“One last thing. On the wall, there’s a painting that I like very much. It’s of a very fine, very fragile tree that seems to touch the sky. It rises above a bunch of big, round, bushy trees, like self-important people. The painting is called Great Expectations. It’s by Magritte.”
“I know it,” Claudio said. “This tree that wants to touch the sky, that’s the one on which you perch. Great Expectations wears its name well.”
A gust of wind swept through my chest; I finally breathed. Claudio’s first words, and what words! I dug my nails into my palms to keep myself from crying. I was so afraid of having lost you.
He took my hand and led me to the sofa.
“Now tell me about this trip to New York,” he demanded.
17.
“So? You decided?” asked Dr. Leblond joyfully.
I didn’t wait to get home to call the doctor after taking Claudio back to his house. I called from my car, my eyes on the lighted windows of the house where I had left Claudio under Maria’s care.
“I think so, yes. But he wants to leave right away, now. It’s exactly as you told me, Doctor. He wants the transplant and it scares him. He’s going to call you. Please, support me.”
My voice quavered. I couldn’t believe that I had succeeded.
“Calm down, calm down, Miss ‘Sister,’” the doctor demanded. “Do you think I’m going to discourage you? Here’s how I’m going to win your confidence: after your visit on Monday, I called my friend Miller. He’s ready to treat Claudio as soon as he arrives in New York.”
“You…you mean that he’s ready to operate immediately?”
“Very quickly, in any case. I explained the situation to him. And don’t forget: he’s a fan of our singer. He confirmed that restoring his sight, his voice, would be an honor for him. I’m going to e-mail him the file right away. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon there. Meanwhile, have you ever been to New York?”
“I’ve never been to America.”
I could see the doctor’s smile.
“I thought as much. If you agree, I’ll get in touch with Mr. May. We’ve already met. As I remember, he’s a…tremendously efficient man. He’ll organize all that for you.”
Who is going to pay?
Since it was Claudio, David couldn’t refuse.
“And, above all, keep me informed. You’ve already done the hard part. Bravo!”
David called about eight o’clock the same evening. He got right to the point; his voice was dry, incredulous, disturbed too.
“I’m at Claudio’s. I understand that you accomplished your mission. Do you have your passport?”
“I’ll have it tomorrow morning.”
“Then prepare to leave on Monday.”
Monday? After I caught my breath, he made an appointment for lunch with me the next day.
We met at the restaurant on the Champs-Élysées where, last October, David had asked if I would like to be Claudio’s little sister. When I arrived, passport in my pocket, he wasn’t there yet. All the better. I could calm down a little. I’d been floating since yesterday. A sleepless night didn’t help.
The maître d’ led me to the same table we had occupied that autumn day. It had been a beautiful day, a postponement of winter. On this eve of spring, the day was also beautiful, like a hope.
I remembered everything: the immaculate tablecloths, the dance of the waiters, and on the other side of the window, the greenery and flowers. Above all, the impression of being, for an instant, sheltered from the world’s bustle.
It was me that I didn’t recognize.
Where had I found the strength, the nerve, to convince the great tenor, whom David entrusted to my care, to be operated on? How had I succeeded? Had I ever believed I would “accomplish my mission,” as his agent had said yesterday?
I demanded a straight answer, he gave it, and that was how I was at a standstill, paralyzed by this mini-earthquake that I had set in motion.
Prepare to leave on Monday.
One chance in two of success.
“Sorry I’m late, Laura, I had a lot to do.”
His face closed, David sat down across from me. He pushed aside the menu that the maître d’ brought him and asked me with a glance, “Seafood?”
I agreed.
“And a whisky and soda right away. Something for you, Laura?”
“No, thank you.”
The waiter walked away. David opened his attaché case and took out a little Air France envelope and placed it in front of me.
“Your plane leaves Charles de Gaulle Monday at ten thirty. You’ll arrive at Kennedy Airport at eight o’clock in the morning, local time.”
His voice slapped, his face was severe. Without pity, he continued, “I reserved a suite at the Pierre. Sorry, at the Pierre Hotel, I don’t think you know it. Claudio usually stays there when he goes to New York. At least it will be known territory. I just spoke with your Dr. Miller on the phone. Claudio will be admitted to the Bel Air clinic on Tuesday and will be operated on there on Wednesday. You must confirm all that when you arrive.”
He paused for several seconds.
“Are you satisfied? Is this what you wanted?”
The waiter placed his drink in front of him, added the soda water, and left. David waited for my reply. I was speechless.
“So?” he insisted nastily.
So, under his incredulous eyes, I grabbed his glass and swallowed two big gulps of his whisky. That was my reply.
Anyway, I couldn’t speak.
And he burst out laughing. Then he called the waiter over, ordered another whisky, and when it was in front of him, he clinked his glass against mine.
“To the first woman who has ever had complete control over me.”
The power of a laugh. David’s cleared the air. Without my asking, and with a certain humor, he told me about his eventful evening the night before.
To begin, Claudio had demanded that he drop everything and come to see him in Neuilly. In the car driving there, he had taken the call from Dr. Leblond telling him of the singer’s decision. Later, when he was with the singer, a call from Dr. Miller: the file had arrived in New York. He would be delighted to take care of the great tenor.
While David recounted the epic, the plate of seafood arrived: oysters and sea urchin for him, langoustines and crab for the one from Normandy. No white wine, thank you; it goes very well with whisky.
And it went well.
“What did you do to convince him, Laura?”
There was no longer any aggression in David’s look, but still the same incredulity.
I wasn’t going to tell him about the moon.
“In his heart, Claudio knew that he should try the transplant. He just needed someone to push him. Maybe others gave up too quickly.”
David nodded his head and ate several oysters in silence.
“He warned his mother; she’s arriving tomorrow,” he told me. “That didn’t seem to please him.”
“And his father? Did he tell him too?”
“It would amaze me if he did.”
“What happened between the two of them, David?”
The unhappy agent sighed. Laura and her questions: decidedly incorrigible.
“Since the accident, his mother has been living in mourning for her son’s eyes. His father is trying to survive…elsewhere. His profession allows him to travel a lot, so that helps. This kind of drama can bring a couple together as easily as destroy it. It destroyed this one.”
“Does Claudio suffer because of it?”
“He feels guilty. He doesn’t want to see his father anymore.”
“My God, the poor man.”
David raised his eyebrows.
“Are you talking about the father?”
“It’s a species I like very much. Are you one, David?”
“Not father, not husband, not son: adventurer, pure and simple.”
I laughed. This fat man in glasses, eating oysters with his pinky raised, had the ai
r of anything but an adventurer.
“As for you, Laura, if I could have foreseen who you were when I went to look for you at The Agency…”
“You would have left running?”
“I can assure you of that.” He was briefly silent. “And without a doubt I would have been wrong,” he conceded in a voice more rough than ever.
A friendly impulse pushed me toward him: so he approved of my approach? And maybe even began to believe in it? We must all believe in it to help Claudio.
Claudio would see again.
“Thank you, David.”
Lamp chops followed the seafood. All the tables had been filled without my noticing. Waiters slid from one to the other, their voices hushed, their faces smiling. I felt good. Me, the little one, used to the cafés and other bistros in the area, I had learned during these last months to appreciate this kind of place. And, thinking that I might never come here again, my heart sank.
He won’t need you anymore.
“I have something to ask you,” David said as we drank our coffees, which were accompanied by a plate of petits fours that would have made the baker in Villedoye jealous. “Can you sleep at Neuilly Sunday night? You must be at the airport by nine o’clock Monday. As you know, Claudio is not exactly an early riser. If you’re there, I’ll be much calmer.”
“His mother won’t be there?”
His face darkened again.
“I convinced Mrs. Roman to leave for Bordeaux on Sunday. You’ll take over from her, if you would.”
“OK. With weapons and baggage.”
Sunday. The day after tomorrow? A new anxiety gripped me. What weapons, Laura? I leaned toward my adventurer.
“David, come with us, please. That would change everything for me. I think…I think I’m a little afraid.”
He didn’t reply. For the first time, I had dared to admit my doubts. Because he no longer frightened me?
His smile was friendly, but his refusal was firm.
“I don’t have your faith, Laura. And Claudio feels everything. I would risk making him lose the wonderful confidence that you’ve given him. I’ll content myself with accompanying you both to the airport.”
18.
I was hanging my bird feeder on the low branch of the pine tree, over the grass, when a woman in her sixties, a fur coat draped over her shoulders, appeared at the entrance to the house.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “But first: who are you?”
I put the brick of lard into the feeder, then reclaimed my suitcase, which I had left on the path, and joined Claudio’s mother on the stoop.
“I’m Laura Vincent.”
She didn’t extend her hand to me. She looked me over, head to toe, with an incredulous air. Clearly she had not imagined me like this.
She was a tall, thin woman who must have been beautiful in happier times. Now, her face was ruined. It made me think of those faces of the Virgin, Christ dead on her knees: a pièta.
“And what’s that?” she asked, pointing to the bird feeder.
“It’s for the birds; a gift I promised Claudio.”
“But he won’t be able to see it.”
“I hope he will.”
She turned her back on me.
“It’s freezing. Let’s go back inside.”
I went in with her; I had a key. Another was hidden at the foot of the steps in case Claudio forgot his. Did his mother know about the hiding place?
The door to the living room was closed and we heard no noise coming from there. Mrs. Roman’s valise was ready in the entryway. She folded her fur on top of it: the long, gray-white fur of a wolf. I took off my anorak. Anorak, boots…David had called me this morning to warn me that it was very cold in New York and that I should bring warm clothes. I was only missing a wool ski hat.
“My taxi is picking me up here in twenty minutes. I’ll show you your room,” Claudio’s mother said.
She went ahead of me up the stairs. She was wearing high heels and an elegant suit. I knew the room: light, spacious, with its own bathroom. Pretty floral sheets on the bed. The little bouquet of daisies couldn’t have come from anyone but Maria. The two windows looked out onto the garden. I spotted my bird feeder on the pine tree. Of course, to wait until March to think about saving the birds was rather late, but it would be useful next year.
Would I still be here to enjoy it?
I put my bag on a chair. Mrs. Roman had followed me.
“Claudio is resting,” she told me. “He asked that no one disturb him. We’ve already said our good-byes.”
She drifted around the room a little before coming back to me.
“And when will he have the operation?”
“Probably Wednesday. We have to confirm that when we arrive.”
She nodded her head, her lips tight. Did she know that I was the one who had influenced her son’s decision? Was she angry with me? He won’t be able to see it, she had just said about my gift. She didn’t believe in it, and her agitation filled the room with bad vibes. I understood why David didn’t want her to stay long. I also understood the father’s decision to live elsewhere.
“I would have liked to accompany him there, but he refused,” she said bitterly. “He even refused to let me help him pack his suitcase. He said that you were used to doing it.”
“We’ve traveled quite a lot together,” I said.
Once again she looked at me as though she didn’t understand how I could have been chosen to take care of her son.
I left the room. I was eager for her to get out. She followed on my heels.
“I must tell you that I called his father,” she announced defiantly as we went downstairs. “I felt that, despite everything, he had a right to know.”
Despite his flight? His cowardice?
Had she told Claudio about this? In what state was I going to find him?
We were just going into the foyer when the bell rang.
“It’s the taxi,” a masculine voice said on the intercom.
Mrs. Roman had already slipped on her coat. She took her valise.
“Would you like me to help you?”
“It’s OK,” she replied dryly. “Good-bye.”
I watched her cross the garden. That wasn’t a mother. In the face of her child’s pain, a mother opens her arms wide. She presses her own to her chest like something precious.
I closed the door with relief.
Claudio appeared at the top of the stairs.
“To call my father…” he growled. “But why did she get involved in this?”
One of the dearest treasures of my youth was the set of Russian dolls that Agatha gave me for Christmas. The littlest one, well hidden, well protected, was me.
At the restaurant, Chez Sergei, to which David had invited us this night before leaving, Russian dolls of every size and decoration held a place of honor.
The place resembled a luxury dacha. The atmosphere was both joyous and intimate. The wooden walls were covered with paintings; the candles on the table were the only source of light; and a group of musicians in red shirts, black trousers, and leather boots walked their violins from table to table.
Claudio had chosen this place. For me.
“Have you ever eaten caviar, Laura?”
“Only fake.”
“So, for the real stuff, it’s now or never.”
We had a small, full cup of it, lodged in a nest of ice: the ultimate luxury, it seemed.
The caviar was gray and rich, with the taste of the far-off sea, of adventure. I liked it a lot…that’s all. I would never dare admit that I preferred my local shrimp, fished that day and served warm with a crisp white wine. It was just that, where I came from, shrimp were always a sign of a celebration, so I was, of course, partial.
At our table, it was far from a celebration.
As soon as he had arrived, Claudio had ordered a bottle of vodka and he had drunk most of it. David’s look tried to reassure me. I hated him for having refused to drink with me.
/> Tomorrow, at this time, the littlest Russian doll would be in New York.
With big laughs, Claudio was amusing himself by playing with the word “see”: “Wait and see…” “We’ll see…” “I see what you mean…”
I wouldn’t know how to say the names of the dishes that came after the caviar. I remember the three violinists who suddenly surrounded us. Claudio rose and sang. He sang Russian songs full of nostalgia, love, and spirit that made your heart swell and made you want to clap your hands at the same time, that made you want to applaud despite all that life threw at you.
He sang as though it were the last time, tonight or never, and his voice seemed to well up from the depths of the earth that carries us, and from the hope that sometimes carries us away.
The room held its breath, the waiters stopped serving, and his name ran from table to table.
I remember seeing David turn away to cry.
The faithful Jean-Pierre was waiting for us at the door to the restaurant. There was a leaden silence during the ride to Neuilly. Drunk, Claudio rambled. The three of us had to help him out of the car, across the garden, and up to his room. We put him to bed. Forget washing up.
I remember that, before sinking into oblivion, he pointed his finger at me and said in a wooly voice that disgusted me, “All that because of this little bitch.”
And I was ashamed because the driver was there to hear it.
19.
When we broke the sound barrier, over the Atlantic, we barely noticed. A deep and regular humming thrummed in the belly of the beautiful bird, a gentle music from the protective wing enveloped us, and the stewardesses waited on us hand and foot. I, Laura, was flying on a Concorde.
At the airport, after we had checked in our bags and relieved ourselves of our coats, we were welcomed in a princely room where we were offered hors d’oeuvres and drinks. A few of the passengers knew each other: a little world of regulars.
A handsome man of about fifty, accompanied by a dazzling young woman, came over to greet Claudio.
“My dear friend, I didn’t know that you were going to sing in New York.”
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