The afternoon seemed to drag by at a snail’s pace. I couldn’t wait to catch up with them after so many years. Both actors were now household names in France. I hoped that success had not changed their philosophy of life, now that they were part of the Paris showbiz set. I doubted that my two friends had gotten so bigheaded that they wouldn’t recognize me or, worse, would ignore me. It wasn’t their style. But I was a little apprehensive nonetheless.
We took our seats in the third row and waited for the play to begin. Jeanne seemed eager to discover another chapter of my story and, above all, meet two famous actors. She had brought a pen and a piece of paper for them to autograph so she could show off to her friends. The soft glow of the house lights illuminated her face, that of a radiant young woman. She had come through adolescence with no dramas or upsets, or at least that was the impression she gave. After all, most of an iceberg lies beneath the surface; you have to dive down to appreciate its shape. Fatherhood had taught me that we can never know everything about our children, however hard we try. We would love to uncover all of their mysteries, view their thoughts projected on a movie screen in order to anticipate any catastrophes and help them see the bigger picture with the benefit of experience. But that is impossible. They always retain some of their enigma, their hidden scars, joys, and pain.
The theater lights began to dim. Everyone quieted down as the curtain rose to reveal Jean dressed as our old drill sergeant. My friend had aged, his face lined from the energy and effort expended in so many performances, but he still retained his slender physique. As he began barking orders at the other actors, the whole theater erupted in laughter, Jeanne and Mathilde included. Jean really had captured Sergeant Major Lartigue’s manner perfectly. I wondered what had become of him? Had life’s long river spared him his portion of suffering? Was he still alive? I have always been intrigued by the paths people take in life. Sometimes I feel as if there’s an invisible force pushing pieces around a huge chessboard, calculating millions of possibilities to achieve its ends. But one thing has always escaped me. What is the goal of this force? Its purpose? What does it mean for us humans, the pawns? I would like to understand the meaning of all this. But a cosmic energy situated billions of light-years away maintains tight control of the chessboard, resisting any attempt at discovery.
“Papa, are you OK?” whispered Jeanne.
“Yes, my darling, I was just thinking about something.”
“Were you thinking about Catherine?”
“No. Don’t worry. Watch the show.”
Jeanne turned back to the stage, amused by my dreamy temperament. Marc and Jean had broken into a satirical ditty about the army. The audience laughed even harder. Their show was a crowd pleaser, of that there was no doubt.
As the show reached its climax, I realized I was watching my past unfold, or at least a version of it: the cruel drill sergeant found himself standing over two lifeless guys on the floor. The sound of approaching steps pounded from the loudspeakers. Not knowing what to do, the drill sergeant looked at the audience, terrified, then fainted. This comic stunt proved a hit, and there was a round of applause at this stroke of genius, which I had come up with twenty years before. I clapped loudly at this heartwarming nod to the past.
Jean and Marc took their bows. The theater emptied. I walked around the building to the stage door with Jeanne and Mathilde, and knocked.
A man appeared and looked me over. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to see Jean and Marc, please.”
“So would everyone,” he answered unkindly.
“Yes, but I’m an old friend of theirs from the army.”
“Oh, that’s a new one!” He sniggered. “A friend from the army . . . Yeah, right!”
He slammed the door in my face. I looked at Mathilde and Jeanne, who were dismayed at such rudeness. I knocked again. The same man reappeared.
“You again!”
“Listen, I swear I know Jean and Marc. Just tell them that Paul Vertune would like to see them, please.”
“Paul Bertrune?”
“Vertune. Ver-tune.”
“Hang on.” He sighed in annoyance and closed the door again.
We waited for several minutes in silence. Then the door suddenly opened wide and Jean Brisca appeared.
“Paul!” he cried. “What a wonderful surprise! How are you?”
He stepped forward and gave me a big, warm hug.
“I’m very well! And you, after all these years?” I replied, touched.
“I’m doing great, as you can see,” he declared with a smile. “But who are these two lovely young ladies with you? Let me guess, the famous Mathilde?”
“Yes, pleased to meet you,” said my wife, eyes wide.
“What a memory!” I replied in admiration. “And this is my daughter, Jeanne.”
“What a beauty!” declared Jean. “Have you ever thought of becoming an actress, young lady?”
“Uh . . . no,” answered Jeanne, a little flustered. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Well, come on, let’s go to my dressing room. Marc will be happy to see you!”
We followed Jean backstage to a small dressing room, where Marc was removing his makeup. He recognized me immediately and gave me a big hug too. They both autographed Jeanne’s piece of paper, then we talked for a long time, recounting our respective lives since parting at Gare Montparnasse so many years before. The pair exuded such affection and kindness. Neither of them had changed. It was as if no time had passed at all.
“Did you ever find that German girl?” asked Marc.
“Ah, yes, the German girl!” added Jean.
“No, sadly not,” I replied. “I picked up her trail in the Canary Islands, but she and her mother had moved on. That’s all in the past now.”
“Pity,” said Jean, “I’d have liked to know what happened to them.”
“To use in your next play?” I joked.
Jean and Marc both laughed. We exchanged telephone numbers and they invited us to come see them in Paris. Then we said our goodbyes and made our way home.
How wonderful to see that my two friends had retained their unshakable faith in life, their unimaginable optimism. The sparks in their eyes glimmered as brightly as ever. Here they were, earning a living, and a good one at that, off the artistic passions and dreams they had harbored since childhood. It made me very happy.
30
I finally completed my first novel after years of tireless work, whole nights spent writing, rewriting, and editing. A Bordeaux publisher took an interest in my manuscript and decided to publish it. As I walked down the street one day, I spied my book standing proudly on a wooden shelf in a bookstore window. I thought of my old schoolmaster, that short man with round spectacles and a thick beard who filled my brain with knowledge, and whom I had thanked posthumously at the end of my novel. The book earned me a small nest egg, which enabled me to take the two women in my life on vacation. We spent two weeks relaxing in Andalusia and enjoying the magnificent weather.
I was a man fulfilled in every way. My private life was idyllic. My professional life hardly excited me, but it did allow me to write novels in the evening. As a child, I could never have imagined such contentment, such satisfaction. Who would have bet a single franc on Paul Vertune, that kid with hands roughened from handling the wheat? I took stock of the path I’d taken, littered with obstacles, criticisms, and malice, but also joy and tender, loving moments. Existence is bipolar; it should be on medication.
Mathilde and Jeanne loved the Spanish way of life: the tapas and the streets full of smiling people recently freed from Franco’s clutches. We even spent several days at the beach. Ever since returning from the Indian Ocean a few years before, I had avoided the sea as much as possible; the sight and smell of it evoked too many painful memories. But there was something magical about the beaches of Andalusia. The sun sat high in the sky, its rays reddening the skin of beachgoers, who were too busy building their sandcastles to care about sunburn.
“Papa, come join us!” yelled Jeanne.
I waved at her. “I’m coming!”
I got up from my towel, my body feeling languid from the sun’s delicious caress, and strolled down to the two women sitting at the water’s edge. The sea lapped gently at the soles of their feet, and they giggled like children as it tickled their toes. I sat down beside them on the wet sand and stretched out my legs. The water felt divine. And it was lovely to be there with Jeanne and Mathilde, far from the hustle and bustle of the city. It somehow bound us even closer together. We smiled at each other.
“It’s like heaven here,” Jeanne murmured.
“Yes it is,” replied Mathilde.
“Papa?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Thank you for this vacation.”
I would have liked to capture and store my daughter’s words, Mathilde’s smile, the sun warming our skin, the rippling waves, the bright-blue sky, the warm calm sea, the seagulls wheeling overhead, this chunk of my life in its entirety. I would have kept the bottle safe from prying eyes, in a lockbox, perhaps. And then, when nostalgia for bygone years overcame me, I would plunge my head into the container to experience it all again.
Happiness is fleeting, ephemeral. It’s like a docile dog you keep close on its leash so it can’t stray far—but then the animal shrugs off the leash and escapes. Happiness can’t be tamed. It prefers to explore new horizons rather than get fat at the fireside. It allows you to stroke it before padding silently away. It will always find someone to stroke it. There is no shortage of eager hands.
All in all, happiness is much like us: eternally dissatisfied. It sat with us on that Andalusian beach, tongue hanging out of its mouth, meeting our gazes with adoring eyes. The three of us stroked its silky coat. But when we returned to Bordeaux a few days later, it took to its heels and disappeared again.
31
The telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Paul?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“It’s Jacques.”
“Jacques! How are you?”
“I need to tell you something.” His voice was trembling.
“Yes?”
“Mama died this morning.”
You never believe it at first. You try and persuade yourself the opposite. You try not to hear. It’s impossible. She can’t be dead. I called her the day before yesterday and everything was fine. It’s unimaginable that the earth could continue to revolve for a single moment more without her. It’s not possible, you repeat in an endless loop, not possible, not possible . . . Then, when doubt creeps in, when the repeated words start to lose their consistency, you begin to admit the terrifying truth. Yes, it is possible.
We always think we’ll be prepared for the death of a loved one. Lying in bed at night, we’ll run through different scenarios, imagining life without that person, attaching particular emotions and memories to them, hoping it will never happen, without for one moment admitting that fiction can become fact.
The day I learned of my mother’s death, part of me died with her. I imagined Mama rising heavenward, trailing a white dress on which all my childhood memories were projected, like a movie screen. I saw us walking together as I clutched her hand tightly, so tightly. Then we were in the orchard at the family farm, stooping to pick up the fallen apples, our feet wet with the morning dew. The air was filled with a divine fragrance, a combination of my mother’s scent and the fresh smell of the vegetable garden.
The projectionist changed reels and a new scene appeared, followed by another and another, the film suddenly accelerating until the images of my past began to blur. Tears ran down my cheeks.
I dropped the handset and slumped onto the sofa. I heard Jacques shouting my name over the phone: “Paul! Paul! Are you still there, Paul?” No, Paul wasn’t still there. I’d been hit by an explosion of sadness. My chest was so tight with anguish I could barely breathe. My sobs filled the room.
Mathilde soon appeared, alerted by my cries of despair. She understood as soon as she saw me. I lay in her arms, trying to get some oxygen back in my lungs, gasping like a goldfish in a stagnant aquarium. Mama was dead. Flown away. Gone.
I sought sanctuary in my wife’s embrace, drawing on all her kindness and love, that same love my mother gave me for years and which she would never give me again.
Mathilde, Jeanne, and I left the next morning, arriving in Sarzeau late that evening. Jacques was waiting for us on the dark station platform, hands in his pockets. He looked haggard, absorbed in thought, as if our mother’s death had revived the forgotten ghosts of childhood, memories that had been scattered to the furthest recesses of his mind. As the train screeched to a halt, he stuck his fingers in his ears and grimaced.
When Jacques saw us alight from the train, he ran over, opening his arms with affection. He kissed Mathilde and Jeanne gallantly on their cheeks before giving me a big hug. I was surprised by this burst of humanity from my brother, who had spent most of his life repressing his emotions and controlling his behavior. He took our luggage to the car and we drove to his house, not far from the Vertune farm. Muriel, his wife, was sitting on the front steps smoking a cigarette. When her husband’s car turned into the driveway, which was lined with flowerbeds, she stubbed out her cigarette on the ground and rushed to greet us. As inelegant and ungainly as she appeared, Muriel was an extremely kind woman, naturally outgoing in contrast to my brother’s more withdrawn character. It was evident that their relationship was based on this balance between opposites. Jacques drew from his wife that openness to others he so sorely lacked, while Muriel drew from her husband his ability to contain and control his emotions in all situations.
Muriel hugged and kissed us, extending her deepest condolences, then she took our bags and Mathilde and Jeanne with her into the house. Later that evening, the five of us dined together, united in sadness. We said little, to the great discomfort of Muriel, who couldn’t stand silence. When we were done eating, we politely thanked her. Jeanne and Mathilde went upstairs to bed, and after kissing her husband good night, Muriel followed them.
Jacques and I sat at the table, feeling awkward in the absence of our wives, who usually drove the conversation.
“Want a whisky?” asked Jacques. “I’m going to have one.”
“Sure,” I replied, thinking about our mother.
He went over to the grand mahogany sideboard that occupied nearly a whole wall of the living room, reached inside, and took out a nearly full bottle. He poured the amber liquid into two tumblers, which he placed on the table between us. Then he lit a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.
“From time to time,” he replied. “For good occasions. And bad. Want one?”
Despite my disgust for tobacco—the cramped quarters aboard ship having been constantly filled with cigarette smoke—I surprised myself by accepting. Jacques lit it for me and I coughed at the first draw, the tip glowing red. He watched, amused, as the smoke wreathed around us, then he took a slug of whisky. A deafening silence filled the room, save for the ticking of the old clock.
“We’re orphaned,” he said, stroking the side of his tumbler with his finger.
“Yes.”
“You really loved Mama, huh?”
“Yes . . . You didn’t?”
“Of course I did,” he replied, disconcerted. “But I mean, out of all of us, you were her favorite.”
“I don’t know. Anyway, none of that matters anymore.”
Jacques knocked back the rest of his whisky in one go, grimacing as he did so. He seized the bottle and refilled his glass with the fiery, rough liquid.
“She talked about you a lot,” he continued. “I think that in a certain way she never quite got used to you leaving. You were her little Paul. It was hard for her.”
“For me too, Jacques.”
“So why did you leave?”
There was a touch of reproach in his voice. Clearly my brother wanted to
settle a score. For years he’d obviously been brooding over the memory of his young brother returning from his barracks and announcing he was leaving for Bordeaux to become a sailor. I had no desire to get into an argument, to lay out our family grievances on this day of mourning. But sometimes you simply have to grab your courage with both hands, or else the emotions stay hanging in midair like a storm about to burst.
“I left because there was nothing good for me here,” I replied. “I wanted to escape the wheat fields.
“The wheat fields or Papa’s memory?”
“Why are you asking me this, Jacques? Haven’t we all suffered enough? Papa hated me since the day I was born. He always treated me like I was less than nothing! You think I’d love such a coldhearted father?”
“No, I . . .”
“You were the apple of his eye, the family favorite. You think it’s easy for a kid to grow up in the shadow of his big brother?”
Jacques took another slug of whisky, then set his glass down. He hung his head, buried in memories of his childhood. The clock chimed, signaling that the time to settle life’s scores had come. It would either scar us forever or offer a chance at redemption. We all have to face that moment sooner or later. Jacques lit another cigarette.
“It’s true I wasn’t always kind to you,” he said.
“That’s all in the past now,” I replied, touched by his admission.
He poured himself a third glass of whisky, as if the alcohol gave him the strength to loosen the tangled knot of remorse deep inside him. He refilled my glass too.
“You know,” he continued, “despite appearances, Papa wasn’t always very kind to me either. He was strict and domineering. And unlike you, I had nobody to protect me.”
“I know,” I replied, “Mama always protected me from him. But I don’t hold a grudge against anyone. I left to get away from all that.”
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