The Devil's Reward

by Emmanuelle De Villepin

  “A few years ago,” replied Olga, “she experimented with uniting eurythmy and recitation, and she had the two performed by the same person, but it was much less successful. To succeed, this totally new art needs to be carried by a highly artistic recitation, and to achieve that one needs someone who is capable of interpreting language anew in an agile manner. She is the only one capable of this high rendering that makes song and speech visible.”

  So that was more or less what eurythmy was about: making speech mobile and visible. Basically it made sense. If every form becomes speech, if every movement becomes speech, why not attempt the reverse? I had nothing against it except that Aunt Bette performed sample demonstrations for us many times and my brother and I found it all rather comical. But as I’ve said, we were just two snot-nosed kids scampering about far below the high sophistication of Aunt Bette.

  Chapter Six

  Why did Aunt Bette return to France?”

  It was almost dark out and I got up to turn on a light. Catherine had stayed listening to my story without interrupting once. I was rather surprised at her interest in my old family tales. With Luna it was different — she had to write a thesis, but Catherine’s reaction surprised me. I have to say I was glad to have such an attentive audience; and what’s more, telling my story allowed me to go back over events that certainly conditioned, without my knowing it, my family’s whole existence, including therefore my own. The significance of this story about Bette went beyond the simple fact of her being an early avatar of a kind of new age worldview.

  “I’ll tell you about that, but it’s getting late and I’ve not done anything about dinner. Why don’t we go out and have seafood at the Procope, like in the good old days?”

  By a stroke of luck there was a free table on the first floor. After ordering three plates of seafood and a side order of gray shrimp, Luna got up to go to the restroom. She came back smiling.

  “I love those doors that say Citoyens for men and Citoyennes for women. This is such a great sanctuary of the French Revolution!”

  “Every time I come here I think of my poor mother.”

  “She must not have liked the atmosphere.”

  “Certainly not! In fact, she never set foot here. When you think she used to call the Republic ‘the beggar,’ and at election time she would put toilet paper inside her envelope and drop it in the urn. The poor woman’s existence was really a living hell.”

  At the next table a young man and woman were mooning at each other while constantly petting each other’s hands. I glimpsed a look of longing admiration in the eyes of Catherine.

  “I don’t envy them in the least,” I snapped.

  “Well, Grandma, you’re too old for that now.”

  “That must be it.”

  “No, I don’t think your grandma was ever like that,” Catherine said to her daughter.

  “True, I was always too untrusting to abandon myself like that.”

  “But you must have missed out on strong emotions,” my daughter added coldly.

  “No, I never lacked big emotions, but I didn’t seek them in that form of cannibalism.”

  “Are you trying to provoke me?”

  “Of course not, Catherine, I’m just talking about the proper distance…”

  “Schopenhauer’s hedgehogs,” interjected Luna to reduce the tension.

  “Right. Mind the distance of the quills: too close, you get pricked too much; too far and you will lose touch.”

  “Nice couplet,” said Luna laughing.

  Catherine, my dear and only daughter, your sad face breaks my heart. Mockery is my only defense, don’t hate me for it, my child.

  What I like most about the trays of seafood is their smell that evokes the sea, the reefs with foamy waves breaking over them, the cry of gulls, and the fisherman’s boat leaning to one side at low tide. The seafood plate is a marvelous window. Luna had closed her eyes an instant — I know she was inhaling the salty sea spray deep into her lungs. Catherine kept her eyes fixed on the black hole that was devouring her. How to get her out of that pit? I know there are words that heal, but I only know sarcasm and have no courage.

  “Mom, are you all right?” asked Luna.

  “No.”

  “Papa called you twenty times, you know. He ended up calling my cell phone because you never answer. He told me to tell you he loves you.”

  “And what did you reply?”

  “That I didn’t want to be in the middle and that those words ought not to be relayed by a messenger.”

  “Well put!” I said. “How does he expect to recover his wife by telling her through his daughter that he loves her? Really, I thought the Italians were sexier than that!”

  That was my two cents and my preachy voice made even me uncomfortable. Luckily Luna, who has a better grip on her tongue than I, always comes to my rescue. There are two possibilities: either my hippocampus has shrunk too much to filter my thinking, which I hear is common among the elderly; or else I am really an extremely timid person who cannot turn down being onstage. In either case, believe me, it’s embarrassing and my pretty little granddaughter is not always there to generously pull my foot out of my mouth. She made some half-forced laughter, but her mother was so lost in her thoughts that she automatically smiled. I grabbed an oyster and heard the noise of a breaking wave and its retreat. This time I had an idea.

  “Catherine, why don’t we take Luna to Brittany? To your paternal grandparents’.”

  “But they’re dead. The house belongs to Uncle Serge and you don’t at all get along with Uncle Serge.”

  “True, and that’s putting it mildly, but I thought we could show her the house from the outside and stay at a hotel. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a great idea, Mom. I’ve never been to Brittany and it would help you take your mind off things,” said Luna.

  “Is it the seafood that’s making you think of Brittany?”

  “Why’s that? Does Brittany smell like fish?” asked Luna.

  So the next day all three of us were strapped into a rented Renault with our compass set in a westerly direction. During the five-hour journey Lorenzo called so many times that I lost my patience. It was impossible to complete a whole conversation or take a little nap without having Catherine’s annoying ringtone go off in our ears.

  “Okay, that’s enough now! Either that phone goes out the window or you turn it off. Your Lorenzo is getting on my nerves!”

  “But I like hearing his call and not answering. It’s like when I was young and I’d hide when you were looking for me. I loved hearing you call ‘Catherine, Catherine!’ and as soon as you stopped looking and I was crouched like an idiot in my dark corner I was overcome with hopelessness.”

  “And did you leave your hiding place?”

  “No, I stayed crouched and cried.”

  “Until I came, right? I did come, didn’t I?”

  “Always. And when you finally found me you were always exasperated!”

  I understood perfectly what my daughter was describing, but I pretended to find her rather complicated, and so because I’m an old hypocrite I said, “You are certainly rather complicated!”

  As a child, I kept up a total passion for my Papyrus and would have said or done anything to attract his attention — not hide from him. I therefore avoided telling them that on the way to church while Aunt Bette was holding my hand I dragged my heels enough to induce Papyrus to slacken his pace and come and pass his hand through my hair. But in fact Catherine was describing something else. She wanted to occupy me, occupy my whole head, my whole body, and all my energy. In fact this Lorenzo, I thought, might not be the only guilty party. He rang back over and over. I was so fed up I said nothing further and stared out the window.

  We arrived at Saint-Briac around eight that evening, but in keeping with my flair for the dramatic, I insisted we g
o directly to the hotel without seeing the sea. A sea, and certainly the ocean, must not be bumped into casually. Preparations must be made, hopes built up. The ocean is…Christmas! More sublime than a forest or mountain. So one must get a first whiff of it, then search for it, then get a glimpse of its gray dress (because our shores are not blue or turquoise), and then finally walk before it with rapt attention. After depositing our suitcases in our rooms, we walked to a crêperie in the village center.

  “Do you smell the iodine?” I asked my companions.

  “No,” replied Luna curtly.

  “I only smell car exhaust,” added Catherine.

  “Oh, this is starting off well!”

  “Grandma, it is starting off well, we just don’t have your nose filled with scented memories.”

  “Catherine should have it.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  I kept my mouth shut again but I was rather bitter about the proximity of all this happiness that my troublesome daughter was determined to shove aside. Luna held my arm. I think she was taking pity on the old sentimental and tyrannical biddy that I might be turning into. Her gesture encouraged me to be generous. I pretended not to be offended and we were soon seated inside the cutest little crêperie.

  “Luna,” said Catherine, “you simply must order the Sarrazin crêpe with smoked salmon and for dessert you should order the crêpe with caramel and sea salt. If by chance you don’t like those choices — though that’s impossible—your grandma and I will finish them.”

  You might say that it doesn’t take much to please me, and it’s true that moment filled me with great joy. Catherine wanted to pass along these bits of memories. Particularly nice was the light, almost imperceptible joy that timidly animated her voice when she said “caramel and sea salt” and “impossible.”

  During our meal, Luna wanted to return to Papyrus and Rudolf Steiner.

  “Don’t forget you have to continue your story of Papyrus and Steiner. So far only Aunt Bette has become an anthroposophist.”

  “But Mom, you mustn’t embroider too much,” added Catherine of course.

  “I don’t embroider. Everything happened exactly as I’m telling it, my dear. If she likes this story, it’s because it has real human feeling. In every story there’s a human touch, and in mine there’s me. I don’t know how to be any clearer.”

  “I understand, but for example, Papyrus is described as a jolly, sunny force of nature who rolls on the ground with Uncle Gabriel, whereas I always heard him described as a depressive, self-destructive character.”

  “Yes, by my mother, or by people who didn’t know him personally. Papyrus was the incarnation of joie de vivre, always fantastical and free. Certainly his way of life was not pleasing to everyone.”

  “Oh, come on, Mother, he abandoned you! And I know how he died!”

  “Fine, my dear. Tell the story yourself then. You’re getting on my nerves with your constant criticism. You know nothing about Papyrus. He died when you were only a baby. Papyrus was a marvelous person until everything tipped upside down.”

  “Everything tipped upside down?” It was of course Luna’s young and innocent voice without the slightest prejudice, wanting to know more.

  “Yes. It was always repeated that it was the war, but I don’t know. He served in both world wars, obviously. He was a soldier. The Battle of the Marne had to have been indescribably awful. I can tell you all about that, if you like, but it happened long after his encounter with Rudolf Steiner.”

  Luna spoke to us about her life in Milan, her studies, and her recent love for a young lawyer. She told us all these things with disarming directness, without the least bit of girlie talk but instead a touch of self-mockery. Her large white teeth devoured with evident satisfaction everything her mother had recommended on the menu. She occasionally pushed rebellious locks of blond hair out of her face with the back of her hand. The charm of this child is poignant, like a flower growing at a dump. I believe I’ve never seen so much gracefulness, and immediately my heart was seized by the thought that she could be harmed. I don’t understand how Catherine could be unhappy with such a treasure at her side.

  The next morning we gathered in the dining room for a copious breakfast. The gentle early June sun was shining with all its might, warming the air filled with life and longings. We then took the car to the beach at the Grande Salinette. Luna seemed to find it a bit disappointing and I decided to show her what other marvels Brittany had in store. But this little beach was the one from her mother’s childhood, and I wanted to go back there with her.

  “Catherine, do you remember that kiddie club I tried to sign you up for?”

  “Do I ever! It was torture! You know, Luna, for years your grandma pushed me to be a member of this kids’ club and there was no way to make her understand that for me it was a nightmare.”

  “But you stared at it with such longing! I wanted to help you overcome your shyness. It was too sad. You absolutely refused to join and then you spent all your time watching them.”

  “Oh Mom, too cute! Were you really that timid?”

  “Yes, terribly timid, and your grandmother wanted to force me to join but I was paralyzed with fear.”

  “It was for your own good,” I said a bit too energetically.

  Luna was walking with her head down and I thought to myself that I had made a mistake and that for Brittany to really have its full effect on her we should not have begun with the little beach of her mother’s childhood.

  So I said to her, “Don’t think it’s always so gentle around here. The Channel climate can be dark and stormy, you know.”

  We returned to the car to go see the seaside house of my husband’s family. We parked near a picnic area and crossed the road to descend stairs that went down to the ocean. Old fishing boats seemed abandoned as well as some fancy boats. For hundreds of yards one could see them stranded on their sides, attached to buoys that comically served no purpose at low tide. The salty scents of algae were wonderfully exhilarating and I would have liked to run and run until I was out of breath, run barefoot across the sand to the other side of the bay, to another shore, to another time.

  And I did, by watching Luna and her golden hair stirred by the strong wind of Brittany. She ran off laughing and with her arms spread out wide — behavior that looked to me like a gesture of gratitude for being so young, beautiful, and alive. Seagulls circled above our heads crying. Catherine walked with her head down. I wanted to tell her to look up, to stop concentrating on where she was stepping — she was so obsessed with falling—but I held off doing that and I was glad I did. She stopped and waited up for me.

  “You see that rock there?” she asked me.

  “Yes, that’s where your father and grandfather jumped from at high tide.”

  “Exactly. I never knew how they could stand such cold water.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Shall we sit down there?”

  “If you want to. I just hope I can climb up to it.”

  “Of course you can, you’re ready for the Olympics!”

  “The Olympics!” I repeated, gnashing my teeth a bit more than I would have liked.

  With her help and a few bursts of laughter I managed to get myself on top of the rock. Then it was Catherine who laughed and it was enough to make me happy. She sat down next to me and we stayed there in silence looking out at our Luna, who had almost reached the other side of the bay.

  “Hey, isn’t that dangerous?” Catherine asked me. “She’s not going to get trapped by the tide, is she?”

  “For now don’t worry. We’ll just keep an eye on her.”

  “In silence.”

  “In silence.”

  “That’s what you have the most trouble with, isn’t it?” she asked smiling.

  “That depends. When I’m with you, yes, you’re probably right.”


  “With me? Are you kidding? I love silence.”

  “Maybe so, but me, I don’t like silence with you.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I always feel like you’re reproaching me for something.”

  She stopped looking out where Luna was and turned to me with a look of surprise.

  “That I’m reproaching you for something? What would I be reproaching you for?”

  “I don’t know, for giving birth to you, for example.”

  She turned her head back toward her daughter, who was waving her arms to tell us how happy she was.

  “What a gift from heaven that child is!” I declared in sincere amazement.

  That evening I decided to take them to Cancale to eat seafood. Catherine mocked me, predicting I’d come down with every food poisoning there was, including unclassified kinds. “All you eat is seafood now, and you eat tons of it!” I really tuned her out mostly, it had become like the ring of Lorenzo’s phone calls — a tiresome white noise, but oh well. The evening turned out far better than our expectations: we had a delicious meal, lots to drink, a splendid view of the ocean, my daughter was in a better mood than usual, and Luna laughed at all my silly remarks.

  On our way back, a full moon reflected its light on the water, where it made a broad stripe of a thousand shimmers. It was more than beautiful, it was proof that Catherine had nothing to reproach me for — all this grace belongs only to the living, she can thank me for being alive.

  We stopped the car near the beach. The tide was high and Luna was sleeping in the backseat. Catherine and I walked hand in hand toward the sea, took off our sandals, and sat down near the water. She leaned her head on my shoulder.

  “I have nothing against you, Mom. You irritate me sometimes, that’s all.”

  “Oh, that’s normal. You irritate me too, but I love you very very much.”

  “What irritates you about me?”

  “Your discipline, your reserve.”