Margaux and I have seen Pauline’s body. We know she is in that coffin, wearing her pink shirt, her jeans, her Converse sneakers. We know because we have seen her, we have seen the way her hair is brushed back, the way her hands are folded on her stomach.
The priest, a youngish man with a flushed face, begins to speak. I hear his voice, but I cannot make out his words. I find it unbearable being here. My heart begins a fast, thick thud that hurts. I watch Patrick’s back, directly in front of me. How can he stand so straight? Where does he get his strength from? Is this what believing in God is all about? Is God the only way to help deal with this nameless awfulness?
The priest’s voice drones on. We sit and stand. We pray. Then Margaux’s name is called. I am startled. I did not know she was going to say something during the ceremony. Astrid glances at me questioningly. I shake my head.
Margaux stands near her friend’s coffin. There is a moment of silence. I wonder fearfully whether she is going to make it. Whether she will be able to speak, to say anything at all. Then my daughter’s voice rings out with a vigor that surprises me. Not the voice of a timid teenager. The voice of an assured young woman.
“ ‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.’ ”
W. H. Auden. “Funeral Blues.” She doesn’t need to read from a piece of paper. She says the verses as if she had written the poem herself. Her voice is hard, deep, full of restrained anger and pain.
She continues with the same strength and conviction.
But then, for the first time, her voice falters. She closes her eyes. The church is absolutely quiet. Astrid holds my hand so tight it hurts. Margaux takes a deep breath, and her voice comes back, but it is a whisper now, so low we can barely hear it.
“She is telling us now about hopelessness.”
When she returns to her chair, the church fills with a tense and poignant silence that seems to last forever. Astrid is holding Lucas. Arno has grabbed his sister’s arm. The very air swells and vibrates with tears. Then the priest’s voice buzzes on, and other teenagers come to speak, but again, I don’t make out the words. I stare at the paved stoned floor and wait for it to be over, gritting my teeth. I find I cannot cry.
I remember the stream of tears that had gushed from me the day Pauline died. Now it is Astrid who is crying in the chair next to me. Crying as I did that day, crying her eyes out. I put my arm around her, hold her close. She hangs on to me for dear life. Lucas watches us. He hasn’t seen us do that since before Naxos.
Outside, it appears that my prayers have been answered, because a whitish sun timorously shines from behind clouds. We slowly follow Pauline’s coffin to the adjoining graveyard. We are quite a crowd. Villagers peer at us from their windows. So many young faces. Margaux has gone ahead to join her classmates. They are the first ones to see Pauline’s coffin lowered into the grave. One by one they each throw a rose into the opening.
Most of them are crying openly. Parents and teachers silently wipe away tears. This too seems to last forever. A young girl collapses with a thin scream. There is a rush toward her. A teacher gently picks her up, carries her away. Astrid’s hand finds her way into mine again.
After the burial, there is a gathering at the family house. But most people take their leave, eager to get back to their day, their life, their work. We stay on for lunch because Pauline was Margaux’s best friend. Because we feel we need and have to be there. The dining room fills up with close friends and family. Most of them we know. The four teenagers here were Pauline’s closest friends. Part of the tightly knit gang.
We are familiar with all these girls. Valentine, Emma, Bérénice, and Gabrielle. We know all their parents. I observe their mournful faces, and I can guess what they are thinking, what we are all thinking, each and every one of us. This could have been our daughter’s funeral. This could have happened to us. That could be our daughter’s body back at the small graveyard, in that grave, in that coffin covered with white roses.
In the late afternoon, as dusk is already darkening the sky, we leave. We are one of the last families to go. My children seemed drained, as after a long trip. Once in the car, they close their eyes and seem to fall asleep. Astrid remains silent too. She keeps her hand on my thigh, as she used to during those long drives to the Dordogne.
When we arrive at the major road, the one that leads to the highway, the car wheels skirt over a thick coat of mud. A squelching, hissing sound. I peer out at the road but cannot make out what is covering it. A stifling stench finds its way into the car and jolts the children awake. Something rotten, putrid. Astrid clamps a Kleenex to her nose. We drive on slowly, the wheels still churning. Then Lucas gives a little cry, points ahead. A lifeless form lies in the middle of the road, and the car in front of us swerves abruptly to avoid it. It is the meaty carcass of an animal. Now I see that the ground is strewn with viscera. Fighting the fetid stink, I keep my hands steady on the wheel. Lucas screams again. Another shapeless figure suddenly looms, the broken limbs of another animal. Police lights flash, slowing us down. We are told that a truck carrying waste animal remains from a nearby slaughterhouse has lost its entire load. Pails of blood riddled with organs, hides, skins, fatty tissue, guts, and remains of dead stock litter the road for another five kilometers.
It is like a vision from hell. We inch along. The smell of rot is unbearable. Finally the sign indicating the highway appears. Sighs of relief are heard. We speed toward Paris. I drive them to Malakoff, right up to the house on the rue Émile Zola. I leave the motor running.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” suggests Astrid.
I shrug. “Why not?”
The children file out of the car. I hear Titus’s joyful bark from the other side of the fence.
“Is Serge there?” I ask carefully.
“No, he’s not.”
I don’t ask where he is. After all, I don’t care. I’m just glad he is not there. I cannot get used to this guy in my house. Yes, it still feels like my house. My house, my wife, my garden. My dog. My old life.
We have dinner just like in the old days, in the open kitchen area that I designed with such care. Titus is beside himself with joy. He keeps putting his humid jaw on my knee, gazing up at me with incredulous ecstasy. The children stay with us for a while, then finally go up to bed. I wonder where Serge is. I keep expecting him to barge through the front door. Astrid does not talk about him. She talks about the children, about today. I listen. How can I explain that I feel I am light-years ahead? That I was there when all this took place?
As she goes on, I make a fire in the fireplace. I can tell that no one has done that for a long time. The grate is empty and dusty. The wood stock is the one I bought, years ago. No cozy tête-à-tête by the hearth for Serge and Astrid. I hold out my hands to the heat. Astrid comes to sit next to me on the floor, resting her head on my arm. I don’t smoke, because I know she hates it. We watch the flames. If anybody passing by happened to glance through the window, they would see a happy couple. They’d assume a happy marriage.
I tell her about Arno. I describe the police station, Arno’s state, and how cold I was the next morning. How he reacted. I say I have not yet talked to him, but I will. That we need to find a good lawyer. She listens, dismayed.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I did think about it. But what could you have done from Tokyo? You were already in shock over Pauline’s death.”
She nods. “You’re right.”
“Margaux got her period,” I say.
“I know about that. She told me. Said you dealt with it pretty well, for a dad.”
I feel a glow of pride.
“Really? I’m glad. Because I didn’t do too well when Pauline died.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just couldn’t find the right words. I couldn’t comfort her. So I suggested we call you. And she was incensed.”
I am on the verge of telling her about my mother. But I hold back. Not now. Now is for our own little fami
ly, for our children, for their respective problems. Astrid goes to fetch limoncello from the freezer and comes back with the tiny crystal glasses I bought years ago in the Porte de Vanves flea market. We sip in silence. I tell her about Parimbert and the Think Dome. I describe the feng shui office, the black fish, the green tea, the bran scones. She laughs. We both laugh.
Where is Serge? I wonder. Why is he not here? I want to ask her. I don’t. We talk about Mélanie, how well she is healing. We talk about Astrid’s job. About Christmas coming up. What about a joint Christmas at Malakoff, she suggests. Last year was so complicated, Christmas Eve with her, New Year’s Eve with me. What about doing it together this year? Pauline’s death has made everything so sad, so fragile. Yes, why not, I say. But what about Serge, I think, where will he be? I say nothing, but she must have sensed my inner questions.
She says, “Serge blew his top in Tokyo when you called.”
“Why?”
“He is not the father of these children. They have no hold over him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is younger. He doesn’t know how to deal with all this.”
The fire crackles on merrily. Titus’s mighty snore can be heard. I wait.
“He left. He needs to think things over. He’s with his parents in Lyon.”
Why don’t I feel relief washing through me? Instead, I experience a cautious numbness that puzzles me.
“Are you okay?” I ask gently.
She turns her face to me. It is marked with tiredness and pain.
“Not really,” she whispers.
This should have been my cue. The moment to take her into my arms, the moment I’d been waiting for, for so long, the moment to win her back. To win it all back.
The moment I used to dream about those first nights at rue Froidevaux when I’d get into that empty bed and feel that there was nothing left to live for. The moment I’d been watching for since Naxos, since she took off. The moment I had so clearly imagined.
But I say nothing. I cannot say what she wants me to say. I merely watch her and nod compassionately. She searches my face, my eyes. She doesn’t find what she is looking for, and she breaks into tears.
I take her hand, kiss it softly. She sobs, wipes her cheeks. She whispers, “You know, sometimes I want it back. So badly.”
“What is it you want back?” I ask.
“I want you back, Antoine. I want our old life back.” Her face crumples up again. “I want it all back.”
She plants feverish kisses over my face. Salty kisses. Her warmth, her scent. I want to cry with her and kiss her too, but I can’t. Something stronger is holding me back. I clasp her to me. I finally do kiss her, but the passion has gone. The passion is dead. She strokes me, kisses my neck, my lips, and it feels as if the last time we did this was only yesterday, not two years ago. Desire stirs, for old times, for memories’ sake, then fades away. Now I am holding her the way I would hold my daughter, my sister—the way I could have held my mother. I hold her steadfastly. I kiss her like a brother kisses a sister.
I feel an unhurried wonder creep though me. How is this possible? I no longer love Astrid. I care for her deeply, she is the mother of my children, but I no longer love her. There is tenderness, caring, respect, but I don’t love her the way I used to. And she knows it. She feels it. She stops the kisses, the precise caresses. She draws back, faltering fingers covering her face.
“I’m sorry,” she says, taking a deep, shaking breath. “I don’t know what came over me.”
She blows her nose. A long pause. I give her time. I hold her hand.
“Lucas told me about your girlfriend. The tall, dark one.”
“Angèle.”
“How long have you been seeing her?”
“Since the accident.”
“Are you in love with her?”
I rub my forehead. Am I in love with Angèle? Of course I am. But there is no way I can say this to Astrid right now.
“She makes me happy.”
Astrid smiles, a brave smile.
“That’s good. Great. I’m glad.” Another pause. “Listen, I’m awfully tired all of a sudden. I think I’ll go up to bed. Will you let Titus out for his last pee?”
Titus is already waiting by the door, wagging his tail with anticipation. I put my coat on, and we head out into the biting cold. He waddles around the garden happily, lifting his leg. I rub my hands together, blow on them to keep warm. I want to get back into the warm house. Astrid has gone upstairs. As Titus flops down in front of the dying fire, I go up to say goodbye. Lucas’s light is off. Arno’s light is off. Margaux’s is on. I hesitate to knock, but she hears my step. Her door creaks open.
“Bye, Dad.” She flits to me like a little ghost in her white nightdress. Hugs me in a flash and takes off again. I go down the small corridor to what used to be my old bedroom. It hasn’t changed much. Astrid is in the adjoining bathroom. I sit on the bed and wait for her. It was in this room that she told me she wanted a divorce. That she loved him. That she wanted to be with him. Not me. That she was so sorry. That she couldn’t stand the lying any longer. I remember the shock and the hurting. Staring down at my wedding ring and thinking that this couldn’t be true. Her going on about how our marriage had become something comfy and distended, like a slack pair of old slippers, and I had winced at the image. I knew what she meant. I knew exactly what she meant. But had it been entirely my fault? Is it always the husband’s fault? Because I’d let the pizzazz fizzle out of our humdrum life? Because I didn’t bring her flowers? Because I’d let a dashing, younger prince whisk her out of my reach? What did she see in Serge? I often wondered. His youth? His ardor? The fact that he wasn’t a father? Instead of fighting for her, fighting like the devil, I had stepped back. A deflated balloon. One of my first, childish reactions had been to have a one-night stand with a colleague’s assistant. It had done me no good. During our marriage I had not been the unfaithful kind. I wasn’t good at that. Some men are. There had been one brief affair during a business trip with an attractive younger woman, just after Lucas was born. I had felt wretched. The guilt was too much for me to bear. I found adultery complicated. I gave it up. Then there had been that long, dry patch in our marriage, just before I found out about Serge. Nothing much went on in our bed anymore, and I’d been lazy about it, not bothering to delve into it. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe I already knew, deep inside, that she loved and desired another man.
Astrid comes out of the bathroom wearing a long T-shirt. She slips into bed with a weary sigh. She holds out her hand to me. I take it, lying down next to her, fully clothed.
“Don’t go just yet,” she murmurs. “Wait till I fall asleep. Please.”
She turns off the bedside lamp. The room seems dark at first. Then I can make out the furniture, the dim streetlight filtering in through the curtains. I will wait till she drops off, then silently take my leave. A juxtaposition of images whirls. The carcasses on the road. Pauline’s coffin. Xavier Parimbert and his smug smile. My mother and a woman in her arms. The next thing I know, an alarm is buzzing deafeningly in my ear. I can’t understand what time it is, or where I am. A radio blares. France Info. It is seven a.m. I am in Astrid’s room, in Malakoff. I must have fallen asleep. I feel her warm hands on me, on my skin, and it is too enjoyable a sensation to pull away. I am still dazed with slumber, incapable of opening my eyes. No, says the little voice, no, no, no, don’t do this, don’t do this. Her hands, pulling off my clothes. No, no, no. Yes, says the flesh, oh yes. You’ll regret this, this is the stupidest thing to do right now, it will hurt both of you. Oh, the bliss of her familiar velvety skin. How I have missed it. There is still time to stop, Antoine, still time to get up, put your clothes on, and get the hell out of here. She knows exactly how to touch me. She hasn’t forgotten. When was the last time Astrid and I made love? It was probably right here, in this very bed. Two years ago. You stupid fool. You dumb idiot. It happens fast, a quick flash of shuddering pleasure. I hold her
tight, heart pumping. I say nothing, nor does she. We both know this is a mistake. I get up slowly, stroke her hair clumsily. I gather up my clothes, slip into the bathroom. When I leave the room, she is still in bed, her back to me. Downstairs, Lucas is having breakfast. He sees me, his face exploding into a delighted grin. My heart sinks.
“Dad! You spent the night!”
I smile back at him, flinching inwardly. I know that his dream is to see Astrid and me reunited again. He’s never been shy about this. He has told Mélanie. Me. Astrid. He thinks it is still possible.
“Yes, I was tired.”
“Did you sleep in Mom’s room?”
Hope shining through his eyes.
“No,” I lie, hating myself. “I slept down here on the sofa. I just went upstairs to use the bathroom.”
“Oh,” he says flatly. “Will you be coming back tonight?”
“No, little fellow. Not tonight. But you know what? We will be spending Christmas all of us together. Right here. Like in the old days. How about that?”
“Great!” he says. And he does seem happy about it.
It is still dark outside, and Malakoff appears fast asleep as I drive down the rue Pierre Larousse, then straight into Paris, up the rue Raymond Losserand, which will take me to the rue Froidevaux. I don’t want to think about what just happened. It is like a defeat, no matter how agreeable it was. By now, even the enjoyment has faded. There is nothing left but a bittersweet pang of regret.
Christmas Eve at Malakoff had been a success, and Astrid pulled it off beautifully. Mélanie came, and so did my father, not looking his best, perhaps even more weary, as well as Régine and Joséphine. I hadn’t seen so many Reys in the same room for a very long time.
Serge was not there. When I tactfully asked Astrid how things were going with him, she sighed. “It’s complicated.” After we had cleared up the meal, opened the presents, and everyone was chatting in the living room in front of the fire, Astrid and I went up to Serge’s study to have a talk about the children. About what they were turning into, how we felt we had no control over them. That what we got back from them was disdain, no respect, no affection, no love. Margaux seemed swathed in continuous mute contempt, refusing to see the grief counselor we found. And as we had foreseen, Arno was expelled from the lycée. We enrolled him in a dour boarding school near Reims. The lawyer looking after his case expected the matter to boil down to a sum of money handed over to the Jousselin family for damages. What that sum should amount to, we did not yet know. Luckily, we were not the only parents involved. All this was no doubt normal, part of modern adolescence and its hazards, but even the thought of that did not make it easier to bear. For either of us. I felt relief that she was going through the same turmoil and tried to convey this to her. “You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s worse for me. I gave birth to them.” I tried to describe the repugnance I experienced the night of Arno’s arrest. She nodded, her face a peculiar blend of alarm and wit. “I see what you mean, Antoine, but it is worse for me. These kids came out of me”—she placed her palm on her stomach—“and I can still feel that. I gave birth to them, they were lovely for years, and now this.” I could only add, feebly, “I know, I was there when they were born.” She had smirked.