The Rain Watcher

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  Linden turns on the television, positioned on the wall opposite the bed. The Seine is on every channel, even the foreign ones. Another panel of specialists resumes their dire forecasts: This could last up to a month, with a seven-day peak that had not yet been reached. The river is now up to seven meters at Austerlitz, higher than its level of June 2016. Water is slowly creeping up, oozing out from ventilation systems, grids, and manholes, spreading everywhere, using every crack, every fan plate, every pothole. There is no stopping it. The prefecture has been evacuating residents with the help of the army and the Red Cross. Patients are being transferred to other hospitals, as well as from retirement homes. Parisians are being sheltered in gymnasiums and schools in the higher-up districts, which have never been flooded, such as Montparnasse and Montmartre. The skyscrapers at Beaugrenelle are being vacated and bolted—a protracted and taxing struggle, as some people refuse to leave their homes. The government promises to secure the towers in order to prevent looting, but occupants are not reassured. Electricity has failed in all inundated areas, where Internet connections are now increasingly sluggish. Paris is not alone to suffer; most suburban towns clustered along the river have also been flooded. Mayors are voicing their discontent, as it appears governmental efforts are turned predominantly to the capital, disregarding cries for help coming from poorer communes. Getting to and from Paris is problematic, as roads accessing the capital are swamped. Half of the Métro system is down. Trains are no longer able to reach stations such as Lyon and Austerlitz. Linden can hardly believe his ears. Can this get any worse? It seems it will. For the moment, the river has seeped into the Javel, Bercy, and Invalides neighborhoods. But this is only the beginning, hammers the red-haired, bespectacled woman he had already seen on TV. This time, nobody disagrees with her. This is only the beginning and it will get much worse. The president’s pale face now appears on the screen. He is filmed from the presidential palace, and Linden has never seen him look so weary. Dark circles rim his blue eyes. He seems even younger, almost lost. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then his voice rings out with its usual vigor. Yes, dear compatriots, the hour is a bleak one. Paris and its suburbs must come together and help each other in the difficult time ahead. Yes, the river is still on the rise, and predictions say the level may be higher than in 1910. The president is giving this his full attention. At the president’s command, the Ministry of Defense has launched Plan Neptune, created specifically for dealing with the floods, signifying the deployment of 100,000 soldiers. This special force, working in close alliance with the police department, with firefighters, and with the gendarmerie, will participate in rescue operations, the dispersal of food supplies, and evacuations. The people of France must obey any orders they receive from the authorities. These directives will be shared on the radio and in the press. Tourists are being requested to leave, and those planning to come are told to postpone their trip. The prefect of Paris is now addressing the nation. Passersby must observe extreme caution when approaching the river, as the current is powerful. Electricity, gas, and water shortages are probable in half of Paris tomorrow. A special emergency number has been set up. People are encouraged to use it. Linden switches the TV off, heavyhearted. He leans forward to kiss his father’s forehead. When he washes his hands in the small adjacent bathroom, he notices the water is a nasty carrot color and has a sour smell. Outside, the rain and a sharp sound of hammering greet him. Metal walkways, like the ones he once saw in Venice used for aqua alta, are being assembled around the hospital in rickety successions. Behind the building, the river level has risen even higher, while workers surrounded by machinery pump the water away from the building’s foundation.

  Linden turns his back to the Seine and walks toward Montparnasse. All he can think of, all he can see, are his father’s eyes.

  * * *

  Tilia bombards him with questions. Can he tell the whole story over again? When and how did Paul react, exactly? What do the doctors say? What’s going to happen now? Patiently, Linden reminds her the hospital is being emptied; the staff is feverishly busy. He’s to go there tomorrow at seven for the transfer. He doesn’t know what the doctors think. Tilia strides around her room, limping, irritated. Shouldn’t Linden be trying to find out? What the hell is he doing? Mistral tries to soothe her, but she brushes her daughter off. Linden knows by the expression on Tilia’s face that they’re heading for a conflict. Well, then, why doesn’t Tilia go to the hospital herself to talk to the medical team? He knows perfectly well this sentence will infuriate her, and he gets ready for the retaliation. Strangely, it doesn’t come. Instead, Tilia drops down on the side of her bed. What about Paul’s treatment? What are the doctors giving him? Does Linden at least know that? He ignores the caustic tone in her voice. Medication has been the subject to avoid with his sister ever since her accident. She harbors profound skepticism about doctor’s prescriptions. It had been complicated enough getting her to approve of the treatment Lauren was receiving for her pneumonia. Tilia staunchly believes in natural solutions for all health problems. She views any kind of pill and capsule as noxious, and works her way around them. Linden launches forth firmly. Can she not see their parents are in a situation where they cannot be healed by fringe medicine and stuff with plants? There is no more time for this. Paul has had a stroke and Lauren is fighting pneumonia. Does Tilia really believe a couple of herbal pick-me-ups and honey drops will do the trick? She can’t be serious! If she is unable to set foot in the hospital for her own personal reasons, then she must leave this up to him. He will deal with it. His voice rings out, fiercer than he expected. Tilia’s face convulses; he braces himself for the onslaught. To his surprise, Tilia does not hit back with a spiteful string of words. Instead, she seems to shrivel up, hangs her head, and sobs, face squashed between her palms. His sister, his impetuous, vociferous, opinionated, frank (and sometimes utterly tactless) sister is crying her heart out. Linden, thunderstruck, can only look on. When is the last time he saw her weep? He can’t remember. He was the crybaby when they were children. She was the one who soothed him when he fell from his bicycle, when he had a nightmare. Tilia never cried. She was the tough one. He watches Mistral wrap her slender arms around her mother. He does not know what to say, so he shuts up, torn between remorse and anger. Tilia gazes up at him, her face flushed and swollen, blotched with tears.

  “You’ll never understand. No one can. No one can ever understand.”

  Linden exchanges a cautious glance with Mistral. He wonders what his sister means. What is it they can’t understand? Why is she crying? Is it to do with their parents? Is it something else? She’s such a mystery, this sister of his. She camouflages everything behind her loudness, her uncouth language, her vulgar puns. She makes people roar with laughter, she’s the life and soul of parties, and yet she can occasionally be heartless, as long as everyone laughs at her jokes. Does Mistral have a clue about what’s going on? He questions his niece silently, raising his eyebrows. She shakes her head back at him. Linden sits on the floor, directly below his sister, who’s perched on the bed. He puts a hand on Tilia’s knee.

  “Why don’t you explain, then? Why don’t you tell us?”

  Tilia moans that she can’t. It’s too difficult to describe; besides, she wouldn’t know where to begin. Mistral makes her lean back on the bed, cradling her mother’s head in her lap. Her voice is appeasing, so adultlike, Linden can’t help being impressed. Tilia’s breathing is less ragged as Mistral gently wipes the last tears away. Silence fills the room. Linden waits, cross-legged. His mind flies to room 24, to the relief he felt when Paul opened his eyes. The hope has taken over his fear. Should he let it? Would it not be better to protect himself from bad news, from hearing his father might never recover? He desperately needs hope to cling to, to keep him going. If he can’t do this, then he will not be able to face tomorrow, his father’s crooked features, the tubes in his nose and arm. He needs to keep up his strength, his courage. How long can he do this for? How long can he pretend to b
e strong? And then, there’s his mother. For the moment, she’s weakened by her illness, but what will happen when she’s back on her feet? How will she deal with her husband’s condition? Will she collapse? Will she be brave? He can’t tell. Tilia jolts him back to the present moment. Her voice is toneless, subdued. She stares up at the ceiling, her fingers laced together on her chest, Mistral’s hand stroking her hair. He pays attention, leans forward. She’s never told anyone what she is going to say now. She’s not even sure she can choose the right words; they’ll just have to be patient. She pauses, takes a deep breath, and then continues. They were five best friends. Five young girls at the start of their lives. Twenty-five years old. Such promise in each of them: Laurence, Valentine, Sylvie, Sonia, and herself. Valentine was the one getting married that summer. She was dainty and blond, with curly hair and blue eyes. It was to celebrate her upcoming wedding that they’d organized a hen party for her. Her fiancé was Pierre, a handsome guy from Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Pierre worked in a real estate agency and Valentine was a medical assistant. Sylvie was the wild one of the lot, the most unpredictable. She worked in a department store in Biarritz. She wasn’t pretty, exactly, but men liked her—a lot. Her love affairs were fascinating to listen to. Sonia was dark, quiet, with pale skin. The intellectual. She never went to the beach, never sat in the sun. She read a book a day. She was about to move to Paris; she’d just landed a new job with a well-known magazine. She had a boyfriend, too, Diego, who was from San Sebastián. And then there was Laurence, who lived in Bordeaux and who came from a family of prestigious vintners. Laurence was tall and beautiful, and compassionate. She knew how to listen. She knew how to hold your hand if you were down. Tilia met the four of them during her first summer in Biarritz, when she moved there in 1998 to be with Eric. She was the only one of them who had a four-and-a-half-year-old daughter, and a husband, but it didn’t make her feel any different from the rest of them. They were her friends, and they knew everything about her. They knew her love for painting, for creating. They knew she had made up her mind to live a new life in the Basque country at nineteen, away from where she’d grown up; they knew she’d gotten pregnant, had her daughter at twenty; they knew about her marriage to Eric, how in the beginning it seemed easy. In the beginning, everything always seems easy, doesn’t it? Eric gave all his attention to his restaurant, and it worked out, as the place gained fame year after year. But the marriage was not working out, and her friends knew it. They comforted her; they helped her. It wasn’t entirely Eric’s fault. It was also her fault. She was so young then. There were so many things she didn’t understand. Tilia pauses for a long time. When she speaks again, her voice has more power to it. She isn’t going to talk to her brother and daughter about her first marriage. They mustn’t get her wrong. She wants to talk about the girls. About that night. About that hideous night. This is the first time in fifteen years that she will talk about it. And if she is able to do so, to manage to get all the words out and not collapse, then perhaps they’ll be able to understand. She can’t remember who chose the restaurant in Arcangues. The first plan had been a tapas bar in Hondarribia, a place they’d already been to, the five of them, and that they enjoyed. But this was a special event, a festive one, and it had to be different. It had to be memorable. Tilia’s voice falters. They had dressed up in crinolines and rhinestone diadems for the occasion. She can’t look at those photographs, the ones that were printed in the press after the accident. The girls looked stunning, her dearest friends, in their finery, with their hair done, their shimmering makeup. They were princesses. They were queens. There had been much wine, excellent wine; Laurence had taken care of that. They drank freely because they knew there was a driver, a professional guy they had hired to drive them back into town in a minivan. No one was worried about liquor, not even Sylvie, who constantly got tipsy. They were safe. They felt safe. They were having the time of their lives. The restaurant let them stay late, played their favorite music: Usher, Black Eyed Peas, Alicia Keys. It was a hot, balmy evening; Tilia remembers that clearly. August 1, 2004. It was so ridiculous, dancing in a crinoline! Mischievous Sylvie ended up taking hers off, gyrating to Beyoncé in her lace undies and stilettos, to the staff’s and other patrons’ delight. How they’d laughed! They’d howled with laughter, hugging one another, swearing with yet another raised glass that they’d never lose touch, never forget their friendship, that they’d still meet up when they were old, gray grannies. But that was so far away, in another galaxy! They had their entire lives to live.

  Tilia halts. Her trembling hands cover her face like a mask. Linden and Mistral do not move. The only sound is the gush of the rain against the pane and voices outside in the corridor. Suddenly, the telephone rings by the side of the bed, making them all jump. Mistral answers it. She nods, murmurs a few words, then hangs up. Linden asks her who it was. She whispers that it’s not important. When Tilia speaks again, she sounds breathless. It happened just before the minivan turned left into the last stretch of the road that led to Biarritz. The radio was on full blast; they were singing. Singing at the top of their lungs to a song she could never listen to ever again without wanting to break down. “Dancing Queen,” by ABBA. The kind of crappy stuff their mothers listened to, but that night, at that moment, it was perfect, and it was them; they were the dancing queens, brimming over with lust for life. She can see them now, in the back of the car, crinolines bunched over their knees, windows open, the sweet night air pouring in. It was late, and who cared? They would sleep tomorrow. It was still with her; it was still there. The sound of it. The unbearable, ghastly noise of it: the violent crunch of steel, the earsplitting shattering of glass. Her heart in her mouth, her stomach lurching like on a roller coaster as the car was flung up into the air, carved apart as easily as a blade slicing into a mellow fruit. Just a couple of seconds, that’s all it took, and then silence. Even Abba was quashed. Tilia did not lose consciousness right away. Was she upside down? Was that the sky she was staring up at? The Big Dipper? She couldn’t work out the bewildering topography around her. Her ears were humming with a muffled, yammering clamor. Her skin felt gluey, grimy. All she could see was hair, endless swirls of black hair, blond hair, curly hair, strands of hair fuzzing up her line of vision. Why was there so much of it? What had the girls done to their hair? She became aware of the stench: her own vomit, trailing down her chin and décolletage, leaving an acrimonious wake in her mouth, and then another smell, much more fearful, a tinny, meaty odor that seemed to delve into her. At first, she could not understand what it was, yet it seemed oddly familiar. And then she knew. It was the smell of fresh blood. She turned her head, moaning with pain, and there was Valentine’s face, right up next to hers, against her shoulder, resting there, as if she were asleep. How gray her friend’s skin seemed, how sunken her cheeks looked. Tilia had moved her arm, gritting her teeth in agony, slowly bringing a quaking hand up to stroke Valentine’s skin in a comforting gesture. They were going to be all right, weren’t they? They were going to be fine. Just fine. All of them.