Ferdinand looked at the clock. It was seven and not yet light. He rummaged through the dresser and eventually found what he was looking for: a large teapot and a cup with matching saucer. Henriette had won them in a lottery. Or perhaps in a shooting competition. She tried them all. She must have been after the big prize again: the pressure cooker. But she’d won the tea set instead. It had never been used: she didn’t like tea. She had her coffee with chicory. He rinsed the cup under the tap, wiped it, put it on the table by the gold metal tea caddy. It was all right, didn’t look too bad at all.
The kettle started to whistle.
He poured the water gradually into the coffee filter. He thought back to the conversation and Gaby’s news. So sudden. Christ almighty, it made you feel sick. And Guy would be left on his own. Would he be able to bear it? They had been inseparable. And now, wham . . . Try as he might Ferdinand couldn’t think of any other couples that much in love. He was moved by the thought. Not that he was jealous. He wouldn’t have been able to stand being tied down like that. He was just touched that it could happen.
His train of thought was disturbed by a stampede on the stairs. Berthe came in and rubbed herself against his legs, tail wagging and tongue hanging out, followed closely by little Chamalo. Ferdinand picked him up in one hand and held him close, and with the other patted the dog’s head. They seemed to be getting along. So far so good.
He put the teapot down in front of Marceline, and helped himself to a cup of coffee. They drank together in silence. Finally he asked how her night had been. Very good, thank you. And the old tomcat was better? He’d been sleeping since yesterday, but hadn’t eaten a thing. Recuperating, as you’d expect. As long as that was it. Had she begun to think about . . . ? A bit. He paused for a while. She was in no rush to let him know. He told himself he must let her choose her moment, so he asked another question. She knew Gabrielle, didn’t she? Who? Guy’s wife. A couple of old farmers like himself. Gaby, yes, of course, they were friends, they always went to the library together, but it had been a fortnight since . . . Well, she wouldn’t be able to go there anymore. Why was that? She’s on her way out. She wasn’t sure what he meant. She’s got a one-way ticket. Did that mean . . . ? Yes, she hasn’t got long. Oh.
“I’m going to see her tomorrow. Would you . . . ?”
“Yes, please.”
“She’d like that.”
17
Marceline Doesn’t Understand
After breakfast, Marceline put on her boots and raincoat and set off with the dog. They were both in a hurry to get home. They could hear Cornelius braying in the distance. As they arrived at the small track leading to the farmyard, he trotted up to them. As usual he had managed to open the gate to his pen and had gone around the vegetable garden in search of something to eat. But finding nothing he returned to the yard, complaining noisily. Marceline stroked him for a long time, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. And she also scolded him just a little, as she’d noticed that during his walk he had trampled all over the cabbages. Then she went down to her house and slowly pushed open the door. The tarpaulin on the roof had given way. Half torn off, it was flapping against the wall in the wind. Two inches of water covered the floor. Dismal.
An hour later it started to rain again.
Ferdinand was washing the breakfast dishes. He heard a bark, so he went to open the door. Berthe splattered him from head to toe, as she carefully shook her coat on the doorstep. She was happy to see him, rubbing herself against his leg. She ended up completely soaking him and when she had been patted enough she ran to lie down in front of the stove.
Marceline crossed the yard, clutching two large vases. The wind had beaten back her hood, her hair was soaked, and the water trickled down her face.
She stood in front of him, and looked him straight between the eyes.
“You know very well I don’t have any money to pay rent.”
“I haven’t asked you for anything.”
“So why the offer?”
“It’s natural.”
“What’s natural?”
“To help each other out.”
“I don’t understand. We’ve hardly said a word, let alone shaken hands. You barely knew I existed and now all of a sudden you’re offering . . .”
“I know. But don’t you worry about that for now, Madame Marceline. Come on in.”
He held back the door to let her through. She hesitated, then finally went in. He wanted to help her. But she brushed him aside, and holding the vases tightly, ran upstairs.
When she came down again there was a faint smile on her face, as though she wanted to apologize. He told her not to worry, it didn’t matter, we all have our little foibles. And she replied that one day—but not just now because at the moment she was so on edge she would definitely cry—she would explain why she preferred to carry the vases herself. In just a few words. It wouldn’t take long.
18
Moving Out, Moving In
Ferdinand had attached the trailer to the tractor and Marceline harnessed the donkey to her cart. In less than an hour they had loaded up all her belongings. The biggest problem was the wardrobe. They rested it on one side, and slid it as far as the door, but there it got stuck. Ferdinand pushed and he pulled, he huffed and he puffed with all his might, but nothing worked. After a while Marceline began to laugh. He worried she might be about to break down. But soon he understood it was the situation that amused her. He was amazed. To be able to laugh after all she’d been through was simply astonishing. Well, it astonished him anyhow. He resumed pushing the wardrobe. It wouldn’t budge. In the end Marceline decided she might as well leave it there. It was not worth breaking their backs for such a short time. She didn’t have that many things. She could live without it.
Returning to the farm, they piled her belongings in the room the kids had chosen for her cello. It was a small, bright room, on the ground floor, not far from the kitchen. Not at all like her house.
She chose that room because of the window looking out on Cornelius’s stable. It would reassure him to see her, and she could keep an eye on him. No sooner had he arrived than he started to examine the bolt on the door of his stall. It wouldn’t take him long to work out how to open it. Two or three days at the most. And then what would he get up to once he was out? This was a donkey that liked to go where he pleased, visit the surrounding area, particularly the vegetable garden. Ferdinand might not be too keen on finding hoof marks in the middle of his vegetables. Only she could see the funny side. And even then, not always.
She finished sorting her belongings. A noise made her turn and she jumped. With his nostrils pressed against the windowpane, Cornelius was watching her with a baleful eye.
There was nothing to do about it: if she wanted any privacy she would have to put some curtains over the window.
19
Guy and Gaby
Guy was brushing Gaby’s hair. So fine and so delicate, he was afraid of damaging it. He scarcely touched it, just enough to make her look neat and tidy. Then he asked her whether she wanted it fixing with a hair clip. She did. He looked for his favorite, the one with the large white flower. Was it a camellia? She grumbled that she’d told him a thousand times it was a gardenia, but he could never remember. There, she was ready. He smiled at her. She could see from his eyes that he thought she was beautiful. Since her return, he no longer brought her the mirror. Each time she asked for it he came over all vague and told her he’d lost it. She thought he had broken it and didn’t want to own up. Lying, just like a little boy afraid of a scolding. A white lie. Nothing too serious. Well, enough. As for the mirror she wouldn’t mind being told it was in smithereens, on the contrary. For some time now she no longer liked looking at herself. Water must have got inside, or the back had got warped, in any case, she couldn’t recognize her own reflection. In Guy’s eyes at least she was still his Gaby. Unlike this cheap mirror, he didn’t judge things by appearances. He sought her out in the depths of her being and illum
inated her with his love.
With him at her side she knew she wouldn’t be afraid when her time came.
Guy got out some little cakes and made some tea and coffee for the guests.
He and Ferdinand went out into the garden for a stroll and to smoke a pipe, while Marceline gave Gaby’s legs a massage. It did her good. She had been bedridden for a fortnight. She could no longer feel her blood circulating. Now it was coming back, she felt less cold. She wanted to talk. She asked Marceline to come close, so she wouldn’t have to strain her voice. She was very thin and exhausted, her breathing was labored, but there was still a slight twinkle in her eye. She asked after Cornelius—what had that donkey been up to, to make her smile? Marceline told her how he had learned to open the bolt on the pen, and described his walk around the vegetable garden and the trampled cabbages: her punishment for having left him alone all night. He was a sassy one, that donkey. Her smile faded. So you see, Marceline dear, I’m on my way out. Yes, Gaby, I know. I didn’t think it would happen so soon. There are things I miss already. Like what? I’d have liked to live through another spring, with the buds on the trees, the hawthorn, and the smell of lilac, and the sound of the bees gathering pollen. And what else? I’d also like to hear you play the cello. Oh Gaby, please . . . You remember that CD you once played for me? It was so beautiful, that music. But Gaby, you know I can’t. Never mind. It’s just I’d have liked it so much. Go on, go and get Ferdinand quick, right now. Otherwise I’ll be too tired to talk to him.
Ferdinand came and sat down by the bed.
Still beautifully dressed up, my Gaby. With your hair clip and your camellia. She grumbled that it was a gardenia. Oh yes, it’s strange; I can never remember that name.
She signaled to Ferdinand to bend down closer so she could whisper in his ear. She told him that when she was gone he would need to keep an eye on Guy. It might be hard for him at first without her. He would need reminding of the things he had to do, his responsibilities. Mireille and the two little ones would need him. She was afraid he would forget. And then if ever Guy wanted to join her, he should tell him that they would have all the time in the world to be together. All eternity, perhaps. She looked at Ferdinand, hoping for a response. He was moved and kissed her on the forehead. Of course he would tell Guy that. And if her man didn’t behave, he’d give him a kick up the ass. She could count on him. Gaby smiled and closed her eyes, worn out from having talked for so long. That was good, now she could sleep peacefully.
20
Gaby Smells of Violets
When Mireille found out about Gaby, she wanted to have her admitted to the hospital again. Someone must have made a mistake, got the files mixed up. It was just a bad case of flu at the beginning, wasn’t it? Why would no one listen to her? Then she realized it was not a mistake. Gaby really was going to die. She felt betrayed. For the second time in her life, a mother was going to abandon her; she was not going to be able to forgive that. For two days she didn’t come to see her. On the third day, Guy went to fetch her. They cried a lot. Eventually they looked at one another and hugged each other. They shared the same suffering. Together they would find a way of facing up to it.
The next day Marceline called to say she would drop by late in the morning. Gaby was already very weak, but she asked Guy to prepare her especially for the occasion. She had chosen her black dress, the one with the lace around the neck. Then she wanted her hair done. He brushed her hair lightly and put on a hair clip so it would stay in place. The one with the gardenia. Finally she asked for a drop of perfume in her ear. The one that smelled of violets, a little touch of spring. There, she was ready. And Marceline arrived. Opening the cello case, her hands started to shake. She sat down by the bed and closed her eyes before starting to play. By the time she raised the bow, the shaking had stopped. It was that piece from the CD. And, hearing it live, Gaby found it even more beautiful. When it was over she put her hands together, but hadn’t the strength to clap. She gestured for her to come close and kissed her on the cheek. Marceline thanked her. Gaby protested: “I’m the one who should be saying thank you. It’s the first time I’ve ever had someone perform a concert for me. And gosh I’d have hated to miss something like that.”
And huddled up against one another, they burst out laughing like schoolgirls. Marceline whispered: “Perhaps in the place where you’re going you’ll meet my daughters.”
“Yes, I’ll give them a kiss for you, I promise.”
Three days later Gaby died. Guy was at her side. He held her hand and she was not afraid.
21
Ludo’s Letter
(WITHOUT THE SPELLING MISTAKES)
Dear Auntie Gaby,
I hope you’re well and it’s warmer where you are than it is here. There was a frost last night and Uncle Guy had to bring in your lemon tree, otherwise it would have definitely died outside. You see the sort of weather we’re having. It’s winter now.
I’m writing this letter because there are things I want to tell you and I didn’t have time before.
I broke the lamp with the merry-go-round, the one you gave me for my birthday. But I didn’t do it on purpose. It was too near the edge of the table and the wire caught my foot. Afterward Papa wanted to slap me, like he normally does, but Maman stopped him. I’ve really had it with Papa, you know. I’m wondering when they’re going to get divorced. Maman’s annoyed with him all the time and one time she even called him a sad bastard. I know I shouldn’t tell you that, because she is really a bit like your daughter and you could be sad to know she uses swear words. But if you ever think you brought her up badly, I swear it’s not true, you did a good job. You mustn’t worry. And also, really you shouldn’t care, because swear words they don’t mean anything. Me, I use them all the time and I know they don’t mean anything. I liked the ones you used. It was funny when you got upset and said damn. Little Lu often says damn and sugar, like Ferdinand. He’s only little so it’s OK; it’s not stupid. In my class we use real swear words, like shit or pissed off. But we’re older, that’s why.
Before when you were still here, Maman wasn’t so scared of everything. Now she always wants us to stay with her all the time and if you fall over or get a cold, she starts thinking we’re going to die too. It’s a real pain. I hope it’s not going to carry on like that.
Uncle Guy is sad but he’s trying not to let it show when we go and see him at his house. He wants us to think it’s all normal. Sometimes he tries to tell jokes, but they’re not funny, so we don’t always laugh. Maman, too, she acts like she’s all right. Except one time I heard her crying in the night. It’s normal to cry when you haven’t got a girlfriend or a mother anymore. It would make me cry anyway if I didn’t have mine. But I wouldn’t mind if it was Papa.
So Auntie Gaby, that’s all I’ve got to say.
If you ever want to write back or tell me something, it would be good if you could come back in my dreams. I’ll try and remember when I wake up in the morning.
Big kiss.
Ludovic—your darling great-nephew who loves you loads.
Little Lu wants me to write that he sends kisses too. I’ve seen the drawing he’s done for you—it’s of a butterfly. Also you’ll see his signature is really awful.
Lucien
22
Simone and Hortense Waiting
Eleven o’clock. Simone and Hortense had been waiting for an hour, sitting on their chairs right by the door. Knitting.
That morning they had got up earlier than usual. Simone began by adding some wood to the stove. Next she put on the coffee pot, to heat up the coffee from the day before. Then, shuffling along in her old slippers, she went back to the bedroom to join Hortense and together they fetched their things from the wardrobe: black dresses, knitted jackets of speckled wool, woolen stockings that were worn out at the knees, fur-lined ankle boots and winter coats with the imitation astrakhan collars. It was a long time since all these things had seen the air. They smelled of mothballs. Hortense asked herself h
ow long it had been, but before she had time to finish Simone had already replied on her behalf.
“One year. Since Alfred’s death.”
“Alfred? What did he do then?”
“He was a smith of course, just think, Hortense!”
At that moment in the kitchen the coffee started to boil and Simone rushed to take the pot off the stove, pursued by Hortense shrieking, boil the coffee, spoil the coffee! Naturally she was irritated. But, boiled or not, they drank it. It wasn’t nice and they had nothing to sweeten it with. The sugar had got left off their last shopping list. It was like that with Hortense: she had her memory lapses.
On the windowsill a cat with a half-torn ear and gammy leg started to meow pathetically. Simone let her in and then raised her voice so the neighbors could hear.
“You hungry, you poor thing? All right, come on in, we’ll give you a drop of milk. Shame!”
Shutting the window again, she carried on muttering:
“They’d let the creature starve, that bunch. I tell you they’ve got hearts of stone.”
They gave the cat a large bowl of milk, and then both sat down to watch it lapping. The cat took its time, licking its whiskers and wiping its chin. It was just about to jump up on Simone’s knees to be stroked, as it did every morning, when she leaped to her feet, brushed it away and opened the window again.
And Then Came Paulette Page 5