Читать книгу The Confidant - Helene Gremillon - Страница 9

I got a letter one day, a long letter that wasn’t signed. This was quite an event, because I’ve never received much mail in my life. My letter box had never done anything more than inform me that the-sea-was-warm or that the-snow-was-good, so I didn’t open it very often. Once a week, maybe twice in a gloomy week, when I hoped that a letter would change my life completely and utterly, like a telephone call can, or a trip on the métro, or closing my eyes and counting to ten before opening them again.

And then my mother died. And that was plenty, as far as changing my life went: your mother’s death, you can’t get much better than that.

I had never read any letters of condolence before. When my father died, my mother had spared me such funereal reading. All she did was show me the invitation to the awards ceremony for his medal. I can still remember that bloody ceremony, it was only three days after my thirteenth birthday. There was a tall bloke shaking my hand, a smile on his face, but it was actually a grimace. His face was lopsided and when he spoke it was even worse.

‘It is infinitely deplorable that death was the outcome of such an act of bravery. Mademoiselle, your father was a courageous man.’

‘Is that what you say to all your war orphans? You think a feeling of pride will distract them from their sorrow? That’s very charitable of you, but forget it, I don’t feel sorrowful. And besides, my father was not a courageous man. Even the huge quantity of alcohol he consumed every day couldn’t help him. So let’s just say you’ve got the wrong man and leave it at that.’

‘This may surprise you, Mademoiselle Werner, but I insist it is Sergeant Werner – your father – that I am talking about. He volunteered to lead the way, the field was mined and he knew it. Whether you like it or not, your father distinguished himself and you must accept this medal.’

‘My father did not “distinguish himself”, you stupid man with your lopsided face. He committed suicide and you have to tell my mother he did. I don’t want to be the only one who knows, I want to be able to talk about it with her and with Pierre, too. You can’t keep a father’s suicide a secret.’

I often dream up conversations for myself, where I say what I am thinking; it’s too late but it makes me feel better. In actual fact, I didn’t go to the ceremony in honour of the veterans of the war in Indochina, and in actual fact I only ever said it once, other than in my own head – that my father had committed suicide – and that was to my mother, one Saturday, in the kitchen.

*

Saturday was the day we had chips and I was helping my mother peel the potatoes. It used to be Papa who helped her. He liked peeling and I liked to watch him. He was no more talkative when he was peeling than when he wasn’t peeling, but at least there was a sound coming from him and that felt good. You know I love you, Camille. I always had the same words accompany every scrape of the knife as it sliced: you know I love you, Camille.

But that Saturday other words accompanied the scrape of my knife: ‘Papa committed suicide, you knew that didn’t you, Maman? That Papa committed suicide?’ The frying pan fell, shattering the floor tiles, and the oil splattered onto my mother’s rigid legs. Even though I cleaned frenetically for several days, our feet continued to stick, causing my words to grate in our ears: ‘Papa committed suicide, you knew that didn’t you, Maman? That Papa committed suicide?’ To keep from hearing them, Pierre and I spoke more loudly – perhaps to mask Maman’s silence as well, for she had hardly spoken at all since that Saturday.

The kitchen tiles are still broken. I was reminded last week while I was showing Maman’s house to a couple who were interested. And if they turn into a buying couple, every time that interested couple looks at the big crack in the floor they will lament the prior owner’s carelessness. The tiles will be the first thing they’ll have to renovate, and they’ll be pleased to get down to work. At least my horrible outburst will have been good for something. They absolutely must buy the house – whether it’s this couple or another one makes no difference to me, but someone must buy it. I don’t want it and neither does Pierre: a place where the slightest memory reminds you of the dead is not a place where you can live.

When she came back from the ceremony for Papa, Maman showed me the medal. She told me that the guy who had given it to her had a lopsided face and she tried to imitate him, tried to laugh. Ever since Papa died, that was all she could do: try. Then she gave me the medal, squeezing my hands very tight and telling me that it was mine by right, and she began to cry; that was something she could do without trying. Her tears fell on my hands, but I pulled away from her abruptly; I could not stand to feel my mother’s pain in my body.

When I opened the first letters of condolence, my tears falling on my hands reminded me of Maman’s, and I let them fall, to see where they might have gone, the tears of this woman I had loved so much. I knew what the letters would have to say: that Maman had been an extraordinary woman, that the loss of a loved one is a terrible thing, that nothing is more wrenching than bereavement, et cetera, et cetera, so I didn’t need to read them. Every evening I divided the envelopes into two piles: on the right those with the sender’s name on the envelope, and on the left those without. And all I did was open the pile on the left and jump immediately to the signature to see who had written to me and who I would have to thank. In the end I didn’t thank a lot of people and nobody held it against me. Death forgives such lapses of courtesy.

*

The first letter from Louis was in the pile on the left. The envelope caught my attention even before I opened it: it was much thicker and heavier than the others. It was not the usual format for a letter of condolence.

It was handwritten, several pages long, unsigned.