I can still remember vinyl records and how we were so worried about scratching them. I hear they’ve become fashionable again—what don’t you see if you live long enough! Still, I think that music and books should take up some space and not just exist in “virtual reality,” as one hears repeated every day now. They should be seen, touched, smelled. I hate this absence of material stuff between books and us today, and I always detested platonic love affairs.
When one enters a room filled with shelves of books or records, one feels at home, in an imperfect but warm environment of dust and diverse sensations. To open a book, turn its pages, inhale its odor if one is alone — what an exquisite bundle of sensations. Besides, love must be seen. The Romans understood this when they invented marriage. Love must be shouted from the rooftops, exhibited to all — marriage for us humans and libraries for books and records.
But the world is going in the opposite direction. One day, perhaps, if we’re not careful, we’ll have little pills of Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. I can see the bookseller in her white pharmacist’s coat: “Chère Madame, for your insomnia I’m prescribing a box of War and Peace. Take my word, you’ll no longer feel the weight of those sleepless nights.” Or “But Madame, short stories are only available in liquid form now. Munro? Here it is in red currant-blueberry flavor. Watch out for Edgar Allan Poe, however — it’s important to never swallow him at night, especially if you have insomnia problems.”
I arrived in Milan one July afternoon because Catherine insisted that I come visit. As planned, she patched things up with Lorenzo and for the moment everything was going fine, she said. Until the next time.
Josephine brought me to the airport. We arrived at Charles de Gaulle three hours early, because we’re the kind of people who don’t travel often and I was rather worked up about being late and keeping the schedule straight in my head and all this made me timid and nervous. Josephine, rolling my suitcase, bumped into a woman with flashy hair and the two of them burst out laughing and fell into each other’s arms.
“What a surprise, Josephine. It’s been such a long time!”
“It sure has! What a surprise indeed!”
“You don’t know how many times I tried to track you down, but every time I came up empty.”
“Do you still live in Berlin?”
“Yes, but I plan on moving back a few months from now. I miss Paris, you know.”
Since they were clearly so delighted to have finally met up again, I suggested to my friend that I would just get in line on my own while they continued their conversation. When it was my turn at the check-in counter, I glanced back nervously at Josephine and gestured. She gestured back to tell me to go ahead and get started while she said goodbye to her friend.
“Are you checking any bags?” asked a young man who I could tell immediately had no problems of self-esteem.
“Uh, yes, my friend is bringing them.”
“And where is your friend?” he asked with the unctuous affectation of one who is pleased to see you having a hard time.
“She’s over there. She’ll be right over. Can you begin by assigning me my seat?”
“Where over there?
“Right next to your colleague who is directing passengers into the line.” (Why the heck did I feel so unsure of myself in front of this arrogant little twerp?)
“Do you mean the black or the redheaded lady?”
“Do you mean the redhead or the black lady?”
“That’s what I said.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Look, if you don’t have your luggage with you, you’re going to have to step aside and wait for your friend and let me help the next person behind you, okay?”
“Yes, but in the time it takes for you to assign me a seat and check my passport…”
“Here I am, excuse me! Should I put it on the scale?” asked Josephine, slightly winded from her rush to get to the counter.
“Mm-huh,” said the young jerk in an overtly unpleasant tone of voice. “And then step aside, Madame, you can see you’re in the way, can’t you?”
“But you haven’t given me my boarding pass yet.”
“But you’re not the one I’m talking to, I’m talking to your friend!”
“But I need her. Don’t worry, Christiane. I’ll wait for you right here behind the barrier.”
She rolled my suitcase to me and walked away. I was furious. I had been annoying to this little creep, there was no doubt about that, but Josephine had nothing to do with it, and in banishing her so brutally he had awakened in me all the horror and fury I feel when confronted with boorish, mean behavior — stupidity with its bull’s forehead, as Baudelaire put it.
“Here’s your boarding pass. Your plane will begin boarding at 3:30 p.m. at Gate B30.”
I rejoined Josephine still trembling with rage.
“As friendly as a prison door, that guy,” said Josephine smiling.
“Not another word about him, please. Come on, let’s go have lunch. We have plenty of time.”
While passing again in front of the airline employee who was directing passengers according to their flight destination, I noticed a friendly-looking burly man wearing a green T-shirt on which was written FUCK YOU. I considered it rather an odd choice to walk around with those words pasted on one’s chest.
The man noticed my surprise and gave me a big smile and I did the same.
“I don’t know who you are but you look nice,” I said to him.
“Thank you.”
“Could I ask you to do me a small favor?”
“If I can, why not?”
“If by any chance you end up at counter number five — do you see the young blond kid there? — would you be so kind as to thrust out your chest and let him know that I sent you?”
Josephine and the man in the green T-shirt had a good laugh, but I had hardly cooled down at all from the white-hot anger that had overtaken me.
When we left the hospital, we had exchanged telephone numbers probably with no real intention of seeing each other again. And then, one day, it occurred to me to go visit her at her bookshop. She was alone, sitting on a stool, immersed in her reading — The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, by Carson McCullers, as it happens. When she looked up, I first thought she didn’t recognize me; but she explained right away that it was just because she’d been totally absorbed in her book. And then she was so pleasant. Afterward everything was so easy and relaxed between us and we got in the habit of seeing each other regularly. I don’t know what she sees in an old lady like me, but I think she’s as fond of me as I am of her.
After our lunch, Josephine accompanied me as far as she could. Once we got to the security area we hugged and said goodbye as though we were never going to see each other again.
Catherine was waiting for me at Milan’s Linate Airport. She looked elegant in a pair of matching white linen pants and top. She welcomed me with a big smile that gave me a warm feeling. I wondered how long it would take before she started feeling annoyed by me again. When had I started bothering her? Probably during her teenage years, as with every adolescent girl in the world — I know nothing about boys. For me it was different because my mother never interested me, whereas Catherine loves me, I’m sure of that. I must have disappointed her and that’s the most painful feeling. Disappointing you, my child, is not falling from Olympus like a goddess condemned to a mortal’s life and death. Disappointing you, my dear daughter, my love, is dying from disgust at myself knowing that the day will come when you’ll pardon me. I know this because sooner or later you will come to find out how difficult it is to free oneself of the family legend that children write about us. For Pete’s sake, Catherine, stop judging me. Stop waiting with your clipboard and sharp pencil as I forget my turn signal or make other mistakes and simply accept the love I feel for you for wha
t it is.
Quite frankly I’m rather happy to be in Milan. Catherine and her family live in a lovely apartment across from the fine arts museum, the Pinacoteca di Brera, where I spend several hours every afternoon. It’s a beautiful neighborhood that made me take back many of the negative preconceptions I had about Milan. We’ve already established our habits, which for me is the same as building one’s nest, because at my age habits constitute my true home. In the morning I go out walking with my daughter and accompany her as she does the shopping. We then have lunch with Luna when she’s free. In the afternoon Catherine has her things to do and I have mine. I often go to the museum. It never bores me to see the same things over and over. Besides, the museum has a rich collection and I walk slowly.
In the evening, Lorenzo returns and we drink good wine together. He’s cheerful and charming. I also find him handsome, even elegant. He is so considerate that I start thinking he might actually like me. He has impeccable manners with my daughter, but that of course is not necessarily a good sign. One Sunday when he and I happened to be alone in the living room together he asked me if I wanted to spend the month of August with them in Tuscany. I told him that honestly I didn’t think that was a good idea, that I would not at all enjoy feeling like I was becoming a burden, and that the good relations we enjoyed came in part from the fact that we saw each other very infrequently. He laughed and his beautiful teeth sparkled: “But I could never tire of you.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Lorenzo. As seducers, we know how agreeable that is to hear and how advisable it is not to believe it.”
“But I do believe it.”
“You don’t know how bothersome I can become. Besides, why are you so intent on having me with you during your vacation?”
“Because you make everything more light and pleasant.”
“Where are your women?”
“Luna and Catherine told me they would be coming back a little later than usual. Would you like a glass of wine while we’re waiting?”
“You know I’m always up for that.”
He got up and disappeared into the kitchen and soon returned with two wineglasses and a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino. His gestures were both relaxed and precise. He sat down, took a swallow, and then served me. I had the feeling he was searching for a topic of conversation and I was a little uncomfortable. Lorenzo speaks excellent French with an accent that is full of the southern sun.
“You see, I was wondering…”
I was wrong, he did know what he wanted to talk about but had been having trouble launching into it. I was now even more uncomfortable. He tried the intro again and began in earnest.
“I was wondering if you held anything against me.”
I was perplexed.
“I mean if you’re upset that I made your daughter suffer.”
“Uh…” — I cleared my throat — “uh…well, frankly I don’t believe it’s any of my business, even though of course I’m sorry to see Catherine in such a state.”
“So you are mad at me? I would consider that entirely normal.”
“In fact, Lorenzo, it’s more complicated than that. Naturally when there’s trouble I just want to strangle you with my own hands, but as soon as you two make up I don’t hold on to any resentment. Do you know why?”
“No, why?”
“Because I have always had a certain compassion for you.”
“Is that so!” He lowered his head laughing. “You are really unsparing!”
“No, you’ve misunderstood me. I’m not being sarcastic or contemptuous. I feel a tenderness for you, for the war you’re waging to save your love from your demons, for the storm and stress that overcomes you when what you consider to be a mere sideshow becomes a wrecking ball for the woman of your life. It’s said that jealousy and love are two different things, but in the life of a couple I’m not so sure. I think they are intimately related within the megalomania of the lovers’ project. If you cheat on your wife, in a way you betray the novel that you had intended to write together. I’m not judging you, and I repeat, nothing is more megalomaniac than to decide at a young age to desire the same person for the entire length of your long life, but I understand how she could feel trampled on by your horsing around.”
He was my son-in-law and I was determined to defend Catherine, so I didn’t want to seem too understanding. It wasn’t an accident if my seductive son-in-law was drawing me out on this question — he was seeking my benediction. And that, my man, I won’t give. Cheat on my daughter, fine, but feel all the pain that your guilt makes you endure. I’m not going to be the one to dress your wounds. I couldn’t care less about tidy moralisms, but war is war, and what side I’m on is clear and you know it.
He didn’t dare look at me anymore. He murmured about how sorry he was, that none of it was of any importance to him, that he let himself get carried away by certain light circumstances, and that paradoxically it strengthened his love for Catherine.
“Yes, of course. You know what Balzac said about this, don’t you? If women only knew how much we love them by the evil that we do to them. Fine, but he does speak of the ‘evil’ that is done to them.”
“Great, I have Balzac for a lawyer.”
“Lorenzo, I suggest we talk about something else. This is very uncomfortable for me and for you too.”
“You’re right.”
“I like you, but I’m not the person you can talk these things out with.”
“Yes, pardon me. It’s been very improper of me.”
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s talk about vacations. I plan on spending two weeks at Saint-Briac.”
“All by yourself?”
“No, with my friend Josephine.”
We heard Luna’s key turning in the lock. She was coming back from the movies. Catherine was soon back too, greeted us, and then went to the kitchen to prepare some pasta and a salad.
The conversation with Lorenzo had been rather irritating and kept me up that night. The window in my bedroom looked out on an interior courtyard. I opened the shutters to see if the moon was visible. Its light barely reached me at all.
The wide gateway opened noisily and a woman’s silhouette crossed the courtyard in rhythm with the loud tapping of her heels. There was something eternal about this scene — it could have been from a hundred years ago, or two hundred, or more.
A woman crosses a courtyard with powerful strides, leaving to the night the memory of her little race to the light.
Nothing ever really changes.
Chapter Eighteen
Families have their secrets—those that end up being discovered and those that cause behaviors, reactions, and aptitudes whose origin will never be grasped. I don’t believe that everything is conditioned by what each generation hands down, but I will never stop believing that both sufferings and dreams are passed on to the children and that one should seek to limit the damage done.
And then there’s also the unspeakable general state induced by the overly close proximity of horror or enchantment. By unspeakable I mean, for example, what I feel inside when I put my arms around Papyrus’s waist, or the wind in my hair riding on his motorcycle. Gabriel preferred being in the sidecar and that suited me fine. He too was totally happy on those occasions — I saw it in his eyes staring at the road and his little tight-fisted hands held out in front. I knew the completely blank expression on his face was in fact the expression of total bliss. A vertical line between his eyes would invariably appear as soon as we left the forest and rejoined the path that led back to the château.
Papyrus and my mother ended up marrying one year after Bette and Geoffroy. Vincent and Elodie were the first to go down the aisle. My mother had a lot of trouble getting pregnant and it would be three years before Gabriel was born. I followed two years later.
My earliest years were wonderful. My father was not that young anymore. He was
thirty-six when I was born, but still very energetic and creative. He never let his sad, complicated side show in public. On the contrary, outwardly he always seemed cheerful and enterprising. He organized magnificent parties, became enthusiastic easily, and spent a lot of his free time making us merry in various ways. I didn’t like horses and I gradually left that activity to Gabriel. In other areas, I was quite the terror and rarely failed to live up to my reputation. My mother totally gave up trying to tame our wild spirits, probably so that she could avoid Papyrus’s criticisms. I remember once we rigged up a taut rope almost ten feet off the ground and pretended we were circus performers on the high wire. My mother came into the yard with her arms in the air and ordered Gabriel to get down from there.
“Oh be quiet! You’re going to make him fall with all your yelling!” Papyrus interjected with a rather harsh tone of voice.
“Fine, you’re in charge,” she replied in a huff and returned to the house.
This little incident is a perfect example of how things were at my house: my mother had more or less abandoned us to his care. She was probably resigned to getting only the occasional half smile and “Yes, Mother,” which masked our eagerness to stay away from her.
When Henriette, the cook, left us we were all very sad. She had always been there, even before we were born, and Papyrus was very fond of her; but she caught a bad case of the flu and died only a few days later. She was buried in the château’s cemetery. It was the first funeral that my brother and I attended. She was replaced by a sweet young plump woman named Jeanne. Jeanne was always happy and laughing in a way that caused her large pink breasts to gently jiggle up and down and make us share in her joy. She was especially fond of Gabriel, who took advantage of her kindness to sneak off with large slices of cake. I wasn’t jealous though, because she was also kind to me.
At the village school we were looked on as two inoffensive dunces. Gabriel had a certain cachet with the schoolkids, whereas I went mostly unnoticed. My admiration for Isabelle was not enough to get me to work harder. Her presence at least made me pretend to have done my homework, when I usually hadn’t, and be attentive during lessons, when in fact I had a hard time concentrating. While our teacher, Madame Valence, was explaining to us the difference between the passé simple and the passé composé, all kinds of things were going through my head: Would I be able to steal a baby rabbit and hide it in my room without getting caught? How did the plumber’s daughter manage to have so many warts on her hands and was I in danger of catching them? Where could Gabriel have left the copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales that he’d lost? My mind was racing in a thousand directions but never in the direction of what we were supposed to be learning. “Christiane, your head’s in the clouds!” Madame Valence would say without any real severity in her voice. For her it was simply a statement of fact, my head was always in the clouds. The sentence was practically a weather bulletin.
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