The Rain Watcher

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  Linden had watched the news from his sister’s room. What he saw alarmed him. The Bercy district was now flooded. Power plants had been swamped, electricity malfunctioned or failed, apartments and shops were no longer heated nor lit. Several Métro lines had been more than partially inundated. Pumping the water out had not helped. Train line RER C, built along the river, was full of water and had to be shut down. The Palais Omnisports at Bercy was closed. All events to be held there had been canceled. The nearby Ministry of Economy and Finance was about to be evacuated. The most worrying aspect of the flooding was the slow but sure accumulation in the underground sewer system. Most of the trouble was coming from deep down, up through Parisian cellars, basements, and parking lots, due to the high saturation of the water table and the persistent rain. The surge was inching up leisurely, taking its time, but rising with extraordinary steadiness. A website named Vigicrues, which literally meant “Flood Watch,” had been accessed thousands of times by Parisians. It measured, minute by minute, the staggering upward curve of the river. Linden transferred it to his phone and discovered the Seine was already over six meters at the pont d’Austerlitz. The forecast for the next couple of days was bleak. Governmental action was now in full swing. No one was taking this lightly.

  Oriel had been right. The flooding was not going to subside. Linden had turned the TV off. He had felt slightly nauseous. The Seine’s upwelling upset him, but his parents’ state worried him all the more. The bad timing of their visit to Paris stupefied him. How could their family weekend have turned into such an ordeal? He thought of his father, in the hospital, of his mother, prostrate in her airless room, of the river edging up, and his anxiety increased.

  At dinner, however, he attempted not to reveal his concern to his sister and niece. He tried to cheer them up by telling them about the worse photo shoots he’d experienced, the ones where everything had gone wrong. He regaled them with stories, from the truculent model who balked at every suggestion to the overbearing artistic director who practically snatched the camera from his hands. The scariest episode was when a major power failure that affected half of New York City plunged the state-of-the-art basement studio he was shooting in into darkness. The entire team, his assistants, models, stylists, hair and makeup crew, caterer, and janitor had been locked in for the night. One of the hairdressers had had a panic attack. And then there was the calamitous moment where an inattentive assistant he no longer worked with had left most of the equipment in a taxi as they were about to embark for Australia. In fact, he told Tilia and Mistral that the perfect photo session was nothing short of a miracle. When they got back to the hotel, they went to Lauren’s room. Her fever had subsided, but the cough was still there. The only word she could pronounce in a sort of rasp was her husband’s name, with tears in her eyes. Her woe saddened them; they didn’t know how to reassure her. The three of them sat around her bed helplessly. It was Mistral who at last found the right words, who managed to comfort her grandmother.

  Now that Linden has retired to his attic bedroom, having left his sister and niece with Lauren, he feels worn out. His back aches again, and his head, as well. The Valpolicella, no doubt. The bed is too small. The rain splashing down on the roof seems unnaturally loud at first. After a while, he gets used to it. It takes him a prolonged time to settle into a troubled, patchy sleep. He wakes up suddenly, throat parched, and reaches down to look at his phone. It’s one in the morning. His head still aches. He remembers he has no running water in the room. A bottle of mineral water has been thoughtfully placed by his bed. He gulps it down, lies back on the pillow. The rain taps above him soothingly. He closes his eyes and sinks back into the darkness.

  The model’s profile is exquisite, skin resembling porcelain, eyelashes thick with mascara spiking out like stars. She looks down, legs crossed, arms wrapped around her slender torso. He asks her to start posing, but she won’t, so he puts the camera away and comes closer to speak to her. Still she won’t look at him. Now he can see the tears trickling down her cheeks, smearing her makeup. Her quivering lips are bloodred and glistening. He asks her what is wrong, gently, and she shakes her head. The perfect makeup is marred, yet the model is still lovely, as if she had been brutalized and discarded, a flower ravaged and tossed aside. Maybe he should take photos anyway. The client will not be happy, but perhaps he can work something out. The short black dress clings to her, revealing most of her long, slim legs. He takes the camera in hand, starts shooting. She sobs in silence, with complete desperation. She turns her face fully to him and lets him click frame after frame. She knows how to move. She is far from amateurish, but she is not giving him what she usually offers. He is both surprised and stirred. She has removed all glamour from her stance, and the only thing she submits is her sorrow, in all its naked beauty. He checks the images in his viewer, and he can already tell, with a thrill of delight, that they are stunning, totally different from what he was supposed to do. He has a fright when she collapses onto the floor. He scrambles to her side, grabs her hand. He helps her up, leads her to a nearby room where there is a bed. She stares at him, takes a couple of breaths. Then she says, “It’s my father. My father has died.” She screams at the top of her voice, “My father is dead! He’s dead!” Her tears come again, and he finds he cannot help her, just as he is incapable of shutting out her pain, her grief. He places her on the mattress, covers her with a blanket, switches off the bedside light. He doesn’t even know her name. She sobs and falls asleep after a moment. Drowsiness takes over, and he surrenders to it. His ears pick up faint sounds in the obscurity: a creak, a breath. They are not alone. The model has not moved. Her face looks deathly white. Someone is in the room with them; someone is standing at the far end, near the door. His eyes gradually get accustomed to the dimness and he perceives two figures hunched by the entrance, near his photo equipment. Who are they? What do they want? He shifts slightly, and they freeze. One of them creeps forward stealthily, holding a mobile phone out like a torch. He feels the dim light on his face. He feigns slumber. They go back to rummaging through his things, speaking in low whispers. The panic fades when he sees them handling his Leica. It’s the only object he cares about. A slow rage begins to burn, heating him up. Why should he let these people walk away with one of his most prized possessions? Is he going to sit back and let this happen? They have wrapped the Leica up in one of their sweaters. Linden is able to make out a man and a woman. They are arguing about what to do next; the man wants to leave, but the woman keeps pointing at the smartphone near the bed where the model sleeps. The man pulls away, but she insists. She is the one who comes for the device, down on the floor, slithering like a snake. When her hand reaches out, Linden swings his legs from the chair, driving both feet into the small of her back, crushing her with all his might, ignoring her squeal of pain, and then makes a lunge for the man, clutching him by the hair before he has time to slide out of the room. Linden’s fury empowers him, providing him with startling vigor. He grabs the Leica with one hand and wallops the man’s face with his other fist, once, and the stranger sinks to his knees, moaning.

  Linden awakens with a start. His heart is pounding; his mouth is even drier. The dream has a dreadful potency that leaves its slimy mark on him. Shaking, he drinks the last dregs of the bottle, then lies back, breathless, on the small bed. After a while, he feels calmer. He gets up to check that his Leica is still there. What a strange, odious nightmare. He slips on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, takes his iPad, and heads downstairs. It is nearly four o’clock in the morning. The hotel is deserted. There is no one in the lobby, but the lights are still on, blazing. Is there a night manager? He calls out for one. No one answers. He peers outside to rue Delambre through the rain. No passersby at such a late hour. He lies back on a sofa, sends a message to Sacha, asking him if he can call him now. Sacha is still at the start-up, and in a meeting. No, he can’t talk. Later, maybe? Then he asks Linden, What are you doing up at this hour?? Linden sends a long message describing his awful dre
am. The scene with Tilia. His poor parents. The river rising. The rain. He misses Sacha. He misses California. He feels miserable. He notices an email from Tilia he hadn’t been able to read until now because of the lack of Wi-Fi in his attic room. Again, she tells him how sorry she is. She has to learn how to curb that temper of hers. She’s relieved that her daughter is here, magnificent, fearless Mistral. Mistral will go to the hospital with him tomorrow; he’ll feel less alone, won’t he? Sorry again for being such a hopeless sister, she wrote. And then, at the bottom of the email, she had added:

  PS:

  I went back to check on Mom after you went up, just to make sure everything was OK.

  She was fast asleep and her forehead was cooler, I thought. I looked at her phone, and there were dozens of missed calls and texts from “JeffVDH.”

  Dude, wasn’t that her fiancé from before Dad??

  FOUR

  La Seine, avec ses larges flaques vertes et jaunes, plus changeante qu’une robe de serpent.

  —VICTOR HUGO, NOTRE-DAME DE PARIS

  The day it happened, Suzanne was wearing a pale blue dress and her hair was tied up, so I could see the back of her neck. We took the picnic to the tree house, singing songs, holding hands. Her palm was always cool. There had been a storm during the night. The heat was back the next morning, but the earth retained moistness. The ground beneath the trees was still damp.

  That same summer, my grandfather died. He was seventy-nine; to me, that was old. I was not shown his dead body. They thought I was too small. No one told me what happened. No one explained. They thought I wouldn’t understand. But I saw the coffin being hauled out of his room and down the stairs. It seemed heavy; four men carried it, grunting and sweating. I saw my grandmother weepy in her black dress. My father looked dried-up and beat. The skin around his eyes was wrinkly. Strangers came to the house and spoke in low voices. One of them gave me nougat that stuck to my teeth. Everyone patted my head and said what a nice little boy I was.

  My grandfather was a loud and cheerful person. I was told the entire village went to his funeral. After he was gone, the house was still and silent. I didn’t like it. I missed his thundering step, his guffaw.

  He didn’t pay much attention to me, but I didn’t mind. I don’t think he cared for kids. He liked to sit on the terrace, in the shade, and drink Clairette de Die with his friends. He had a big potbelly and curly mustaches that pricked when he kissed my cheeks.

  I couldn’t understand death. I didn’t know what it was. The only way I was able to measure it was by the fact I couldn’t hear my grandfather’s laugh anymore.

  But I had no idea how close I would see death. How close it came to me.

  All those years later, I’m still looking for signs. There was no one or nothing to warn me of the dreadfulness to come. It was one of those beautiful summer days. There were no signs. None at all.

  “MONSIEUR MALEGARDE … EXCUSE ME.… Monsieur Malegarde?”

  Linden opens heavy eyelids. Agathe, the receptionist, is patting his shoulder gently. She asks him if everything is all right. Dazed, he stares back at her. Then he understands, discomfited; he fell asleep on the sofa and it is now morning. He gets up, murmurs an apology. Nearly nine o’clock. He must have passed out.

  There’s a message on his phone from Mistral saying he can come and use the bathroom if he likes, they’re both awake. When she sees her brother, Tilia asks him what he made of the Jeffrey van der Haagen messages. He replies he has no idea, no idea at all. The guy called dozens of times, his sister goes on, sotto voce, so that Mistral, under the shower, can’t hear. Did Linden know if their mother had planned to meet up with Jeff in Paris? Again, Linden shakes his head. Why is his sister bothering about this? Is it important? Has she been to check Lauren this morning? Yes, she has, and their mother is not looking good, still coughing and feverish. They should get the doctor to come back. Tilia nods; she will call him.

  After breakfast, Linden reads his emails. Rachel Yellan wants to know if he has a camera with him. Could he get to work? She is aware of the situation about his father, but the Seine is making every single headline all around the world. Is he willing to take pictures? He doesn’t have to, of course, she adds, but shouldn’t he try? The river photos in the press look so crazy. What does he make of it? Linden understands it is happening. The flood is here. At about the same time he was having his nightmare, the Seine topped its banks, at Alfortville and Charenton, east of Paris. All the river’s upstream tributaries, engorged by the rain, are now pouring toward the capital mercilessly. The riverbed can hold no more water, he reads. Thirty Métro stations have been closed and more evacuations are taking place in the seventh and fifteenth arrondissements. Residents are being asked to leave, but not everyone wants to go, he discovers. People are afraid of looters; they wish to stay at home and protect their goods, even if they have no more running water, no electricity, no heating.

  On Instagram, the number of photos of the flood is flourishing. From Bercy to Javel, each image shows an unnaturally broad and dirty river, with tied-up barges bobbing high up near street level, banks engulfed by brownish water, trees and lampposts bursting out like aquatic flowers, almost comical. The most impressive pictures are retweeted by news channels, and the hashtags #parisfloods, #zouave are trending topics. Despite the chill and the rain, tourists are enjoying the phenomenon. Linden can’t count the amount of selfies with the river in the background. He must go see this for himself. He has time, as the intensive care unit doesn’t open till three o’clock. As he rushes out the door with Leica in hand, cramming rolls of film into his pocket, a voice cries out.

  “Wait for me!”

  It’s Mistral, on his trail. She wants to see the river, too; she wants to see it with him. The unexpected company warms him. He is so used to the rain, he hardly feels it anymore. It’s the cold that gets to him, piercing through his jacket and scarf. They hurry down boulevard du Montparnasse, turning right onto rue de Rennes. The traffic is dense; cars honk impatiently. The air feels humid and dewy. They reach the river through narrow rue Bonaparte. There are already masses of pedestrians going the same way. Barriers set up by the police prevent cars from turning onto rue Jacob and rue de l’Université. Linden wonders why, but as he peers down the road, he can see stretches of water, like eerie tarns, spreading over the pavement. The pont des Arts is closed, so the throng heads to the next ones, Carrousel and Royal. Never has Linden seen such a crowd along the quays. Umbrella spokes prod at them from every angle. The bridges are jam-packed with rows and rows of people gaping at the river level. Mistral and Linden have to stand in line in order to get to the front of the balustrade and glimpse the Seine. The acrid stench of the water wafts up to them.

  The last time Linden had been in Paris with Sacha, in September 2016, they had ambled on the Right Bank wharves from the Louvre to the Île Saint-Louis. Linden was here for a photographic assignment, and Sacha had come over to join him from Berlin, where he was meeting investors for his start-up. Sacha had booked tickets for Tosca at the Opéra Bastille. In an ecological but controversial gesture, the mayor of Paris had closed the docks to all traffic from the Louvre to the pont de Sully. It was a beautiful fall morning. Although he considered himself a Parisian, rendered blasé by the city’s marvels, the magnificence of the capital had dazzled Linden. He had always been a fervent walker. He had strolled through every neighborhood of Paris, and this area used to be one of the most congested and noisiest arteries of the city, clogged by cars and pollution. It was extraordinary to be actually treading the road along the river where lines and lines of vehicles used to mar the splendor of the place. The unfamiliar silence around them made it difficult for him to believe he was in the heart of the city. Sacha was exhilarated. He had not visited Paris often. Linden pointed out the Île de la Cité, on their right. This is where Paris was born, he explained to Sacha, entranced; the Celtic tribe called the Parisii lived right here, by the river. Of course, Sacha had to imagine what the banks must have look
ed like in 52 B.C. He’d have to wipe away the pointy green triangle of the Vert-Galant garden heading west, the awe-inspiring Haussmannian walls of the Palais de Justice, where the delicate black spire of the Sainte-Chapelle could be glimpsed peeking over the roofs. Right next to it, Linden had gone on, was the mediaeval and grim-looking Conciergerie, where Marie-Antoinette was imprisoned until the day of her execution. The Seine eased by mildly. Linden had noticed how transparent the tranquil green-blue water was, lapping lazily at the quayside. He had been able to gaze right down into it and spot the round gray stones that lined its bed. How meek and submissive the watercourse had appeared that day, an idyllic postcard vision, with ducks and swans floating on its smooth surface.

  There is nothing docile about it today. The river has turned into a gluttonous muddy monster. It has wolfed up each bank, swallowed all the bridge’s footings. Plastic chairs, recycle bins, tree trunks cavort by, whamming into the bridge’s foundations with cavernous whacks. The pont Royal appears truncated, lying low across the roaring current, with only the triangular tips of its stone arches visible above the eddies. These novel perspectives both fascinate and shock Linden. The river seethes like a hostile reptile beneath leaden skies and the uninterrupted downpour. The swarm around them jostles and shoves, cheering each time a piece of furniture or a plank hits the bridge. Linden clicks away, steadying his feet against the push. People laugh and jeer, holding up their mobile phones. No one seems afraid, he notices. To them, it’s a joke, a display. Yet the ugly torrent gushing below has nothing comical about it. Neither does the ominous gurgle of its urgency as it pumps along like a robot in its furious marathon westwards to the Channel.