“What upsets you?”
“Before I tell you, you tell me what you find upsetting.”
I take a deep breath. “I feel like I have no idea who my mother was.”
“Yes!” she exclaims, smiling for the first time, although it is not her usual, relaxed smile. “That’s exactly it.”
“And I have no idea how to find out who she was.”
“I do,” she says.
“How?”
“The first question is, do you want to know, Antoine? Do you really want to find out?”
“Of course! Why are you asking?”
The crooked smile, again.
“Because sometimes it’s easier not to know. Sometimes truth hurts.”
I remember the day I discovered the video on Astrid’s camera of Serge and Astrid having sex. The shock of it. The shattering pain of it.
“I know what you mean,” I say slowly. “I know about that pain.”
“Are you ready to face that pain again, Antoine?”
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully.
“I am,” she says firmly. “And I will. I can’t pretend nothing happened. I don’t want to shut my eyes to this. I want to know who our mother really was.”
Women are so much stronger than we men, I think, listening to her. Yet there is nothing physically powerful about her. In fact she appears more fragile than ever in her slim jeans and beige sweater, but such force exudes from her, such determination. Mélanie is not afraid, and I am. She takes my hand in an almost motherly gesture, as if she knows exactly what is going through my head.
“Don’t let this get you down, Tonio. You go on home and tend to your daughter. She needs you. When you’re ready, we can talk about this again. There is no hurry.”
I nod, stand up, feeling light-headed. A lump in my throat. The idea of facing the office, Florence, the workload awaiting me seems impossible. I kiss my sister, head to the door, and as I’m about to step out, I turn around and say, “You say you know where to find out.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Blanche.”
Our grandmother. She is right, of course. Blanche must have answers. Some answers. But whether she will want to give us those answers is another matter.
Instead of going to the office, I drive straight home. On my way there, I leave a message for Florence, stating briefly that I won’t be coming in for the rest of the day. I make myself a cup of coffee, light up a cigarette, and sit down at the kitchen table. The lump in my throat is still there. My back aches. I realize how worn-out I am.
Pauline’s dead face keeps wafting back to me. And the vision of what Mélanie revealed. The moonlit room that I did not see but I can all too well imagine. Our mother, her lover. A woman. Am I stunned because my mother was unfaithful, or am I even more shocked because she was bisexual? I’m not sure what upsets me more. And what does Mélanie feel about this, being a woman? Am I less shaken because I imagine a lesbian mother is a softer jolt for a man than having a gay father? A shrink would have a field day with this.
I think about my gay friends, both male and female, Mathilde, Milèna, David, Matthew, and what they told me about their coming out, how their parents reacted. Some parents accepted and understood, others went into total denial. But what do you do, I wonder, when you find out late in life that one of your parents is gay? No matter how open-minded you are, no matter how tolerant, it comes as a bolt from the blue. Especially if that parent is dead and is no longer around to answer your questions.
The front door bangs, and Arno comes loping in, followed by a sullen girl with black lipstick. I can’t make out whether it’s the usual girl or another. They all look the same—goth gear, metallic bracelets, long black clothes. He waves, grins. She barely says hello, stares down at the floor. They go straight to his room. Music blares. A couple of minutes later the door bangs again, and Lucas appears. His face lights up when he sees me. He comes rushing into my arms, nearly knocking my coffee over. I tell him I needed to take a break today, that I left the office. Serious little fellow. He looks so much like Astrid that sometimes it hurts just laying eyes on him. He wants to know when his mother will be back. I tell him Tuesday, for the funeral. I wonder, suddenly, whether the funeral is a good idea for him. Isn’t he too young? Should he be there? He’s only eleven. Pauline’s funeral frightens even me. I ask him gently how he feels about it. He bites his lip. He says that if we are both there, Astrid and me, maybe he’ll feel up to it. I say I’ll talk it over with his mother. His small hand covers mine. His lower lip trembles. This is the first time he is confronted with death. Somebody he knew well, somebody he grew up with, as Pauline had spent countless summers and skiing vacations with us. Someone who was only three years older than he is now.
I try to comfort my son. Am I any good at this? When I was his age, my mother had died and no one had comforted me. Was that why I was useless at reaching out, offering tenderness and support? Are we not forever shaped by our childhood, its scars, its secrets, its hidden pain?
When Saturday comes around, Margaux is still with Patrick and Suzanne. It appears that she needs to be with them, they need to be with her. If Astrid had been here, would our daughter have stayed home? Is she not here because she feels I cannot comfort her, I cannot help her? I hate asking myself these questions, but I feel I need to. I have shied away from them long enough.
Arno goes out, as usual, mumbling something about a party tonight, coming back late. When I mention his low grades, his upcoming report card, that maybe he should be studying instead of partying, he sends a withering look my way, rolls his eyes, and slams the door. I instantly feel like grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and kicking his bony ass down the stairs. I have never hit my children. I have never hit anyone in my life. Does this make me a good person?
Lucas is subdued, and it worries me. I cook his favorite meal, steak, fries, and ketchup, followed by chocolate ice cream. He is even allowed Coca-Cola. I make him promise not to tell his mother. Being such a health food devotee, she would be horrified. For the first time that evening, he finally smiles. He likes the idea of sharing a secret with me. I watch him devour his dinner. We haven’t been alone like this for a very long time. Dealing with Margaux and Arno is a constant battle, a never-ending wrestling match. Easy, flowing moments like these are precious nuggets I want to hoard and cherish.
As last night was a restless one, I decide to go to bed early. Lucas seems tired too, and for once, he doesn’t complain when I suggest sleep. He asks if he can keep his door open and the light on in the hallway. He hasn’t asked that for years. I comply. I sink into bed, praying I won’t be plagued by last night’s images. Pauline’s dead face. Suzanne dressing her daughter’s body. And now will it be my mother in the moonlit bedroom and the stranger in her arms? Surprisingly enough, sleep comes swift and fast.
The phone wakes me, shrill in the dead of night. I fumble for the light, for the receiver. The alarm clock by the bed reads 2:47 a.m.
A man’s voice, curt.
“Are you Arno Rey’s father?”
I sit up in bed, my mouth dry.
“Yes—”
“Commissaire Bruno, police department, tenth arrondissement. You need to come in, sir. Your son is in trouble. As a minor, he cannot be released without your consent.”
“What happened?” I ask, out of breath. “Is he all right?”
“He’s in a sobering-up cell. Yes, he is all right now, but you need to come right away.”
He gives me the address, 26 rue Louis Blanc, and hangs up. I stagger up, put my clothes on mechanically. Sobering-up cell. Does this mean he is drunk? Isn’t that where they put drunk people? Your son is in trouble . . . What trouble? Should I call Astrid once again in Tokyo? What for? There is nothing she can do where she is now. Oh yeah, comes that inner voice again, that little voice I hate. You’re the one in charge, buddy, you’re the one standing there in the front line. You’re the one who has to go out there into the hurrica
ne, you’re the one who has to face the enemy, that’s your job, buddy, you’re the daddy. You’re the father. Get on with it, man.
Lucas! I can’t leave him, can I? What if he wakes up and finds the place empty? I’ll just have to bring him with me. No, says the inner voice, you can’t bring him. What if Arno is in a terrible state, imagine the damage. He’s already upset by Pauline’s death, you can’t do this. You can’t bring a fragile eleven-year-old into a police station in the middle of the night because his brother is in a drunk tank. Think again, Daddy.
I pick up the phone, dial Mélanie’s number. Her voice is so surprisingly clear that I wonder for a split second whether she was asleep. I briefly explain the situation about Arno. If I leave the key under the doormat for her, can she come over and spend the rest of the night in our apartment? I can’t leave Lucas alone, and there is no one else I can call. She says of course, she’ll be on her way. She’ll take a taxi. Her voice is calm and reassuring.
The police station is somewhere behind the Gare de l’Est, near the Canal Saint-Martin. Paris is never empty on a Saturday night. There are crowds of people strolling along the place de la République and the boulevard de Magenta, despite the cold. It takes me a while to get there, to park. I tell the cop at the door I’m Arno Rey’s father. He nods, lets me in. The place is as run-down and disheartening as the hospital morgue. A small, thin man with pale gray eyes comes up to me and introduces himself. Commissaire Bruno.
“Can you explain what happened?” I ask him.
“Your son was arrested with other teenagers.”
“Why?”
His deadpan manner irritates me. He seems to enjoy taking his time, watching every muscle of my face.
“They ransacked an apartment.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your son gate-crashed a party tonight. With a couple of his friends. The party was given by a young girl called Émilie Jousselin. She lives on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin, around the corner from here. Your son had not been invited. And once your son and his friends got there, they called more friends. Easy, with mobile phones. So a whole load of other friends turned up. Friends of friends. And so on and so forth. A hundred people at least. And everybody got drunk. They all had liquor with them.”
“What did they do?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“The place was trashed. Somebody sprayed graffiti on the walls, broke china, cut up the parents’ clothes. Stuff like that.”
I gulp.
“I know it’s a shock, sir. Believe it or not, it happens regularly. We have to deal with this kind of thing at least once a month. Nowadays parents leave for the weekend and don’t even know their kids are planning to have a party. This young girl hadn’t told her parents. She is fifteen. She just told them she was having a couple of girlfriends over.”
“Is she from my son’s school?”
“No. But she advertised her party on her Facebook page. And that’s how it all started.”
“How do you know my son was part of this?”
“We were called by neighbors who realized the party was getting out of hand. When my men got there, they arrested as many youths as they could. Most of them got away. But your son was very drunk. He could hardly move.”
I look around for a chair to sit on. There isn’t one. I glance down at my shoes. Regular leather loafers. My everyday shoes. My feet in my everyday shoes. Yet today my feet have carried me into the hospital morgue to view Pauline’s dead body, then to Mélanie’s apartment to hear the truth about what had caused the accident, then here, now, in the middle of the night, in a police station, about to confront my drunken son.
“Would you like a glass of water?” offers Commissaire Bruno.
So he is human, after all. I accept and watch his thin form walk away. He is back almost immediately, hands me a glass.
“Your son is coming now,” he says.
A couple of minutes later two policemen appear, shouldering Arno, who shuffles along with the unsure gait of a drunkard. His face is pale, his eyes bloodshot. He doesn’t look at me. I feel shame and anger shoot through me. How would Astrid react? What would she say to him now? Would she scold him? Soothe him? Shake him?
I sign a couple of papers. Arno can hardly stand up. He reeks of alcohol, but he is sober enough to know what is going on. Commissaire Bruno tells me I will probably need to find a lawyer, in case the young girl’s parents press charges, which they probably will do. We leave the police station. I don’t want to help my son. I let him shamble along behind me to the car. I have not said a single word to him. I don’t even want to touch him. He repels me. For the first time in my life I am disgusted by my own flesh and blood. I watch him as he ineptly gets into the car. For a split second he looks so young, so frail, that I experience fleeting pity. But the revulsion takes over again. He fumbles with his seat belt, cannot buckle it. I do not move. I wait till he finally manages to secure it. He is breathing loudly through his mouth, the way he did when he was a kid. When he was a nice little boy. The little boy I carried around on my shoulders, who used to look up at me the way Lucas still does now. Not the lanky, supercilious teenager with the frosty sneer. I marvel ironically at what hormones do, how they transform our children overnight into beings we no longer recognize.
At nearly four o’clock in the morning, the streets are empty, Christmas lights glowing merrily in the cold darkness with nobody to see them. I still have not spoken to my son. What would my father have done in this situation? I cannot help smiling sardonically. Beaten me to a pulp? He did hit me, I recall. Stinging clouts across my face. Not often; I was a subdued teenager, not the defiant, uncouth sort sitting to my right.
The silence stretches between us. Does he find it uncomfortable? Does he have any idea of what happened tonight? Is he afraid of me? Of what I will say to him? The inevitable lecture? The consequences? No pocket money, no more going out, better grades, better behavior, writing to the parents to say sorry . . .
Slouched toward the car door, he appears to be falling asleep. When we arrive at rue Froidevaux, I give him a dig in the ribs that jolts him awake. He makes his hesitant, vacillating way up the stairs. I don’t wait for him. Mélanie has left the keys under the mat, and as I open the door, I see her curled up on the sofa, reading. She gets up, hugs me, and we both observe Arno as he enters, swaying unsteadily. He takes in his aunt, and a lopsided grin broadens his face. But nobody smiles back at him.
“Aw, come on, you guys, give me a break,” he whines.
My hand reaches back, and I slap him across the face with all my might. It happens fast, yet oddly I can see my gesture in slow motion. Arno gasps. The traces of my fingers are outlined on his cheek, bright red. I have still not uttered a single word.
He stares at me, outraged. I stare back. Yes, says the little voice, that’s right, you’re the daddy. You’re the father, and you are setting down the law, your law, whether this little asshole who happens to be your son likes it or not.
My eyes bore into his like gimlets. I have never looked at my son this way before. At last he glances down.
“Come on, young man,” says Mélanie briskly, grabbing his arm. “You are heading straight to the shower and then to bed.”
She leads him out of the entrance, away from me. My heart is beating painfully. I am out of breath, although I have hardly moved. I sit down slowly. I hear the sound of the shower running, and Mélanie comes back. She sits next to me and lays her head against my shoulder.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry,” she whispers. “You were intimidating.”
“How’s Lucas?”
“In the Land of Nod.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
We sit there together. Her familiar, sisterly smell. Lavender and spice.
“Astrid has missed out on so much,” she remarks. “Pauline’s death. Arno, tonight. Our mother.”
Strangely, it is not Astrid who comes to my mind right now. It is Angèle. It is her
presence that I crave, her warm, supple body, her sarcastic laugh, her surprising tenderness.
“When you hit Arno, you looked so much like our father,” Mélanie says softly. “The way he used to get angry with us.”
“This is the first time I ever hit Arno.”
“Do you feel bad about it?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. All I feel is anger. You’re right. I’ve never felt such anger.”
I don’t admit to Melanie that I am angry with myself because I feel Arno’s behavior is somehow my fault. Why have I been such a limp, transparent father? Because I never put my foot down, never spelled out the rules the way my own father did? Because when Astrid left me, the one thing that scared me was this: that being bossy with my children would make them love me less?
“Stop thinking, Tonio,” comes Melanie’s comforting voice. “Go to bed. Get some rest.”
I’m not even sure I feel sleepy anymore. Mélanie goes to Margaux’s room. I stay up for a little while longer, looking at the old black-and-white photo album with all the Noirmoutier photos. I look at the photographs of my mother, and it is a stranger I see. I doze off into an uneasy slumber.
On Sunday morning Lucas and Mélanie go for brunch on the rue Daguerre. I shower and shave. When Arno finally emerges from his room, I still have absolutely nothing to say to him. He seems disconcerted by my silence. Bent over the Journal du Dimanche and a coffee, I don’t even raise my head as he shuffles noisily around the kitchen. I don’t have to look up to know he is wearing his wrinkled, unclean navy blue pajama bottoms, no T-shirt. Scrawny back, jutting ribs. A flock of red pimples between his bony shoulder blades. Long, greasy hair.
“Is there a problem?” he finally mumbles, crunching his cornflakes loudly.
I remain absorbed by my reading.
“You can at least, like, talk to me,” he bleats.
I get up, fold my paper, and walk out of the room. I need to physically get away from him. I feel the same revulsion I experienced last night in the car. I never thought such a thing could be possible. You always hear about children being disgusted by their parents, not the other way around. Is this a taboo subject, something no one talks about? Am I the only parent to feel this way? Would Astrid ever feel this way? No, she couldn’t. She gave birth to these kids. She carried them.