The Rain Watcher

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  When the doctor and nurse leave, Linden decides to give it a go. He sits down again, murmurs to Paul in a muted voice that everything is going to be okay, that Paul mustn’t worry. He must try to relax. Isn’t this the strangest birthday Paul ever had? His tone seems insincere, peculiar, even to him. He falters, and pauses. It’s awkward sitting there, with two strangers behind a flimsy partition listening to every word. How is he going to manage this? It’s difficult enough talking to his father in normal times. He remains silent, his hand on his father’s arm. Linden leans forward and kisses his father’s bald pate. His father’s skin feels dry and hot. When Linden leaves the room, Madame Beaumont says good-bye haltingly. He replies politely. They are in the same boat, after all, dealing with their injured loved ones, trying to tame their fear into something they can control.

  When Linden is back out in the rain, on his way to the hotel, his cell phone rings. It is a French number beginning with area code 04, which, he knows, is the Drôme region. When he answers, he recognizes his aunt Marie, Paul’s younger sister. Tilia no doubt gave her his number. He hasn’t seen her or spoken to her for years. Marie is a stick-thin, austere-faced widow in her mid-sixties. Her husband, Marcel, died in 2009, in a boar-hunt accident near Taulignan. Their daughter, Florence, a hairdresser in her early thirties, lives in Sévral with her small children and husband. After Marcel passed away, Marie moved in with her daughter. She wants to know how her brother is. She was worried, because he never answered her calls for his birthday, and she ended up ringing Tilia, who gave her the news. Linden tells her what he knows. While he talks to her, he imagines her sitting in the cluttered living room, where the window blinds are always closed, even in the wintertime. Marie and Florence live in the center of Sévral, not far from his old school, near the broad, curving avenues lined with plane trees that encompass the small city. He realizes, as he answers her questions, that the last time he went back to Vénozan and Sévral was over four years ago. That was the last time he had seen his aunt and cousin. They had had lunch at the main bistro near the old train station, no longer in use. After lunch, Linden had walked around town alone, camera in hand. When he was a teenager, it had been a busier place, it seemed. He knew that in his great-grandfather Maurice’s day, Sévral had been a bustling hive of activity, thanks to the golden age of cardboard packing boxes. In the eighties, production slowed as boxes were being crafted more cheaply in China. The heyday was over by the nineties, and 2000 sounded the death knell of the town, which never managed to pick up. Even in the height of summer, the narrow, winding streets of the old quarter were desolate.

  Sévral was a ghost town. Nobody came to visit its fifteenth-century chapel anymore; there was a scribbled sign pinned to the door that read OPEN ONLY ON TUESDAY MORNINGS. No one booked rooms at the Grand Hotel, which appeared derelict. The only place where crowds were seen was at the gigantic supermarket situated on the outskirts of the town. It was always full of people ambling along the aisles with shopping carts stuffed with groceries. Because of the supermarket, all the little shops had closed. The beautiful ancient town houses were shuttered. No one seemed to live there; no one could afford to. The one and only bookstore was empty and for sale. The cinema and theater had gone bankrupt. He remembered boisterous old men playing pétanque in front of the town hall, and drinking pastis at the neighboring cafés. There were no children playing. The area was eerily deserted, save for stray cats frisking on dusty sidewalks and women wearing hijabs flitting across the streets. Each and every window of the residential buildings was equipped with a satellite dish. No one cared about Sévral. No one remembered. It was sinking into oblivion.

  At lunch, Linden noted how faded the once grand restaurant seemed. This, too, had been a renowned establishment, hosting dignitaries and habitués in a Belle Époque décor of red velvet draperies and festoons, gilded lamps, a brick and ceramic tiled floor, and a large glass dome. Now the tiles were chipped, the dome cracked, and the festoons looked caked in dust. Waiters shuffled about as if they worked in a funeral parlor. The few customers whispered over their dishes. And this used to be such a jolly place! Linden couldn’t believe it. He recalled celebrating Lauren’s thirtieth birthday here, in 1987. He was only six years old, but the images stayed with him. The restaurant, filled with white roses, her favorites, and disco music, also her favorite, blaring from loudspeakers. His grown-up jacket and pants. Candice, as lovely as her younger sister, in a sophisticated black dress. Tilia, nine, red-faced and delighted, boogying with Paul. And his mother, the queen of the evening, radiant in a white pantsuit. Conversations with his aunt and cousin were always contrived. Nothing flowed; no one laughed. That last lunch in 2014 had not been any different. Marie and Florence were careful to not mention his personal life. They politely inquired about Tilia, Mistral, and Colin, but they never asked if Linden was seeing someone, if he had a partner. He sometimes wondered how they would react if he suddenly started to talk about Sacha; if he suddenly uttered the words my boyfriend. It was easier, safer for them to inquire about his job, not that either of them knew anything about photography, nor wished to.

  Nothing has changed with Marie. She still has the same hard voice. Linden says good-bye, promises he’ll call if he has more news. How different she is from her brother. Nature and trees mean nothing to her. She never wished to keep and restore Vénozan. Being a Malegarde is of little importance to her; she dropped the name when she married Marcel. But Linden knows how much she loves her brother, even if they are not close. She looks up to him; she admires him. And he can tell, behind the stiffness of her tone, how worried she is.

  The rain has become part and parcel of his life, it seems. What if the skies remain perpetually wet and gray? What if the sun never appears again? Perhaps this is his new world. Rain. Learning to live with its dampness, its pitter-patter. Linden walks back to the hotel swiftly. His pace is strong and fast. Passersby move aside at his approach. The sensation of his body working, legs reaching out to lunge ahead, his arms swiveling up and down, does him good. His breath wreathes out behind him in puffy white clouds. He has ignored his agent Rachel’s calls. She wants to know how his father is, but she also wants to know when he will be getting back to work. He doesn’t have that answer for her. His priority is his father. And if she doesn’t understand that, then she can go to hell. He’ll be back at the hospital tomorrow. This time, he’ll take the book by Giono with him. He’ll read aloud to Paul. It may not be actually talking to him, but it might help.

  Earlier on, he called Sacha and talked for a long while. Hearing his voice cheered him up. Sacha asked if Linden wants him to come, said he could do that, right now, could get on a plane, be there in less than a day. No, Sacha doesn’t need to come, not just yet anyway, although he misses Sacha so much, it actually hurts. He feels as if he is caught in an unknown time warp, in foreign territory, dealing with fears and emotions that dwarf him. He can’t look ahead, it frightens him so. Instead, he deals with the here and now. Lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. When he got back to the hotel, there had been an unpleasant scene with Tilia. Exactly the kind he had been dreading. She told him blatantly she couldn’t afford paying the extra hotel nights. She wasn’t earning the kind of money he was, and, in fact, she was earning shit right now. Did he have any idea about that? Piqued, he had brushed it aside, saying guardedly that of course he’d pay for the extra nights, it wasn’t a problem; the problem was their father, not this money business. And at that, she had flown into a rage. Her face had turned purple. Who the fuck did he think he was? Did he think that because he photographed the high and mighty and lived in the lap of luxury, he could make that kind of statement, actually compare their father’s state to what he had in his wallet? He had tried his best to calm her down, but he knew her well enough to be aware she had worked herself into one of her fits, and there was nothing more he could do except to leave her room, close the door, and flee to his. There was a note under his door from Myriam Fanrouk, the hotel director, saying how s
orry she was about the state of his parents’ health and if there was anything she could help with, would he please let her know.

  Linden is still on his bed, mulling over the events of the day, when someone knocks on his door. This must be housekeeping, reminding him he has to move out of his room to join his sister. A young girl flings herself on him in a whirlwind of long black curls. His niece. Mistral.

  There has always been a special connection between them, ever since she was born. She was the only baby he had instinctively known how to hold, to cuddle. Now she is growing taller every time he sees her, towering over her plump, fair-haired mother, a graceful daddy longlegs. The only item she inherited from her thickset Basque dad is his olive-skinned complexion. The rest is all Lauren, the height, the allure. Her sophistication often makes him think of Candy. Today she is wearing a Burberry trench coat tied snugly around her small waist, a vintage Hermès scarf, and black jeans with boots.

  “Mom was so mad at you,” she says flippantly, and then goes on to inform him she soon put an end to Tilia’s rancor. Mistral, all of eighteen, mothers her own mother brilliantly, and has been doing so, it seems, all her life. Now that she’s calmed Tilia down, she wants to know all about “Papy.” She is the only grandchild, after all. That’s what she’s here for, for Papy. She doesn’t see him much; she’s worried. She wants to go to the hospital; she wants to be there. She wants to help. She’s embarrassed that her mother can’t make it to the hospital. She thought Tilia had gotten over the accident, but obviously not. Perhaps her mother needs more time. As usual, Linden is impressed by her self-possession. He was never that mature at her age. When he thinks back at himself, he only remembers torment, the agony of trying to fit in, the fear of being different. Watching Mistral discuss her mother, her stepfather, and her father so reasonably and articulately dumbfounds him. She seems to have everything figured out. In two years, she will have finished her fashion studies at Central Saint Martins, which her father is financing, and then she wants to work in New York for some big fashion company, and if he has any pointers, she’ll take them, but she doesn’t want to be a burden, as she knows how busy he is. Nonetheless, it must be said her uncle is Linden Malegarde; that might come in handy for an interview, mightn’t it? A winning smile lights up her charming face. He’ll do anything to help her, and tells her so. She thanks him, and goes on, explaining how she must get out of the house on Clarendon Road, how living with Colin has become unbearable; his drinking is now nightmarish. She imitates him, staggering from door to window with an elegant hobble, eyes screwed up, mouth flaccid, an imaginary tilted glass in her hand. The money problem, of course, doesn’t help, the fact that Tilia earns near to nothing with her paintings, that Colin can be insufferably parsimonious. Mistral has a boyfriend, a British guy called Sam, and her cheeks go pink as she pronounces his name, which Linden finds endearing. She spends a lot of time at his place in Hackney, near London Fields. It’s far enough for Tilia and Colin to cut her some slack. Mistral ceases her bubbling discourse. Now this won’t do at all, she’s the one doing all the talking, what nonsense! She wants to know how he is, how Sacha is. When is Sacha next coming to London? She wants him to take her to the opera again. She wants to know which is the best version of La Traviata, and only Sacha can help her with that. She wants to know all about the famous people Linden has photographed recently. She’ll shut up from now on, she promises! Linden reaches out to stroke her curly head affectionately.

  “You’ve got it all sorted out, haven’t you? You clever girl.”

  Mistral shrugs. She’s pretty sure he had it all sorted, too, when he was her age, right? Oh, no, he hadn’t, he tells her. Her black brows lift in surprise. He hadn’t at all. She has to picture him as a very lonely teenager, living at first with Candice, who waited all day long for calls from maddening J.G. At nineteen, he had been out for two years, but only to Candice. His family discerned nothing about his personal life. He never talked about himself. He was unsure about every aspect of his existence. Unconfident about his professional future, worried about how he was going to attain independence, wary of revealing his real self to people he met. After cohabiting with Candy, and even though he enjoyed her company, he had moved out, to earn his living, to spread his wings. He hadn’t been quite ready. It had taken awhile to get used to living alone, he explained. Later, he was working in a photo lab, earning a small salary, and having affairs that no one knew anything about. Candice knew his first love was Philippe. When there were other boys, he stopped telling Candice; he felt embarrassed. There was no love, then. Just affairs. Guys he’d meet in bars. Quick episodes he put aside, and which made him feel lonelier than ever. Then, there was Hadrien, the saddest, sweetest love story he ever experienced, when he was her age. Hadrien, and rue Surcouf. That was a secret. It was too complicated, too painful. It had ended so horrifyingly. Linden had felt lonelier than ever.

  His mother, asking over and over again if he had a sweetheart. Mistral rolls her eyes. Did she really do that? She did, until he found the courage to tell her he was gay. He was twenty-four at that point, working for a photographer. He was living alone, on rue Broca, not very far from Montparnasse. Was it difficult telling Lauren? It was both easy and hard. Easy because it felt like such a relief, getting it off his chest. Hard because she had looked so disheartened. He tried to remember the words he had pronounced, exactly. They hadn’t been the same as those he had used with Candice. He had vivid images of that spring day in 2005. His mother was sitting in front of him, in his small living room. She was wearing a jade-colored shirt, a jean skirt, and sandals. So, when were she and his father going to meet his girlfriend? He recalled her tight smile, her expectant eyes. She held her coffee cup with such intensity, he feared she might break it. For a split second, he had felt the dreaded nakedness, the sensation of being so vulnerable that nothing could ever protect him. He knew his mother would never forget this conversation. The thought was terrifying. He took the plunge, headfirst. No more hesitating. No more dithering. He had said something like “There is no girlfriend.” And because she didn’t seem to catch on, at all, he had added, “There is a boyfriend.” And then, clumsily, said, “Or boyfriends.” She had remained silent, and then came a little “Oh.” And her face went blank. Mistral groans and covers her eyes. She can’t believe her grandmother merely said “Oh.” What happened next? Lauren had gotten up, paced the room. Did anyone else know? Had Linden told anyone? He told her Candy knew. She swung around. Candy? Her own sister? Since when? He’d told Candy in 1998, when he was seventeen. Lauren seemed thunderstruck. He told Candy, nearly seven years ago? She had hissed out the word seven, and he still remembers the way her lips drew back to reveal her teeth. Had Candice told anyone? Linden had been confounded by that question. No, he didn’t think she had. Did it matter if she had? And then his mother had pronounced the sentence that still pained him today. “I don’t know how your father is going to take this.” He had wanted to crawl away, to hide, to disappear. Part of him wanted to weep; another part became incensed. Did Lauren mean his father was going to be disappointed? Well, of course, she had retorted, this was a complete shock; surely he could see that? What had he expected, that she might have patted him on the back and congratulated him? He felt the sting in her words and recoiled. How was it that his mother had never guessed? How was it she had never seen? If those kids at school in Sévral had seen it, when he was barely into his teens, how come his own mother had never noticed? The answer was clear, then. It was because she had never wanted to see it. Linden had stood up and he had said this to his mother, “Your sister told me she wasn’t disappointed and that she loved me just the same.” There had been a silence, and then Lauren’s face had crumpled. She sobbed into her palms, and Linden had let her do so, without moving. He watched her until she regained her composure. She wiped away her tears, smearing her mascara. “I’m sorry.” She murmured it, low down, but he heard it. And he never knew what she was sorry for. He never asked. When she left, she hugged hi
m. She said clearly, just as he closed the door with shuddering fingers, that she wouldn’t tell his father anything. She’d leave that up to him.

  Mistral’s hand finds its way into his. Her voice pipes up.

  “And did you ever tell Papy?”

  “Tell him what?

  “Well, that you’re gay.”

  Linden hangs his head. He says nothing for a while. Then he looks into her eyes.

  “No. I never did. And I don’t know what he knows.”

  * * *

  Later on, when Linden is back from dinner with Tilia and Mistral, there is a message for him from Madame Fanrouk at the reception desk. The hotel director is upset at the idea of his having to share a room with his sister, especially since she understands his young niece has just arrived and will be sleeping in her mother’s room. The hotel is fully booked, as he knows, but there is an attic room he can use for as long as he likes, free of charge. It is heated but has no bathroom. Would he mind sharing his sister’s? Linden is shown up to the last floor, carrying his small suitcase with him. The door bears no number. The attic room is long and narrow, with a single bed pushed into a corner. He can hardly stand up straight without knocking his head on the beams. The drumming of the rain comes down through the roof. The room is warm and clean, but it has no TV, nor Wi-Fi. It will have to do.

  Before dinner, his sister had sheepishly mumbled an apology. He nodded and accepted it. Best to move forward and forget the entire episode. The three of them went to a pizzeria on rue Vavin, just the other side of the crossroad. The rain had thinned out to a fine drizzle. He noticed Tilia downed her Valpolicella hastily. At one point, Mistral inconspicuously placed her palm over her mother’s glass. Tilia kept quiet, he noticed, but stuck to water after that. Linden had called the hospital, and the doctor in charge informed him Paul was still in the same state. No better, no worse. Linden replied he’d be there tomorrow during visiting hours with his niece. As for Lauren, they’d all been in to see her at the end of the day. She seemed washed-out, pale-faced, and gaunt against the pillows. No worse, either, but not that much better.