Читать книгу Fresh Water for Flowers - Valérie Perrin - Страница 17

SPEECH FOR MARIE GÉANT

She didn’t know how to walk, she ran. She couldn’t keep still. “Jamboter” is the verb for what she did, an expression from eastern France. Say to someone, “Arrête de jamboter,” and it means: “Sit yourself down, once and for all.” Well, it’s done now, she’s sat herself down, once and for all.

She went to bed early and got up at five in the morning. She was first to arrive at the shops so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. She had an almighty horror of waiting in line. By 9 A.M., she’d already got all her groceries for the day in her string bag.

She died during the night between December 31st and January 1st, a public holiday, she who had slaved away her entire life. I hope she didn’t have to wait too long in line at the gates of Heaven with all those revelers and road-accident victims.

For the holidays, at my request, she would get two knitting needles and a ball of wool ready for me. I never got further than ten rows. Put the years end to end, and I must have finally made an imaginary scarf, which she’ll wrap around my neck when I’ll join her in Heaven. If Heaven’s what I deserve.

When she phoned, she’d say, with a chuckle, “It’s the old dear here.”

She sent letters to her children every week. Her children who had moved far away from her home. She wrote just like she thought.

She sent parcels and checks for every birthday, name day, Christmas, Easter, for the “poppets.” For her, all children were “poppets.”

She liked beer and wine.

She did the sign of the Cross over bread before slicing it.

She said, “Jesus and Mary.” Frequently. It was a form of punctuation. A kind of period she put at the end of her sentences.

On the sideboard, there was always a large wireless that stayed on all morning. Since she’d been widowed very early on, I often thought that the radio announcers’ masculine voices kept her company.

From midday, the TV took over. To kill the silence. All the inane game shows would be on, until she dozed off in front of The Flames of Love. She commented on what every character said, as if they existed in real life.

Two or three years before she tripped and was obliged to leave her flat for the retirement home, someone stole her Christmas garlands and ornaments from her cellar. She phoned me in tears, as if her lifetime of Christmases had been stolen.

She often sang. Very often. Even at the end of her life, she said, “I feel like singing.” She also said, “I feel like dying.”

She went to Mass every Sunday.

She threw nothing away. Especially not leftovers. She reheated them and ate them. Sometimes, she made herself sick from eating the same thing, again and again, until it was all gone. But she’d rather vomit than chuck a crust of bread in the bin. An old leftover itself from the war, in her stomach.

She bought mustard in cartoon-covered glasses, which she saved for her grandchildren—her poppets—when they came to stay with her during the holidays.

There was always something tasty simmering in a cast-iron pot on her gas stove. Chicken with rice did her for the week. And she saved the chicken stock for her evening meals. In her kitchen, there were also two or three onions sweating in a pan, or a sauce, that made your mouth water.

She was always a tenant. Never an owner. The only place that ever belonged to her was her family vault.

When she knew we were coming for the holidays she would wait for us at her kitchen window. She looked out for cars parking in the little lot down below. We could see her white hair through the window. No sooner had we arrived at hers than she would say, “When will you be coming back to see the old dear?” As if she wanted us to leave again.

These last years, she no longer waited for us. If we made the mistake of being five minutes late at the retirement home to take her out for lunch, we’d find her in the dining room with the other old folk.

She slept wearing a hairnet to preserve her perm.

She drank the juice of a lemon in warm water every morning.

Her bedcover was red.

During the war, she was the soldier’s pen pal of my grandfather, Lucien. When he returned from Buchenwald, she couldn’t recognize him. There was a photo of Lucien on her bedside table. Then the photo was moved, along with her, to the retirement home.

I used to love wearing her nylon slips. Because she bought everything by mail order, she received lots of gifts, knickknacks of all kinds. As soon as I arrived at her flat, I would ask her if I could go and rummage in her cupboard. She would say: “Of course, off you go.” And I would rummage for hours. I would find prayer books, Yves Rocher creams, sheets, lead soldiers, balls of wool, dresses, scarves, brooches, china dolls.

The skin on her hands was rough.

A few times, I did her perm for her.

To save money, she never let the tap run to rinse the dishes.

Towards the end of her life, she would say: “What did I ever do to the Good Lord to end up here?” referring to the retirement home.

I started to desert her little flat when I was seventeen to sleep at my aunt’s, about 300 meters away. A fine apartment above a large café, and also a cinema popular with youngsters, with its table football, video games, and choc-ices. I still went to eat with the old dear, but I preferred to sleep at my aunt’s for the cigarettes we’d smoke on the sly, the all-day cinema, and the bar.

I’d always seen Madame Fève, a sweet lady, doing the housework and ironing at my aunt’s. Then one day, I came face to face with my grandmother as she was vacuuming the bedrooms. She was replacing Madame Fève, who was on holiday or unwell. It happened occasionally. So I discovered.

The day she died, I couldn’t sleep all night because of “that.” Because of the awkwardness there had been between us at that moment. When I pushed open a door, laughing, and came face to face with my grandmother doing the housework. Doubled over a vacuum cleaner to supplement her income. I tried to remember what we’d said to each other that day. It stopped me from sleeping. I kept revisiting the scene, a scene I had completely forgotten until the day she died. All night long, I pushed open that door and saw her behind it, doing the housework in other people’s homes. All night long, I carried on laughing with my cousins, and she carried on vacuum cleaning.

Next time I see her, I’ll ask her this question, “Old dear, do you remember the day when I saw you doing the housework at my aunt’s?” She’ll probably shrug her shoulders and reply, “And the poppets, are the poppets well?”