Which turns out to be impossible. Even the tricky penumbras invading the downstairs rooms remind me of unpleasant scenes from that visit long ago… I can almost hear the crackling fire in the corner of the library, which I know to be hidden behind one of these doors… I can smell the sour sweat of that old man… see the flickering light on wooden bookshelves, the dancing shadows on thousands of spines…
And here they are again, those whispered words, “…come here, be nice to me…,” and that voice, croaky and thick with layers of lust… those cold and trembling fingers… the rustling of trousers as a hand fumbles my thighs… the noisy breathing, the barely stifled moans and groans… I feel hot and red-faced, even now, after all those years, the way I felt back then… I feel afraid, angry, and most of all—ashamed…
I still feel the overwhelming sensation, too, that someone’s watching us, calm and unfazed, all through my ordeal, the way he would watch an innocent initiation rite.
All around me, the ornate grandfather clocks are still ticking away void instants of what has become my life ever since. The space seems to be soaked with the vileness of the father, the son, and their unholy spirit.
I shake my head and walk from room to room, cogitating unwillingly so as not to wake up more memories.
What if Jane was right when she asked me to change my lifestyle? Maybe, just maybe, I should follow her suggestion? Not because I’m afraid of obscure threats and messages, but because I’m no longer amused by any of it?
I feel tired of the mess I call my life, all of a sudden. Do all those meetings with the rich and powerful, the shagging around, the travelling to exotic places make me feel alive, happy, or whole? Maybe I should settle down, find myself a nice little job. Give it a try at least.
And if my attempts turn out to be in vain, I could pretend, like everybody else. Perhaps my efforts could help me find out whether I’m capable of being happy, to start with.
I open a window and breathe in the fresh, wet scents. I don’t know what to do, probably because I don’t know what I want. There are so many options. Too many. That’s one of the main problems in our Western countries. We are too free.
That reminds me of the other day. I was watching a documentary on TV where they were talking about a recent study that had measured wellbeing as perceived by the citizens of a given number of countries. On that scale, the Danish seemed to consider their country the most enjoyable to live in. Then they interviewed a young girl, and she said, “We have a lot of freedom here in Denmark. Freedom is fine—but sometimes, I’m fed up with making all the decisions on my own. Sometimes, I just want someone to tell me what to do.”
I close the window and resume walking around. On a whim, I check my mobile.
Great. There’s no network coverage. Nowhere. I guess the walls are too thick. Or the place too forlorn.
Which means I have no internet. I should have brought a book or at least a magazine.
Finally, I stop in a small corner room that looks as if Raphaëlle uses it as her study. It’s rather bleak and unadorned. On an ancient-looking desk stands a state-of-the-art computer. It’s switched on, its screensaver drawing ornate, multi-coloured patterns.
With a sigh, I sit down and move the mouse. I might as well check the news on the internet, that would be a welcome change. Anything to shush the dull sensation of waste and chase away the questions my inner emptiness brings about.
The screensaver patterns disappear, Outlook flashes up. Raphaëlle must have left in a hurry. I’m gazing at her “Sent Messages” folder.
Oops. I don’t want to nose about in my sister’s private life, so I move the cursor to the corner with the Close button.
Unwillingly, before I click on the button, I glimpse the subject of the topmost email, however.
And I stop.
What… what the fuck is that?
I lean forward, thinking I’ve misread it. But no, it’s crystal clear.
I scroll down to check the following subjects, and…
I can’t believe it!
What the fuck is going on?
A strange sensation rises in my body. First leaden legs, then some kind of emptiness in the stomach, which gets all knotted up at the same time. There’s a lump in my throat, my mouth is dry, my eyes sting. While I stare at the screen, a storm of anger, shame, and sadness washes over me. I know I’m doing the wrong thing, here. If I hadn’t looked at Raphaëlle’s email correspondence, I wouldn’t be discovering her dirty secrets.
A lancinating question begins to spin in my head, too: where the hell have I failed? Not failed like the guy who misses a step. But failed big time, failed as in Fucked Up with capital F and capital U.
I’m the guy who missed everything.
The whole point.
I’ve never ever questioned my choices nor my view on things. But now, I’m close to doing it. It feels as if my entire life had circled around a Big Delusion: I, Marc Forgeron, am in control, and my perception is the only one that matters.
Fuck—I’m not in control of anything!
Fact is, in Raphaëlle’s list of sent mails, my name seems to be all over the place. It’s “Marc,” “Concerning Marc,” “RE: Marc,” “Problem with Marc,” “About Marc,” and so on.
Stunned, half in trance, I click on the topmost message. It dates from this morning.
The first words are “Dear Mom.”
Since when do we write emails to our mother? And I beg your bloody pardon—Mom? Since when do we “mom” our mother? Could someone please explain?
I read on:
“Dear Mom,
I’m sorry to hear your phone call went so badly. But haven’t I warned you? It was so foreseeable. Marc behaved like an idiot, once again. He never listens to anyone. He didn’t even want to hear out Angélique and Carole the other day; they must have told you.
But you know him. He’s incapable of taking decisions, except bad ones.
And you know what? He doesn’t give a damn about us! Whether we live or die, it’s the same to him. Whatever problems we might have, he doesn’t care. All he cares about is his own miserable person.
Don’t worry, though. He’ll be here in an hour. I’ll talk to him. He can’t go on like that. I can’t afford to have someone like him harm my career. You can’t either.
Angélique will be here, too. And Emma. We’ll find a way to make him change. If he doesn’t do it willingly, we’ll have to force him. I don’t want to. Neither does Angélique. But if the going gets tough, I’ll have to use Emma to make him play along.
I’ll keep you updated.
xoxoxo
R.
The words burn as if written with acid. And become vague and empty at once. Each one means something, but all put together, in the precise order in which they’re used, become meaningless. I can’t believe what I’m reading. Because I don’t want to.
My first thought is: Jesus Christ, that’s how my sisters see me?
And Mother, too?
As far as she is concerned, I don’t give a damn, to be honest. I’m a bit surprised that she thinks she knows me well enough to have on opinion about me. But Raphaëlle? And Angélique? Even if I try to stick to my decision not to care about others, not to show emotions, they both should know that it’s pretense where they are concerned. Because I do care. Within the limits of my capacities. Don’t they know? Have I played my role too well? Has my attitude gained the upper hand? Or does my delusion stretch so far that I’ve fooled myself? Am I really a cold-hearted, maverick bugger?
I reread the mail, taking my time to let each word, each toxic sentence sink in. My usual sarcasm begins to emerge again. Why would Raphaëlle worry about her career? She doesn’t have one— she doesn’t even have a job! She’s just a forty-year-old desperate housewife, part-time chatelaine, and head of the parish committee in a dusty one-horse-place in Normandy.
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Finally, the hardest bit is Emma. Has Raphaëlle, by whatever means, learned our secret? I hope not, because our older sister never had scruples to get what she wanted. She wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of any vulnerability she could find. Angélique knows it. Therefore, she must’ve kept our secret… For if Angélique told our sister and if the two are ready to use Emma against me, things are really serious.
That’s when it dawns on me. This weekend is a trap! Mother, Raphaëlle, Angélique, probably Carole, maybe even Jane—they’re all plotting against me!
Why? Jesus, why?
I know why I’m allergic to questions. You ask one, and countless others follow.
I don’t read the other mails. I simply acknowledge that my sister has contacted, or has been contacted by Mother, Angélique, our father’s lawyer Maître Chambard, our mother’s agent Jean-Paul. All of them gossiping about me.
I’ve seen enough.
The château always seems to cause the same reactions. Because, like when I came here for the first time, I run out into the rain, heading for the forest, a frightened deer tracked by invisible foes. A sudden bitterness sweeps over me. I feel excluded. What hurts me most is not the fact that they exclude me from their community. It’s that they formed a community in the first place, when I thought they were as lost and lonely and cynical as I.
I hardly feel anything anymore. Neither the cool air nor the rain nor the sweet fragrance of damp springwood.
—63—
When I come back, I’m shivering with anger, sadness. and cold. The château is still frozen in its deep winter sleep, unconscious like a fairy tale princess in a glass coffin. I don’t see my sister’s car. Her parish seems to have complex matters to handle. Or she is avoiding us.
When I pass Angélique’s room, I detect the sounds of human presence. My little sister and Emma must be up and awake. I hear shrieks and laughter. Again, I feel left outside alone.
I take a long shower. Afterwards, I sit on my bed, my longing floating out the window, my mind empty and numb. It hurts to know the few people I’ve ever trusted betrayed me. It hurts to feel like a complete stranger to my own siblings, especially after these last weeks, during which we’ve tried to create a semblance of family life between the three of us.
From my apartment in Paris, I can see a chestnut tree. Autumn after autumn, I know what to expect, but still, each time I’m fascinated by the change it goes through. In its green spring and summer dress, it ends up being part of my everyday life, almost becoming transparent. But in autumn, when its leaves turn a flaming yellow, the treetop enveloped in a fierce lion’s mane that shakes in the October winds, when the rains and the gusts pick off the last leaves and send them sailing down on the dark wet pavement, I often stand at my window and gaze at it for hours. And each year in November, when nothing is left of all that splendour but the grey and rotten memory that is stuck by then to the wet pavement, I deeply resent the loss of its free and senseless beauty.
Right now, my life looks as bleak as that autumnal chestnut tree, stripped by nefarious November winds. All my hopes seem to be dangling from my branches, waiting for an arctic wind to blow them away into final decay.
Angélique’s betrayal hurts me most. We’ve always been getting along very well. My little sister and I have been through quite a lot together. We’ve always accepted and respected each other. What’s more, don’t we share a mighty secret, one that doesn’t only concern the two of us but Emma as well? What makes Angélique act the way she does? I don’t get it. Is she so desperate? If the answer is yes, what is the reason? What, or who, could force her to sell her soul?
By and by, the downpour ceases, the sky lights up, rays of pale sunlight pierce the clouds and make thousands of droplets shimmer and glitter in the park. I stay seated on the bed, still gazing out into the park, wishing I had never stumbled upon Raphaëlle’s email exchanges, wishing the world were another place altogether. Craving to be a chestnut tree in spring.
—62—
We have a very awkward dinner. I’m trembling with impatience, frustration, and the urgency that someone explain the situation to me, which is made worse because I know full well that in Emma’s presence, I can’t say anything. Raphaëlle and Angélique seem to be oblivious, best friends all of a sudden; they eat and drink and chat about trivia as if nothing were at stake.
I feel helpless, writhing on my chair, searing inside, yearning to yell, tear apart my napkin and its natty embroidery, smash my plate made of Sèvres porcelain to pieces, throw my chair against the wall, transform the nicely dressed table into a heap of wood, china, glass, and cloth. Yet I can’t; no, I have to endure endless stories about the parish, the local bakery, the new priest from Mali, births, deaths, tales about cattle, sheep, poultry, and all the other stupid nothings rural Normandy has to offer topic-wise.
After dinner, Emma insists that we play charades. My sisters cheer their approval, so I have no choice but to play along.
It’s astounding how good an actor I can be. I show a happy face, I interact with Angélique and Raphaëlle, I sip wine, I clap my hands when Emma finds the right word. If an uninformed spy had watched us, he would have mistaken our gathering for a normal, harmonious, and charming evening.
Then, it’s time to put Emma to bed. And our masks and smiles vanish when Angélique returns from upstairs. The room becomes chilly.
“So,” Raphaëlle says, folding her hands on the table. “Alone. At last.”
“More wine anyone?” I ask, keeping my neutral facial expression, hoping the following moments won’t be too horrid.
“Cut that out!” my sister snaps. “We’ve got to talk. And you’d better not be too pissed before we’re done with you.”
—61—
There we are, then. Three adults sitting on massive chairs in an old-fashioned dining room, surrounded by dark wooden panelling and sideboards with loads of family china. Two sisters, a brother. Two prosecutors, one accused. A crystal chandelier is swinging above our heads, illuminating a small circle where the silver candleholders on the damask tablecloth reflect its white light. Spring evenings tend to be rather chilly and damp in this region, so a fire is blazing in the fireplace.
“What’s the deal?” I want to know. I refuse to show my nervousness and fill my glass, despite Raphaëlle’s warning.
A long, heavy silence ensues. The grandfather clocks in the nearest rooms tick-tock-tick-tock precious lifetime away.
A log cracks.
Apart from those innocent noises, nothing to report. Just three people breathing to stay alive, and old stone and mortar decaying with painful slowness.
Finally, Raphaëlle holds out her glass towards me without a word.
I refill it, blood-red liquid trickles into fragile crystal. I look at her, but she won’t meet my eyes. She takes a sip, clears her throat. “All right then,” she states, “let me tell you what’s the deal.” She fixes me with a bad, bad expression: bitter, or sour, or spiteful, I don’t care to analyse. “For starters, you won’t have a penny from our father.” She pauses as if expecting me to protest. “This is all you get. Strangely, he wanted you to have them. That’s what he stipulated in his will, anyway.” She slams two black, leather-bound appointment books on the table.
I look at them without understanding. My father and his sense of humour… “Okay,” I finally shrug. “I don’t want his money anyway. I didn’t wait for him to peg out in order to pay my bills, you know.’”
“Bloody hell! You don’t get it!” Raphaëlle takes another sip. “Nobody is going to have a penny. Mom… uhm, Mother is supposed to keep the house in Nogent. But only in theory. She hasn’t yet worked out if she can afford it. As for us—well, there’s nothing.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
“Nothing, Marc! Nada, nichts, rien, zilch! Father’s shares—vanished; his bank accounts—empty!”
So
mehow, I was expecting a weird last-minute deception from my late father. But this? Talk about a surprise! “You mean he blew all his fortune? Fuck!” I gasp. “How did he do it? Christ, he was the dosh-man of the family; he had heaps of dough!”
I really don’t understand. He always earned more than decent salaries. High-ranking official, député, secretary of state. And after what Jane told me… all that surplus bribe and corruption money, how could that vanish?
“How would you know?” Raphaëlle snarls, nearly knocking over her glass as her upper body shoots forward. “You didn’t have any contact with him.”
“No need to be Father’s right hand to know he was loaded. That’s common lore.”
“It was only lore then?” Angélique whispers.
I turn to look at her, but she seems to have finished what she wanted to say. Leaning back on her chair, she stays out of the chandelier’s light circle. I can’t see her face, let alone read its expression.
“There’s nothing? Like, ‘zero nil nought’-nothing?” I ask out of curiosity.
Raphaëlle snorts. “Barely five thousand euros on all his accounts. That’s like nothing.” She turns to our little sister. “You see? I almost bought his line about not wanting Father’s money. Didn’t you? But now he shows his real face. It’s blatant, isn’t it? Do you believe me now?’
Angélique winces and retreats even further on her chair.
“Hey, I really don’t want any money from the old fuck!” I punctuate each word by knocking my knuckles on the damask. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know how all his dosh disappeared! It can’t have vanished by magic, after all.”
Raphaëlle gulps down the rest of her Bordeaux, then points a finger at me. I notice that it ends in a sharp-looking, flashy red fingernail. “By magic, no. But maybe you could answer the question?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“As if you didn’t know what I’m talking about! He paid for your goddamn apartment, after all! God knows how you managed to make him cough up the money. Blackmail would be my best guess.”
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