A silence, but not an uncomfortable one.
“When did you find out?”
“Not long ago.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Odd, to say the least.”
“And does she know you know? Did she tell you?”
I sigh. “My mother died in 1974, Mathilde. I was ten years old.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “Forgive me.”
“Forget it.”
“The fact that she was a lesbian—did your father know?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what my father knows.”
“Do you want to pop over to the bar so we can have a drink and chat?”
I’m half tempted. I enjoy Mathilde’s company, and her girlfriend’s bar is an amusing nightspot. But exhaustion weighs me down tonight and I tell her so. She makes me promise to come by soon. I do.
Later, in bed, I call Angèle. I get her voice mail. I don’t leave a message. I try the home number. No answer. I struggle not to let this annoy me, but it does. I know she sees other men. She is discreet about it. I want to tell her not to. I decide to tell her soon. But what will she come back with? That we are not married? That she’s allergic to fidelity? That she lives in Clisson and I live in Paris, and how are we going to work that one out? Yes, how? There is no way she would ever move to Paris. She hates its pollution, its noise, and do I see myself being buried in that small provincial town? And she might even ask me (for she has probably guessed it) if I had slept with Astrid recently and not told her.
I miss her tonight as I lie there in my empty bed, so many questions whirling around in my head. I miss her astuteness, the fast way her brain works. I miss her body, the scent of her skin. I close my eyes and quickly make myself come, thinking of her. It gives me some sort of release, but it doesn’t make me feel any happier. I feel lonelier than ever. I get up to smoke a cigarette in the dark silence.
June Ashby’s fine features come back to me. I can see her ringing the Rey doorbell, tall and formidable in her fury, her grief. She and Blanche, face-to-face. The New World versus la vieille Europe, embodied by Paris’s sixteenth arrondissement.
You better tell me how Clarisse died, right now.
I have never heard her voice and I never will, but it seems to me that I can hear it tonight, a deep, strong voice, the American accent coming out thick and strong through the polished French. I can hear her pronouncing “Clarisse” the way Americans say it, emphasizing the final syllable, softening the r.
You better tell me how Clarisse died, right now.
Later, when I finally fall asleep, the disquieting vision of seawater closing hermetically over the Gois never leaves my troubled dreams.
It is done. Blanche lies in the Rey family grave at the Trocadéro cemetery. We stand by the tomb under a surprisingly blue sky, a small group of us—my children, Astrid, Mélanie, Solange, Régine, Joséphine, close friends, faithful servants, and my frail father, leaning on a cane I have never seen him use. I notice how his illness has gradually taken over. His skin, sickly and yellow, has a waxlike consistency. He has lost most of his hair, even his lashes and brows. Mélanie is at his side, and I observe how she never leaves him, holding his arm, looking across at him with solace like a mother comforting a child. I know my sister has a new boyfriend, Eric, a young journalist I have not yet met, but despite this new man in her life, she now appears to be thoroughly taken up by our father and his well-being. During the ceremony in the cold and dark church, her hand was always on our father’s shoulder. I can tell how concerned she is, how he moves her. Why is it that I am not moved? Why is it that my father’s vulnerability triggers only pity? As I stand there, it is not my father I think of. Nor my grandmother. I think of my mother, whose coffin lies in that grave a few feet below me. Did June Ashby ever come here? Did she ever stand where I am standing now, looking down at the tombstone that bears Clarisse’s name? And if she did, was she overcome by the same questions that are now tormenting me?
After the burial we gather at the avenue Henri-Martin for a party in Blanche’s honor. Several of Solange’s friends turn up. The same elegant, well-to-do throng that was here the night Blanche died. Solange asks me to help her carry flowers into the grand salon, which has been opened especially for the occasion. Gaspard and a couple of employees have laid out a tasty buffet, and I observe Régine, cheeks caked with rouge, starting on the champagne. Joséphine is too busy chatting up a rubicund, oily gentleman to notice. My father, very quiet, sits in a corner with Mélanie.
I am alone with Solange in the office, helping her find vases for the sickly sweet–smelling lilies that keep pouring in every time the doorbell chimes. On the spur of the moment I tackle her as she is concentrating on arranging the flowers.
“Do you remember a woman called June Ashby?” I ask point-blank.
Her carefully made-up face does not move a muscle.
“Very vaguely,” she murmurs.
“An American woman, blond, tall—she had an art gallery in New York.”
“Rings a bell.”
I watch her hands hovering over the white petals, her pudgy, bejeweled fingers, her scarlet nail varnish. She was never a pretty woman, Solange. It could not have been easy for her, having a sister-in-law who had Clarisse’s looks.
“June Ashby spent a couple of summers in Noirmoutier at the Hotel Saint-Pierre. While we were there.”
“I see.”
“Do you remember she was friendly with my mother?”
She finally looks at me. Nothing warm in those brown eyes.
“No. I don’t remember.”
A waiter comes in carrying a tray of glasses. I wait till he leaves.
“What do you remember about her and my mother?”
Again the stony look.
“Nothing. I remember nothing about her and your mother.”
If she is lying, she is an accomplished liar. Her eyes look right at me, unwavering. Her entire self is composed, unruffled. The message she is sending my way is clear: “Don’t ask any more questions.”
She walks away, her back as stiff as ever, carrying lilies. I return to the grand salon, noting that the room is full of people I have never met. I greet them politely.
Laurence Dardel, wearing a black suit that makes her look years older, unobtrusively hands me a brown envelope. The medical file. I thank her and put it away next to my coat, but I am itching to tear it open. Mélanie’s eyes follow me from afar, and I feel a pang of guilt. Soon, I tell myself, soon I will share all this with her. About June Ashby, the scrap with Blanche, the detective report.
I notice Astrid watching me as well, no doubt wondering why I look on edge. She is busy consoling Margaux, who was miserable during the funeral, for it brought back painful, fresh memories of Pauline.
Arno comes to stand next to me. He is home from boarding school to attend his great-grandmother’s funeral. His hair is shorter, cleaner, and he has shaved.
“Hey, Dad.”
He reaches out and pats my shoulder, goes over to the table where drinks and petits fours are laid out, and pours out a fruity beverage. After a longish spell of not talking to each other at all, apart from minimal conversation, our relationship has thawed out somewhat. I suspect the boarding school, with its strict hours, bracing hygiene, and vigorous, compulsory sports program, is doing him good. Astrid thinks so as well.
He leans toward me and whispers, “You know, those photographs. Margaux told me.”
“About my mother?”
“Yup. She explained. About the letter from the agency and everything. Heavy stuff.”
“How do you feel about it?”
He grins. “You mean about having a gay granny?”
I can’t help grinning too.
“Kinda cool when you think of it,” he says, “although I guess it wasn’t so cool for Grand-père.”
“No, I guess it wasn’t.”
“Kinda hard on a man’s pride, I’d say. You know, like, to have a wife w
ho prefers girls?”
Coming from a sixteen-year-old, I find his observation both mature and relevant. How would I have reacted if Astrid was having an affair with a woman? Isn’t that the ultimate snub for a man? The most humiliating form of adultery? The true way to make a man feel anything but virile? But when I think of Serge and his hairy buttocks on Astrid’s camera, I somehow feel that nothing could be worse.
“How are things with Serge?” I inquire, keeping well out of Astrid’s range.
Arno wolfs down an entire chocolate éclair.
“Travels a lot.”
“And your mother? How is she?”
Arno peers at me, munching away. “Dunno. Ask her. She’s looking right at us.”
I pour myself some champagne as Gaspard rushes to assist me.
“When are you seeing Angèle again?” Arno asks.
The champagne tastes icy and bubbly on my tongue.
“In a couple of weeks.” And I nearly add, “I can’t wait.”
“Does she have kids?”
“No. She has a couple of nephews and nieces who are your age, I think.”
“Are you going to Nantes?”
“Yes. She doesn’t much like coming to Paris.”
“That’s a pity.”
“Why?”
He blushes. “She’s cool.”
I laugh and rumple his hair the way I used to when he was a kid.
“You’re right. She’s cool.”
The minutes tick by. Arno discusses his school, his new friends. I listen and nod. Then Astrid comes to talk to us. After a while Arno takes off for more food, and she and I are left en tête à tête. She seems happier. It appears that Serge and she have made a new start. I’m glad to hear it. I say so. She wants to know about Angèle, she is curious about her. She has heard so much about her from the children. Why don’t I bring her to Malakoff one evening for dinner? Sure, I say, but Angèle doesn’t come to Paris often. She likes to stick to her beloved Vendée.
And all of a sudden, despite the pleasant conversation with my wife, the kind of conversation I haven’t had with her for a while, it seems absolutely impossible not to peek right now, this very minute, at my mother’s medical file. There is no way I can wait till I get home.
I murmur something about going to the bathroom, back away, and inconspicuously pick up the envelope, slip it under my jacket, and dash to the large bathroom down the long corridor. Once inside, the door locked, I open it feverishly. Laurence Dardel has written a note.
Dear Antoine, please find enclosed your mother’s complete medical dossier. These are photocopies, as you may notice, but nothing has been omitted. My father’s notes are all there. I do feel this is not useful for you in any way, but you have a right, as Clarisse Rey’s son, to look at this file. If you have any further questions, please get back to me. All best, LD.
“Snobbish bitch,” I find myself muttering out loud. “Never liked her.”
The first document is the death certificate. I pore over it, turning the light on to see it better. Our mother indeed died at avenue Henri-Martin. Not avenue Kléber. “Cause of death: Aneurysm.” An unexpected thought comes to me. “Wait a minute . . .” I mumble aloud to myself. “Wait a minute . . .” February 12, 1974 . . . we came home from school with the au pair in the afternoon . . . I was told, as soon as we arrived, by our father, that Clarisse suddenly died, that her body was at the hospital. . . . I didn’t ask where she died. I naturally assumed she died at avenue Kléber. So I never asked. Neither did Mel.
I know I am right. Mélanie and I were not told, because we never asked. We were so small. We were in shock. I distinctly remember our father explaining about the aneurysm, how it happened, a vein bursting in the brain, how Clarisse had died, very quick, very fast, painlessly, but that’s all he ever said about her death. And if Gaspard had not committed that slip of the tongue, we would have gone on thinking that our mother died at avenue Kléber.
As I flip through the pages of the file, the doorknob rattles and startles me.
“Coming!” I say hastily, folding up the sheets of paper and hiding them under my jacket. I flush the toilet, turn on the tap, and wash my hands. When I open the door, Mélanie is waiting for me, her fists on her hips.
“What are you up to?” she asks. Her eyes dart around the room.
“Just thinking. About a couple of things,” I say, drying my hands busily.
“Are you hiding anything from me?”
“Of course not. I’m working on something, for both of us. I’m piecing it all together.”
She steps into the bathroom, closes the door quietly behind her. Once again I am struck by her resemblance to our mother.
“Listen to me, Antoine. Our father is dying.”
I stare at her. “He told you? About his cancer?”
She nods.
“Yes. He told me. Recently.”
“You never said anything to me.”
“He asked me not to.”
I gape at her, stunned. Then I hurl the towel to the ground, anger sparking through me.
“This is outrageous. I’m his son, for Christ’s sake.”
“I know how you must feel. But he cannot talk to you. He doesn’t know how. And you aren’t good at that with him either.”
I lean back against the wall and fold my arms across my chest. The anger bubbles up inside me. Fuming, I wait for her to speak.
“He hasn’t got much time, Antoine. He has stomach cancer. I spoke to his doctor. The news isn’t good.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Mélanie?”
She goes to the basin, opens the tap, passes her hands under the running water. She is wearing a dark gray wool dress, black tights, black patent leather flats with gold buckles. Her silvery streaked hair is tied back with a black velvet bow. She bends to retrieve the towel, wipes her hands.
“I know you’re on the warpath.”
“The warpath?” I repeat.
“I know what you’ve been doing. I know you asked Laurence Dardel to give you our mother’s medical file.”
I am silenced by the seriousness in her voice.
“I know Gaspard gave you a document. He told me. I know you probably know who the blond woman was. And I overheard you questioning Solange just now.”
“Wait, Mélanie,” I blurt out, my face reddening with mortification at the idea of her thinking I could be hiding such important details from her. “You must understand that I was going to tell you all this. I—”
She holds up a slender, white hand.
“Just listen to me.”
“Okay,” I say, unnerved, smiling uneasily. “I’m all ears.”
She doesn’t smile back. She leans forward, her green eyes inches from mine.
“Whatever you find out, I don’t want to know.”
“What?” I breathe.
“You heard me. I do not want to know.”
“But why? I thought you did. Remember? The day you remembered why we had the crash. You said you were ready to face the pain of knowing.”
She opens the door without answering, and I fear she is about to slip off without another word. But she whips around, and when she faces me once more, her eyes are filled with such sorrow I want to take her into my arms.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not ready. And when you do find out—whatever it is—don’t talk to our father. Don’t ever tell him.”
Something in her voice breaks, and she dashes away, face lowered. I stand there, unable to move. How is it that a brother and a sister can be so dissimilar? How is it that Mélanie prefers silence to the truth? How can she live, not knowing? Not wanting to know? Why does she want to protect our father so?
As I stand there, disconcerted, my shoulder against the door frame, my daughter emerges from the long corridor.
“Yo, Dad,” she says. Then she sees my face. “Bad day?”
I nod.
“Me too,” she says.
“So that makes two of us.”
And
to my wonder, she hugs me, hard. I hug her back, kissing the top of her head.
It is not till later, much later, when I am back home, that the idea comes to me.
My mother’s note to June Ashby is in my hands, and I am reading it for the umpteenth time. Then I glance at the article I printed out about June Ashby’s death. The name of her associate, Donna W. Rogers. I know what I want to do. It is very clear to me. I find the telephone number on the June Ashby Gallery website. I look at my watch.
Five o’clock in the afternoon in New York City. Do it, says the little voice. Just do it. You have nothing to lose. She may not even be there, she may not remember a thing about your mother, she may not even take your call, but just do it.
After a couple of rings a masculine voice says breezily, “June Ashby Gallery, how may I help you?”
My English feels rusty; I haven’t spoken the language in months. I hesitatingly ask for Madame Donna Rogers.
“May I ask who is calling?” says the amiable voice.
“Antoine Rey. I am calling from Paris, France.”
“And may I ask what this is about?”
“Please tell Madame Rogers that this—this is a very personal matter.”
My French accent comes out so strongly it makes me squirm. He asks me to hold on.
Then a woman’s firm tones are heard, and I know it must be Donna Rogers. I feel tongue-tied for a couple of seconds. Then I blurt out, “Yes, hello . . . My name is Antoine Rey. I’m calling you from Paris.”
“I see,” she says. “Are you one of my clients?”
“Um, no,” I reply awkwardly. “I am not a client, Madame. I’m calling you about something else. I’m calling you about . . . about my mother . . .”
“Your mother?” she asks. Then she says courteously, “Excuse me, what did you say your name was?”
“Rey. Antoine Rey.”
A pause.
“Rey. And your mother’s name . . .”
“Clarisse Rey.”
There is such a long silence on the other end of the line that I fear I have lost her.
“Hello?” I say tentatively.
“Yes, I’m still here. You are Clarisse’s son.”
This is statement, not a question.