I hear the bathroom bolt unlock and furtively step out of her room.
Margaux appears, her hair gathered up in a towel. Purple circles under her eyes. She mumbles good morning and brushes past me. I reach out and graze her shoulder. She moves away.
“How are you, sweetie?” I ask tentatively. “How—are you feeling?”
She shrugs. The door closes with a loud click. Does she know what to do? I wonder. About her period. Sanitary pads and tampons. Of course she does. Astrid probably explained all this to her, her friends did. Pauline probably did. I go and make myself a coffee. The boys are on their way to school. They both hug me clumsily. As they leave, the doorbell rings.
It is Suzanne, Pauline’s mother. There is a painful, emotional moment as we face each other on the doorstep. Her hands find mine as the boys peck her cheeks and slip away, overwhelmed.
Her face is bloated, her eyes little slits. Yet she bravely smiles at me. I take her into my arms. She smells of the hospital, of pain, of fear, of loss. We stand together, rocking slowly. She is a small woman. Her daughter used to tower above her. She looks up at me. Watery irises.
“I could do with some coffee.”
“Sure! Right away.”
I lead her into the kitchen. She sits down, taking off her coat and scarf. I pour out a cup for her, my hands unsteady. I sit down to face her.
“I’m here for you, Suzanne” is all I can come up with.
But she seems to like that, however feeble it must sound, for she nods and takes a trembling sip of the coffee. She says, “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up. That this thing is just a nightmare.”
“Yes,” I say softly.
She is wearing a green cardigan. White blouse. Black trousers. Low-cut boots. Was she wearing those clothes when they called her yesterday to tell her her daughter was dead? What was she doing when they called her? Was she at her office? In her car? What did she think when she saw the school’s number show up—that Pauline had cut class, or that there had been a problem with a teacher? I want to tell her how ghastly I have felt since Margaux’s call.
I want to express all my sympathy, all my sadness, all my wretchedness, yet nothing comes out. I can only take her hand and hold on to it for dear life. That’s all I can do.
“The funeral is on Tuesday. Out in the country. At Tilly. Where my dad is buried.”
“We’ll be there. Of course.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “I came by to pick up Pauline’s things. Her bag, I think, and some clothes.”
“It’s all here.”
As I get up to fetch the bag and clothes, Margaux comes in. She sees Suzanne, and with a sharp little yelp that hurts me, she flings herself on Suzanne, burying her head in her shoulder, sobs racking her slim frame. I watch Suzanne comfort her, patting her hair. Margaux cries, and words come gushing out, the words she wouldn’t say to me yesterday.
“We were in gym class, like every Thursday. We were playing basketball. Pitou sort of crumpled up on the floor. When the teacher turned her over, I knew. Her eyes had rolled up. You could only see the whites. The teacher tried to resuscitate her, did all the stuff you see on TV. It lasted forever. Somebody called an ambulance. But by the time they got there, it was over.”
“There was no pain,” Suzanne whispers, stroking Margaux’s damp hair. “She felt no pain. It was over in seconds. The doctors told me.”
“Why did she die?” asks Margaux simply, leaning back on her heels to look up at Suzanne.
“They believe there was a problem with Pauline’s heart. A problem that none of us knew about. Her little brother is being tested this week to find out if he has the same problem.”
“I want to see her,” says Margaux. “I want to say goodbye to her.”
Suzanne’s eyes meet mine.
“Don’t stop me, Dad,” Margaux says quickly, not looking at me. “I want to see her.”
“I’m not stopping you, sweetie. I understand.”
Suzanne finishes her coffee. “Of course you can see her. She is still at the hospital. I can take you there, or your mother can later.”
“My mother is in Japan,” says Margaux.
“Your father can take you,” says Suzanne, getting up. “I have to go now. So many things to do. Paperwork. The funeral. I want it to be a lovely funeral.” She pauses and bites her lip. Her mouth twitches. “For my lovely daughter.”
She quickly turns away, but I see her face crumble. She scoops up the bag and clothes and heads out. When she gets to the door, she squares her shoulders, like a soldier getting ready for battle. My admiration for her is immense.
“See you later,” she whispers, not looking up, opening the front door and fumbling with the handle.
I seem to be spending a lot of time in hospital morgues, I reflect, as Margaux and I wait at la Pitié-Salpêtrière to see Pauline’s body. This Parisian one is a tenebrous, depressing affair compared with the luminous place Angèle works in. No windows, the paint is flaking, the linoleum scratched, and no effort seems to have been made to cheer up the room. We are alone, and the only sounds we hear are footsteps clicking up and down the corridor and the murmur of low voices. The mortician is a portly man in his forties. He offers no words of condolence, not even a smile. He probably deals with so many deaths that he has become blasé. Even a fourteen-year-old dying of heart failure means little to him, I guess. But I am wrong. When he comes back to get us, he leans toward Margaux and says, “Your friend is ready. Are you going to be all right, miss?”
Margaux nods, her chin set.
“It’s not easy seeing someone you love dead. Maybe your dad should come with you.”
My daughter looks up at him, taking in his bad, florid skin.
“She was my best friend, and I saw her die,” she says in a clenched, tight voice.
She will be saying that sentence for the rest of her life. The mortician nods.
“Your father and I will be just behind the door in case you need us, okay?”
She stands up, smoothing out her clothes, her hair. Her face once again looks years older. I want to hold her back, to protect her, to wrap her up in my arms. Will she be all right? Will she be strong enough? Will she collapse? Will this damage her forever? I fight the urge to grab her sleeve.
The mortician leads her to the next room, opens the door for her, and lets her in.
Suzanne and Patrick appear with their son. We hug and kiss in silence. The little boy is pale, tired. We wait some more.
Then Margaux’s voice is heard. She says my name. Not Dad, but Antoine. She has never called me that before. She says my name twice.
I enter the room. It has the same proportions as the one in Angèle’s hospital. I recognize the familiar, dominant smell. I allow my eyes to flicker toward the body laid out in front of us. Pauline seems very young. I come closer. So young, so frail. The shapely body appears to have shrunk. She is wearing a pink blouse and jeans. Converse sneakers. Her hands are crossed on her stomach. I glance finally at her face. No makeup. White, pure skin. Her blond hair combed back simply. Her closed mouth has a natural look to it. Angèle would approve.
Margaux hovers near me. I put my hand on the back of her head, as I did when she was small. She doesn’t shrug me off the way she has been doing lately.
“This is something I don’t understand,” she says.
She slips out of the room. I stand in front of Pauline’s body, alone. Astrid will not see this. She is still in Tokyo, flying back for the funeral on Tuesday. Serge and she could not change their reservations at the last minute. The last time she saw Pauline was probably at Malakoff, a week or so ago. When Astrid lands, Pauline will be in her coffin, ready for burial. She will never lay eyes on Pauline in death. I don’t know whether this is better for her or not. I have never faced this sort of situation with my ex-wife.
As I stand here, I think of my father. Like Pauline, my mother died in a couple of minutes. Had my father stood like this in the hospital morgue, contemplating his wif
e’s body, trying to cope? Where was he when he was told his wife had died? Who had called him? No mobile phones in 1974. He was most likely at his office, which in those days was near the Champs-Élysées.
I stare at the dead face in front of me. So young. So fresh. Fourteen years old. I put my hand on her head, gently. Compared with Margaux’s head, Margaux’s living warmth, Pauline is stone-cold. I have never touched a dead person in my life. I leave my hand there. Goodbye, Pauline. Goodbye, little one.
The dread that I felt last night while I was holding Pauline’s bag engulfs me. Her colorless face suddenly seems to melt into Margaux’s face. I shiver. This could be my dead daughter. I could be looking at my daughter’s dead body. Touching her corpse. I try to stop myself from trembling. I wish Angèle were by my side. I think of the comfort she could give me now, her common sense, her inner knowledge of death. I try to imagine that it was Angèle who tended to Pauline’s body, with the care and respect I know she gives her “patients.”
A hand on my shoulder. Patrick. He says nothing. We both stand there and look down at Pauline. He can feel me trembling. He squeezes my shoulder, in silence. I go on shaking and think of everything Pauline could have become. Everything that was in store for her that she will never know, that we will never know. Her studies. Traveling. Boyfriends. Independence. Her career. Love. Motherhood. Middle age. Growing old. Her entire life. What lay ahead and what is no more.
The dread in me abates, and anger takes over. Fourteen years old. For the love of God, fourteen years old. Why do these things happen? And when they do, how on earth do you pick yourself up and move on? Where do you find the courage, the strength? Is religion the answer? Is that where Patrick and Suzanne find solace? Is that what is helping them now?
“Suzanne dressed her. Alone. She didn’t want anyone else to do it,” says Patrick. “We chose her clothes together. Her favorite jeans, her favorite blouse.”
He reaches out and softly strokes his daughter’s cold cheek. I look at the pink blouse. The image of Suzanne’s fingers painstakingly doing up that long line of buttons against Pauline’s lifeless skin comes to me and weighs down on me with all its horrific might.
Margaux needs to be with Suzanne and Patrick. I guess it’s her way of staying close to Pauline. As I leave la Pitié, I check my phone. There is a voice message from my sister. “Call me, urgent.” I find Mélanie’s voice strangely quiet, but I am so upset by what I have just seen, Pauline’s body, that I don’t mention it when I first get her on the phone. I then tell her hurriedly about Pauline’s death, Margaux, the horror of it all. Astrid’s absence. Margaux’s period. Pauline’s body. Patrick and Suzanne. Suzanne dressing Pauline—
“Antoine,” says Mélanie pointedly, interrupting me. “Listen.”
“What?” I say almost impatiently.
“I need to talk to you. You need to come now.”
“I can’t. I’m about to head back to the office.”
“You have to come.”
“Why? What’s up?”
A short silence.
“Because I’ve remembered. I remembered why I had the accident.”
A bizarre apprehension plucks at my heart. I’ve been waiting for this moment for the past three months. It is now here, it is at last here, and I don’t know if I can face it. I don’t know if I am strong enough. Pauline’s death has drained me.
“Okay,” I say weakly. “I’ll be right over.”
The ride from la Pitié to Bastille is a slow one, even though I am not far from Mel’s place. The traffic inches on. I try to remain calm behind the wheel. I then spend ages looking for a parking place on busy rue de la Roquette. Mélanie is waiting for me with the cat in her arms.
“I’m so sorry about Pauline,” she says, kissing me. “How awful it must be for Margaux . . . This is the worst timing . . . It’s just that . . . It has come back to me. This morning. And I had to tell you.”
The cat jumps down to come and rub itself against my legs.
“I don’t know how to say this,” she says simply. “I think it will be a shock to you.”
“Try me.”
We sit face-to-face. Her delicate fingers play with the bracelets around her wrist. A clicking sound that gets on my nerves.
“During our last night at the hotel, I woke up. I was thirsty, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I tried to read, drank a glass of water, but nothing worked. So I slipped out of my room and went downstairs. The entire hotel was silent. No one was awake. I went through the reception area, the dining room, then finally back upstairs. That’s when it happened.”
She pauses.
“What happened?”
“You remember room number nine?”
“Yes,” I say. “Clarisse’s room.”
“I passed that room on my way up. And then suddenly I had this flashback. It was so powerful I had to sit down on the stairs.”
“What did you see?” I whisper.
“Our last summer—1973. I was frightened. There had been a storm. It was my birthday, do you remember?”
I nod.
“I couldn’t sleep that night. I crept down the hotel stairs to our mother’s room.”
She pauses again. The cat purrs against me.
“The door was not locked, and I opened it very gently. The curtains were drawn back, and moonlight lit up the room. And then I saw that there was somebody in the bed with her.”
“Our father?” I say, startled.
She shakes her head.
“No. I drew nearer. I could not understand. I was only six years old, remember. I could make out Clarisse’s black hair. And she was holding somebody in her arms. Not our father.”
“Who?” I gasp.
Our mother, with a lover . . . Our mother, with another man. With my grandparents and us, her children, sleeping only a couple of rooms away. Our mother. Her fuzzy orange bathing suit. Playing with us on the beach. Our mother at night with another man.
“I don’t know who it was.”
“What did he look like?” I say heatedly. “Had you ever seen him before? Was he staying at the hotel? Could you remember him?”
Mélanie bites her lip and averts her eyes. Then she says softly, “It was a woman, Antoine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our mother was holding a woman in her arms.”
“A woman?” I repeat, stunned.
The cat jumps back up on her knees, and she hugs it fiercely.
“Yes, Antoine, a woman.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I came close to the bed. They were asleep. They had thrown the sheets back, and they were naked. I remember thinking that they were both beautiful, very feminine. The woman was tanned and slim, and she had long hair. I couldn’t tell what color it was in the moonlight. It seemed a silvery blond. I stood there and looked at them for a while.”
“Do you really think they were lovers?”
She smiles wryly. “Well, at six years old, I had no idea, of course. But what I remember very distinctly is this: the woman’s hand was cupped around one of Clarisse’s breasts. It was a possessive, sexual gesture.”
I get up, pace around the room, and stand by the window, looking down at the noisy rue de la Roquette. I find I can’t speak for a minute or two.
“Are you shocked?” she asks.
“In a way.”
Again the click of the bracelets.
“I tried to tell you. You knew something was wrong. And then I felt I just couldn’t hold it back anymore, so on the way back—”
“And did you ever tell anyone about this the next day,” I interrupt, “after it happened?”
“I tried, the very next morning, while we were playing on the beach with Solange. But you wouldn’t listen. You shooed me away. I never spoke about this to anyone, and it slipped away from me little by little. I forgot about it. I had never thought about it again until that night at the hotel, thirty-four years later.”
“Have you see this woman again? Any ide
a who she was?”
“No. I don’t remember seeing her again. No idea who she was.”
I come back to the chair facing Mélanie. “Do you think our mother was a lesbian?” I ask her, my voice low.
“I’ve been asking myself that very question,” she says levelly.
“Do you think this was just one affair out of the blue, or do you think she’d been having affairs with women for a while?”
“I have not stopped thinking about all this. The same questions, and no answers.”
“Do you think our father knew? And our grandparents?”
She gets up to go to the kitchen and boils some water, puts tea bags in mugs. I feel dazed, like after a sharp blow on the head.
“Remember that fight you witnessed between Clarisse and Blanche? You told me about it by the pool.”
“Yes,” I say. “Do you think it could have been about that?”
Mélanie shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t think our bourgeois, respectable grandparents were very open concerning homosexuality. And this was back in 1973.”
She hands me a mug of tea, sits down.
“And what about our father?” I say. “What does he know?”
“Maybe everybody in the Rey family knew. Maybe it made a scandal. But it wasn’t talked about. No one talked about it.”
“And then Clarisse died—”
“Yes,” she says. “And then our mother died. And so no one talked about it ever again.”
We are silent for a while, facing each other, sipping our tea.
“Do you know what upsets me most about all this?” she says finally. “And I know that’s why I had the accident. Even just talking about it hurts me here.” She lays a hand flat out on her collarbone.