‘“Sufficient unto each day the . . .”’
‘Easel.’
‘Are you sure? I’ll say it again: “Sufficient unto each day the . . .”’
‘Weevil.’
‘“The evil thereof”, Michka. You almost got it. “He who is absent is always in the . . .”’
‘Strong . . . wrong!’
‘Very good! “There’s no smoke without . . .”’
‘Fire.’
‘“Truth lies at the bottom of a . . .”’
‘Field? . . .’ (She ponders.) ‘Volcano?’
She’s now looking at me with a vexed expression.
‘I don’t know that one.’
‘“Truth lies at the bottom of a well.” That one doesn’t ring a bell?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Here’s another: “A fault confessed is half . . .”?’
‘Hmm. So, have you been?’
‘Where?’
‘To see your father.’
‘I didn’t say I’d go, Michka. I said I’d think about it.’
‘Have you thought about it?’
‘Yes, I’m thinking, but it takes time. You can’t decide just like that. It’s risky. And complicated. So don’t use that as an excuse to stop concentrating. Here’s another: “To have other fish to . . .”’
‘It makes me afraid for you. The regrets.’
‘I know, Michka. It makes me afraid too. But sometimes there’s no choice. It’s a matter of . . . protecting yourself.’
‘But you’re strong now, aren’t you?’
The nurse comes into her room at just the right moment. I leave my recorder running.
He enunciates very loudly, as though speaking to a child. Michka doesn’t seem to take offence.
‘Did you want to see me, Mrs Seld? I heard you were looking for me this morning . . .’
‘Ah yes . . . Do you think you could give me something more . . . substantial in my . . . in the evening . . . the cap . . . cu . . .’
‘In your teacup?’
‘No, no . . . The tiny little things, like that. You put them here and there . . . two or three . . .’
‘Capsules?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean your treatment, Mrs Seld. You have a pill that you take at six p.m. And then a bit later you get another.’
‘What are they called?’
‘At six it’s Omeprazole and at ten it’s Mianserin.’
‘Which is more charmful?’
‘They do different things. The one at ten o’clock is to give you a good night’s sleep and the one at six is to stop you getting stomach ache . . .’
‘Ah, so give me a ten o’clock.’
‘I’d have to ask your doctor about that. Do you want to have the ten o’clock brought forward?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not managing to get to sleep, is that it?’
‘That’s a bit strong, but not much.’
‘We’ll ask your doctor. Apparently you’re distressed in the evening.’
‘Oh, not so much as such.’
Then he turns to me, as a witness.
‘You realise that her and Mr Terdian were keeping knives in their rooms to tamper with the windows . . .’
Then he speaks to her again, much more loudly.
‘We can’t let you have knives in your room, Mrs Seld, do you understand?’
She adopts a slightly haughty tone.
‘Yes, I’ve fully understood. But that’s no big squeal. We can open the window – we won’t misappear!’
‘I’ll speak to the director about your medication and she’ll raise it with your doctor. I’ll be off now, Mrs Seld.’
As he goes, his shoes sound like suction cups on the lino.
Michka looks at me.
‘He’s nice, you know. He may seem a bit of a witnit, but he’s very nice.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Michka. Shall we get back to our exercise?’
Her shoulders slump and she sighs melodramatically.
I laugh.
She laughs too.
‘“He who can do the most can do . . .”’
‘Did I tell you Marie’s inspecting?’
‘Expecting? Yes, you told me last week.’
‘She’s going to keep the baby. On her own, you know.’
‘Are you worried about that?’
‘Not so much as such. But a bit all the same.’
MARIE
When I go to visit Michka, I observe the other residents. The very, very old ladies, the ones in the middle and the not-so-old, and sometimes I want to ask them: does anyone caress you any more? Does anyone take you in their arms? How long is it since someone else’s skin touched yours?
When I imagine being old, really old, when I try to project myself forty or fifty years into the future, the most painful, the most unbearable thing that strikes me is the thought that no one will touch me any more. The gradual, or sudden, disappearance of physical contact.
Perhaps their need is less, maybe the body withdraws, dries up, hardens like during a long fast. Or perhaps, on the contrary, it cries with longing, a silent, unbearable cry that no one hears.
When Michk’ comes tottering towards me, precariously balanced, I’d like to hold her tight, breathe some of my energy, my strength into her.
But I stop short of taking her in my arms. Awkwardness, probably. And the fear of hurting her.
She’s become so frail.
When I’m old, I’ll stretch out on my bed or settle back in an armchair and listen to the same music I listen to now, the stuff they play on the radio or in nightclubs. I’ll close my eyes to re-experience the feeling of my body dancing. My body relaxed, supple, obedient, my body among other bodies, my body free of anyone watching, when I dance alone in the middle of the living room. When I’m old, I’ll spend hours like that, attentive to every sound, every note, every impulse. Yes, I shall close my eyes and project my mind back into the dance, the trance, I’ll recover one by one the movements, the breaks, and my body will again meld with the rhythm, the beat, in perfect time with its pulse.
When I’m old, if I make it that far, I’ll still have that. The memory of the dance, the bass pounding in my stomach, and the sway of my hips.
She’s dozing in her armchair. I’ve been sitting beside her for a few minutes. Tiny ripples pass across her face and I can tell she’s becoming aware of my presence. She opens her eyes.
‘Hello, Michk’, how are you?’
‘I wasn’t asleep, you know.’
‘I know, Michk’, don’t worry. You were waiting for me. Are you feeling OK?’
‘Yes, fine. And what about you? How are things with the . . . little one?’
‘I saw the doctor. He said everything was fine.’
‘That’s good. And the card?’
‘Still nothing, Michk’, I’m sorry. I put the ad in again on Tuesday. But no word so far.’
Her face seems suddenly to droop with sadness.
‘I so wished . . . you know . . .’
‘Have you really decided?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll have a think, then. We’ll try another way.’
She remains silent for a moment, lost in thought. And then she banishes her disappointment, like an unwelcome thought.
‘They’ve suggested I play fridge, did I tell you?’
‘No, you didn’t. Who’s “they”?’
‘Those women.’
‘Which women?’
‘The young ones who’re always hanging around downstairs, all afternoon, in the big room. Some of them even go to the body workshop.’
‘It’s true they look in good shape, but they’re not that young, you know.’
‘The one in the wheelchair is the leader of the pack. You know the one? With the dressing down.’
‘Yes, I know. So did you say yes? Are you going to play bridge with them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why not? Don’t you fancy it?�
��
‘I’m scared I’ll be out of step.’
‘No, Michk’. You know the rules. There’s no reason why you can’t do it.’
‘Oh, it’s such a shame . . .’
‘What is?’
‘Mr Terdian had a fall in his room. He broke a big bone. He’s down in the . . . in . . .’ (She’s searching for a word but can’t find it.)
‘In the infirmary?’
‘Yes. I hope he’ll come back.’
‘Of course he will, Michk’. He’ll be back when he feels better.’
‘You know, all the same, there’s something serious going on here. Very serious. In the toilets down the stairs. You need to go and see. I’m not setting foot in there any more, because I’m well aware of what they’re up to.’
‘What are you talking about, Michk’? Do you mean the toilets on the ground floor?’
‘Yes, near the refec— . . . the refectuary . . . if you look above the door, there’s a sort of . . . white thing . . . That sprays a . . . Pff, like that, every time you go in. I’m telling you: they’re gassing us.’
‘No, no, Michk’, it’s a room fragrancer.’
‘The air’s not sweet, believe me. And a bit of perfume won’t make it sweeter. Take a look on your way out.’
‘I will if you want me to. But don’t fret over it. You’re safe here. You know that.’
‘If you say so.’
Michka stands opposite the nasty director.
The woman’s expression and her stiff posture suggest that this is a nightmare, but at this moment, Michka isn’t sure.
The director is speaking firmly, with a touch of impatience.
‘Can you raise your arms, Mrs Seld?’
Michka obeys.
‘Higher!’
Michka raises both arms to the sky.
‘You’ve lost a great deal of suppleness since you arrived, Mrs Seld. A very great deal. It’s common, I may as well tell you, this dramatic decline when residents enter an institution, but don’t think we’re going to feel sorry for you. We don’t have time. The waiting list is long, you know. So, in summary: loss of independence in toileting, dressing . . .’
‘Oh no, I get dressed by myself.’
‘Not for much longer. If I may continue: loss of independence in toileting, dressing, eating . . .’
‘No, I’m sorry, I have no problem feeding myself!’
‘Increasingly incoherent language: aphasia, paraphasia, omitted words. A full house.’
‘You know, in my dreams the words aren’t missing. In my dreams I speak very clearly.’
‘That’s what you think. Or rather, that’s what you would have us believe. But where’s the proof?’
‘Well, for example . . . I’m talking now, aren’t I?’
The director starts laughing. A demonic laugh. Which suddenly stops.
‘We’re not debating it all night. Next question: what’s your schedule?’
Michka looks troubled.
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Are you planning to linger in our establishment?’
‘Not for too long, but I’m waiting for news. I can’t just go off, you understand.’
‘Well, you will have to make a big effort. One: make your bed properly, not like a teenager. Two: take part in the exercises that Mr Milloux suggests, which you obstinately refuse to join in with . . .’
‘Not at all, I’m making a big effort.’
‘Not enough. Three: respect the curfew. Four: remove your bottle of whisky from your cupboard.’
‘Oh . . . you knew?’
‘I know everything, Mrs Seld. The effective management of an old-age care facility is based on an impeccable intelligence service. What’s your defence?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry. Not at all. But you have to hide the little things, you see. To stay alive. We need to be able to do these little things in our own small corner, the little things that are slightly out of bounds, and close our door when we need some peace. Do you understand? It’s not against you, Mrs . . .’
‘Roastbeef.’
‘It’s not against you, Mrs Roastbeef. We just need to feel we still have a bit of freedom. Otherwise, what’s the point?’
‘Yes indeed, Mrs Seld! That’s the real question: what is the point?’
With that, the director goes off, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
JÉRÔME
Within a few weeks, her speech has become slower, more contorted. She sometimes stops mid-sentence, utterly lost, or else gives up on a missing word and goes straight to the next. I’m learning to follow her train of thought.
I’m beaten, I know. I recognise this tipping point. I don’t know what causes it, but I see its effects. The battle’s lost.
But I can’t give up. Definitely not. Otherwise it will be even worse. Freefall.
We need to fight. Word by word. Step by step. Yield nothing. Not a single syllable or consonant. Without language, what’s left?
We’ve done ten minutes of exercises, which she’s graciously gone along with, but now it seems as though she’s reached saturation point.
‘Do you want to stop, Michka?’
‘It’s no point.’
‘There is, I promise. There is a point.’
For a moment, she says nothing. Now that I know her, I realise these silences often come before a reminiscence or a confidence.
‘What a shame. You know . . . I think about it so much . . . at night. Because of the card, in the paper. But no answer. I think about them. Imagine, three years . . . saying nothing . . . if ever . . . it was very dangerous, you know . . . they could have been . . . transported . . . them too . . . very dangerous . . . there was . . . a little . . . riverlet where we went . . . into the water . . . I remember that . . . with the dog . . . I still have some . . . like that . . . some . . . so clear . . . I would have loved . . . so much . . . to be able to say. What a shame . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Michka. I’m not following you too well. Are you talking about your parents?’
‘No, my parents . . . went . . . up in smoke.’
‘You mean they were cremated?’
‘Worse.’
I look at her for a moment. Her chin’s begun to tremble.
‘Did you know them?’
‘Not so much as such.’
‘What year were you born, Michka?’
‘Nineteen thirty-five.’
‘Were your parents deported?’
She nods. Her face registers the brutal onslaught of grief. She has no more words within her reach.
‘Did they come back?’
She shakes her head.
She gets up and goes towards the bathroom.
She hasn’t taken her stick. She knows this room by heart. Every support. Right hand, left hand.
I say nothing. I wait.
I hear the sound of running water.
A few minutes later, she reappears and sits back down. She gives me a smile.
‘She comes less often, you know. With her being inspecting.’
‘Marie?’
‘Yes. The doctor said that . . . not too much running aground.’
‘She’s probably got contractions. It’s important not to take risks with the baby. Luckily Mrs Danville comes to see you from time to time.’
‘Yes, and Armande. I’m fond of her. In the canteen, we’re . . . slide by slide.’
‘Ah yes, that lady looks very dynamic.’
‘She does all the captivities, but I . . . I’m . . . too . . .’
‘You’re right, she takes part in lots of activities. But Michka, you’re going to be a kind of grandmother!’
‘Yes, so it seems. You know, it’s odd . . . How to put it . . . there’s a . . . a . . . sort of . . . ring, no? Or a . . . a . . .’ (She makes a gesture like a circle or something complete.) ‘Which takes shape . . . pit by pit . . . you see?’
‘Tell me a bit more.’
‘They’re . . . pieces, th
at get put in place one by one, that look like . . . a j— . . . j— . . . j— . . .’
‘Jigsaw?’
‘That’s it. That’s the meaning. At the right moment. When you have trouble finding it . . . because everything’s got so diffuse. You understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘And you haven’t net Marie yet?’
‘Met her?’
‘That’s it.’
‘No, I haven’t met her. She doesn’t often come during the week and, as I told you, I’m never here at the weekend.’
‘You know she lived . . . in the same block when she was . . . little?’
‘Yes, Michka, you told me a lot about that soon after you came here.’
‘I told you?’
‘Yes, in our first sessions. You told me about Marie and you explained that she was the little girl who lived in the apartment upstairs, a little girl you often took care of. And there was also Mrs Danville, the caretaker of the block. She comes to see you regularly.’
‘Yes, with the chocolates. She is so . . . nice. You know she . . . tel— . . . every day. Every morning. Brain or shine. Every morning before she starts her day.’
‘She phones you?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was the same when I still lived at home. Every day a quick rink to check up. Just think.’
‘Yes, that’s very nice, it’s true. Is she still in the building?’
‘No, she retired and went . . . out into the . . . greenery. You know, Marie went to her too when I couldn’t look after her. But she mainly came to me.’
‘What about Marie’s parents?’
‘The father – no one knows. And the mother, she was . . . such a sad young woman . . . Sometimes she spent the whole day shut up . . . without leaving her bed . . . sleeping, sleeping, all the time, you know, sheets closed, doors closed, eyes closed, but sometimes she’d take off just like that, without warming. First at night and then later, for days at the trot.’
‘She left home?’
‘That’s right.’
I sense how affected she is by these memories. She rarely opens up about the past.
‘I’d see her in the background, the little one . . . With her mother or by her shelf . . . Her . . . with dolls or . . . plastic stuff. One day I was out in the park . . . It was really cold. She was with her mother and they were having a . . .’
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