The director opens the paper at the small ads. She reads aloud, making no attempt to conceal her irony: ‘“Michèle Seld, known as Michka, seeks Nicole and Henri, who took care of her from 1942 to 1945 at La Ferté-sous-Jouarre.” Nicole and Henri! Don’t you even know their surname?’
‘No.’
‘These are the people who saved you and you don’t even remember their name? And you don’t even go to the memory workshop! It’s shameful . . . And are you sure about their first names? And the village, are you sure about that?’
Michka is paralysed, dumbstruck.
‘And none of this robs you of your appetite! Mrs Danville’s chocolates are fine! A little apple juice, that’s fine! Celeriac salad – fine! But when it comes to doing Mr Milloux’s exercises, it’s a complete no-show . . . That’s a disaster, a washout! You have a private room, you eat well, you go to the cinema club, you enjoy the garden. You don’t need me to tell you that you cost our establishment a lot of money, Mrs Seld, a lot of money! But what do you give us in return? Mmm? It does pose serious profitability issues, you must admit, and it cannot go on, I’m sorry to have to tell you, because you contribute nothing. I’m choosing my words carefully: nothing. What are you thinking of? They’re dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! The truth is they are dead, and you never thanked them!’
Michka wakes up in a sweat, sitting up in bed.
Her heart’s pounding, she’s struggling to get her breath back. She hides her head in her hands and stifles a sob.
A few days later when I come into her room, I find her standing in the middle of the floor, trembling, leaning on her stick.
‘I do know how to make my bed. It takes me time, lots of time, I’m not defying it, but I know. And every day she does it again behind my back. She starts again, every morning, she pulls on the . . . breadspread, you see, as if I’ve done it wrong.’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘The care assistant.’
‘You need to tell her, Michka, that you don’t want her going behind your back.’
‘I told her! But she droles her eyes, like I’m a stupid old biddy.’
‘She’s probably just trying to help. Do you want me to talk to her?’
‘No, no, you have other things to say. But it’s the same with the shower. The new commandant doesn’t want me to go in on my own.’
‘I know, Michka, but that’s because you fell the other day, so that’s understandable. It’s for your own good, to stop you hurting yourself.’
‘Yes, but my . . . my good isn’t that, Marie. My good is to be . . .’
For a few seconds she hunts for words that she can’t find.
‘Left in peace?’
‘Yes, exactly. Left in peace. All the time there’s someone coming in here. Bringing breadfast, or pills, giving me laundry, making the bed, the homework, asking how I am, warming me about this or that, all the time, all the time, knock, knock, and in they come. Can you imagine? And if you don’t want to see them, you can’t . . . disappear.’
‘I know that, Michk’. I understand. Don’t you want to sit down for a bit?’
She slumps into her chair.
‘So did you put the card in?’
‘Yes, Michka, it’ll be in Le Monde this week, and next week it’ll go in Le Figaro. I’ll tell you if I hear anything.’
She takes this information on board.
From now on, she will wait. Hope. She won’t dare ask me about it, but for as long as she can, she’ll keep this window half-open on hope.
‘It’s the same thing with my wool-overs, you know. I do know how to put them away myself. Why’s she sticking her nose in?’
‘Hang on, shouldn’t you be worrying about her finding your bottle of whisky instead?’
‘It’s well hidden, believe me. Better than ever. But I don’t like being frisked. But what about you? What have you got to tell me?’
‘Everything’s fine, Michka.’
She looks at me for a moment.
‘Have you done your hair?’
‘Yes, I’ve done my hair, Michk’. As I’ve said, curly hair like mine is hard work. You can’t do your hair like everyone else . . .’
‘I see . . . if you say so. That’s a pity.’
There’s a short silence. We’re both thinking.
‘Actually, I do have something to tell you, Michka . . . I’m expecting a baby.’
She pretends she didn’t hear.
‘I’ve got chocolates, if you want one, with a drop of alcohol, not much. Barely any. They’re scrumptuous. It was Mrs Danville who brought them.’
‘Michk’, did you hear what I said?’
‘Which boy was it?’
‘What do you mean, which boy?’
She’s suddenly outraged.
‘Don’t you know which boy it was?’
‘Yes, of course I know, but I don’t think he wants to have a child.’
‘Is he a new one?’
‘Yes. Well, no, not that new. I suppose it’s been a few months. He’s called Lucas. I’ve mentioned him a couple of times. I met him at a party. He’s very nice, but we don’t live together, plus . . . he has to go abroad. You know, I didn’t think I could get pregnant. The doctor at the hospital, you remember, told me there would probably be lasting damage, that it could be complicated. That’s why.’
‘That’s true . . . when you were ill, you were so . . .’
She makes an odd gesture, miming something vanishing into the air.
‘You were all . . . It’s true. So it’s amazing you’re inspecting.’
‘Yes, that’s it exactly, I’m expecting, Michk’, and I’m really scared.’
I watch for her reaction for a moment, looking for encouragement or disapproval. But she looks at me in silence, more attentive than ever.
‘Have you told the boy?’
‘No, not yet. I wanted to have things straight in my own head first. You know, Michk’, I’m scared . . . I don’t know if I’m up to it, having a child. I’m scared I won’t cope. I’m scared of passing things on or them being passed on in spite of me, like a curse, or fate. Something that’ll be there in the shadows, in memories, in the blood, like part of the historical record, something inevitable. Do you know what I mean? And do I have enough love? Am I caring and patient enough? How can I know if I’m capable of bringing up a child, of hugging them, taking care of them? Will I be able to talk to them, tell them the stuff that matters, let them climb on a big toboggan, cross the road alone, give them my hand when they need it? Will I know what to do? I’m scared I won’t love them and I’m scared of loving them too much. I’m scared of hurting them and scared they won’t love me.’
‘What a shame . . . When I’ve finished Mrs Danville’s new chocolates, what will I be able to offer visitors?’
‘Maybe it’d be better to have an abortion.’
‘Oh no, not that.’
‘What do you mean, “oh no”?’
‘No, no, no . . . And it’s got nothing to do with that woman, she always looks good with her impeccable chignon, dressed up to the mines.’
She sees my stunned expression.
‘Oh, you know who I mean, that woman who got out of the camps . . .’
‘Simone Veil?’
‘That’s it. It’s really very good, what she did for women. Terrificent, even. But it’s got nothing to do with her.’
‘No. Quite . . .’
She returns to her thoughts, visibly moved. I break the silence.
‘Are you managing to read?’
‘It’s so small.’
‘But I brought you those large-print books. Did you try them?’
‘Which ones?’
‘The books I brought last time. With large print.’
‘Large print? Those are for old people . . . I lent them to that chap.’
‘Which chap?’
‘That chap. He showed me how to open my window. The whole way. It’s not allowed. With a fife.’
‘Who is he? Does he
work here?’
‘No, no. It’s not allowed, as I said.’
‘Who is he then?’
‘The chap next door. I can’t make it plainer. You’ve seen him before. He’s got a tweet suit.’
‘Mr Terdian?’
‘Yes. I can tell he knows his way around this place, the length of time he’s been here. He showed me, with a . . . a . . .’ (she sighs) ‘ . . . a . . . crack! In fact, you can get the window to open wide, but you’re not supposed to. So when they come, hup!’ (She mimes jumping up to the window, while staying where she is.) ‘I shut it.’
‘Just be careful you don’t take a tumble!’
‘You need a really sharp one. I took one from the dining room the night we had rose . . . beef . . .’
‘Roast beef ?’
‘You know, I didn’t have any . . .’
‘Roast beef ?’
‘Children.’
‘I know, Michk’. But you’ve got me. I’m here.’
‘You cried a lot, you know. When that doctor told you, when he said it wasn’t certain, not at all certain, that you’d ever be inspecting. You cried a lot, I can tell you.’
‘That’s true. But maybe now isn’t the right time.’
She looks out the window and then turns back to me.
‘You know, I didn’t want children. Not one bit. No family and no children. Absolutely nothing. If you hadn’t lived upstairs, I’d have stayed like that. I was just a labour . . . a neighbour, living by my shelf. When you came that first time, do you remember, because you’d been home alone – how long? A day or two? – you didn’t want to say, well, I was scared then too. You had something to eat and went back upstairs alone. I didn’t sleep a blink all night. And then you came back a second time, with those eyes, those big eyes that made me feel worse, so I took you in. And then next, every time, you’d come back and I’d take you in, whole afternoons, and then I bought felt tips and coloured paper and scissors, and then zoo maminals – do you remember? – little plastic zebras – you liked them best – then modelling clay, and then Mr Strawberry; we put them in the . . . frozer. You came back every evening just about. That’s exactly how it happened: a little girl ringing my doorbell. You stayed over when things went bear-shaped, when it all went wrong, and then after, there was, well. That’s not the most important thing, I mustn’t get things mixed up . . . sorry. You’re the one who must decide. You’re the one who’ll know. But I just want to say one thing and then you’ll take your solution: that’s what counts, more than anything.’
‘What does?’
‘For the first time in my strife, I began to take care of someone else, someone other than myself, I mean. That’s what changes everything, you know, Marie. It’s being afraid for someone else, not just yourself. It’s a great opportunity you have.’
‘You see, you do have the words.’
She’s flattered.
‘Ah yes, it’s true . . . in a mergency.’
‘Would you like me to fetch you tea from the machine?’
‘That’d be nice. I’m exhausted, you know. With melon, please.’
‘Lemon?’
‘That’s it.’
Michka gets dressed up the days she’s expecting a visitor. She selects her pale blue pullover, which brings out the colour of her eyes, or puts on her beige jacket, which matches her trousers.
I always call her before I visit. Ideally the day before, so that she has time to prepare.
I knock before going in and greet her with a kiss.
‘You shouldn’t come. You’ll get bored. Plus, you should be resting.’
‘We’ve already been through this, Michk’. I come because I enjoy it. How are you feeling?’
‘I’m fine . . . but I’m not sure what’s going on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Here. It’s not at all like it used to be. The standard’s going down, you know. Two of the presidents have died . . .’
‘Residents?’
‘Yes. Two in one week. Mrs Crespin, who got those parcels with the salamis in, well . . . in the night, pff, just like that.’
‘That must have been upsetting . . . You were fond of Mrs Crespin.’
‘Yes . . . But, you know, we’re old ladies. I’ve already told you, you have to be . . . realistical. There comes a time when it can’t go on. It’s even for the best. It’s not sad, but it is scary.’
‘And did you know the other person?’
‘No, she was on the fourth . . . The fourth floor. With the . . . They’re not crazy, you know, but they’re like ghosts that roam at night, so they have to be shut up. But the problemo’s about the catalogue . . .’
‘Which catalogue?’
‘You know, the catalogue for the Trois Ssss . . .’ (she hesitates) ‘ . . . Suisses.’
‘Why?’
‘It was hers.’
‘Mrs Crespin’s?’
‘Yes, she lent it to me so that I could get some songs . . . socks, and I’m embarrassed because I didn’t give it back to her.’
‘It’s not that important, Michka, I doubt she’d’ve been able to take it with her. Did you see any you liked?’
‘No, I don’t like pompoms . . . But you know, it’s not like it used to be here. Especially in the evenings, when they do the rounds.’
‘What rounds, Michk’?’
‘When all the presidents are in their rooms, they go round giving out the . . . and also in the mornings. I know what that means.’
‘You’re fretting over nothing. I told you, it’s perfectly normal for the care assistants to do a little tour to see that everything’s OK.’
‘I don’t like the nights.’
‘Aren’t you sleeping well?’
‘I told you, it’s because of the words . . . It’s at night that they go to ground . . . they get lost, when I can’t sleep, I know that’s when they varnish . . . misappear. I’m certain. But there’s nothing I can do. Whole truckloads, at top speed. There’s nothing to be done about it, I can tell you. Even the speech thep . . . thepar . . . therat . . .’
‘Therapist?’
‘Yes, he told me. The exercises don’t help any more when you get to my stage.’
‘You’re exaggerating. I’m sure he didn’t say that. It’s because you don’t like those exercises.’
‘It’s exhausting. You should see me after – good for nothing. It’s sad, you know . . .’
She remains lost in thought for a moment.
‘People shouldn’t get old. But it’s good you’re here. I wanted to tell you I’ve had a think and I’d prefer a cremotion.’
‘You what?’
‘For my funereal. A cremotion . . . a few little sandwiches and that’s it. Like Mrs Crespin. Apparently hers was lovely.’
‘Do you mean a cremation?’
‘That’s right, but spammon sandwiches, not pâté.’
‘Salmon? OK, right, got it. But there’s no urgency, you know. We’re not in a rush.’
‘I couldn’t go to Mrs Crespin’s. They’d laid on a wagon to take us all together, but I was too tired.’
‘I understand, Michk’. That’s understandable. You need your rest.’
‘And the little one?’
‘Which little one?’
(I knew what she meant.)
‘Your little one! Where is he?’
‘Well, he’s still there. I’ve talked to Lucas. He’s been very understanding, but he’s decided to go to India. He works for Nouvelles Frontières, the travel company, and they’ve offered him a job as local rep. He knows the country well. He told me at the start he was waiting for this job. And I said at the start I didn’t want to move.’
‘Why?’
‘Well . . . because you’re here, Michk’, and in any case, I’ve got no reason to go and live in India. I’ve just found the kind of job I was looking for, so it’s already complicated enough . . .’
‘And the boy – is he hungry . . . hangry?’
‘Angry? No. He
said I could keep the baby if I wanted to. That he’d help me when he could. But he wants to go. Whatever happens. And he’s not especially keen to have a child. You know, I don’t think he’s all that in love with me.’
‘Really? Why?’
(If I’d told her he’d turned down a cheque for five million euros, she’d have reacted with the same surprise.)
‘Well, that’s life, Michk’. It’s just how it is.’
‘But did you explain why you couldn’t do your hair, because of how it is?’
‘Don’t worry, Michk’, it’s got nothing to do with my hair . . . he’s got dreadlocks. Do you know what they are?’
‘Yes, yes. Oh well. You’ll have to make your solution all alone then. Without a fiancé.’
‘Yes, that’s right. But it’ll be OK. I’ll manage . . . Anyway, I think I really want a baby. Do you fancy a walk outside?’
‘No, not today. I’m tired.’
‘Are you sure? It’s a nice day.’
‘No tanks.’
JÉRÔME
She’s in her armchair, waiting for me.
She’s not doing anything as she waits. She’s not pretending to read or knit or be busy.
Waiting’s a full-time job here.
When I go into her room, I shake her hand and ask for her news. She offers me a glass of water, or fruit juice if she has a little carton left over from teatime. She likes to be able to give me a chocolate or a sweet as a way of doing something for me, I know.
We have our rituals.
She likes the moment when I press ‘Record’ on my digital recorder and our session begins, always with more or less the same formula: ‘It’s the fifth of September and I’m recording my twentieth session with Mrs Seld, with her consent.’
‘Do you like proverbs, Michka?’
She makes a face.
‘Today we’re going to do a little exercise to stimulate your memory and help you maintain your vocabulary.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Yes, we’ll see. It’s a lot of fun. I’ll give you the start of a proverb, and you have to think how it ends. We’ll begin with something easy. You just have to guess the last words to complete the saying. OK?’
She nods unenthusiastically.
Gratitude Page 4