This time Michka hasn’t moved.
‘Where’s my stick? I’ve reached the point where I can’t tell if I need it. You know what I mean? I feel fine, you see, the words are there, like they used to be, I don’t even need to hunt for them, pick or pamper them, they come by themselves, straightforward, no fuss, no need to coax them, capture them, caress them, no. Look closely, they’re coming and going freely. It’s lovely. I’m in a dream, I know. It’s not a nightmare this time. Look closely, look at the colours, the shape of things; you can tell at once it isn’t a nightmare. I’ll need to talk to you about it. Yes, I’ll tell you I had a dream and all the words were there, all of them. I didn’t need your cards or your pictures or your lists. Everything was as simple as it used to be and it was so joyful, so nice, you know. It makes me so tired, always hunting, hunting, hunting. It’s exhausting. It’s draining. It’s wearying. I don’t need anything else, you know. Nothing at all. Mrs Danville brought me chocolates. She was the caretaker in our building when Marie was little, ages ago – have I told you about her? Mrs Danville’s very nice and the chocolates are delicious. So you see, I don’t need anything else. If the words come back, things will be fine, absolutely fine. And I won’t give a fig about everything else. Even that woman who goes out in her car almost every day. Who does she think she is? Mocking us with her car. Almost every day. Yes, she’s a resident, you know, she’ll go for a spin round town, just like that, almost every day, with her little headscarf on. She thinks she’s Grace Kelly or something, almost every day. But if that’s the case, she could have stayed in her own home. Why has she come here if she’s so independent? It gets on my nerves, I tell you. But I don’t care, since the words are back, so there’s no need to do the exercises any more. But you could still come and see me all the same. Just to chat from time to time. It would be a pity not to, because you’re so handsome. I don’t like men wearing earrings, but it looks good on you, especially when you put in the little black stud, the tiny little one. It’s actually quite pretty.’
The little girl’s voice resumes:
‘One . . . two . . . three . . . Statues!’
Michka has rushed towards the other side of the room and, in one bound, touched the wall.
She smiles.
‘This time it must be a dream! I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. You’ll enjoy it, a dream like this.’
I knock and go in.
I find her lying on her bed, which is unusual. She hates being surprised when she’s dozing. She sits up at once and looks around for the book she’d put down by her side.
‘Hello, Michka, how are you?’
‘I’m fine . . .’
‘Are you tired?’
‘A little.’
‘Has Marie been to see you?’
‘Yes, she came yesterday. Do you know her?’
‘You often tell me about her, but I haven’t met her. She mainly comes at the weekend and I’m here in the week . . .’
‘Ah yes, that’s right. Yes, yes.’
‘I’ll give you a few minutes. I’ll set up my equipment on your desk.’
‘Oh . . . are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. Don’t you want to get up?’
‘Yes, I do . . . but . . . it’s those exercises, you know . . . they’re such a snore.’
I help her get up from the bed and then give her my arm and walk her over to the chair. She walks slowly. I suspect she’s taking her time to put off the moment of getting down to work.
‘So, have you been able to watch television, Michka?’
‘Not so much as such.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well, you know, there’s no point. They talk too quickly. Even the pictures often go too quickly. I used to like that man who . . . flies off, you know, all over, the young chap with the rugsack, who sleeps in people’s houses all round the world . . . he’s very funny. He bumps into people and sleeps in their homes in his sleepy bag, do you know him? I really liked him, but just at the moment I can’t find him. What about you? Do you watch television?’
‘Not a lot, Michka. There are programmes I like, but I don’t have the time. I’ve got a lot of patients this year and I’ve also gone back to my studies.’
She suddenly looks very interested.
‘Oh really, what are you studying?’
‘It’s a university degree, to continue my training.’
‘In what neck of the wood?’
‘Neuropsychological rehabilitation.’
‘Ah . . . that’s tough.’
‘Yes, but fascinating.’
‘But it’s not working.’
‘Yes, yes, it is. I’m coping.’
‘No, not you. The . . . repair.’
‘It is, Michka, you’ll see. We can improve lots of things. Anyway, it’s just the right moment. I’ve prepared a little exercise about travel. Are you up for it?’
She gives me a hangdog look.
Instead of sitting in the upright chair, she slumps into her armchair.
‘Can you bring me my stick? You never know, I might be able to . . . gun for it . . . in an emergency.’
‘Run for it? Why do you want to run for it?’
‘If the alarm goes off. It happened the other day. Weren’t you here? After lunch, we were down the stairs, almost all of us, apart from the fourth floor, but all of us resistants, we’d just had our little crème camarel when out of the blue the sirens started shrieking . . . It was so loud!’
‘The alarm?’
‘Yes, that’s it! It gave me such a scart! That’s why I like to have my stick to hand, just in case . . . What about you?’
I try to follow her train of thought, but she clarifies for me.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘Ah, good.’
For a few seconds, she seems to be processing this information and it occurs to me that she may be making a list of all the things you can do when you’re thirty-five that are now beyond her.
‘And you like old people.’
‘Well, I suppose . . . I—I like working with old people, yes. I find it . . . interesting.’
‘Really? That’s strange . . . Truly. For all that we have left to say.’
‘Well, exactly, I try to help you to say . . . all that you have to say. And often it’s very interesting.’
‘Ah yes, well, when you put it . . . that’s good . . . What about your parents, are they old?’
‘My mother died a few years back. Before she got old, to be honest.’
‘Ah, that’s good.’
‘Well, that’s one way of looking at it . . . There’s probably an upside, but also quite a big downside. I’d have preferred to have her around a bit longer.’
‘You had things left to say?’
I’ve already noticed this, old people’s remarkable sharpness. The way they sometimes pinpoint the exact spot that hurts.
‘Yes, Michka, I still had things to say. I hope I showed it, but I hadn’t said everything.’
‘Ah, that’s alloying . . . annoying.’
‘Yes. Right then, are we going to give this exercise a go?’
‘Off course.’
‘Do you remember the one we did last time?’
‘Yes.’
‘So this is virtually the same idea, except this time I’ll give you several words and you have to find the common term that links them. For example: Buddhism, Protestantism, Catholicism . . . The word that links them is . . .’
‘What about your father?’
I’d like to have a joker I could play when I wanted to, or else feign incomprehension, but Michka isn’t one to let herself be hoodwinked.
‘I don’t see him.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘It would take too long to explain.’
‘I’ve all the time.’
‘But I’ve got work to do, Michka.’
‘Is your father alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he
old?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since he got old?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’
‘Why you’re so keen on the elderly.’
‘Well, maybe . . . I’ve never thought of it like that.’
‘Well, you need to tell him.’
‘Tell him what?’
‘Everything. Everything you reject . . . regret, afterwards, when people disappear – pff ! – just like that. You see? It happens, you know. You can’t keep carrying all that around inside. It’ll give you nightcares . . . nightmares afterwards, you know.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. We’ll see, eh? . . . OK, let’s continue. Four more words: bitter, acidic, salty, sweet . . .’
‘Taste?’
‘Very good. Here’s another—’
‘All the same, isn’t it a pity . . .’
‘What is?’
‘Mrs Danville’s fruit jellies. I haven’t got a single one left . . .’
‘I thought you preferred chocolates?’
‘That’s number-two choice. But fruit jellies are number one. Did your father upset you?’
I can’t hold back a sigh.
‘Yes, Michka.’
‘Ah, that’s diffu—. . . difficult.’
I don’t know if she’s talking about the exercise I’m trying to get her to do or my situation. She’s looking at me as though she expects me to tell her the whole story immediately.
‘You should go and see.’
‘See what?’
‘How he is. Your father.’
‘He’s fine, as far as I know.’
‘Was it a long time ago?’
‘Yes, a very long time ago.’
‘That’s too bad. You need to know, all the same. If you can pick up again, you can repair things.’
‘No, Michka, it can’t be repaired.’
‘So, it’s serious?’
‘It’s painful.’
‘Ah . . . but . . . you should maybe . . .’
She’s watching me. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
‘Right, Michka, let’s get down to it. Listen carefully: antique dealer, record dealer, bookseller, cabinet maker . . . What’s the term that links them all?’
‘Disappeared?’
MARIE
For a few weeks, she’s just been sitting in her room, not reading or watching television. Dozing.
I knock on her door and wait for her to tell me to come in.
‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, Michk’, it’s me. How are you?’
‘Oh, not so bad . . . I didn’t know you were coming. I had it down for tomorrow, but I don’t know why, I wasn’t too . . . compedent.’
‘You weren’t confident? That’s understandable, I said Friday or Saturday. You’re not too tired?’
‘No, I’m fine. That’s not the problem.’
‘So what is the problem?’
‘These words that elide me . . .’ (There’s a long pause.) ‘Collude me . . .’ (She sighs.) ‘You see?’
‘I know, Michka. But all the same, you’ve still got plenty in stock, and you also invent new ones. Has the speech therapist been to see you?’
‘Yes, yes. But it’s . . . it’s not . . . The exercises are diffu— . . . are diffi— . . . difficult. Do you want to see?’
She hands me a piece of paper with words and drawings on.
‘Do you have to guess the opposites?’
‘No, the cinnamons.’
‘Synonyms?’
‘Exactly. But I’ve had enough of syno— . . . those things. You know, the right word alludes me. And anyway, it’s pointless, I know full well how this will end. Eventually there’ll be nothing left to fill the blank, no words, you know, or just some old nonsense. Can you imagine, an old biddy, all alone, drizzling on . . . frizzling on . . .’
‘We’re not there yet.’
‘We’re not far off, believe me. The end isn’t that far, Marie, you know. I mean the end when the head’s gone, kaput, pff, and all the words too. You can’t know when the body will pack up, of course, but the head’s already started. The words pack their bags and off they go.’
‘No, no, Michka. Are you going to the memory workshop?’
‘I’m not keen. I prefer it when that lad comes . . . He’s very handsome, you know. You should meet him.’
‘But it needn’t be either/or, Michk’. The speech therapist comes to you twice a week, but you can go down to the memory workshop on Wednesdays with the others. Have you tried it yet?’
‘Not keen. There’s one woman who answers everything, just like that, straight off . . . not a moment’s hesitation. Point blank, she comes out with the right answer. She knows every actual and imaginal word. She acts all proud, you know, and that gets under my shin. Why does she come if she already knows it all? Also, she could get dressed, but no, oh no, she spends her life in her dressing down as though that was the height of fashion . . .’
‘Maybe she feels more comfortable like that.’
‘Yes, well, a little bit of recency never hurt anyone. Why are you laughing? Oh well, you can laugh . . . But you know, you’ve got better things to do. Truly. You shouldn’t come so often. You’ll get sick of it.’
‘Hey, Michka, we’ve already talked about this. I come because I enjoy coming.’
‘You’re wasting your time. And into the bargain, seeing me in this grate . . . in this fate . . . in this state . . . is pointless.’
‘Listen, you came to see me when I was in hospital, didn’t you? Do you remember?’
‘Yes, I remember. When you were ill. You were so . . . it was like . . .’
For a moment, she’s lost in thought.
‘You know you almost died?’
‘I know, Michk’. So when I spent days and days in that little room, you came to see me quite often, didn’t you?’
She nods.
‘So can I come to see you when I want?’
She gives me a smile.
‘You don’t tell me about how you are . . . how are things with you?’
‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘Work?’
‘Fine. It’s going OK. I’m starting to look after cases on my own. It’s very interesting.’
‘It’s not too far for you to travel?’
‘No, it’s fine on the train. In fact, it’s quick.’
‘Are you looking after yourself?’
‘Yes, don’t worry.’
She looks at me for a moment.
‘Have you done your hair?’
‘Yes, Michk’, I’ve done my hair.’
‘You look a bit . . . peely. Are you eating properly?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘You know, we’ve got a new resistant at our table in the canteen. Did I tell you?’
‘A new resident?’
‘Yes, she never stops talking, so I pretend to be death in one ear and that way I don’t have to answer her. Never stops, you can’t imagine, a continulous flow. Talk, talk. It doesn’t bother her in the slightest, as though she was the only person in the world. So me and Armande – you know Armande, the woman I like – we do this . . .’
For a few seconds, she pretends to be absorbed in eating and unable to hear anyone talking to her.
‘Does it work?’
‘These are old ladies’ stories. Marie, you should say to me, “Careful, Michka, you’re telling old ladies’ stories.” I don’t want you to think I’m grouting . . . I’m grousing, but it does me good to sound off. I don’t have it so bad, you know, the people are really nice, but I liked it better at home.’
‘I know, Michka, but you couldn’t stay at home any more, do you remember?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
She goes quiet for a moment and looks thoughtful. Then she leans forward. She speaks softly, like she’s sharing a secret.
‘You know, Marie, I wanted to ask you something that I can�
�t do. I want to put a . . . card . . . in the paper.’
‘A card?’
‘Yes, you know, like we did before. In the paper, to look for people.’
‘An ad?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean the ad we put in Le Monde?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want to have another go at finding the people who took you in when you were little?’
‘Yes.’
I look at her for a moment, taking stock of what this means to her. What it means now. I notice a tiny tremor in her chin, a sign of distress or emotion that’s appeared since she came here, which she’s probably unaware of.
‘OK, Michka, of course. I’ll take care of it. But you mustn’t get your hopes up, OK? You know we’ve already tried. The problem is we don’t know their name.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I’ll put in the same ad and I’ll give my details just in case, all right?’
‘Yes, all night. Thank you. Thank you very much. And let know how much it costs.’
‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll give it a go, but you know there’s not much chance it’ll work.’
‘I know.’
‘Shall we go into the garden for a bit?’
‘Yes, that would be nice. I’ll put on the . . . piece . . . the fleece you gave me. Grace Kelly never takes her spies off it. She’d love one just like it, I tell you.’
The nasty director bursts into Michka’s room. She hasn’t knocked and regards a greeting as unnecessary. She’s furiously brandishing a copy of Le Monde.
‘Did you put this ad in?’
Michka nods. The director explodes.
‘This cannot be happening! Who do you think you are, Mrs Seld? You are completely mad! Completely out of your mind! Utterly thoughtless! An ad? Why not a poster campaign while you’re at it? A TV campaign? A hot-air balloon? A plane trailing a banner at the beach? It’s almost beyond belief . . . an ad! We are in the twenty-first century, Mrs Seld. The war is over. Our business is growing, expanding, booming, and you take it upon yourself to insert this ad, which could damage our reputation? Do you know what reputation is? Do you have the slightest idea what it represents? These days it means money! It can sink you in less than twenty-four hours!’
Michka says nothing. She remains sitting on her bed like a little girl, her hands on her thighs.
Gratitude Page 3