Then disaster struck. Agathe wrote to me in February of ’72 and informed me that she was pregnant—not by me, of course, as I had hardly been down there—and was keeping the baby. Hilarious, Justin. No, Picasso wasn’t the father. Georges Bonfand was. He agreed to help financially but preferred not to be present in the baby’s life, as he was already in his sixties.
Somehow our relationship held together, and Agathe and the baby—Erwan, named after her grandfather—moved back to Paris in 1973. She opened a ceramics studio in Batignolles, and we got married that year too.
So that night, when Erwan got his butt out of the car, I was hit with a wall of emotions. Not all of them good. “Bonsoir,” Sandrine said curtly, her hands on her hips. She had, in two minutes, figured him out. Erwan mumbled something and they shook hands. I have no doubt that Sandrine’s handshake was firmer than Erwan’s; in fact, judging from the look on his face, she gave him a death squeeze. It impressed me, especially when Sandrine and I were moving furniture around, how strong she was. “M Barbier, the guest room at the end of the hall upstairs is already made up,” she said.
“That’s great. Thank you, Sandrine,” I replied. “You heard her, Erwan—up you go. We can get caught up tomorrow. And next time, call and let me know you’re coming.”
“My phone doesn’t work anymore,” Erwan answered.
“Haven’t paid the bill in a while?” I asked.
Erwan shrugged and said, “Bit short on cash.”
I followed him into the house; he was tall, like his mother, but oddly not as strong. He slouched, whereas Agathe had always held herself straight, even a bit rigidly. But Erwan had her dark wiry hair and strong features: high cheekbones, a Roman nose, and full lips.
Now, before I look like an uncaring stepfather, let me fill you in on Erwan Le Flahec. Erwan hasn’t had it easy, with his biological father ignoring him, his stepfather too self-obsessed to give him much attention, and his mother dying young. But you can do the math, Justin, and see that Erwan does not act his age, nor has he ever done so. He drifted from job to job until he became unemployable, and now lives in Agathe’s old studio in Batignolles, which she willed to him. I send him money every month, and Agathe, about a year before she died, made provisions for him to be paid a monthly allowance in the event of her death. The old studio is big enough to be split in two, so Erwan could make some money by renting part of it, but that is too much work for him, and he likes his privacy, he says. Can you imagine having a thousand square feet of free lodging in central New York or Paris? And being unemployed to boot? The only times I ever argued with Agathe were over Erwan. I wish I could have let it go, but my working-class upbringing did not allow me to ignore his spoiled behavior. Remembering Agathe, I did pause by Erwan’s bedroom door and wish him a good sleep, before going into my own room.
I read for about an hour, to distract myself, and then turned off the light. It was quiet outside, and I smiled knowing that Hélène Paulik might spray the vines before the sun rose; that would send Erwan straight back to Paris on the next TGV. I giggled thinking that had I known Erwan was coming I could have arranged it with Hélène.
That night I tossed and turned, as is my usual sleep pattern, worrying about important things—Erwan, for example—and silly ones, like the fact that Sandrine and I had forgotten to move the potted succulents into the sun as we said we should. My therapist says that my biggest problem with Erwan is guilt. It’s true that the day Agathe died we had had too much to drink, at lunch on the boat, and argued over Erwan. He had enrolled in some kind of expensive private business school, and Agathe was going to foot the bill. We didn’t argue about the money, because by that time we had lots. It was the principle of the thing: yet another doomed project of Erwan’s. I saw how each time he gave up or failed at something, it would crush Agathe. My publisher and his wife seemed to be having their own fight, up on deck, and who knows where Ursule, my secretary, was. She’d worked for me for years. She was discreet and faithful, but after Agathe’s death she withdrew and seemed to blame me. She stayed on for a while after the accident, but by the time she resigned it felt like she hated me. Looking back on it, with the help of therapy, I see I probably took her for granted. I always paid her well, extremely well by French standards, well enough that she could buy an apartment in a nice neighborhood. But there’s always more than just money—isn’t there, Justin? I assumed that because I paid her well, she could, and would, always be available. That’s one reason why I was trying to be considerate to Sandrine. Sandrine didn’t have Ursule Genoux’s refinement, but she was smart. No, quick. That’s a better word. And one day, perhaps, she could stop cleaning my house and be my secretary. That
