by Unknown
The small Hungarian cemetery was unusually beautiful the day I went, I had just turned eighteen and gotten my driver’s license, it was nearly the end of spring, my aunt had given me access to my bank account, enough in there to keep up my studies, long years of studies according to my father’s instructions, I had taken a bit out for this short trip. There were trees everywhere in there, the forest was beyond, a big forest of slender, leafy trees swaying in the wind, like a sonata of souls. Right below my mother’s name were the two dates, 1953 and 1978, in a big square where other members of my family lay side by side: her parents born in 1934 and 1935, died in 1956; uncles, aunts, grandparents on my father’s side. I thought that I would have liked to be buried there as well, one day, near the one I’d cost so dearly, and with all these people I’d never known, but later, several years ago, with Carole, we discovered the Tadoussac cemetery, close to where we lived, on the left bank of Saint-Laurent, and there as well I thought it would be nice, or peaceful, to spend my afterlife there, with small steles covered in red tiles, as if that mattered in the least. But here at Montrouge, in this tangled earth between rent-controlled apartments and the Périphérique? No, thank you.
The notary public insisted that I had to have the keys to the house, he had a copy just in case. I had to at least stop by, get some idea of the place. The keychain was weighted with an iron ball, which sagged in my vest pocket. I ordered some skate with capers, the pub was nearly empty, a few old women also alone at their tables, or a few possibly illicit couples kissing over their wine glasses, and businessmen, all part of an old world that still exists. My mother couldn’t swallow the smallest bite of meat, it seemed. Those were the only kinds of memories I’d retained. Or, well, not memories, but rather information, picked up here and there. The letters I received didn’t include any concrete details. Once, shortly after my wedding, he sent me a few pictures, including one of my mother, with long black hair, a few gray streaks already, at least this was a problem with the picture, a long and very thin nose, a large mouth with thin lips, she wore a red-and-green-and-yellow-checkered dress, the colors were a bit dated, it was a Polaroid, her shoulders were thin, bony, the bags under her eyes betrayed her sadness, but her body was lively, there was a clear strength, maybe even some happiness, something hidden but joyous, I like this picture that I’ve moved each year into yet another daily planner, maybe this is the reason I don’t want a tablet computer, not even the iPad that Carole pressed on me just before this trip, she had downloaded two or three movies to kill time, and pictures of our kids, from our last vacation, it’s clear we’re happy, tranquil days in store.
He must have known the risks that she was incurring, she’d consulted him because he had a good reputation, he was well-known, a very big deal, in a slightly different field, but he inspired confidence, people talked about him, attributed miracles to him, so she did everything she could to arrange a meeting, and that’s how they met, because she worked in a different department in a different building, there was barely any chance, if any at all, that their paths would cross by accident. He would have to wait months until a decisive meeting. Her overwhelming desire for a child must have touched him, or unexpectedly awakened a similar desire in him, one of those groundless desires that spontaneously appears and stubbornly develops into reality, come hell or high water, her fragility, his age, fifty-three years old, and soon came the wedding, a small ceremony, few friends, mostly colleagues, this mix of professors and nurses that almost seemed like a cliché. A few months later, she became pregnant. Her gift, her fate. I don’t really know how he got by during the three or four years he had me with him, when I was with him, when we were together, nannies I suppose, or babysitters, a few of whom probably ended up in his bed, my aunt always said he was a seductive man, people didn’t say no to him, the surgeon’s charm, both financial and metaphysical, I didn’t understand that word when I was a child and a teenager, I’m not sure I understand it today, it’s a word that inspires a little bit of fear.
As I left the pub, it wasn’t raining anymore, but the clouds were still heavy, very heavy, and a faint fog loomed. I debated about taking the avenue Jean-Moulin, and finally decided on the noisy and chaotic avenue de Général-Leclerc, they said the liberation had come from the south, but the disembarkation happened in the west, even the northwest of Paris, I was lost among my reflections when suddenly I found myself struck by a new calmness. There wasn’t any more traffic around me, men were stopped, seized by fear, and there was nothing but the emergency lights of two ambulances facing each other and two fire trucks across the street. I saw first a motorcycle frame that was still smoking under the fire-fighting foam that glazed it with a drab gray, then the raised stretcher that two firemen were carrying to their truck, without any IVs or other signs that the victim would live. They had just left the scene, clearly, and put aside the body wrapped in a silvery cloth and covered again with a sheet over its legs. Everything was quiet, the nurses had a haggard look in the cold, one of them grimaced, the police took action, assessed the scene around the car that had struck him, and suddenly I felt death, the brutal and sudden weight of death, with sadness, despondency, and some kind of compassion, a deep compassion for this man that they had slid into the back of a fire truck and who was probably my age and had children as well and a stupid move, the wrong decision, a pointless attempt, an accident, bang, it was all over in minutes. I was afraid, standing there on the sidewalk. Afraid to walk, afraid to cross streets, afraid of the noises that returned little by little as I approached the Périphérique. I had wanted to buy a little something for the kids and for Carole, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for something like that, I couldn’t think about anything other than the accident, or that femme fatale named Fate, or that woman who was perhaps getting a phone call right now that would bring about the collapse of her life, of the work she had dedicated so much of her life to. I was almost ready to cry, but it was cold, a cold wind came, followed by rain that was turning to snow, just as they had said this morning in the weather report.
I called Carole on my cell phone, it did me good to hear her voice, our kids in the background, I heard their laughter, their screams, I didn’t really know what to say. I talked about the funeral, about my unease there, the house, she said let it go, don’t worry about the past, it’s okay to give it up, I know it, you can say no, after all you’ve certainly got the right, he’s not going to be bothered, your father, you don’t owe him anything, we don’t need his shit, I was surprised to hear her using that word, not because of the word itself, but because it meant she was annoyed, or even outraged, she who was always so calm, so gracious around people, I told her I would call in the evening, because I needed to lie down now, I hadn’t slept well the night before.
When I walked out of another, lighter drizzle into the hotel, there was a message from the notary public for me to call him back. His secretary told me that he was busy, that she would leave him a note because she had to leave early today to take care of her son. I turned on the television, without paying any attention, I switched from one channel to the next. I almost dozed off, and when the phone rang, when I answered, I could tell from his voice that the notary public was embarrassed, that he didn’t know how to tell me, it’s a secret, there wouldn’t be any red tape, the rooms have never been listed and as such no one else could have any legal claim on them, and anyway none of that changes anything, nobody has any idea, but after all, I thought that I should let you know, you seemed so distant this morning, so closed-off, but listen, your father ran some tests, I don’t know exactly when or why, you were very little, it was when you were still living with him, and these tests, how should I put this, these tests completely changed things, I think he wasn’t able to handle it, it was impossible, you know, in any case, he couldn’t handle it at all, you weren’t there for no reason, of course, but he named you as his heir, his sole heir, as you know, that makes you a pretty rich man, believe me, and so I thought it was important that you kn
ew, now you can do what you want, it’s none of my business anymore. I hung up the phone carefully.
The skate isn’t enough to hold me over. I’m hungry, but it’s too early for dinner. I’ll sleep a bit first, in the darkness of the room, with the tune of rainfall against the window.
TRANSLATED FROM FRENCH BY JEFFREY ZUCKERMAN
[UNITED KINGDOM: WALES]
RAY FRENCH
Migration
We’re standing on the banks of the Humber river, my father and I, the two of us enjoying the sun, the pleasant breeze. This is a rare outing for him. His loss of memory, a gradual loosening of his grip on the world, making him increasingly reluctant to leave home, where he’s surrounded by things that are familiar, that can be named. But, today, he is coping well with the unfamiliarity all around him, remarkably well in fact. Who knows when there’ll be another day like this—I’m determined we make the most of it.
To our right is the Humber Bridge. He gazes at it admiringly and says, “That must have taken some work, boy.”
The cue to take my notebook from my pocket, flip to the page where I’d scrawled some notes while reading the display about the bridge at the Information Centre. He likes facts, cherishing their lack of ambiguity—clear and solid signposts in a shape-shifting world.
“It took 480,000 tonnes of concrete and 11,000 tonnes of steel wire to build it,” I tell him. When I glance up at him he’s alert, focused; nothing grabs his attention like detailed information about construction. He worked as a labourer all his life, this is his currency, these are things that still bring him satisfaction.
“That’s enough wire,” I continue, “to stretch one and a half times across the world.”
“Fecking hell!”
I knew he’d love that one. He shakes his head and looks back at the bridge.
“That took some work alright.”
It’s good to see him re-engage with the world. There should be more days like this.
“When the winds reach eighty miles an hour,” I say, encouraged by his reaction, “the bridge bends by up to three meters in the middle. That’s close to ten feet—amazing, isn’t it?”
Bad idea. His face grows taut, worried, a nerve begins to jump under his eye. This drags him back to some dark and threatening place.
“Nature is fierce, boy. It doesn’t matter how hard he tries, man will never beat it.” He shakes his head emphatically, “Never.”
I wonder if he’s remembering the pitch and roll of the British navy destroyer on which he served in the Second World War. It must have been a terrifying experience, toiling away as a stoker in the bowels of the ship, knowing that if it went down, he would go down with it.
He looks at the bridge again and says, “I wouldn’t want to be on that on a windy day.”
“You’d be safe,” I say gently, “you wouldn’t actually feel the bridge moving.”
He looks doubtful. When I was young he was brave to the point of recklessness, burning with manic energy, refusing to ever compromise.
I’ll fecking show the lot of ’em.
In fact, while we’re on the subject of bridges, he once got into a scuffle with a Military Policeman while crossing one in Berlin shortly after the war—it ended when my father threw him into the Spree. Oh yes, he was a tough character back then, well able to stand up for himself. But, as he grew older, something lurking inside that he’d kept at bay for so long by sheer willpower, some dark and twisted thing, grew stronger, began to corrode his spirit.
No more talk about bridges bending in high winds, I change the subject.
“Did you know there used to be brickyards all along here?” There’s little evidence of that now, instead a thick band of reeds, standing pale gold in the sun, then mud, beyond that the brown, churning Humber. I make a sweeping gesture with my arm, encompassing the bank from the bridge right up to where we’re standing.
“At one time there were thirteen firms along here making bricks and tiles. In the mid 1930s they were making over a million bricks a year.”
“Is that so? Hard work too, I’ll bet.”
Dad’s expression lightens; he liked hard work, knows what it means. I could have taken him to one of the museums in Hull, but they would never have held his interest. He looks around, picturing this as a place bustling with activity—people digging clay, shaping it into bricks in wooden moulds and stacking them to dry, others firing the kilns. I tell him about Blythe’s Tile Yard, nearer the bridge, about ten minutes walk from where we’re standing, which has been reopened and makes bricks and tiles using the old methods, without using toxic chemicals. From there you can, if you look hard enough, make out the marks where the train lines once ran just below the Humber bank. Further along are the remains of the posts which held up the jetties once dotted along this stretch of the Humber, the river filled with sloops and keels collecting cargoes of bricks, tiles, and rope. It must have been a stirring sight—the Humber was one of the last places in the country you could see working boats under sail. These days Hull is just another desolate northern town, its streets crammed with drunks every weekend.
“Shall we walk down that way a bit?” I ask him.
“Aye, we will—come on.”
Though slow, he’s steady on his feet today. So different to how he is at home, a pale, bent, shuffling figure, head down, arms wavering, as he makes his way painstakingly across the room. Here he’s alert to his surroundings, looking around, noticing things.
“What are those yokes?”
I explain that the broken chunks of bricks and tiles lying in the grass and reeds are the remains of the long gone industry. I pick up a jagged half-brick and hand it to him, watch him turn and examine it, run his thumb along the edge.
“You could build yourself a house out of all the bricks lying around here.”
“You could.”
He weighs it in his hand, enjoying the solidity, the connection with his working life, back when he was young and strong, before so many things frightened him.
He nods approvingly, “They knew what they were doing in those days. They built things to last.”
“They did.”
We walk on another few hundred yards, but I can see he’s beginning to tire a little now. This has been a long day for a man who rarely ventures beyond the circuit of bedroom, living room, bathroom, and kitchen.
“Shall we go back?”
“Aye, I think we will.”
At that moment the sun, obscured by clouds for the last few minutes, emerges again, and he stays where he is and he lifts his head to the sky and closes his eyes. He always loved the sun. When I was a boy he would be brown as a berry all summer from working outdoors, never burning like so many other Irish people. I follow his example and close my eyes too. There’s no sound except the water lapping, the stiff breeze, the occasional cry of a bird. You could be back in Ireland, in Cullenstown, County Wexford, right back there on the strand, on a fine spring day. I wonder if that’s where Dad is thinking of now, back at the beginning of his journey, his life before him, knowing nothing of this country, of what it is to be a husband, or a father, what it feels like to grow old and frail.
As we’re walking back to the Information Centre, I tell him that I’ll show him where I work afterwards, then we’ll get something to eat before driving back home.
“Where is it you work?” he asks sharply, as if I’ve been hiding it from him.
“The University.”
“A university?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Which one?”
“Hull.”
He stops to stare at me, wide-eyed.
“Jayzus, doesn’t that beat all. A university? You’ve done well for yourself, boy.”
I can’t help smiling. If he had any idea of the enormous expectations, the hopes he’d carried on those narrow shoulders. That he still carries, despite everything.
“What do you do there?”
“I teach.”
“A teacher. That’s grand. W
hat is it you teach?”
“Creative Writing.”
I watch him mulling this over, but growing a little impatient now. I get fed up of repeating myself, wanting him to retain some information about my life, for it to have some meaning for him. A smile begins to form on his lips.
“Writing?”
I nod and he laughs scornfully, “You’d think they’d be able to write properly by the time they got to University. Christ, what’s the world coming to?”
I agree that it’s gone to hell in a handcart. When we start walking again, he’s still chuckling to himself, convinced I’ve pulled a fast one—what a way to make a living.
I must try to get him out more often. At home, the house is always overheated, the television on, way too loud, all day long. Sometimes, as he looks around him, I’m sure he’s wondering how he got here, sitting next to this middle-aged man he believes is probably his son, he certainly looks familiar, struggling to make conversation with him. I am careful to call him Dad often, frequently mentioning my mother, reminding him that this woman, this child that I have brought with me are my own family. What I’m trying to do, what I want, so much, is to place him in a familiar network of associations and meanings. Native Americans speak of having a map in the head, a way of knowing where one is in relationship to the land, its history, society, and all living beings. Most days now, my father has no map, all meaning draining away from his surroundings.