Mistral and he struggle to make their way back to the sidewalk, bearing toward Concorde and Alma. The pavement is dotted with TV crews filming the river, minivans with elevated satellite dishes parked alongside one another. Hordes of photographers angle their cameras to the waters. Linden has to fight to find a spot so he can work, as well. It takes them longer than usual to reach the pont de l’Alma and the famous stone Zouave, standing in the choppy water with dignity, impervious to the circus around him. Everyone wants a souvenir of the Zouave with the river up to his waist. Ineffectual policeman try to get people to step away from the quays, but the gatherings are too thick. Parisians mix with tourists, smiling, waving, shouting, gazing down with awe at the unusual show. Linden sees a very old man wearing a hat, puffing at his pipe, leaning against a tree. His calm, rheumy eyes take everything in. Linden politely asks the old man if he can photograph him, and the elderly gentleman replies he may. He makes quite a figure, quietly gazing over the excited bystanders.
“Don’t know what they find so amusing,” he tells Linden crustily. “They’ll be less happy tonight when the Seine finds its way to their beds.”
Linden asks him if he truly believes that will happen. The old man scoffs. Well, of course he believes it! The river will go up even higher than in 1910. Paris will sink into a cesspool. Mistral listens attentively, her face serious. So what should they do, then, she asks, should they leave? Another cackle. The old man has no teeth, but he certainly knows how to smile. Yes, they should leave! What are they waiting for? They should leave now. Go back to wherever they are from. Leave now, before the end of the world. Linden pulls on her sleeve gently, and they murmur good-bye. Mistral is silent for a while. When they reach the École Militaire, she asks her uncle if the old guy was nuts or whether he could be telling the truth. Linden doesn’t want to frighten her, but after all, she is an adult. She’s seen the news on TV, right? So she knows. Their priority now is Paul. They need to concentrate on him; they will deal with the rest in time. Mistral nods her head. She looks so youthful all of a sudden, her face wan beneath her hood.
On their way back to the hotel, Linden stops at a post office to send the rolls of film to his agent in New York, the old-fashioned way. He explained in his earlier email to Rachel that it was the best he could do, as he did not have any digital equipment with him. The noncommittal person who takes his package murmurs that she hopes it will get to America before too long, because postal services are beginning to feel the effect of the flooding. A little farther on, Linden buys the newspapers of the day: Every front page features the Zouave overrun by the flow. Before they reach the hotel, he checks Vigicrues on his phone. The river is rising one centimeter per hour and has reached 6.5 meters at the pont d’Austerlitz, going over the levels of June 2016 and last November. Still far from the 8.62 meters of the 1910 flood, he reminds himself, but worrying enough.
The expression on Tilia’s face alarms them when they knock on Lauren’s door. She steps out of the room, closing the door behind her.
“The doctor came,” she whispers. “Get this. Mom has pneumonia.”
“Pneumonia?” echoes Mistral. “Isn’t that only in novels by Dickens?”
It’s not that bad, but it is contagious; Lauren doesn’t have to be hospitalized, thank God, but she needs rest, medication, and she cannot be moved. After her treatment has started, she will soon get better, the doctor assured. Tilia has been to see the hotel director, who was most amenable and fully understood the situation. A nurse will be coming in daily to tend to their mother. Later on, when Linden and Mistral head to the Pompidou hospital to see Paul, Linden wonders what their next misfortune will be. He does not mention this to his niece, but his silence perceptibly stirs her empathy, because she reaches out to grab his hand. It is impossible to find a free taxi. Many Métro lines and bus lines are closed because of the deluge, so they decide to walk to the hospital, the bright blue hotel umbrella sheltering them, all the way down rue de Vaugirard to boulevard Victor. In Linden’s pocket is the copy of Giono’s book, The Man Who Planted Trees.
Mistral says nothing; Linden doesn’t, either, but they savor their closeness. The warmth of her hand is heartening. They have always spoken to each other in French, ever since she was a toddler. It came naturally. When the large glass construction of the hospital is in sight, Mistral asks if he ever walks hand in hand like this with Sacha. He says it’s possible in some streets of San Francisco, but that’s pretty much it. They’ve gotten used to not touching when they are outside or in public places. It’s something he learned very young, in Paris, with his first boyfriends. Mistral thinks that’s so sad, so terribly sad, that they cannot show the world their love. She says she keeps thinking about the day he told Lauren in 2005 and how awful her response had been. It shocked her. She never imagined her grandmother would react that way. She herself had known about uncle Linden being gay ever since she could remember. Tilia had explained this to her daughter straightforwardly. Tilia was the first person in the family who had realized Linden was gay, probably even before he did himself, long before he ever talked to Candice. She had been a wonderful support; she knew about the kids bullying him at school. She had convinced his parents to let him move to Paris. Yes, his sister had been invaluable.
Mistral wants to know if things are better now, with Lauren. It took his mother a while, Linden admits. For a long time, several years, Lauren never mentioned his homosexuality, as if he had not revealed it to her. She wiped it away, superbly. He sometimes wondered what she told their friends when they asked about him. It was easy to say Tilia was married, with a kid. Tilia fitted the pattern. How did Lauren fill in the blanks? Did she invent girlfriends to make herself feel better about her son? Mistral winces at this; he feels the tremor in her hand. When he fell in love with Sacha, in 2013, it became simpler, he says. Sacha’s solar personality was responsible. Lauren fell for it, like everyone did, when she met him. Mistral squeezes his hand and chuckles. Oh, yes, everyone fell for Sacha. How could so much charisma be assembled into a single human being? As she speaks glowingly of his partner, Linden feels a pang of yearning. If only Sacha were here, right by his side, right now. Linden looks ahead, squaring his shoulders for what awaits them there. He notices policemen and barricades erected around the hospital, barring the way into rue Saint-Charles and rue Balard.
There is something unnerving about the hospital today. Linden picks it up instantaneously. It seems oddly vacant. A few nurses dash by briskly. The lights are muted, glimmering feebly in the long corridors. An unpleasant smell of decay invades the place. There are numerous posters attached to walls along the entrance area. Linden and Mistral draw nearer to read them. Due to the flooding, the premises are to be evacuated first thing tomorrow morning, Tuesday. Patients are being transferred to the Necker or Cochin hospitals. Next of kin should contact the information desk for more details. They rush to the information desk, which is closed. There is no one around. Linden can’t understand why he hasn’t been warned. How are they transferring the patients? By ambulance? What about the ones who cannot be moved, like his father? Mistral tries to calm him down; they’ll know more once they find a doctor.
The intensive care unit is unoccupied, barely lit. No nurses, no surgeons. Dr. Brunel is nowhere to be seen, either. Linden is incensed. What the hell is going on? How can the staff just rush off like this? A few patients sleep on, unreceptive and destitute. Paul is now alone in the room. No sign of the previous patient, Pascal Beaumont, and his wife. Behind the curtain, Paul lies, eyes closed. The monitors above him beep regularly. Linden leaves Mistral with her grandfather and goes in search of a person to talk to. He walks the whole length of the dim and silent hallway, infuriated, before he hears a murmur of voices at last. He comes across a staff office, all lights on. Looking through the glass partition, he sees Dr. Brunel stooped in front of a computer. Next to him is the Jodie Foster look-alike, Dr. Yvon. They both look ready to drop. He pauses before raising his hand to knock on the door. They app
ear to be going through lists, ticking names off. Two nurses sit nearby, taking notes. He feels a twitch of pity for them; it must be nightmarish vacating such a vast hospital. When they hear him, they raise startled faces. He can see them trying to recall who he is. They must see so many families here every day, so many tragedies, so many losses. Why should they remember him, above anyone else?
“The photographer. Son of Paul Malegarde,” murmurs Dr. Brunel to his colleague, getting up, followed by Dr. Yvon, who nods and adds, “Room twenty-four.” So they do remember. He can’t help admiring them for that. They stand in front of him, and he can feel the tension emanating from them. His anger ebbs. Why give them a hard time? It must be tough enough for them already. Dr. Brunel apologizes for the lack of communication. It’s been hard getting hold of everyone. Yes, the hospital must be emptied. The Seine has already flooded the basement level. The operating rooms are out of order, and the water is creeping up. Many patients have left today, but it’s trickier dealing with the heavily monitored ones, who can hardly be moved, like his father. That will be done early tomorrow morning. Can Linden be there at seven? Linden replies of course, and then asks if the transfers will be done by ambulance. Dr. Brunel crosses his arms and glances at Dr. Yvon. They hope so. They certainly hope so. Linden stares at them. Why is their mien so shifty? He says he doesn’t understand. Dr. Brunel heaves a sigh. His coffee-colored eyes at last meet Linden’s. He asks Linden to come to the rain-stained window for a moment, and he points down. From here, Linden can see that rue Leblanc and place Albert-Cohen have disappeared under the water. The Seine is now splashing at the site’s very foundations. The Port de Javel has vanished under a deceptively tranquil lake. Workers are busy installing cofferdams and pumps along the hospital walls. Linden remembers the river is rising a centimeter per hour. Is it safe for his father to stay here tonight? Can’t he be transferred this afternoon? The doctors both reassure him. His father is safe. The transfer will take place, most probably by boat, in the morning. By boat? Linden is astonished. Why by boat? He arrived on foot from Montparnasse; he didn’t need a boat to get here. Cochin Hospital is in the fourteenth arrondissement, no floods there, so why are boats needed? The doctor hesitates again. Boats will be needed by tomorrow because the water is rising so quickly. The Javel neighborhood is the one hardest hit by the floods. Many residents have already left, assisted by the army. Linden recalls the barriers raised around the hospital. Most of the streets around here are no doubt already flooded. What kind of boat is it to be? he asks. Who will be steering it? Is it safe enough for his father? What about the cold and the rain? How will this take place? And why can’t his father be transferred today, before they even need boats? He can tell the doctors are doing their best to placate him, but it’s not working. Dr. Brunel says the transfer cannot happen now because of insurance problems. Linden finds this unbelievable. Insurance problems! They must be joking, right? There is a silence. They seem so uncomfortable, he almost pities them. He can read the anxiety in their eyes. He wonders if they have ever dealt with anything like this in their careers. He can tell they haven’t. Fighting back his frustration, he says he has one important question. Why on earth was this modern hospital ever built here nearly twenty years ago? Surely the architects who created it were aware it was situated in a zone liable to flooding? How did they ever obtain permits? How did the city council ever let them build here? They both shrug, shake their heads. They have asked themselves the same questions. It seems preposterous, they agree. Linden changes the subject, switches to his father’s health. Can they tell him any more? Paul is the same way; there are no new facts to be passed on. Once his father is safely installed at Cochin Hospital, the surgeons there will decide whether to operate or not. He will be in the expert hands of a respected doctor, Professor Gilles Magerant. Paul’s file is being transferred today.
Thanking them, Linden takes his leave, walking back down the dimly lit passageway to his father’s room. He hasn’t felt so low, so sad, so afraid in a very long time.
In room 24, Mistral is sitting by the bed, talking to her grandfather perfectly normally. His eyes are still closed. She is holding his hand, and her voice is merry and soft. She is describing the river, and the old man by the pont de l’Alma who told them the flood was going to get worse. She says not to worry. They’re here to look after Paul; he’ll be fine. When Linden enters the room, she whispers that Papy is not responding, but somehow she is convinced he can hear her. How brave and sweet she is. Linden slips an arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. Then he takes the Giono book out of his pocket and starts to read in a clear, gentle voice, standing by the bed. Mistral listens. She is quite taken by the story of Elzéard Bouffier, the shepherd who planted thousands of trees. Paul’s face does not move. His chest heaves up and down regularly. When Linden comes to the end of the tale, thirty minutes later, Mistral gets up. She’ll leave him alone with his father now, just the two of them. She’ll see Linden later on at the hotel. She slips out, blows them a kiss.
Again, Linden feels powerless. No ideas come. No words. He can only sit there, hands flat on his knees. The rain drums against the windowpane. He thinks of the river down below, inching its way up the abandoned hospital. The building is like a vast sinking ship. Is there any way he could get his father out of the hospital now? The bed is on wheels; he could push it to the elevators, but then what? How could he ever move his father to Cochin? He would never find a taxi. What about an ambulance? He almost laughs at himself. He is crazy: forget it. His father has a drip in his arm and an oxygen mask on his face, for Christ’s sake! Linden drags his chair closer to his father. Paul smells of antiseptic lotion. A nurse washed him this morning. He reaches out to touch his father’s hand. The skin is warm, dry. Those hands that know everything there is to be known about trees. He turns Paul’s hand over and examines the palm. It is pale and leathery, surprisingly clean. The habitually dusty, grimy skin now shines palely against his tanned fingers.
“Papa … Can you hear me? It’s me. It’s Linden. I’m here.”
No response. Linden clears his throat, still cradling his father’s hand. It seems silly, talking to someone who perhaps can’t hear a thing, but he keeps at it determinedly. He tells Paul he found the doctor. The hospital is in confusion because of the upcoming evacuation, but Paul needn’t fret; Linden will supervise the whole thing. He wishes his father could see the river rising, a chilling yet beautiful sight; Paul would be riveted by the event. He tries to describe the strange new angles of the bridges, the roiling torrent’s hue, the mob gathered along the quays. He depicts the rain, which hasn’t ceased since their arrival; the sensation of rambling through a dusky, humid, aquatic city that bears little resemblance to what it usually is; how Paris has lost its luster, its sharpness, its delineations dwindling into a slippery uncertainty fascinating to behold and to photograph.
Linden pauses, letting go of his father’s hand. An idea comes to him. He probes his pocket for his phone, swipes into his music file, finds David Bowie. He doesn’t own that many Bowie songs; he’s not half as much a fan as his father is, but there are ten songs on his device. The first one that comes up is “Sorrow.” He turns up the sound, places the speaker near his father’s ear. The unmistakable voice rings out, echoing against the bare green walls. Linden remembers his father listening to Bowie in his pickup. Although he was tiny then, he understood how important Bowie was to Paul. His father never sang along, but his finger beat the rhythm against the wheel, and Linden can imagine it, that sturdy index finger oscillating to the music. How he wishes he could see it twitching again now. The next tune is “Lazarus,” one of the last Bowie ever wrote, featured on the haunting album Blackstar, released a few days before his death. With tremulous poignancy, Bowie declares he’s in heaven, that his scars are invisible, that he has nothing else to lose. Linden was at home on that Sunday evening, January 10, 2016, when the news of Bowie’s death broke. Sacha and he had finished dinner and were clearing up. Sacha was
making a joke about one of the cats wanting to lap up the last spoonful of his delicious chocolate mousse. (Sacha was strict with the cats; he never fed them tidbits or goodies; Linden was more lenient.) It was Sacha who received an alert on his phone, and who murmured, awed, that Bowie had just died. Linden made him repeat it twice and switched on the TV. The demise had just been confirmed. It was seven o’clock in the morning in Vénozan, too early to call his father. Paul seldom listened to the news, or read the paper. Lauren did, but she slept later than her husband. His father would be so shocked learning about Bowie’s passing. Bowie and he were practically twins, born a year apart—January 4, 1947, for Bowie, January 20, 1948, for Paul. Sacha had asked him why Paul loved Bowie so much, and Linden had found it difficult to explain. It was true that at first glance there seemed to be little in common between an iconic British artist who constantly reinvented himself and an unobtrusive, reclusive landscaper from the Drôme who fought to safeguard trees. It all happened with the album Ziggy Stardust, Linden explained, back in 1972. Paul was twenty-four, busy working on restoring Vénozan to its former glory. He was driving in his car on his way to Nyons to fetch saplings when a melody was heard on the radio that raised every single hair on his forearms. He was captivated by the brassy guitar strum and that characteristic voice, both high-pitched and profound, sometimes feathery-edged, sometimes husky—a style he had never heard before. Paul had an ear for music, was fond of Pink Floyd, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, but this singer was different, his style so pleasingly odd and enchanting that the air struck a chord deep within him. He didn’t understand a word of English, nor did he catch the performer’s name, either, only the song, “Starman.” After he purchased his olive trees, he drove straight to the record store in Sévral. He was handed an album with an outlandishly long title: The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. The artist was called David Bowie. Paul had no idea how to pronounce the name and didn’t even try. The cover showed a young blond man in a tight blue jumpsuit posing in front of buildings under a neon sign at night. He wore a guitar strapped around his neck and platform boots, one of which jauntily rested above a dustbin. That was how it began, Linden explained to Sacha. Paul never saw Bowie in concert, nor did he want to; he just needed to listen. Paul bought each new album, each year, reveling in its difference, its audacity. He became familiar with his idol’s emaciated, pallid face, his asymmetric eyes, due to a permanently dilated pupil, his ramshackle teeth, and his boyish grin. And what was Paul’s favorite song? Linden said he wasn’t sure. And today, at the hospital, he still isn’t sure. He’s now gone through two more songs, “The Jean Genie,” with its catchy, chugging riff, and “Ashes to Ashes” (his personal favorite), with its synthetic string sound and hard-edged bass. His father’s distorted features have not twitched once. Linden feels dispirited. Is it worth continuing? One last song, then: “Heroes.” He places the phone by the pillow, taking his father’s hand in his. Bowie sings so convincingly on this one; his words come across as both sensual and desperate, a heart-tugging combination that triggers Linden’s melancholy. That song brings back his father more than ever, standing wordlessly by the house, arms crossed, gazing out to the valley, watching the clouds gather for a spatter of evening rain. The fingers clasped in his seem to shudder, or is it his imagination? He stares down at them, listening to the plaintive guitar throbbing its tune. Just as Bowie’s voice cries out with tender rage that they can be heroes, only for one day, his father’s hand grabs his like a vise, wrenching a cry of surprise from Linden. Paul’s eyes are open, wide open, large and round, staring up at him, shining bright in a frozen, twisted face. Linden, stuttering with emotion, asks if Paul can hear him, if he can answer, if he can give one small sign that he understands. Linden’s hand is being pressed again, and the huge eyes blink rhythmically, as if punching out some sort of Morse code. Linden scrambles to his feet, darts out to the corridor. He must find a nurse, a doctor; they must be told his father is responding. Surely this is very good news. There’s a nurse two rooms along (he can’t believe his luck; he was half-expecting to wander along the deserted hospital in vain) and she greets him with a pleasant smile. She’ll be there right away. Linden rushes back to his father’s room, relieved to see the blue eyes are still open and so full of life. He had forgotten they were so blue. The color of summer skies at Vénozan, a deep, pure azure he has found nowhere else in the world. Blue, and twinkling, as if all Paul’s feelings were pouring out through his irises, reaching out to him. Everything is going to be all right, he’s here to look after him. Paul had a stroke; that’s what happened. Does he remember anything? Does he remember the restaurant? Well, it happened there, but luckily Paul was taken to the hospital very quickly. The nurse bustles in, pushing a trolley in front of her. Can Linden step out while she tends to his father? He leaves the room, still exhilarated by his father’s responses. Bowie triggered all this off; he is sure of that. It was Bowie. It was thanks to Bowie. He remembered talking to Paul the day of Bowie’s death. Paul was devastated; he could hardly speak on the telephone. Later, Lauren told Linden that Paul had stayed in all morning listening to his vinyl collection. No one dared interrupt him. He never spoke about it, and went back to work after lunch, his face fraught, his eyes moist. Linden sends text messages to his sister and niece, describing the scene at the hospital. He can’t help feeling lifted by what he has just witnessed. When he returns to the room, he is crushed. Paul’s eyes are closed again. The nurse touches Linden’s arm, comfortingly, murmurs a few encouraging words. Then she slips out. For a while, Linden sits quietly, watching his father’s face. The magic moment is broken. Sadness flows through him, expunging the previous buoyancy.
The Rain Watcher Page 11