Dealing almost each week with some new debit, some new deterioration, some new damage. That’s what I see.
And nothing in the profit column any more.
One day no longer being able to run, walk, lean over, bend down, get up, reach, stretch, turn this way or that, neither forward nor back, not in the morning nor in the evening, not at all. Always having to adapt.
Losing your memory, losing your bearings, losing your words. Losing your balance, your sight, your sense of time, losing sleep, losing your hearing, losing the plot.
Losing what you’ve been given, what you’ve earned, what you’ve deserved, what you’ve fought for, what you thought was yours forever.
Readjusting.
Reorganising.
Doing without.
Just keeping going.
Having nothing left to lose.
It begins with small things. And then speeds up.
Because once they reach this stage, they’re losing big time. Loads.
They lose the lot.
And they know that despite their efforts – the battle that starts again from square one every day – despite the goodwill they show, there’s no escaping what’s coming to them.
I knocked on the door, but she didn’t answer.
I checked the corridor, thinking that she might not have come back from lunch. I asked the care assistants where she was. They were certain they’d seen her return to her room.
I go back and knock again. Still no answer, so I open the door and go in cautiously. She’s sitting in her armchair staring into space. Her face looks thinner. She turns to me and smiles. It’s been ages since I saw her. She’s been ill and we’ve had to cancel several sessions. It only takes me a few seconds to realise she’s given up.
A kick in the stomach wouldn’t have hurt more. I don’t know why it’s so painful. I’m close to tears.
‘Hello, Michka, how are you?’
She gives me another smile but doesn’t answer.
‘Are you tired?’
She nods almost imperceptibly.
‘I can come back another time if you prefer.’
She looks at me but doesn’t answer.
‘Do you want me to stay awhile?’
‘Yes.’
I take the chair and go nearer.
‘I wanted to tell you . . . It’s . . .’
She mimes something escaping or evaporating in front of her. This gesture of powerlessness really gets to me.
‘It’s all . . .’
‘No, Michka, it’s not all gone. You’re feeling exhausted at the moment, that happens, but you need to get some rest and then we can get back to work again.’
‘Oh no, I . . . But if you could . . .’
‘I’ll stay with you for a bit, don’t worry. Has Marie phoned?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
The same gesture of powerlessness.
‘I . . . can’t . . . so . . . I must . . .’
‘Did she give you news?’
‘Yes. She . . . tel— . . . but I can’t . . . now . . . too much . . . and since . . . I always . . . it’s so diffu— . . . diffuse.’
She looks at me guiltily.
‘Don’t worry, Michka, it’ll be all right.’
Silence descends.
I could suggest a game or get my laptop out of my bag and show her pictures or play some music. Songs that were popular when she was a girl. That works well as a memory stimulus. The residents love it.
But I say nothing.
Sometimes you need to acknowledge the void left by the loss. Abandon distractions. Accept there’s nothing more to say.
Stay sitting beside her. Take her hand.
We remain like that. She shuts her eyes. I lose track of time.
I feel her palm grow warmer in mine.
I think I can see a wave of wellbeing on her face.
A few minutes later, I get up.
‘I’ll come and see you again tomorrow, Michka.’
Just as I’m about to close the door behind me, she calls me back.
‘Jérôme?’
It’s unusual for her to use my first name. Most of the time she can’t remember it.
‘Yes?’
‘Tank you.’
I see them as though I were there, in those empty, arid expanses, ruined pathways that suddenly appear in the middle of her sentences when she tries to speak. Desolate landscapes, devoid of light, unremittingly flat, and nothing, nothing at all to hold on to any more. Views of the end of the world. She begins a sentence and already words fail her; she lurches as if falling into a hole. There are no signposts or landmarks, because no path can cross this virgin terrain. The words have vanished and no picture will help get around that. Her voice, choked in the grip of defeat, is disintegrating. Unidentifiable obstacles block her way. Dark masses, themselves unnameable. Nothing can be shared any more. And each of her attempts falls into a bottomless well from which nothing will ever be retrieved. She looks to me for a clue, a key, a way around. But my eyes can offer no help, no detour. The road is blocked.
Communication is cut.
Silence has won. And there’s nothing left to hold her back.
MARIE
I haven’t called to forewarn her. Telephone conversations have become so patchy and disorientating that they always leave me with an aftertaste of failure.
I go into the room quietly to give her time to adjust.
She’s standing by the window as though I’ve caught her in a moment of uncertainty, of hesitation, frozen amid no man’s land, between the armchair and the bed. What strikes me, shocks me even, is how much she’s changed in just a few weeks.
She’s old.
Now it’s here.
Her face is lined, her skin has lost its colour, her body has shrunk, her balance seems more unsteady. I can’t let her see the pain this image causes me. I mustn’t appear surprised or afraid. My body mustn’t betray me by wincing even a little. I keep smiling and go towards her.
She looks at me, incredulous. She can’t get over it.
I can only guess the path this information must be taking to reach her brain, despite the lack of forewarning: it really is me coming towards her.
‘Oh my, Marie . . . what about the doctor?’
She’s impressed by the size of my stomach. Moved even.
We kiss. She stands by the foot of the bed so as not to wobble.
‘Listen, I spend my time lying down at home from morning to night, I’ll end up going crazy, so I decided to escape! I wanted to see you.’
‘Was it . . . the . . . young . . . Jé— . . . The boy who told you?’
‘Yes, Jérôme Milloux phoned. He told me he was taking a week off and thought you’d been a bit down lately, so he was worried about going off and you not having any visitors for a week, because Mrs Danville has flu. Did you know?’
‘Ah . . . but he didn’t . . . It isn’t . . . all the same . . . you must . . . take care.’
‘Sit down, Michka. I’ll stay for a bit. And I need to sit down too. Don’t worry. I came by taxi and I’ll take one home. The baby’s out of danger from this week, even if I give birth early.’
She sits down.
‘Ah, that’s better.’
I look at her. We’re both feeling emotional.
‘I’m so pleased to see you, Michk’!’
‘Me too. Same.’
‘You’re not too bored?’
‘A little . . . but not so much as such.’
‘You know, I thought that as you can’t read any more, I could bring you a CD player and some audiobooks. They do some great things.’
‘No . . . no . . . it’s too diffu— . . .’
‘What’s difficult? Listening to CDs?’
‘No . . . the . . . the . . . machine.’
‘The CD player? No, you’ll see, it’s not that complicated. I’ve got an old one with big buttons and everything’s marked on them. I’ll bring it next time.’
‘All night . . . if you
like.’
We sit in silence for a moment. She looks at me. She’s smiling, but I can tell: she’s given up. She’s given up describing, explaining. She’s pleased just to be able to pass the ball back.
‘I don’t know if I told you, but I’ve found a brilliant midwife at the hospital. She’s looking after me.’
‘Ah, good.’
‘And my boss rang yesterday to see how I was doing and he was quite nice about everything. Even though I stopped work earlier than planned, he doesn’t seem too put out.’
‘And the . . .’ (She’s searching for a word and her hand indicates something big, bigger than her.) ‘The Indian . . .’
‘Lucas?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘Well, he’s off next week. They brought his departure forward. The guy who had the job in India’s moving on earlier than planned. So he won’t even see the baby before he goes.’
‘Ah . . . but . . . now?’
‘He’s very busy with work, preparing to leave and everything. But he’s helped me all the same. He does my shopping for me, as I can’t get around, and he’s come to the hospital with me several times. But it’s OK, Michk’, you know. I’m coping. And anyway . . . I knew that when I made my decision. It’ll be OK.’
Silence again.
I put my hands on my stomach on top of my dress.
‘Is he moving?’
‘Yes, he’s moving. It’s crazy.’
‘It’s a big one.’
‘You’re right. And he’s beginning to weigh me down! At night it’s hard to find a comfortable position. I toss and turn for hours. What about you, Michk’, are you sleeping well?’
‘Yes . . . it’s fine.’
I have to get used to it. This silence.
‘And what about Armande? How’s she?’
‘She was . . . in flu . . . too. In the . . . haven’t . . . seen.’
‘So she’s stayed in her room?’
‘Yes. Still . . . there.’
‘Poor Michk’, the days must feel long.’
‘Not so much as such. But . . . I’m no good.’
‘What about the TV?’
‘Oh no, you know . . . too noisy.’
‘I saw a film the other day that Lucas downloaded onto my computer. I watched it at home on my own, lying quietly on the sofa. But when the film ended, I cried and cried! You can’t imagine . . . I couldn’t stop.’
‘Oh . . . it’s because you’re . . . inspecting . . . maybe.’
‘No, no. Well, maybe, but not just that. Shall I tell you the story?’
Finally, there’s a spark in her eye. She loves me telling her stories from films and books and my friends’ lives. She’s listening with the special attention she reserves for stories.
‘It’s about this young boy – he’s twelve or thirteen – who’s being brought up by his father. It’s set in Belgium, in quite a poor part that’s going through hard times. You realise the boy’s mother’s gone, but don’t know why. The father’s gone back to live with his mother, the boy’s grandmother, and his two brothers. They’re all out of work. They’ve nothing to do all day but drink. It’s not really sad, there are even some very happy times. They go for bike rides, watch TV. But the father regularly hits the boy. Perhaps because he feels his son’s growing away from him or there’s something different about him. One day a social worker comes to the house. The father goes crazy and hits the grandmother because he thinks she told social services. The grandmother keeps quiet. The boy’s sent off to a home. He starts to read, to study. He begins a new life. Later it turns out he’s become a writer. He’s living with a woman who’s going to have a baby. Near the end there’s a great moment where he goes to visit his grandmother, who’s in a retirement home. He goes to say thank you. He thanks her for not giving him away, for not telling his father it wasn’t her who contacted the social worker. It was him. You can’t imagine how much I cried. It’s a really beautiful film about the way things begin, about how people move on from where they start out. You’d have liked it, Michka, for sure.’
She suddenly looks pensive.
‘Ah yes . . . yes.’
‘And I want to say thank you too, Michka. Thank you for everything. Without you, I don’t know what would have become of me. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to stay in rue des Amandiers. Without you, I maybe wouldn’t have found shelter. And later I wouldn’t have been able to study, and then, when I was ill, you were there too, you know, and I don’t know if I would have been able to . . . get myself back together. Without you.’
Michka’s trying to hide how emotional she’s feeling; she’s hunting in her trouser pocket in the hope of finding a tissue.
‘Oh . . . no.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You . . . you always . . . exagitate.’
We’re quiet for a moment.
‘What’s it called?’
‘The film?’
‘Yes.’
‘Merditude.’
‘Ah . . . Mercitude . . .’
She ponders for a moment, suddenly very serious.
‘That’s a nice . . . fine word . . . But are you sure it’s real?’
It’s grown dark. The floral curtains are drawn.
Michka is standing under the yellow overhead light. Alone in the middle of her room, she goes through a sequence of silent movements. Cautiously at first, and then more confidently.
She’s dancing.
She raises her arms, spins around. Bends forward in a sort of bow, then straightens up proudly.
She almost loses her balance several times, but always manages to regain it.
The little girl’s voice returns, as though in a dream.
Am I going to sleep at yours? Will you leave the light on? Will you stay here? Can you leave the door open? Will you stay with me? Can we have breakfast together? Are you scared? Do you know where my school is? Don’t put the light out, OK? Will you take me if Mummy can’t?
Michka opens her arms, then wraps them around her body, with her palms flat against her back. She hugs herself for a moment, as though trying to hold on to someone, as though she were cradling a child.
The real director knocks and enters the room. Michka’s in bed.
‘Hello, Mrs Seld, how are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Mr Milloux, your speech therapist, is on holiday this week, do you remember?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘He called me this morning to ask me to pass on a message. He told me it was very important. As you can no longer use the phone, he gave it to me.’
She takes a piece of paper from her pocket on which she’s jotted down a few words so that she wouldn’t forget anything.
‘He says to tell you he’s found the people. The people from La Ferté-sous-Jouarre you were looking for. They don’t live there any more, but they’re in the area. He’s going to see the lady – she’s still alive. He’ll tell you about it all.’
Michka needs a moment to absorb this information.
‘Is this . . . serious?’
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Seld. Entirely serious.’
‘Oh, tank you. Tank you so much.’
Michka thinks for a moment.
‘We need to say . . . to Marie. He . . . he . . .’
‘Tell her?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll see to it, Mrs Seld. I’ll ring her and give her Mr Milloux’s message, word for word. That’s what you want, isn’t it? All right?’
‘Yes, all night.’
‘And I also wanted to tell you I spoke to the care assistant and explained things to her. She’s promised to be careful and not to redo things you’ve already done. She’s off at the moment, but she’ll be back next week and I’ll come and see you to check how things are going.’
‘I don’t know how to . . .’
‘Don’t thank me, Mrs Seld, it’s my job. I must get on. Have a good day.’
JÉRÔME
She’s waiting
for me determinedly.
She knows my timetable. She knows I’m in the building from the morning, though our appointment’s not till three. Like every Tuesday. She’s probably wondering if I’ll drop in to see her before that, pop my head round the door, just for a quick chat. I thought about it but was afraid it would agitate her needlessly. I need time to tell her all about it.
It’s three o’clock when I eventually go into her room.
She’s made an effort to get up (the staff have told me that recently she’s been spending her days in bed).
She’s dressed and is wearing the floral scarf that I’ve complimented her on several times. She’s sitting in her armchair.
When she sees me, her face lights up.
‘Ah! Hello . . . Jé— . . .’
‘Hello, Michka, I’m really pleased to see you. I’ve missed you, you know.’
She smiles. Readjusts what remains of her hairstyle.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Fine, fine. So what about . . . the . . . friends?’
‘Ah, I’ve lots to tell you. Are you ready?’
‘Oh yes, very.’
Her face is turned towards me.
It’s as though everything has slowed down: her heartbeat, the speed of her movements, the blinking of her eyes. The room is pure silence.
‘I’ll tell you about it from the beginning. You know I called Marie before I left? I thought you seemed very tired. I was worried about you. We talked for a bit. She told me you were looking for the people who’d saved you during the war and that you’d put another ad in but hadn’t had a response. She told me what she knew. She realised it was making you sad. I had no particular plans for my holiday, so I decided to go there. To La Ferté-sous-Jouarre. I like doing things on the spur of the moment. I found a very nice little hotel and hung around for a couple of days, asking questions in cafés, bakeries, at the lawyer’s and the doctor’s. Eventually I found an old cobbler who’d known Nicole and Henri Olfinger. The first names matched and there’d been a rumour they’d hidden a little Jewish girl for several years. The cobbler gave me the name of their daughter, Madeleine, who got married and still lives in La Ferté. I went to see her. She was very welcoming and confirmed the story. Her parents often used to tell her it. So they were still thinking about you.’
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