This Little Family

by Inès Bayard

  “Sorry, I’m waiting for the photocopier, the other one’s out of order.” Ashen, Marie nods and mutters a few unintelligible words. Mathilde comes up to her, puts her hand on her shoulder, asks if she’s okay. Marie turns to look at her. Their faces are close together. Their eyes bore right into each other. She can feel Mathilde’s exhalations on her cheek, smell her fruity breath, a waft of her perfume. That generous, delicate floral fragrance, a combination of grapefruit and camellias with notes of vanilla, that pervades the whole bank. Marie is turned to stone, her hand still reaching toward the printer that whirs on and on. She tries to pull herself together, like someone dragging themselves out of a nightmare.

  “I…I think I was scared. I was scared it wasn’t you.” Mathilde doesn’t take her eyes off Marie. She moves closer, puts her hand slowly on the back of her neck. She’s sweating. Her eyes are shining. A mist clouds Marie’s eyes. Mathilde rests her head against her neck and whispers reassuringly, “It’s just me.” Marie closes her eyes, feels Mathilde’s head pull back and turn. Her smell moves away, fading on the air. Mathilde’s lips press gently onto hers. Marie submits, kisses her, puts her arms around her waist, holds her close. There’s a stirring between her legs. This feels gentle, safe, understanding. Every movement is a caress, a precious moment that her body accepts. She’s no longer a woman’s body. She’s the body. She is the man and the woman. She is ageless, genderless, free of guilt, anger, and suffering. It all comes to an end here, between two women. Marie is reminded of her desires from years ago. Before going to bed in the evening, in the privacy of her own room, she had fondled herself. Her panties wet, her pussy swollen and strong-smelling. At fourteen she discovered the first spasms of pleasure, when her body alone called to her. No external presence entered her intimacy. Marie alone could do anything.

  When Marie opens her eyes Mathilde peels slowly away from her body, with her hands still in her hair. They won’t go any further. This kiss is a promise. Mathilde wants Marie to say nothing, just as she’s learned to. Marie promises to comply. Mathilde leaves the room with one last glance at her. They study each other for a moment, seeking each other out. This isn’t some old woman met by chance in the street. This is a young girl of twenty-two who was raped by and may also be pregnant by her attacker. The secret is still safe. Silence rules, forever. The two women have found each other and bow to its sovereignty. This won’t be mentioned again.

  Relations between Marie and Laurent haven’t improved since their fight. The divorce case Laurent has been handling for months is about to come to an end and, according to the media, his client has every chance of salvaging three-quarters of his fortune despite the charges brought against him for raping a minor. There’s no justice. Not sexually or socially. But over the last few weeks, Marie has done a lot of thinking. She regrets being irresponsible. She wants to improve the situation, repair the damage done by her fits of anger, explain to her husband just how out of proportion her reactions have been, apologize for all the times when he was totally baffled, for the strain and the fury. She forgives him for slapping her. She forgives him the trial so long as everything goes back to what it was like before.

  At the end of her day’s work she calls Laurent at his office to suggest they have dinner together that evening at his favorite restaurant on the Île de la Cité. He seems surprised and doesn’t understand this turnaround but decides to accept. He’d like to smooth things out too. Roxane can take Thomas, to give Marie and Laurent some time alone together. Given how long Marie’s sister has wanted to make herself useful, she’s delighted to agree.

  * * *

  —

  Marie has managed to lose two kilos this month and for her reconciliation dinner with her husband she’s bought an indecently expensive black dress from Galeries Lafayette. When she tried it on a second time at home she didn’t dare snip off the price tag for fear that she would realize it didn’t suit her after all. Laurent is getting ready in the bathroom. She likes watching him get dressed and brush his hair, likes the smell of deodorant, the brusque regular sound of his razor on his skin, and then the quiver of the water in the basin. She sometimes thinks this intimacy should be enough for her to admit everything to him straightaway, not to wait any longer. She could tell him all of it, explain her situation from the start, the terrible chain of events in which she’s been trapped. Months of instability, lies, and desperate attempts to end it all. But she can’t find the courage. She holds her tongue and helps Laurent tie his tie. He looks at her affectionately. He feels as if he’s never loved his wife as much as he does this evening. “You look fantastic, darling. I love you, you know how much I love you.” He puts his arms around her, kisses her, breathes in the smell of her. Marie stands stiffly upright but eventually relaxes, afraid of ruining this first conciliatory move in her evening with her husband.

  Roxane arrives laden with toys, candy, and packets of potato chips. Laurent and Marie greet her side by side in the corridor. “You two look stunning! I’m not in the same league in my sweatpants, but I’m going to have a great evening too with my gorgeous little nephew.” Roxane goes over to Thomas and picks him up. She cuddles him, presses her face up to his, and plants soft kisses on his forehead, hands, and feet. Thomas smiles. The taxi has arrived; Laurent and Marie say one last goodbye to their son and Roxane, then leave the apartment.

  It’s the first time since they moved here that Laurent takes his wife’s hand as they go downstairs. She feels twenty years old. She’s flooded with memories. The way Laurent looks at her has the same destabilizing effect as it did when they first met at that student party. Sometimes time flies by so quickly. Then the days got longer and longer as if the clock had stopped working. And now she’s wrinkled, worn, and manhandled, her face ravaged by invisible ordeals. But she’s pleased with her reflection in the taxi window this evening: her floaty blond hair loose about her shoulders, her beautiful low-cut black dress, and her made-up eyes. She recognizes her old self. Laurent meanwhile never changes. He grows better-looking with each passing day, even more so this evening. The Île de la Cité comes into view. At night, Paris cradles it, allowing its beauty to dazzle. The waters of the Seine reflect every detail of the buildings along its banks. Notre-Dame cathedral keeps watch from a distance, protecting the surrounding neighborhoods. What Laurent really loves is strolling around this area and having ice cream at Bertillon in August when the heat pervades the law courts.

  The restaurant is full but not too noisy. People know how to behave. The maître d’ shows them to their table. Marie looks out at the barges moored along the Seine. She could stay here for hours, immersed in this Parisian cityscape she so loves. All the lights and the beauty of it touch her right to the heart. Her throat tightens. She looks at her husband; she’s going to tell him everything. He loves her. She can’t go on lying to him like this. Laurent takes her hand, he’s feeling emotional too. Their waiter interrupts this little moment to take their order. “We’ve chosen the tasting menu. And a bottle of Veuve Clicquot brut, my wife’s favorite.”

  Marie smiles. But she can’t help thinking about Laurent’s client. It’s a child rapist who’s paying for this meal, thanks to the exorbitant fees her husband is getting. She pushes the thought aside. Mathilde’s kiss pops into her head. Everything is merging together. She struggles, grimaces, smiles. Laurent doesn’t notice anything and they continue with their dinner.

  * * *

  —

  Roxane sits on the sofa rocking Thomas, then gets up to put him down in his room. He falls asleep immediately, but she still feels happier taking the baby monitor into the living room. She’s planning to watch a film this evening, but she can’t choose one. When she asks her husband’s advice she’s always disappointed by his recommendations, which tend to be American blockbusters. Never mind, if she types “must-see films” into a search engine she’s bound to find something interesting to download. She looks around the room for her sister’s computer. I
t’s not in the living room so she goes into Marie’s bedroom. The laptop is closed, sitting in plain sight on her desk near the window. She takes it back into the living room and opens it. The screen lights up. She needs to put in a password. Marie once admitted to her that she uses the same password for everything on her computer: her name, then her sister’s and her mother’s followed by the year of her birth, with no spaces—MarieRoxaneIrene80. Roxane thought this mnemonic method very dubious in view of the hacking risks but didn’t want to tell Marie for fear of panicking her. A dozen windows open up in different programs, and she closes them one by one. “Dear Laurent, You don’t know who I am or the state I’m in…” Roxane can’t help reading on. The words lead from one to the next, she doesn’t stop. The violence of it builds. Her eyes hurt from reading quickly. Her heart breaks, her chest is about to explode. She slams the laptop shut. She can’t take any more. She understands perfectly. She sits there sobbing, suddenly having trouble catching her breath, paralyzed by her distress. She’s suffocating. She decides to throw open a window, and a man waves to her from the building opposite. Roxane looks at him with disgust. The computer is still on the sofa. She goes back to it to reread Marie’s letter. It delivers the same shock all over again. Her sister didn’t write this letter. The words are too strong, too brutal, terrifyingly dangerous, dirty. This letter’s just a bundle of filth, written by a madwoman in heat. Killing her child, lying to her husband and family, trying to kill herself. No circumstances could justify that, not even rape. The baby’s innocent. So much energy expended on such heinous, murderous decisions can’t stay secret any longer. She needs to talk to her sister. Marie must tell Laurent the truth or she will herself.

  * * *

  —

  Their dessert is served: Granny Smith apples, almond éclair, and lemon meringue pie. It’s all perfect, the meal opulent, the setting sublime. Laurent brushes his legs against Marie’s under the table. Everything’s back to normal for the space of an evening. “It’s such a long time since we had an evening this good together. Do you know there was a time when I thought I was going to lose you, I thought my wife had disappeared.” Now’s the time. She’s going to tell him. He wouldn’t dare make a scene in such a lovely place. He’ll feel terrible for his wife, may even be compassionate. “But that’s over now. Everything’s like before, nothing’s changed. I’m still just as crazy about you, Marie.” She can’t, it’s too difficult.

  Laurent doesn’t give her a chance to tell the truth. He decides it’s time to go and pays the check. Marie asks at reception if someone could call a taxi for them, but Laurent says no, he’d like to make the most of this wonderful evening to walk along the banks of the Seine with his wife. The evening must never come to an end. The receptionist is touched by the couple’s genuine, straightforward, grown-up kind of love. Marie accepts his suggestion and puts on her coat. It’s a mild night, they’ll go for a stroll. In search of lost pleasure, love reconstitutes itself.

  * * *

  —

  Roxane has been searching for hours for some secondary proof: a letter, a clue, a photograph, an email, something hidden or deleted from her sister’s Internet search history. Nothing. Just the letter. She doesn’t know what to do when the couple comes home. Should she pretend to be normal or reveal everything straight out in front of Laurent? She yo-yos between a state of panic and moments of clear reasoning. With her cell phone clutched in her hand, she wants to call her mother to tell her everything. In the end she thinks that’s a terrible idea. Better to wait awhile. She sits down to think it over, then jumps up and goes to Thomas’s room. He’s sound asleep. His musical mobile projects hundreds of bright stars on the walls of the room. Standing on tiptoe, Roxane leans silently over Thomas’s bed. She’s looking for something, scrutinizing every inch of the child. From his nose to his hands, the shape of his eyes to the tips of his toes. She sees absolutely no resemblance. Roxane feels ashamed, ashamed of herself and of what she’s doing. It doesn’t matter if Laurent isn’t the baby’s father, she loves her nephew. She’ll always love him. She decides to go back to the living room. It’s gone midnight, Marie and Laurent will be home soon. She’s cold and can smell the damp sweat of fear permeating her clothes. Her clammy hands don’t seem to work properly, her body’s detaching itself from her mind. Her cell phone pings: a message from Marie saying they’ll be home in about an hour. She won’t last that long, she can feel she’s getting sick. She feels nauseous and runs to the bathroom to throw up her potato chips and cheese. Too late. Slimy yellow and red chunks spatter onto the wooden floor in the corridor. She collapses against the wall, tears spilling down her cheeks. She gets up and goes to the kitchen for a plastic bag, scoops up the half-digested food and puts it in the bag. There’s a strong acidic smell. She remembers what her mother told her just after she came away from Marie’s apartment, the day after she dropped off Thomas: “I even found vomit and pantyliners full of blood on the floor in the kitchen.”

  * * *

  —

  It’s two a.m. and Roxane has fallen asleep. Marie wakes her gently. “You can stay the night here, sweetheart, but don’t stay on the floor, I’ll make up the sofa bed.” Roxane opens her eyes and suddenly sees her sister’s face. She’s startled and jumps to her feet. Marie’s surprised, wonders what’s going on. Roxane talks loudly, panicking, looking around for her bag and coat. “No, I have to go. I—I need to—I have a lot to do in the morning. I really, I need to go.” Laurent catches up with her in the corridor and asks her at least to wait until he’s called a taxi. Roxane refuses, says she’ll find one on the street. She’s so overwhelmed and disoriented that she doesn’t know how to behave toward Marie, she doesn’t even take the time to put on her coat, snatches her scarf so savagely from its hook that the thing pulls out of the wall, then she races off down the stairs.

  The closed laptop is still on the carpet. Marie looks down and notices it there. A beat. She thought she left it in the bedroom. She looks up again and runs off to catch up with her sister. She tells her to call to let her know she’s home safely, as usual. Roxane ignores her and keeps running down the stairs.

  Laurent and Marie are drunk. They’ve had a bottle of champagne, a liter of wine, and several digestifs. They’re not aware of what has gone on. Life and liquor give them a little more respite before the catastrophe. Laurent collapses onto the sofa and Marie lies down on top of him. They fall asleep cuddled together, peaceful and trusting.

  Marie’s nerves are sorely tested this morning: the bank is seething with clients. Through her glass door she can see the line waiting behind the counter. She and Laurent did a whole year’s worth of drinking last night. She doesn’t clearly remember arriving home, it’s all muddled, but she remembers her sister’s strange behavior. Roxane absolutely refused to stay the night, claiming she had important things to do in the morning. She ran off down the stairs without calling a taxi and without letting Marie know whether she got home safely. Marie picks up her glass of soluble aspirin and drinks it down in one. Then she picks up her phone to call her sister. It goes straight to voicemail. It’s only nine o’clock, maybe she hasn’t had a chance to turn her phone on this morning. Marie calls her mother, who doesn’t answer either. Feeling slightly light-headed, Marie decides to text Julien to check if everything’s okay.

  There’s an endless succession of meetings. Mathilde hardly ever comes into her office now. Marie would like to see her, to feel her close by; she’s suggested having lunch together several times but Mathilde has declined by email. She’s been snowed under with work since her time off so Marie doesn’t persist and spends most of her time with Hervé. Between two of her meetings he pops into her office to let her know he’s leaving early today. Marie is surprised: in five years Hervé has never left before seven p.m. “It’s my wife. She wants us to go out for a meal this evening.” Marie pulls a face, asks whether he’s sure it’s not another of the Machiavellian plans his wife and daughter are so g
ood at. “I took Cissy’s cage to my neighbor this morning before coming to work. To be sure. After twenty years of marriage, I know what she’s like, that Corinne.”

  It’s one o’clock and the bank’s metal shutters are closing for the staff to have their lunch. Through the muted clanking of the mechanism, Marie hears her sister’s voice. She’s sure of it, it’s definitely her. She comes out of her office and heads for the central counter. “Do you have time for lunch, Marie?” Roxane looks very tired, her eyelids are drooping.

  Marie knows her sister and knows something’s wrong. “What happened to you? Why did you run off like that last night? And you didn’t even text me to let me know you got home okay. You know that’s the rule.” Roxane doesn’t answer. She seems to be looking around for something. Marie is irritated and asks her once and for all to tell her what’s wrong.