Tilia’s voice is almost a shriek now, a strangled wail. Linden finds it increasingly hard to listen. Part of him wants to get out of the room now, but he cannot do that. He cannot let his sister down. Tilia says she pressed her hand on Valentine’s cheek, and all of a sudden, Valentine seemed to tumble forward into Tilia’s knees, in a rush of matted curls. The sickening truth hit Tilia like a fist. What lay in her lap was Valentine’s head. Just her head. Severed clean from her body. How long did Tilia lie there, screaming for help, in the mass of hair and blood? It seemed forever. Something black was creeping up on her, a dark and monstrous force, working its way up her legs, her waist, her chest. Glacial and stealthy, it snaked around her throat, clamping her mouth shut so she could scarcely breathe. She tried to fight it, but it was weighing down on her eyelids, forcing her into an obscure lake, pulling her underwater. She gave in to it; she let the water close over her head. She thought it was death. When Tilia regained consciousness, she was in the hospital, in Bayonne, where she was to spend the next six months. The doctors didn’t tell her at first. They didn’t say the girls were all dead, that so was their chauffeur, as well as the inebriated man who’d plowed into them. They didn’t tell her the girls had all been buried days after the accident. She had no idea of the time slipping by, that she’d been here for months. She didn’t recognize her husband, her little girl, her parents, her brother. She didn’t know the doctors had had to reconstruct most of her left leg and her hip; she wasn’t aware yet that she’d never walk properly again. They gave her powerful painkillers, stuff that knocked her out. She slept day in, day out. She was kept in a woozy penumbra that imprisoned her. When her mind started working properly again, months later, she was told. She took in what had happened, and the shock drove her crazy. Why her? Why them, and not her? Why had all her friends died? Why had she been the one left behind? The only one? Wrath overcame her. Never had she been so angry. She screamed and yelled so much, they had to pin her down and give her more drugs. She spat the pills out, spat in their faces until they tied her up and fed her the medication through her veins. When she left the hospital for a medical center in Bidart for her physiotherapy, she was still furious. Stuck in a wheelchair, she couldn’t drive anywhere. Her only joy was little Mistral, who, at nearly five, seemed to understand more than anyone else what she was going through. Tilia tenderly reaches out to caress her daughter’s face. “Magic Mistral,” that was her nickname then, remember? It was thanks to Mistral that she was slowly able to mend her body but also her mind. A year later, when she managed to hobble around on crutches, and drive again, she went to visit the girls’ families, their boyfriends. They were all kind to her, but it made her feel even worse. How could they possibly lay eyes on her? She was the one who’d survived, the one who was still there, while their lovely daughters were no more. She went to the four graves, one after the other, alone, laden with flowers. She went to the spot where the accident happened. There was a large black splotch on the road that made her shiver. Then she did a very stupid thing. She looked up the accident online. It was another shock. Valentine’s decapitation was mentioned in each article, as if no one could get enough of it. She saw grisly images of the minivan, a tangled mesh of crushed steel, with the large chunk of a red station wagon still rammed obscenely into it. She learned the drunk driver’s name, learned he’d been on his way back from a nightclub. Thirty-six years old, divorced, two kids. Their chauffeur was fifty-two, married, and had three children and five grandchildren. What hurt the most were the photographs of each girl, her childhood, her teenage years: gleeful Sylvie on Côte des Basques beach with her surfboard; Sonia’s class photo, a lovable bookworm with glasses; Laurence busy in the vineyard; Valentine and Pierre, about to get married, clasped in each other’s arms at Miramar beach; as well as the final shots of that evening. Where had the press gotten those? The families, she supposed. The families had given the photos to the press. She recognized more from Facebook. She would stare at those photographs with all her might until her eyes ached, until her head hurt. Each of them bore a dreadful finality, an ineluctable countdown that none of them had ever guessed at, that none of them had ever felt. She despised the lurid headlines: TRAGIC BEAUTIES; DEATH OF YOUNG DANCING QUEENS; CARNAGE ON THE ROAD TO ARCANGUES; FOUR YOUNG GIRLS KILLED BY DRUNK DRIVER. And then the ones concerning her: TILIA, THE SURVIVOR; YOUNG MOTHER SURVIVES HORRIFIC CRASH. Two years after the accident, she realized how much of a survivor she indeed was, but how scarred she remained, both physically and mentally. She never told anyone; she preferred to keep it secret, buried inside. She got on with her life. In 2008 she divorced Eric and moved to London with eight-year-old Mistral to start again. She gave art lessons in a Franco-British school. Everyone thought she was over the ordeal, but no, she wasn’t. She had nightmares, horrible ones, of Valentine’s head falling in her lap. She refused to take the medicine she had been given by the doctors. When she married Colin, in 2010, she thought she could put it all behind her, at last. She thought she could depend on someone strong, on an older man who would protect her. How wrong she was. They all know what being married to Colin entails. So here she is, nearly forty, an emotional wreck, a failed artist, the miserable wife of a drunkard, incapable of going to see her ailing father in the hospital because of her hang-ups.
Tilia begins to laugh, a harsh, sardonic snicker that rises up in the room, startling them. She rocks back and forth on the bed, head thrown back, and after a while, Linden can’t make out if she’s laughing or crying. The pressure of Tilia’s revelations bears down on him. He can’t hear anymore. The laughter digs into his ears. He gets to his feet. He gives his sister and his niece warm hugs, murmurs that yes, he does understand, that he feels for Tilia, that it is a dreadful story, and he leaves. The idea of going up to his cramped attic room, with the patter of the rain for company, dissuades him. For a while, he leans against the passageway wall, his mind racing. The images conjured by his sister distress him. He can’t seem to get them out of his mind. When he visits his mother, a little later, he finds her being tended to by a kind nurse, who informs him Madame Malegarde is doing better but needs to rest some more. Down in the reception area, Linden is surprised to see how late it is, nearly five, and how fast the daylight is fading, settling into a grayish gloom.
In the lobby, an elegant figure wearing a fedora hat, its brim damp with rain, rises and greets him with an outstretched hand.
“My dear fellow. I’ve been waiting here for ages! I asked them to ring Tilia’s room, but they couldn’t get through.”
The unmistakable crisp British accent. Colin Favell, his brother-in-law.
* * *
Colin suggests the Rosebud bar, a few doors down from the hotel on rue Delambre. It looks like a décor from a 1930s movie, with white-jacketed bartenders, vintage jazz music, and dim lighting. Clients cluster over daiquiris and murmur to each other. Colin sits at the zinc-surfaced bar and places his hat cautiously on the empty stool next to him. He is clean-shaven, wearing a perfectly cut navy blue suit, white shirt, maroon tie, and polished shoes. He complains, peevishly, that Tilia hasn’t been answering his calls. Most annoying. The last time they did speak, yesterday, ever so briefly, she had said snappily not to come to Paris. Downright rude, wasn’t she? After all, Paul is his father-in-law, for Christ’s sake. Why shouldn’t he come to Paris? Why shouldn’t he be here with the rest of the family? Linden remembers with uneasiness Colin’s ancient grudge against his parents, who had not hailed Tilia’s marriage to him with much enthusiasm eight years ago—especially Lauren, who seemed to have intuitively predicted the difficulties ahead. Their relationship had been strained ever since the start, and Colin’s drinking problem had increased the tension. In the beginning, Linden hadn’t been unduly alarmed about Colin’s penchant for alcohol. His brother-in-law appeared to be the quiet sort, downing his drinks discreetly but furiously fast at family gatherings, and his inebriety was only detected when he turned into the limp, drooling buffoon who had to be heaved home
yet again by a seething Tilia. At that time, Linden and his parents had chosen to look away, not to mention it to Tilia. The subject was taboo, and even more so when, at Lauren’s recent sixtieth birthday dinner, in a West End London restaurant, Colin had turned up exquisitely dressed and utterly drunk. Once seated at the table, Colin had become uncomfortably garrulous, talking only of himself, of his marital intimacy, the number of times a month they had intercourse, in which position, what Tilia enjoyed, what she didn’t. After twenty minutes of Tilia’s sitting there stony-faced, with Paul, Lauren, and Mistral gaping at one another in mute agony, Linden had gotten up, a broad counterfeit smile on his face, and he had said to Colin genially: Wouldn’t it be a good idea if Colin and he just left the table for a minute or two and popped outside? It was so hot in here, wasn’t it? Colin’s face was brick-colored, almost orange. Surprisingly, he let himself be led away by Linden, sprawled over his shoulder as if they were best friends. Once they were on the sidewalk, Linden had hailed a taxi to Clarendon Road, heaved Colin in with him, found his key in his pocket, asked the taxi to wait, dragged him upstairs, placed him on his bed, where he began to snore, and went back to the restaurant. The whole thing took thirty minutes. Does Colin remember this episode? Linden wonders.
“Well, old fellow, what’ll it be?”
Colin makes a gesture toward the bartenders. Linden shrugs good-naturedly and says it’ll be a Coke. Colin shrugs back and orders a French 75. They do these properly here; they always get the gin and champagne mix just right. Sure Linden doesn’t want one? Linden shakes his head and points out loudly and clearly that he thought Colin wasn’t drinking. He had never talked to his brother-in-law directly about his alcoholism, not even after Lauren’s birthday. He had always held back, out of courtesy, embarrassment, or perhaps lack of courage. Colin rolls pale blue eyes at him, taking him in slowly. A grin bares his wolflike teeth. Aha, so has darling wifey been getting to him? So, that means she’s angry with him, that’s why she hasn’t been answering his calls, she’s got herself properly worked up, then, has she? Foolish girl. Linden doesn’t answer, gazing back at him levelly. Colin swallows the cocktail in one gulp, smacking his lips, and orders another with a brisk signal. He sends a smug glance Linden’s way, thumps him on the shoulder. Linden should stop acting so edgy. Colin can quit when he wants, does Linden know that? He can stop just like that; he clicks his fingers at Linden’s face. Tilia gives him such a hard time; she’s a real pain in the you know what. He’s not a boozer, just a normal chap who likes to get sloshed from time to time. Takes his mind off things, helps him relax, so he can put up with the asinine pack he works with, all those wankers he can’t bear. People like Linden’s parents, for example, who hate him deep down. When he drinks, he doesn’t care if he has to bow and scrape, he doesn’t feel anything anymore; he just gets the job done. Does Linden have any idea of what working in the art world means? The embezzlements, the colluding, the coercions? It may sound electrifying, evaluating a decrepit old lord’s dusty heirloom and discovering it’s worth thousands of pounds, but that doesn’t happen much. Most of his job is considering junk that’s worth crap and telling people courteously—people who then switch from affable to antagonistic in the bat of an eyelid and kick him out of the door. No wonder he ends up plastered at the nearest pub. Not every evening, however. Everyone drinks. Everyone has a little nip once in a while. What’s wrong with that? He’s not doing anyone any harm, is he? He doesn’t beat his wife up. He doesn’t get drunk that often. He pulls it off—just look at him. He’s always groomed, elegant. He’s careful about his breath. Nothing a little mint spray can’t deal with. Tilia paints the whole thing black. So do Paul and Lauren, who obviously see him as a villain. His first wife was certainly less of a crashing bore. But anyway, he’s not here to spill the beans about his floundering marriage, is he? He’s here for Paul. No matter what Paul really thinks of him. As soon as Colin got the text message from Tilia on Sunday, explaining the situation, he wanted to come. He had to call his wife five times before she even picked up the bloody phone. Got on the Eurostar first thing. He didn’t even warn Tilia. She had said not to come, after all. The cheek of actually saying that to him! So he arrived at the Gare du Nord, waited for hours for a taxi in the bloody rain, came straight to the hotel. Then he sat there for ages, going out of his mind with boredom, waiting for his wife to come down. She never did, right? Apparently, she told the receptionist she was resting. Resting, my foot! Sulking is more like it. It was a bit of a bother getting tickets; he had to prove he wasn’t a tourist, not staying in a hotel, but coming to see his family. Good friends are putting him up for the night, and thankfully they live in the dry neighborhood of Ternes. So, how is Paul? What’s up? Can Linden tell him?
The jazz tune, slightly too loud, tinkles around them. Linden gives Colin the information he has concerning his father. He doesn’t mention the hospital transfer in the morning. Probably because the last thing he wants is his brother-in-law tagging along. Colin listens, nods, makes a face when he hears about Lauren’s pneumonia, and orders a bottle of Chablis, guzzling glass after glass as if it were mineral water. His hands are less steady and his diction, although still poised, is at times slurred. The more he drinks, the more he talks. There’s no stopping him. Linden, powerless, endures the monologue. As usual, Colin rambles on about his conjugal situation. Linden has the impression he is trapped in their bedroom at Clarendon Road. He can almost behold the gold-and-green Albemarle wallpaper, the snowy white carpet, the floral bedspread. Nothing is spared him. According to Colin, Tilia has the libido of a hibernating dormouse, rolled up in a ball as soon as dusk falls, snoring to high heaven. She won’t make an effort; she simply will not understand that her husband has needs. And he certainly has needs, like any bloke. He may be coming to the end of his fifties, but there is no question of using Viagra. He gets it up every time. Doesn’t need bloody Viagra. Colin raises his upper arm, fist clenched, to conjure marmoreal manhood. Two young women enter, raincoats shiny with rain. Colin, slouched over the bar, observes them with a lewd grin. Ah, just his type of Parisienne. The dark-haired one, just the thing, isn’t she? Steamy little number, that one. He claps his hand down on Linden’s shoulder, startling him, whooping with hilarity. Good Lord, he almost forgot! Linden couldn’t care less, could he? He’s not into girls. Girls leave him cold, don’t they? Linden watches while his brother-in-law writhes with laughter. Colin wipes away mock tears, his cheeks glowing a vivid red. He must get this straight, right away, he has nothing against Linden, or against any poof, for that matter, but he simply can’t understand how a man cannot be attracted to a woman. It puzzles him, it really does. How is it that a pair of tits does nothing for Linden? It’s mystifying. Because desiring women is precisely what makes a man feel virile, right? Colin’s voice is loud enough for each person in the bar to hear. How long can Linden sit there and pretend this is not annoying him? How long can he keep that stiff grin pasted on his lips? Colin continues, undeterred. Must be so strange being a pansy. He would have hated to be one. Thank God neither of his sons is! Would have preferred a son in a wheelchair to a gay son. Oh, come on, he’s just being funny! It was meant to be a joke! Honestly, Linden should take that expression off his face and get a sense of humor, for Christ’s sake.
“Shut the fuck up, will you?”
Colin gapes at him with red-rimmed eyes and hoots outright, nearly falling off his stool. Oh, so there is something to him, then. What a relief! Linden Malegarde at last loses his temper, pretty Mr. Cool, who never seems out of breath, with never a hair out of place, who jet-sets around the world, photographing movie stars and politicians. Well, obviously there is more to him than meets the eye! How spiffing it is that Linden is no mealymouthed wuss. What about a toast to that? Linden, fed up, is already on his way out, tossing a couple of bills on the bar. He is relieved to be out of the place, away from Colin and the conversation. He doesn’t mind the rain, offering his hot cheeks to its icy pricking.
Turning righ
t, Linden walks down rue Delambre to the boulevard. He crosses over to the other side, in front of La Rotonde. A little farther on, he stops at Le Select. He hasn’t been to this brasserie for years. He finds a seat, orders a glass of Bordeaux and a club sandwich. Then he sends a text message to his sister, telling her her husband is in Paris, at the Rosebud bar, next door. He hasn’t the heart to inform her about Colin’s deplorable state. Tilia writes back. Yes, she knows. The receptionist informed her that her husband had asked for her. She doesn’t want to see him just yet. She’ll do that in the morning. She and Mistral will be having dinner with Lauren in her room. Would he like to join them? No, he’ll hang around Montparnasse for a while, eat something, answer some emails, and relax. He has to get up early for the hospital transfer, remember? He won’t be back late.
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