“You remember our mother, don’t you?” says Mélanie unexpectedly, sipping her tea.
His smile lights up his face.
“Oh, your mother! Petite Madame Rey. Yes, of course I remember her. Your mother was unforgettable.”
Clever girl, I think.
Mélanie goes on. “What do you remember about her?”
Gaspard’s smile stretches even wider.
“She was such a lovely, kind person. She gave me little presents, new socks, and chocolates—and flowers, sometimes. I was devastated when she died.”
The apartment around us is silent all of a sudden. Even the cleaning lady dusting in the grand salon is going about her chores noiselessly.
“How old were you?” I ask.
“Well, Monsieur Antoine, I’m five years older than you, so I was fifteen. Such sadness.”
“What do you remember about the day she died?”
“It was terrible, terrible . . . Seeing her carried out . . . on that stretcher . . .”
He seems uncomfortable all of a sudden, twisting his hands, shuffling his feet. He has stopped looking at us. He looks down at the carpet.
“Were you at the avenue Kléber when it happened?” asked Mélanie, surprised.
“Avenue—Kléber?” he stutters, confused. “I don’t remember, no. It was such a horrible day. I don’t remember.”
He rushes to his feet, leaves the room hastily. After a split second we get up and follow him.
“Gaspard,” says Mélanie firmly, “can you please answer my question? Why did you say you saw her being carried out?”
We are standing in the entrance, just the three of us, in the shadow of the dark place. The tall bookshelves seem to lean forward; the pale faces in the old paintings above us have expectant, watchful expressions. The marble bust on the writing table next to us waits too.
Gaspard is tongue-tied, his cheeks flushed. He is trembling. His forehead glistens with a sudden sweat.
“What is wrong?” asks Mélanie quietly.
He swallows audibly, his large Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“No, no,” he whispers, backing off, shaking his head. “I can’t.”
I grab him by the shoulder. His upper arm feels bony and weak beneath the cheap fabric of his suit.
“Is there something you need to tell us?” I say, using a firmer voice than my sister’s.
He shudders, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, steps away again.
“Not here!” he manages to croak.
Mélanie and I exchange glances.
“Where, then?” she asks.
He is already halfway down the corridor, his skinny legs quivering.
He whispers, “In my room. On the sixth floor. In five minutes.”
He disappears. The vacuum cleaner is abruptly turned on, startling us. We look at each other for a moment. Then we leave.
The way to the service rooms is up a narrow, snaking staircase that has no elevator. This is where the poorer residents of the prosperous building live, slogging up those steep steps every day. The higher you go, the flakier the paint. The stronger the smell. The stench of minuscule, airless rooms, promiscuity, the lack of proper bathrooms. The unpleasant reek of a common toilet on the landing. I have never been up here. Neither has Mélanie. There is an uncomfortable contrast between the opulence of the grand apartments and this squalid, overcrowded area tucked away under the roof.
Six stories to climb. We do so in silence. We have not said a word to each other since we left Blanche’s place. Questions whirling round and round in my head, and in Mélanie’s too, I know.
When we get to the top floor, it is like another world. Bare floorboards, a winding passageway lined with dozens of numbered doors. The whine of a hair dryer. Loud, metallic TV voices. People quarreling in a foreign language. A mobile phone twittering. A baby’s squeal. A door opens, and a surly woman stares out at us. The room behind her has a slanting, blotched ceiling, grimy carpets, grubby furniture. Which one is Gaspard’s door? He did not tell us. Is he hiding? Is he scared? Somehow I know he is waiting for us, twisting his hands, trembling. He is plucking up his courage.
I watch Mélanie’s small, square shoulders underneath her winter coat. Her step is sturdy and sure. She wants to know. She is not afraid. Why am I afraid, and not my sister?
Gaspard stands at the end of the passageway, his face still flushed. He lets us in quickly, as if he does not want us to be seen. His confined little room is stifling after the chilly stairway. The electric heater is on full blast, letting out a faint humming noise and the smell of burned hair and dust. The room is so small that he, Mélanie, and I bump into one another. The only thing to do is to sit on the narrow bed. I look around, taking in the scrupulously clean surfaces, the crucifix on the wall, the cracked washbasin, the makeshift cupboard area with a plastic curtain. Gaspard’s life exposed in all its wretchedness. What does he do with himself when he comes back up here after leaving Blanche with the night nurse? No TV. No books. On a small shelf, I notice a Bible and a photograph. I look at it as discreetly as possible. With a jolt, I realize it is a photograph of my mother.
Gaspard stands, as there is no place for him to sit. He waits for us to speak, his eyes darting from Mélanie to me. I can hear a radio in the next room. The walls are so thin I can make out every single word of the news.
“You can trust us, Gaspard,” says Mélanie. “You know that.”
He puts a quick finger to his lips, his eyes round with fear.
“You must talk quietly, Mademoiselle Mélanie,” he whispers. “Everyone here can hear!”
He comes closer to us. I smell the rank odor of his armpits. Instinctively, I shrink back.
“Your mother . . .” he murmurs. “She was my only friend. She was the only person who really . . . understood me.”
“Yes,” says Mélanie, and I marvel at her patience. I’m not interested. I want him to get to the point, fast. She puts a soothing hand on my arm, as if she knows exactly what I am thinking.
“Your mother was like me. She came from a humble background, from the south, and she wasn’t complicated and fussy. She was a simple, good person. She never thought only about herself. She was generous, warm.”
“Yes,” says Mélanie again, while I clench my fists with impatience.
The radio in the next room is turned off, and silence fills up the little place. Gaspard starts to get that sweaty, anxious look again. He keeps glancing toward the door, wringing his hands. Why is he so uneasy? He ducks down and pulls a small transistor radio from under the bed, fumbles to switch it on. Yves Montand’s sultry voice: “ ‘C’est si bon, de partir n’importe où, bras dessus bras dessous . . .’ ”
“You were going to tell us about the day our mother died,” I say finally, ignoring Mélanie’s pacifying gesture toward me.
Gaspard gathers up enough courage to look me fully in the face.
“You must understand, Monsieur Antoine. This is . . . difficult for me—”
“ ‘C’est si bon . . . ’ ” hums Montand, debonair, insouciant.
We wait for Gaspard to go on. He does not.
Mélanie puts a hand on his arm.
“You have nothing to fear from us,” she whispers. “Nothing at all. We are your friends. We have known you since we were born.”
He nods, the flesh on his cheeks wobbling like jelly. His eyes brim over. To our horror, his face crumples up and he starts to sob without a sound. There is nothing else to do but to wait. I avert my eyes from the sorry spectacle of Gaspard’s pasty, ravaged face. The Montand song finally ends. Another tune starts, a familiar one. I can’t remember who sings it.
“What I am about to say, I have told no one. No one knows. No one knows, and no one has talked about it since 1974.”
Gaspard’s voice is so low that we have to lean forward. The bed creaks as we do so.
A stealthy chill. Is it my imagination, or do I really feel it creeping up my spine? Gaspard is crouched on the fl
oor. I can see the top of his head, the bald spot crowning it.
Gaspard’s whisper is heard again. “The day she died, your mother had come to see your grandmother. It was early. Your grandmother was still having her breakfast. Your grandfather was away that day.”
“Where were you?” inquires Mélanie.
“I was in the kitchen, helping my mother. I was making orange juice. Your mother loved fresh orange juice. Especially mine. It reminded her of the Midi.” A touching, pathetic smile. “I was so happy to see your mother that morning. She did not come often. In fact, she hadn’t been to see your grandparents for a long time, since Christmas. When I opened the door, it was like sunshine on the landing. I did not know she was coming. She had not called. My mother was not warned. She was annoyed, my mother. She made a fuss about petite Madame Rey turning up just like that. She was wearing her red coat, and how beautiful she was with her long black hair, her pale skin, her green eyes, such a beauty. Like you, Mademoiselle Mélanie. You are so much like her, sometimes it hurts to look at you.” The tears well up once more. But he manages to hold them back. He breathes slowly, taking his time. “I was in the kitchen, cleaning up. It was a lovely winter day. I had many chores to do, and I did them thoroughly. And then my mother rushed in, her face white. She was holding a hand over her mouth like she was going to vomit. I knew then that something dreadful had happened. I was only fifteen years old, but I knew.”
The chill creeps along my chest, my thighs, which begin to tremble. I dare not look at my sister. But I can sense how stiff her presence is next to me.
A silly tune comes on. I wish Gaspard would turn it off.
“ ‘Pop pop pop muzik, pop pop pop muzik. Talk about pop muzik . . . ’ ”
“My mother could not speak for a moment. Then she screamed, ‘Call Dr. Dardel, quick! Look up his number in Monsieur’s address book in the study. Tell him to come right now!’ I rushed to the study, and I made that phone call, trembling all over, and the doctor said he’d be right there. Who was ill? What had happened? Was it Madame? She had high blood pressure, I knew that. She had recently been given new medication. All sorts of pills to take during her meals.”
Dr. Dardel is a familiar name. He was my grandparents’ closest friend and personal doctor. He died in the early ‘80s. A stocky, white-haired man. Much respected.
Gaspard pauses. What is he trying to tell us? Why is it so long-winded?
“ ‘New York London Paris Munich everybody talk about pop muzik.’ ”
“For God’s sake, get on with it,” I mutter, teeth clenched.
He nods hurriedly.
“Your grandmother was in the petit salon, still wearing her dressing gown. She was pacing up and down. I couldn’t see your mother. I couldn’t understand. The door to the petit salon was ajar. And then I saw part of the red coat. On the floor. Something had happened to petite Madame Rey. Something that nobody wanted to tell me.”
Footsteps are heard creaking past the door. He stops, waits till they fade away. My heart is thumping so hard I am certain they can both hear it.
“Dr. Dardel was there in a flash. The door to the petit salon closed. Then I heard an ambulance. Sirens right outside the building. My mother would not answer any of my questions. She told me to shut up, and she boxed my ears. They came to get petite Madame. That was the last time I ever saw her. She looked like she was asleep, her black hair around her face. She was very pale. They carried her away on a stretcher. Later on that day, I was told she was dead.”
Mélanie gets up awkwardly, knocking the radio with her foot. It turns off. Gaspard stumbles up as well.
“What are you talking about, Gaspard?” she snaps, forgetting to lower her voice. “Are you saying our mother had the aneurysm here?”
He looks petrified. He stammers, “I—was ordered by my mother never to mention that petite Madame had died here.”
Mélanie and I gape at him.
“But why?” I manage to say.
“My mother made me swear not to tell. I don’t know why. I don’t know. I never asked.” He seems about to cry again.
Mélanie whimpers, “What about our father? Our grandfather? And Solange?”
He shakes his head.
“I don’t know what they know, Mademoiselle Mélanie. This is the first time I have ever talked about it to anyone.” His head droops like a wilting flower. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I say abruptly.
“No, no, of course, please.”
I go and stand near the small window, light up. Gaspard picks up the photograph on the shelf.
“Your mother confided in me, you see. I was young, only fifteen, but she trusted me.” He says this with infinite pride. “I think I was one of the only people she trusted. She used to come up here in this room to see me and talk to me. She didn’t have any friends in Paris. So she talked to me.”
“What did she tell you when she came up to see you?” Mélanie asks.
“So many things, Mademoiselle Mélanie. So many wonderful things. She told me all about her childhood in the Cévennes. The little village where she used to live, near Le Vigan, that she had never been back to since her marriage. She told me that her father and her mother sold fruit at the market. She lost her parents when she was still young. Her father had an accident and her mother a bad heart. She was raised by her older sister, who was a hard woman and did not like it when she married your father, a Parisian. She was lonely sometimes. She missed the south, the simple life there, the sun. She was lonely because your father was very often away for his business. She talked about you and Mademoiselle Mélanie. She was so proud of you. You were the center of her world.”
A pause.
“She said that having you two made everything worth it. How you must miss such a mother, Mademoiselle Mélanie, Monsieur Antoine. How you must miss her. I had a mother who never showed me any affection. Your mother was all love. She gave us all the love she had.”
I don’t need to look at him to guess that his eyes are full of tears. I don’t need to look at Mélanie either. I finish my cigarette and toss it out of the window into the courtyard. Icy air comes blasting in. In the next room, music comes on, startlingly loud. I glance at my watch. It is getting on for six o’clock, and night has fallen.
“We need you to let us back into our grandmother’s apartment,” says Mélanie, her voice still shaky.
Gaspard nods humbly. “Of course.”
During the entire way down, no one breathes a word.
The nurse leads us into the large, shuttered bedroom, where we can barely make out a hospital bed, its back slightly upright, and the diminutive form of our grandmother on top of it. We politely ask the nurse to leave, as we need to talk to our grandmother in private. She obeys.
Mélanie turns the bedside lamp on, and we can at last see our grandmother’s face. Blanche has her eyes closed, and her eyelids flutter when she hears Mélanie’s voice. She looks old and tired, and fed up with life. Her eyes open slowly and they linger on Mélanie’s face and then mine. No reaction. Does she even remember who we are? Mélanie takes her hand, talks to her. Again the eyes, going from Mel to me silently. A thick necklace of wrinkles along her shriveled neck. Getting on for ninety-four, I calculate.
The room around us has not changed either. Heavy ivory curtains, thick carpets, a bookshelf, a coiffeuse in front of the window, with the familiar objects that have been there forever: a Fabergé egg, a gold snuffbox, a small marble pyramid, and the same photographs that gather dust in their silver frames: our father and Solange as children, Robert, our grandfather, then Mel, Joséphine, and me. A couple of photos of my children when they were babies. None of Astrid. Nor of Régine. And none of our mother.
“We want to talk to you about our mother,” says Mélanie clearly. “About Clarisse.”
The eyelids flicker again and close. This looks like a dismissal.
“We want to know about the day she died,” Mélanie goes on, ignoring the closed
eyelids.
The parched eyelids quiver open, and Blanche looks at both of us in silence for a long time. I am certain she is not going to say a word.
“Can you tell us what happened here on February twelfth, 1974, Grand-mère?”
We wait. Nothing. I want to tell Mélanie this is hopeless. Not going to work out. But all of a sudden Blanche’s eyes seem to open even wider, and there is a peculiar expression in them, something almost reptilian, which disturbs me. I watch her dried-up chest heave laboriously. The eyes don’t blink, staring out at us, glowering at us, defiant, dark spots in a deathly, skull-like countenance.
As the minutes crawl by, I begin to understand that my grandmother will never speak, that she will take what she knows to her grave. And I loathe her for it. I loathe every inch of her repulsive, crumpled skin, every inch of what she is, Blanche Violette Germaine Rey née Fromet, from the sixteenth arrondissement, born to wealth, born to prosperity, born to excellence.
We stare at each other, my grandmother and I, for what seems an eternity, causing Mélanie to glance from her to me, taken aback. I make sure Blanche receives the entirety of my abhorrence, that she gets the full blast of it, up front, spilling out onto her immaculate nightdress. My disdain for her is such that it has me shaking from head to toe. My hands itch to grab one of the embroidered pillows and smother the white face, to snuff out the arrogance in those blazing eyes.
It is a fierce, silent battle between her and me, and it lasts forever. I can hear the ticktock of the silver alarm clock on the bedside table, the footsteps of the nurse just behind the door, the subdued roar of the traffic along the tree-lined avenue. I can hear my sister’s nervous breathing, the wheeze of Blanche’s old lungs, my own heart thumping the way it did in Gaspard’s room, moments ago.
Finally the eyes close. Very slowly, Blanche’s gnarled hand creeps over the coverlet like a desiccated insect and presses on a bell. A strident ring is heard.
The nurse instantly steps in.
“Madame Rey is tired now.”
We leave in silence. Gaspard is nowhere to be seen. As I go down the stairs, ignoring the elevator, I think of my mother being carried out right here, on a stretcher, wearing her red coat. My chest feels tight.