“Your father hears and understands everything we say,” says Dominique, seeing Linden glancing at his father. She had quite a conversation with Mr. Malegarde last evening. When Linden frowns, puzzled, she resumes: Of course, Mr. Malegarde can’t talk properly yet, but he can certainly communicate. This is what she does, every week; she connects with patients who’ve had strokes, and she helps and teaches their entourage to do so as well. Linden wonders what she knows and learns about every family to whom she offers solace. It must be a difficult job, and not even getting paid for it is all the more remarkable. How did she end up doing this? What triggered her? What was Dominique’s life like? Did she have someone to go home to, or was the hospital the only focus of her day? His father’s eyes are settled on Dominique’s round face, flickering down to the knitting. Perhaps Paul is comforted as well by her presence. What was Paul able to express to her yesterday? Linden feels curious. Dominique gets up inconspicuously, folding her wool away. It’s been a pleasure talking to them. She will be back tomorrow. When she goes out and shuts the door behind her, there is a void. Linden struggles to find his own path in the sudden silence. Should he resort to simply chatting, like Dominique did? Just talk, let the words flow out? In his father’s eyes, he reads expectancy. He pulls closer to the bed, takes Paul’s hand in his. Your father hears and understands everything we say. He feels his father’s slow pulse at his wrist, beating against his thumb. He marvels at the convolutedness of the human body, of all the unseen maneuvers going on beneath the skin. He thinks of the clot blocking his father’s artery, of how his father’s constitution is fighting it. He wants to be able to hope, to believe his father will pull through. Holding his father’s hand like this, in this peaceful moment, makes Paul’s possible death a heresy. And yet, at the back of his mind, there is a powerful image, one that he cannot erase. It seems his father’s life is slowly ebbing away, with the same stealthy pace as the rise of the Seine, as if the two events are intertwined and preordained. The complex intricacies of nerves, cells, and organs composing his father’s body resemble the Parisian network of streets being gradually invaded by water, shutting down power, blocking computerized data transmission. Linden looks through the spattered windowpane, and it seems to him he has become a sentinel, on the lookout for the inevitable aquatic invasion, watching over his father, over the rain, over the entire city.
Linden starts by saying Lauren is better. Hopefully, she will soon be able to come and see her husband. She looks beat, but she’s over the hump. She’ll be okay. His father’s face twitches a little; he blinks, makes a strange groaning noise. Linden can’t understand what Paul wants. He leans closer. A whisper. He makes out “You.” The word you. Linden points at himself. Paul lowers his chin, grunts again. What does his father mean? Oh! He gets it! Paul means him. Him, Linden. How is Linden feeling? Paul rumbles and nods again. Linden smiles, exulted that he can decipher this new language. He’s fine. He’s fine, a little tired, but fine. He moves on to the Seine, convinced this will absorb his father, like earlier on, when Dominique was bringing up the latest news. He describes how the flooding is slowly spreading to the eighth arrondissement, exactly like it had in 1910, despite obstructions and pumping devices installed by the city. Another lagoon is forming in front of the Saint-Lazare train station, creeping down rue de l’Arcade, where blockades have been raised. The authorities have locked off the area, not only because the enormous station was built on unstable ground, which had been thoroughly quarried for sewers, undercrossings, parking lots, and the Métro, but also because an ancient and stagnant branch of the Seine used to flow there, centuries ago, on a northern path from Ménilmontant to Chaillot, and the flood has resuscitated it, sucking water into the vicinity. The Musée d’Orsay’s ground floor is entirely swamped; artwork has been stowed away safely, but impairments to the museum are colossal. The Maison de la Radio, the circular modern building situated on avenue du Président-Kennedy, very near the river, which usually broadcasts several national channels, had to be shut down and evacuated. Gigantic inflatable rings had been fitted all around the edifice, but the flow had still filtered through. Transmissions were now being made from temporary dry offices, near Montmartre. La Défense, the major corporate area, west of Paris, where thousands of businesses have offices, has been cut off from the capital and overrun by the swollen, furious river at the pont de Neuilly level. Specialists are now saying the city will be paralyzed for over fifteen days. The peak of the surge should be reached tomorrow, or the day after, Linden heard. He realizes he might be worrying his father, so he refrains from mentioning the numbers he heard on the news, that over five million people would find themselves without running water, without electricity. The impact of this flood would be ten times worse than in 1910; he doesn’t mention that, either. He tells him instead that his agent emailed him to inform him that several of the black-and-white photographs he took at Javel with the old Leica have been published in the international press. As he talks, Linden is convinced his father is aware, perhaps more than anyone else, of the supremacy of nature. Paul is listening carefully; Linden can see it in the intensity of his eyes. Part of him is crying out to talk about something else, to evoke more personal subjects. They have never done this, his father and he. How can he start? Perhaps he should ask Dominique; she might know how to help. His thoughts are interrupted by Mistral’s arrival. He feels both relieved to see her and thwarted because he hasn’t been able to share more intimate concerns with his father. Mistral is glowing with exhilaration; she has a surprise for them. Can they guess? She hops up and down, her face pink. They both stare at her, baffled. Slowly, she opens the door, and Tilia is standing there, pale and still. She catches sight of her father and promptly bursts into tears. Mistral pulls her into the room gently, leads her to the bed. Tilia, still sobbing, catches her father’s hand and kisses it. She can’t talk; she can only press her lips against Paul’s skin again and again. It was quite something getting her here, murmurs Mistral to Linden. It was Tilia’s idea in the first place; she wanted to do it, but when they got to the hospital entrance, she chickened out. She went white, had to sit down; then she said she had to go back to the hotel, that she couldn’t go through with it. So they sat for ages, and Mistral talked to her, and it worked. As usual, when he looks at his sister, Linden is torn between amusement and emotion. She is such a bundle of nerves, that one, uncontrollable, unpredictable. Their father’s face seems less distorted (or has Linden gotten used to it?), and Paul makes moaning noises that are both touching and embarrassing. Linden has the perfect excuse to use the Leica, to hide behind it, to protect himself.
Later, when he departs, leaving Tilia and Mistral with Paul, he bumps into Dominique in front of the elevator. He hesitates, only for a few seconds, and then asks her how can he talk to his father? He stammers, feeling ridiculous. He means to really talk, not just babble on about the river and the weather. She takes his question seriously. They ride down in the elevator together and walk to the exit on rue Saint-Jacques. She explains that sometimes families are put off by the strange expressions and noises that stroke survivors make. So if that bothers him, he can look out of the window, and try talking that way, in the beginning. And then he will get used to it. Linden doesn’t dare tell her that his father’s appearance does not inconvenience him; it is essentially confiding in his father that does. He thanks her and takes his leave.
Like an old friend, the rain greets him as he strides along boulevard de Port-Royal toward Montparnasse and the hotel. There are many people in cafés, he notices, having lunch, drinking, making merry, while half of the city is doused. He finds it perturbing how tragedy lurks in only some areas, not in others. Won’t all of Paris be affected? Isn’t that what they must learn to face? In the quiet of his room, he watches the live images of the president visiting the Javel neighborhood by boat, escorted by the mayor and the prime minister. Their expressions are solemn and lugubrious; behind them, another boat, this one full of journalists armed with cameras, f
ollows. People shout out to the president from their windows: several insults, some pleas for help, many cries of thanks. The president answers everybody patiently, reaching up to shake hands, offering his sympathy, even responding to the few invectives. Yes, he should have come here before. Yes, he feels for them. Yes, he is here to help. As Linden looks on, a text message from Oriel shows up on his phone: Hope your dad is OK? Tonight, meet me at 22 hours on corner of rue de Grenelle and rue de Bourgogne. We’ll be in a patrol boat. Don’t take your camera. No flash allowed. O xxxx.
* * *
In the afternoon, Linden knocks on his mother’s door. No answer. He catches the whine of a hair dryer and guesses she can’t hear him. He waits for another five minutes and tries again when it gets quiet. This time, Lauren opens up, wearing a bathrobe, her hair still damp, dryer in her hand. She says she hasn’t quite finished, and asks him to stay in the bedroom. The whirr starts again; she closes the bathroom door. Linden sits, thinking this may be the right time to talk to his mother about the next couple of weeks. If Paul’s condition remains unchanged, they are all going to have to decide what to do. They can’t stay in this hotel much longer. If Lauren must remain in Paris, then this must be organized. Do they have Parisian friends that could put her up? He can’t think of many, and besides, the flood makes it more complicated. What about those friends Colin mentioned? Not a very good idea. Best to keep Colin out of it. His mother’s phone buzzes, right next to him, on the bedside table. JeffVDH. It’s that guy again. Her ex. Jeff van der Haagen. Linden shouts through to Lauren, “Phone ringing!,” but again she can’t hear him. After a few moments, a text message flashes on the screen. He shouldn’t be looking, but he does.
My love, so glad to hear you’re better. Call me when you can. Think of you night and day. Kiss you all over. J.
Linden gets up, tempted to leave before his mother comes out of the bathroom. He doesn’t know what is worse: his embarrassment at discovering his mother has a lover, or having to confront her, knowing he is fully aware of the situation. In a couple of minutes, she will emerge, and he will have to act normally, as if he saw nothing, as if nothing has happened. He doesn’t feel up to it. He wonders what his sister will make of this; then he realizes Tilia probably already knows, or has guessed. He doesn’t want to be part of this; he doesn’t want to judge his mother, nor for her to think he is judging her. This is her private life, and it has nothing to do with him. He stands near the window, feeling uncomfortable. His parents’ marriage? It’s none of his business. He left home when he was fifteen. Their relationship is a mystery he refuses to look into. Why should he? Yet the text message has created ingress into that mystery, has forced him into their intimacy. He can’t help thinking of his father. What does Paul know? How long has it been going on? Linden recalls the summer when Jeff and his family came to Vénozan, a hazy memory. Is this a recent affair? Or one of those long-lasting clandestine ones, like Candice and J.G.’s? More questions come. Are his parents happy? Have they always been happy? Had it been easy for Lauren to give up her country, her life, for a new one, for a new language she hardly knew, and still spoke badly? She was only nineteen when she met Paul. Had she felt forlorn when both her children left home? She was forty then. Perhaps that had been her hidden fragility: the prospect of being alone in that large house, with a husband who only listened to trees. The hair dryer stops at last. When Lauren appears, dressed in a dark sweater and trousers, Linden remains silent. He cannot bring himself to act naturally. His arms hang stiffly on each side of his body. He waits for his mother to discover the text message, to put two and two together. She slips her reading glasses over her nose, takes her phone in her palm. Linden looks away. The minutes drag by. Perhaps she’ll say nothing. Perhaps she’ll hide it all, like when she couldn’t face the fact he was gay, like when she probably told her friends her son had girlfriends.
“You must be disappointed in me.” His mother’s voice is low, but he hears her perfectly. He shakes his head, raises a hand: He doesn’t have to hear all this; he doesn’t have to know. His voice comes out a little noisier than he expected. She sighs. There, she knew it; he’s angry, and he has every right to be angry. How can Linden explain to his mother that he would rather she not unburden herself, that he doesn’t need to be told all the details? His parents’ personal life holds no appeal for him, and he marvels that she cannot fathom that. Lauren blunders on, laboriously, and for the hundredth time he thinks how different she is from her sister, who was intuitive, understated. Yet, he loves his mother, even if he knows she is self-absorbed, unsubtle, at times insensitive. She has a sharp sense of humor, which he finds endearing; she has often made him roar with laughter. Now, laughter is very far from his mind. He raises his hand again, interrupts her, tells her it’s okay, that he understands. She doesn’t have to go on. He’s an adult. Why can’t they stop talking about this, now? Lauren’s face seems to sag. Gone is the resplendent mother who got all the attention. Lauren bangs her hand down on the table, hard, making him jump.
“Linden, just listen to me!”
Her tone is tense, filled with pain; tears glisten in her eyes. He steadies himself for what is to come. There are many, many things in her life she has done wrong. The good thing about reaching her age is that she can see these mistakes; she can pinpoint how they happened, why they happened. She’s not out to make excuses, to wallow in self-pity. She knows exactly what she has done. Jeffrey, her old fiancé. Yes, Jeff is married as well. Yes, it sounds low and shameful. God, it isn’t! It began years ago. She hardly sees Jeff. He lives in Boston with his family. They meet once a year, perhaps even less. Now that her parents are dead, she has no excuse to go to Boston. She writes to Jeff every day. They have been corresponding like this, on a daily basis, for fifteen years. He is her confidant, her best friend, her soul mate. He is always there for her, even if he is miles away, and she tells him everything. She is there for him in return. They have written pages and pages to each other, letter after letter, email after email, text after text. No, Paul doesn’t know. At least she thinks he doesn’t know. And would he care if he did? She’s not sure. Linden asks her what she means. She gives a little dry laugh that he doesn’t like. Linden just doesn’t see, does he? Nobody does. Nobody sees. Nobody can tell. Paul is gentle, kind, and patient. He is not aggressive; he has never yelled at her, never hit her. It’s just that Paul lives in another world. He doesn’t see what they see; he doesn’t hear what they hear. All he sees, all he looks out for are trees. Must she really explain this to him? Surely Linden must know. Surely, Linden suffered from this, as well. She knows Tilia did. Linden mutters he knows. His mother goes on, her voice still wobbly. Paul is content with her merely being there. Her presence is all he needs. The silence drives her mad. Over the years, she tried opening up to her husband. He always listened, but discussions never took place; Paul wrapped himself up in his customary reserve. She concedes she has more conversations with her housekeeper, Nadine, or even old Vandeleur, the gardener. She organized this very trip in the hopes that he would somehow interact with her, with his family at last. She thought it wasn’t too late, that Paul would somehow learn to communicate, at seventy! Had she been so very wrong? And now, this tragic thing has happened: her husband is fighting for his life in a hospital. Is she going to be able to speak to him again? Will he hear her? Will he survive? She feels so guilty. Lauren begins to cry, gently. Linden wonders if Candy knew about Jeff, about her sister’s difficulties. She probably did. Candy was close to Lauren; she knew how to keep secrets. He feels sorry for his mother for the first time, his nonchalant, exquisite mother who rarely seemed perturbed by the course of events. He has hardly ever seen her cry. He reaches out and pats her shoulder comfortingly; he says Paul is going to pull through, that she’ll be able to see him soon, that she mustn’t worry. He gets up, murmurs something about going back to his room, but she pulls on his hand.
“I want to talk to you about my other mistakes.”
She sounds determined n
ow, less tearful. Her wet face is turned to his. She says she’d been waiting for the right moment to tell him this, and that moment never came. So she’s choosing now, even if they’ve had their fair share of emotions during the past week. She’s been carrying this burden around for too long now; it’s too painful. She wants to talk about his coming out. Linden was not expecting any of this. He sits down again, wordless, his heart beating a little faster. His mother clasps her hands together, flinching. What she is trying to say, and being utterly hopeless at it, is this: She’s sorry. Sorry for reacting the way she did when he told her, thirteen years ago. Sorry for all those years when she never brought the subject up again, until she met Sacha. She let Linden down, badly. She has never forgiven herself. And that silly jealousy when he said Candy knew before she did: How could she have been so stupid, so uncaring? She had been overwhelmed by all the wrong feelings. To be honest (and she wants to be honest; she wants nothing but honesty between them right now), she had guessed he was gay when he decided to leave for Paris. She suspected he was being bullied at school. And yet she did nothing, said nothing, another terrible mistake. She knows why. She can say it now, but she couldn’t back then. She said nothing because she was afraid. She was afraid of her son being a homosexual. It was the dread of being different, of standing out. The fear of having a child who was not like the others at school, especially in that narrow-minded provincial town, because of the name she bore, that name, Malegarde: a family of notables, a lineage of which Linden was the only heir. The last one to carry on the name. There was no one she could voice her fears to. There was no one she could talk to. She couldn’t bring herself to say out loud “I think Linden is gay and I’m scared of that.” So she let it go. She let him leave for Paris, and she can see him now, tall, thin, and unhappy, coming to say good-bye to her in the kitchen, his father waiting in the car to drive him to Montélimar to catch the train to Paris. Deep down, she knew her sister would offer Linden all the tenderness and comfort he needed, everything she wasn’t capable of giving him there and then. She despised herself. She considered herself a hopeless mother. When Tilia left, and then got pregnant, she felt lonelier and more useless than ever. She didn’t know how to talk to Linden; and there he was, becoming closer and closer to Candy every day. She let her envy get in the way. She could have talked to her sister, and she didn’t. Another mistake. So many mistakes. She’s the queen of mistakes, isn’t she? When Linden had summoned up his courage that spring day in his flat on rue Broca, she had behaved disastrously. When she thought back to it, she wanted to scream. The worst part was when she had told him she didn’t know how his father would react and that she left it up to him to talk to Paul. How could she have brought herself to say this to her son? Such cruelty! Such hard-heartedness! She sees now that it was once again her fear making her say these things, her terror of having a gay son. Her fear of saying to people: My son is gay. She loathed herself for this. She had wanted her son to be like all the other sons of people she knew. Yet she hadn’t been raised by bigots! Her parents, however old-fashioned, were open-minded. They had taught their daughters to be tolerant, generous, impartial. So what had happened? It took her a while to figure it out. Years, in fact. She realized she had to banish the image of the son she thought she had, the so-called perfect son, the son who would fit in; the images of her son getting married to a woman, having that woman’s child. She understood she had to stop lying to others about her son’s sexuality, for the simple reason she couldn’t face their reaction. It hurt now to think back on all those years when she didn’t dare question Linden about his personal life, his boyfriends, even after his coming out. He must have found her callous. Time went by, and Linden’s career took off. He became more famous than his father, in another field. She was proud, she really was, but there was this nagging feeling inside her, always. Linden was leading his own life, and she knew nothing about it, apart from his photographs. She just couldn’t figure out how to talk to him, naturally. She brought it up with Tilia, who became impatient and told her off. And she could not discuss it with Paul. She never had. She did not dare. It was so stupid of her. Linden’s personal life was a topic she never discussed with her husband. Did the reluctance come from Paul? No, she did not believe so. It came only from her, and with each year, the silence thrived. And then, in 2014, she met Sacha, with Linden, in New York. She had never met any of her son’s boyfriends; she had never even heard their names. She had been nervous about this dinner; she was worried about this young man, this stranger. Linden had told her, candidly, by email, that he was in love, that he was moving to San Francisco soon, and that he wanted her to get to know Sacha. Lauren had been in Boston for a week in April 2014, for her mother’s funeral, which Linden had attended. It had been a sad period for Lauren: her sister’s suicide two years earlier, her father’s death the year before, and now her mother’s. She had agreed to stop by in New York, and Paul had flown back to France from Boston for an important dendrologists convention. The night that Sacha and Lauren met, she saw them walk into the restaurant, and her son’s face was glowing with happiness. She saw only that, at first, the incredible light shining from Linden’s eyes. And then she looked at the man standing beside him. The same light. The same radiance. She saw two people in love. She saw it, then and there. Why had she been afraid? She felt liberated! She would never lie again. She didn’t need to. When she mentions Sacha, she always adds: my son’s boyfriend. When she speaks to Paul, she simply says, Sacha. Paul has never asked anything about Sacha, but he knows exactly who Sacha is. What does he think of his son’s living with a man? She has no idea. She has never mustered the courage to ask him. Linden says he hasn’t, either, for the same reasons.
The Rain Watcher Page 18