearby. As I come closer, I see that she is studying my mother's medical file. She glances up, and by the circles under her eyes, I can tell she hasn't slept much.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I was waiting for you. I didn't want to wake you."
She rises, pours me a cup of coffee, hands it to me. I see that she is dressed for the day, wearing her customary black jeans, boots, and black turtleneck.
"You look like you haven't had much sleep."
"I read your mother's medical file."
Something about the way she says it makes me look at her more closely.
"Did you notice anything?"
"Yes," she says. "I did. Sit down, Antoine."
I sit next to her. It is warm and sunny in the kitchen, and after that troubled sleep, those disturbing, vivid dreams, I don't think I can face anything distressing. I brace myself.
"What did you notice?"
"I'm not a doctor, you know that. But I work in a hospital and I see death every day. I read medical files too, I talk to doctors. I examined your mother's file while you were asleep. I took notes. And I did some research on the Internet, as well as sending a couple of e-mails to friends of mine who are doctors."
"And?" I ask, suddenly unable to drink my coffee.
"Your mother had been having migraines two years before she died. Not very often, but strong ones. Do you remember them?"
"One or two. She had to lie down in the dark, and Dr. Dardel would come to see her."
"A few days before she died, she had a migraine, and she saw her doctor. Look, you can read it here."
She hands me the photocopied note. Dr. Dardel's crooked handwriting. I had seen this before. It was the last entry in his notes before Clarisse died. "February 7, 1974. Migraine, nausea, vomiting, eye pain. Double vision."
"Yes, I saw that," I say. "What of it?"
"What do you know about brain aneurysms, Antoine?"
"Well, I know an aneurysm is a like a small bubble or a tiny blister that forms on the surface of a brain artery. I know the aneurysm has a thin wall compared with the thicker wall of a normal brain artery. And the danger is when that weaker wall bursts."
"That's pretty clear. Good."
She pours out some more coffee.
"Why are you asking me this?"
"Because I do think your mother may have died of a ruptured brain aneurysm."
I look at her in dismayed silence. Finally I mumble, "You don't think there was a fight with Blanche?"
"I'll tell you what I think happened. But when I do, it will still be up to you, Antoine. You will have to believe what you think is true."
"You think I'm exaggerating the story? That I'm imagining things? That I'm being paranoid?"
She puts an appeasing hand on my shoulder.
"Of course not. Keep your hair on. Your grandmother was a homophobic old bitch. Just listen to me, okay? February seventh, 1974. Dr. Dardel sees your mother at the avenue Kleber. She has a severe migraine. She is in bed, in the dark. He gives her the usual medicine, and it clears up a day later. So he thinks. So she thinks. So everybody thinks. But the bad news about a brain aneurysm is that it can swell, slowly, surely, and maybe your mother had it for a while in her brain, but nobody knew, and her occasional migraines came from there. When an aneurysm swells up, before it bursts, before it bleeds, it puts pressure on the brain or on places near the brain, like optical nerves, for instance, or face and neck muscles. 'Migraine, nausea, vomiting, eye pain. Double vision.' If Dr. Dardel had been a little younger and perhaps a little more dynamic, with those symptoms, he should have had your mother sent to the hospital right away. My two doctor friends confirmed this to me by e-mail. Maybe Dr. Dardel had a busy schedule that day, maybe his mind was on other urgent matters, maybe he wasn't worried. But the aneurysm in your mother's brain grew and swelled. And on February twelfth, 1974, a couple of days later, it ruptured."
"Tell me how you think it happened."
"It happened while she was with your grandmother, that very morning of February twelfth. The story is the same, your mother in her red coat, walking to the avenue Henri-Martin. But your mother probably doesn't walk that fast, because she is not feeling well at all. She is still nauseous, and maybe she even vomited that morning. She feels dizzy, and her step is unsure. Perhaps, most probably, there is a stiffness in her neck. But she wants to confront your g
randmother, and for her, this is just the tail end of her migraine. She is not worried about her health. She is much more worried about June. And facing your grandmother."
I bury my face in my hands. The idea of my mother toiling up the avenue Henri-Martin in pain, her arms and legs weighing a ton, going to face Blanche like a brave little soldier heading out to battle is unbearable.
"Go on."
"The story continues, similar to yours. Gaspard opens the door, maybe he notices how ashen she is, how short of breath she is, but she has only one goal, tackling your grandmother. Maybe your grandmother notices something too, that Clarisse's face is alarmingly pale, that her speech is slurred, that she doesn't seem to stand up straight, as if she were tipsy. The conversation is the same, Blanche flaunts the photos, the detective's report, and Clarisse says she will stand her ground, that she will never stop seeing June, loving June. And then it happens. Suddenly. Like lightning. The worst pain ever. Like a shot aimed at the back of her head. Clarisse lurches, puts her hand to her temples, and she falls right there and then. Maybe she does knock her head on the table corner, but she's already dead. There is nothing your grandmother can do. There is nothing the doctor can do. When he comes, he knows. He knows he made a mistake by not sending her to the hospital a few days before. He probably carried that guilt all his life."
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