Читать книгу Fresh Water for Flowers - Valérie Perrin - Страница 16

A fly is swimming in my glass of port. I deposit it on the outside ledge of my window. As I’m closing it, I see the detective walking up the road, the light of the street-lamps on his coat. The path leading to the cemetery is lined with trees. Down below is Father Cédric’s church. And behind the church, the few streets that make up the town center. The detective walks fast. He looks frozen stiff.

I feel like being alone. Like every evening. Speak to no one. Read, listen to the radio, have a bath. Close the shutters. Wrap myself in a pink silk kimono. Just feel good.

Once the gates have been shut, time belongs to me. I’m its sole owner. It’s a luxury to be the owner of one’s time. I think it’s one of the greatest luxuries human beings can afford themselves.

I’m still wearing winter over summer, when normally, at this hour, I wear summer. I’m a bit annoyed with myself for suggesting to the detective that he come to mine, for offering him my help.

He knocks on the door, like the first time. Eliane doesn’t move. She’s already settled in for the night, curled in a ball under the countless blankets in her basket.

He smiles at me, says good evening to me. A sharp chill enters as he does. Quickly, I close the door. I pull out a chair for him to sit on. He doesn’t take his coat off. A good sign. It means he won’t stay long.

Without asking him a thing, I take out a crystal glass and pour him some of my port—1983 vintage—the one José-Luis Fernandez brings me. When he sees the collection of bottles inside the cupboard that serves as my bar, my visitor’s big brown eyes get even bigger. There are hundreds of them. Fortified wines, malts, liqueurs, eaux-de-vie, spirits.

“I don’t traffic alcohol, they’re gifts. People don’t dare give me flowers. One doesn’t give flowers to cemetery keepers, especially since I sell them. One doesn’t give flowers to florists, either. Apart from Madame Pinto, who brings me vacuum-packed dolls every year, the others all go for bottles or pots of jam. I’d need several lives to down it all. So, I give a lot of it to the gravediggers.”

He takes off his gloves and has a first sip of port.

“What you’re drinking there, it’s the finest I have.”

“Divine.”

I don’t know why, but I’d never have imagined him coming out with the word “divine” while sipping my port. Aside from his hair, which goes off in all directions, there’s nothing frivolous about him. He looks just as sad as the clothes he wears.

I take a notebook and pen, sit facing him, and ask him to tell me about his mother. He appears to think for a few moments, breathes in, and replies:

“She was blonde. It was natural.”

And then nothing more. He’s back studying my blank walls as if there were masterpieces hanging on them. From time to time, he raises the crystal glass to his lips and swallows the liquid in small sips. I can see that he’s savoring it. And that he’s relaxing as he drinks.

“I’ve never known how to do speeches. I think and speak like a police report, or an identity document. I know how to tell you whether a person has a scar, a beauty spot, a growth . . . whether they limp, their shoe size . . . At a glance, I know the height, weight, color of the eyes, of the skin, the distinguishing feature of an individual. But when it comes to what they feel . . . I’m incapable of knowing. Unless they have something to hide . . . ”

He finished his drink. Immediately, I pour him another and cut some slices of comté cheese, which I arrange on a porcelain plate.

“When it comes to secrets, I have a good nose. I’m a real hound . . . I immediately spot the giveaway gesture. Well, that’s what I thought . . . before discovering the final wishes of my mother.”

My port has the same effect on everyone. It’s like a truth serum.

“And you? You’re not drinking?”

I pour myself a teardrop and clink glasses with him.

“That’s all you’re drinking?”

“I’m a cemetery keeper. I drink only teardrops . . . We could talk about your mother’s passions. When I say ‘passions,’ it doesn’t have to mean for the theater or bungee jumping. Just what her favorite color was, where she liked to walk, the music she listened to, films she watched, whether she owned cats, dogs, trees, how she spent her time, whether she liked the rain, the wind, or the sun, her favorite season . . . ”

He remains silent for a long while. He looks as if he’s searching for words, like a lost walker searches for the path. He finishes his drink and says to me:

“She liked the snow and roses.”

And that’s it. He has nothing else to say about her. He seems both ashamed and helpless. It’s as if he’s just admitted to me that he’s afflicted with some obscure ailment. Not knowing how to speak about a loved one.

I get up and go over to my register cupboard. I take out the one for 2015 and open it at the first page.

“This is a speech that was written on January 1st, 2015, for Marie Géant. Her granddaughter was unable to attend the burial because she was abroad for work. She sent it to me and asked me to read it at the funeral. I think it will help you. Take the register, read the speech, write notes, and you can return it to me tomorrow morning.”

He immediately got up, tucking the register under his arm. It’s the first time a register has ever left my house.

“Thank you, thank you for everything.”

“Are you sleeping at Madame Béant’s?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had supper?”

“She prepared something for me.”

“You’re setting off for Marseilles tomorrow?”

“At the crack of dawn. I’ll bring you the register before I go.”

“Leave it on the ledge, behind the blue window box.”