Outside, it is colder than ever. Mélanie and I find we cannot talk to each other. I am shattered, and by the pallor of her face, I know Mélanie is too. I light up a cigarette while she turns to her phone, checks it. I offer to drive her home. From the Trocadéro to the Bastille, the traffic is dense on a Saturday evening, as usual. We don’t speak, but I know she is thinking exactly the same thoughts.
The truth about our mother’s death. Something so monstrous that for the moment, not talking about it keeps it at bay.
Parimbert’s personal assistant is a beefy woman called Claudia who hides her excess fat beneath a billowing black dress that looks like a cassock. She talks to me in a patronizing, irritatingly amicable way. First thing on Monday morning she is already on the phone, harassing me about the Think Dome deadline. The project has been accepted by Parimbert, but a new delay has come from one of my suppliers, who is not on time delivering the special luminous screens I ordered, which changed color constantly and formed the dome’s entire interior. On another day, at another point, I would have submissively sat back and let this woman haggle. Not anymore. I think of her caffeine-stained teeth, her furry upper lip, her patchouli perfume, her Mozartean Queen of the Night screeches, and my disgust, impatience, and annoyance bubble up with just enough energy to detonate with the efficient precision of a pressure cooker. It does me so much good it almost feels like the aftermath of sex. I can hear Florence gasping in the next room.
I slam down the phone. Time for a quick smoke in the chilly courtyard. I slip into my coat. Then my phone rings. It is Mélanie.
“Blanche is dead,” she announces flatly. “Passed away this morning. Solange just called me.”
Blanche’s death does nothing to me. I did not love her. I will not miss her. The detestation I felt at her bedside on Saturday is still fresh. Nevertheless, she was my father’s mother, and I think of him. I know I should call him. I should call Solange. I don’t. I go smoke my cigarette out in the cold. I think of the difficult days ahead concerning Blanche’s inheritance and how Solange and my father will fight. It will get ugly. It already did a couple of years ago, and Blanche wasn’t even dead yet. We were kept out of it. Nobody told us, but we knew there were conflicts and complications between brother and sister. Solange felt that her brother, François, was the favorite sibling, that he had always been advantaged. After a while she stopped seeing him. And us.
Mélanie asks if I want to come by later and see Blanche’s body. I tell her I will think about it. I sense a tiny distance between my sister and me, a new one—one that wasn’t there before, one I have never felt. I know she didn’t approve of my aloofness toward Blanche, the way I stared down at her on Saturday, the way I showed her my true feelings. Mélanie asks if I have called our father yet. I say I will. Again, she sounds as though she disapproves. She tells me she is on her way to see our father. And the way she says it hints that I should be doing that as well. Fast.
When finally I get to my father’s place, it is evening. Margaux is silent during the drive, earphones in her ears, eyes riveted to her cell phone, fingers flying as she texts message after message. Lucas is in the back, engrossed by his Nintendo. I feel as if I am alone in the car. Modern kids are the most silent brand ever.
Mélanie opens the door to us. Her face is pale and sad. Her eyes are tearful. Did she love Blanche? I wonder. Will she miss her? We hardly saw our grandmother anymore. What did she mean to Mélanie? But Blanche was the only grandmother we had, I realize. Clarisse’s parents died when she was young. Our grandfather passed away years ago, when we were teenagers. Blanche is our last link to our childhood, and that is why my sister is crying.
My father is already in bed. I am surprised to hear this. I glance at my watch. Seven thirty. Mélanie says in a low voice that our father is very tired. Is there reproach in her voice, or am I imagining things? I ask her what is wrong with him, but she brushes me away as Régine appears, overly made up and glum. She hugs us in a distracted, offhand fashion, offers drinks and crackers. I explain that Arno is at his boarding school, that he’ll be back for the funeral.
“Don’t talk to me about the funeral,” Régine groans, pouring herself a hefty glass of whiskey with an unsteady hand. “I don’t want to deal with all this. I never got on with Blanche. She never liked me, and I don’t see why I should have anything to do with her funeral, for God’s sake.”
Joséphine comes in, looking rather more graceful than usual. She kisses us and sits down next to her mother.
“I just spoke to Solange,” says Mélanie, her voice firm. “She will be making all the arrangements for the funeral. You don’t have to worry, Régine.”
“Well, if Solange takes over, then there is nothing any of us will need to do. Your poor father either. He’s far too tired to face Solange right now. Blanche and Solange were always rude to me, looking me up and down because I didn’t have the right figure, because my parents weren’t as rich.” Régine goes on, pouring more whiskey and knocking it back viciously. “Always made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for François, that I wasn’t proper enough to be a Rey. Ghastly Blanche and her even ghastlier daughter.”
Lucas and Margaux exchange surprised glances. Joséphine exhales noisily. It occurs to me that Régine is more than tipsy. Only Mélanie keeps her eyes to the ground.
“No one is ever good enough to be a Rey,” slobbers Régine, lipstick smudging her teeth. “They made bloody sure we all knew that. Even if you come from a high-quality family with fine money. Even if you come from a family of decent people. Never good enough to be a fucking Rey.”
She starts to bawl, her empty glass clattering to the table. Joséphine rolls her eyes and gently but firmly pulls her mother up. I can tell by her routine gestures that this happens often. She hauls the weeping Régine away.
Mélanie and I look at each other. I think of what lies ahead. The candlelit bedroom on the avenue Henri-Martin where Blanche’s body awaits me.
But it is not the sight of my dead grandmother that frightens me tonight. She was practically dead when I saw her two days ago, apart from the dreadful, glaring eyes.
What frightens me is having to go back there. Back to the place where my mother met her death.
Mélanie takes my children back home. She has already been to see Blanche’s body with Solange and our father earlier today. I turn up alone at my grandmother’s house. It is late. Nearly eleven. I am worn-out. But I know Solange is waiting for me. The only son. It is my duty to be there.
The grand salon is surprisingly full of elegant strangers sipping champagne. Friends of Solange, I suppose. Gaspard, dressed in an austere gray suit, explains that yes, they are indeed her friends, and they’ve come to comfort Solange tonight. He adds in a low voice that he needs to talk to me about something important. Can I wait for him before I leave? I say I will.
I always thought my aunt was a lonely, reclusive person, but when I see tonight’s turnout, I guess I am wrong. But what do I know about my aunt? Nothing. She never got on with her older brother. She never married. She led her own life, and we saw little of her after our mother’s death and the Noirmoutier summers. She did, however, look after Blanche a great deal, especially after Robert—her father, my grandfather—passed away.
Solange comes toward me as I stand in the entrance. She is wearing a pearl necklace and an ornate embroidered dress that seems a trifle glamorous for the occasion. She seizes my hand. Her face is swollen, her eyes fatigued. I wonder what her life will be like now, without her mother to look after, the hiring of nurses, that enormous apartment to run. She takes me to Blanche’s room, and I can only follow her. There are people standing around the bed, praying. I don’t know them. A candle is lit. I gaze at the silent form on the bed. But the only thing I imagine is her terrible eyes glaring out at me. I look away.
My aunt leads me this time to the empty petit salon. The chatter and low voices of her guests can hardly be heard here. She closes the door. Her face, which reminds me so much of my fa
ther’s, with a larger chin, seems rigid all of a sudden, less forthcoming. I am aware that this may not be a pleasant moment. Being in this room is already uncomfortable. I keep glancing down at the carpet. This is where my mother’s body fell. Right here, by my feet.
“How is François tonight?” she asks, toying with the pearl necklace.
“I didn’t see him. He was asleep.”
She nods. “I hear he is being brave.”
“About Blanche?” I ask.
A small stillness. The pearls click.
“No. About his cancer.”
I remain rooted to the spot. Cancer. Of course. Cancer. My father has cancer. For how long? Cancer of what? How bad is it? No one in this family ever talks.
Silence is preferred. Slow, chloroformed silence. Stealthy silence, covering everything up like a deadly, smothering avalanche.
I wonder if she knows. If she can guess, just by watching my face, that this is the first time I am told about my father’s illness. The first time it has been named.
“Yes,” I say, unsmiling. “You’re right. He’s being brave.”
“I must be getting back to my guests,” she says finally. “Goodbye, Antoine. Thank you for coming.”
She leaves, her back stiff. As I walk to the entrance, Gaspard comes out of the grand salon carrying a tray. I make a sign to him, indicating that I will be waiting for him downstairs. I go down and light up a cigarette, just outside the building.
Gaspard turns up a few minutes later. He seems composed, a little weary. He gets straight to the point.
“Monsieur Antoine, I need to tell you something.”
He clears his throat. He looks calmer. Not like the other day in his room.
“Your grandmother is dead now. I was afraid of her—so afraid, you understand? Now she cannot scare me anymore.” He pauses, pulls on his tie. I decide not to rush him. “A couple of weeks after your mother died, a woman came here to see Madame. I opened the door to her. An American lady. When your grandmother saw her, she lost control. She shouted at the lady and told her to leave right away. She was furious. I had never seen her so infuriated. There was no one at home that day except for your grandmother and me. My mother was out shopping, and your grandfather was away.”
A stylish woman wearing a mink coat walks up to where we are standing. Whiffs of Shalimar. We remain silent as she enters the building. Then Gaspard goes on, moving closer to me.
“The American lady spoke good French. She screamed back at your grandmother. She said she wanted to know why your grandmother had never answered her calls, why your grandmother had her followed by a private detective. And then she yelled this at the top of her voice, ‘You better tell me how Clarisse died, right now!’ ”
“What did she look like, this American?” I ask, my pulse quickening.
“She was in her forties, long blond hair that was almost white, tall, the sporty type.”
“And then what happened?”
“Your grandmother told her that if she did not leave at once, she would call the police. Then she ordered me to show the lady out. She left the room, and I was alone with the American lady. She said something in English that sounded horrible, and she slammed the door without once looking at me.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this the other day?”
He blushed. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you anything until your grandmother was no longer here. This is a good job, Monsieur Antoine. I have been doing it all my life. The pay is decent. I respect your family. I didn’t want any trouble.”
“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”
“Yes, there is.” He nods eagerly. “When the American lady talked about the detective following her, I suddenly remembered a couple of phone calls for your grandmother from an agency. I don’t have a curious nature, and I hadn’t found those calls strange, but with the quarrel, it all came back to me. And then I found something—er—helpful in your grandmother’s wastepaper basket the day after the American lady came.”
His face goes even redder. “I hope you don’t think—”
I smile.
“No, of course I don’t think you were doing anything wrong, Gaspard. You were just emptying her trash can, right?”
He looks so relieved I almost chuckle.
“I have kept this for all these years,” he whispers, and hands me a crumpled piece of paper.
“Why did you keep this, Gaspard?”
He draws himself up to his full height. “For your mother’s sake. Because I revered her. Because I want to help you, Monsieur Antoine.”
“Help me?”
His voice remains steady. His eyes are very solemn.
“To help you understand what happened. The day she died.”
I smooth the paper out slowly. It is an invoice, addressed to my grandmother from the Viaris Agency, Private Investigators, on rue d’Amsterdam, in the ninth arrondissement. Quite a hefty sum, I note.
“Your mother was a lovely person, Monsieur Antoine.”
“Thank you, Gaspard,” I say. I shake his hand. It is a clumsy moment, but he seems content.
I watch him go into the building, his twisted back, his skinny legs. I drive home as swiftly as I can.
A quick check on the Internet confirms what I feared. The Viaris Agency no longer exists. It merged with a larger group called Rubis Détective: Professional Investigation Services, “surveillance, shadowing, undercover operations, activity checks, credit standing.” I had no idea this sort of business still existed. And theirs is flourishing, according to the stylish, modern website with ingenious plug-ins. Their offices are near the Opéra. I notice an e-mail address. I decide to write to them, to explain the situation. That I would need the results of the investigation my grandmother, Blanche Rey, commissioned in 1973. I include the invoice number on my grandmother’s bill. Could they get back to me as soon as possible? Urgent, thank you. I include my mobile number.
I want to call Mélanie about all this, and nearly do, but it is getting on for one o’clock in the morning. I lie in bed for a long time, tossing and turning, before sleep finally sinks in.
My father’s cancer. My grandmother’s upcoming funeral. The tall, blond American.
You better tell me how Clarisse died, right now.
The next morning, when I get to the office, I look up Laurence Dardel’s number. She is Dr. Dardel’s daughter, probably in her mid-fifties now, I presume. Her father was the close friend, the family doctor who signed my mother’s death certificate as, according to Gaspard, he was the first to arrive at the avenue Henri-Martin on that fateful day in February 1974. Laurence became a doctor herself, taking on most of her father’s clientele and their families. I hadn’t seen her in years. We were not particularly friendly. When I call her office, I am told that she is tending to patients at the hospital where she works. The only thing to do, it appears, is to book an appointment. The next possible slot with Dr. Dardel is in a week. I say thank you and hang up.
I remember that her father lived on the rue Spontini, not far from the rue de Longchamp. He had his medical office there. Hers is on the avenue Mozart, but I am quite certain she still lives in the rue Spontini apartment, which she inherited from her father. I remember going there as a boy, after my mother’s death, to have tea with Laurence and her husband. There were children, much younger than we were. I have little recollection of them. Laurence Dardel married a man whose name I cannot recall. She kept her maiden name for work purposes. There is no way I can check if she still lives on the rue Spontini without going there myself.
After a morning of steady work I call my father at lunchtime. I get Régine on the phone, and she tells me he is with his sister, organizing Blanche’s funeral, which will take place at Saint-Pierre de Chaillot church, as expected. I inform her that I will call back tonight, not too late. In the late afternoon I have a meeting, one of the last ones, with Parimbert at his office. The Think Dome is in the process of being installed, and minor details need to be ironed out.
When I arrive, I note with alarm that Rabagny, his insufferable son-in-law, is also there. I am even more astounded when the man scrambles up to shake my hand with a smile, one I have never seen him use, exposing an unappetizing expanse of gum, telling me what a fantastic job I did on the Think Dome. Parimbert looks on with his customary self-satisfied smirk, and I can almost hear him purr. Rabagny is all worked up; his face is sweaty, just about puce. To my astonishment, he actually stutters. He is convinced that the Think Dome and its structure of light panels changing color is a revolutionary concept of the utmost artistic and psychological significance, and he wants to develop it, with my permission. “This could be huge,” he breathes. “This could go worldwide.” He’s got it all planned out, he’s been giving a lot of thought to it. I need to sign a contract, get my lawyer to look at it of course, but this should be moving fast, and if all goes well, I will soon be a billionaire. He too. There is nothing much else to do but wait till he stops to draw breath, which he does eventually, spluttering and purple around the gills. I remain aloof, pocket the proffered contract, and tell him frostily that I will give it some thought. The colder I am, the more he grovels. After a terrifying moment when he hovers near me like an over-affectionate puppy and I fear he is actually going to kiss me, he finally leaves.
Parimbert and I get to work. He is not wholly satisfied with the sitting areas, which are too comfortable in his opinion, not suitable for the immense intellectual exertion that will take place within the dome. He would prefer hard, ascetic seating in which one is forced to sit bolt upright, as if in the classroom of an inflexible teacher. No subsiding into tantalizing indolence.
No matter how soft-voiced he is, Parimbert is a demanding client, and I leave his office much later than I had anticipated, feeling bludgeoned. I decide to drive straight to the rue Spontini. The traffic at this hour is slow, but it shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes to get there. I park the car near the avenue Victor-Hugo and go into a café to wait a little while more. I still have not heard from the Rubis agency. I toy with the idea of calling my sister and telling her what I plan to do, but as I take out my phone, it starts ringing. Angèle. My heart leaps, as always, whenever she calls. I am on the verge of telling her about my visit to Laurence Dardel’s home, but at the last minute I hold back. I want to keep this to myself, this quest, or whatever it is. This mission for the truth. I talk about something else, about our next weekend together, which is coming up.