“Hi there! Cooee!”
Anita is not alone. A big, tall woman is following her. As the two of them come walking through the wisteria arbor with the light behind them it looks as if Anita has a giant shadow.
Adam and Laura remain rooted to the spot for a moment at the sight of this curious phenomenon. Then the woman steps aside, Laura moves closer to her father, who gets to his feet and picks her up in his arms. They still have the crown and the tiara on their heads.
“Adèle, this is my husband, Adam. And the little princess here is Laura. Adam, this is Adèle, the lady I told you about.”
Adam reflects that she has a face like those of the goddesses in the Cour de Richelieu at the Louvre. He has an impulse to run his hands over the perfectly formed, downy crown of her head. What has gotten into him?
“Come along. Let’s have a cup of tea indoors. Laura, could you go and play on your own for a little while?”
Adam sets Laura down on the lawn. A cup has spilled on the tablecloth. Everything is spoiled.
Suddenly this amazingly gentle voice emanates from Adèle’s massive frame.
“Why don’t we take tea out here with the princess?”
Three adults and a child have a dolls’ tea party. She is like a tableau vivant, thinks Adam. Her story is incredible, thinks Anita. I’m a real princess, thinks Laura. This is a dream, thinks Adèle.
A dinner
THEY WILL BE HAVING DINNER IN THE GARDEN. This, Anita says to herself, as she admires the table, fully laid, is just the kind of thing that she should be handing on to Laura as her heritage. The patchwork of a whole life. The silver service from her parents-in-law, the royal blue plates she had picked up in an antique shop in Paris, the Basque tablecloth bought in a mountain village when covering a story, the white table napkins embroidered with her parents’ initials (S and P) entwined, glasses that were a wedding present, the table made by André, Adam’s father, the chairs retrieved from a yard sale and fixed up by Adam, a bouquet gathered in the meadow by Adèle in a cheap vase picked up at the supermarket, coasters made from bamboo.
Here and there in the garden Adam had set up poles with solar lights. As night fell they would be glowing softly like stars fallen from the sky.
She would like to capture under a dome this moment when everything is in suspense, perfect, like a flower bud about to open and reveal its promise to the world. It is the start of summer and this year, the year when she will be thirty-seven, Anita is the beating heart of her home and her family. She washes and polishes, she changes the curtains, she does the cooking, she starts wearing her bracelets again, she gets out her long gypsy skirts. She takes her siestas out of doors, where the grass is as thick as a carpet, she makes Adèle laugh, she is healing her with her friendship, her time, her house. She often clings to Adam, gives him passionate kisses, she is rediscovering the thrilling sensations of long ago, ones that bore into the base of the spine and make her toes spread out like a fan. She finds him handsome, she admires him, she has an amazing sense of being more in love with him than ever, she is happy. Anita feels she has found her way, is on the right road, she welcomes this exciting new life, one in which she works, writes, loves, has extra energy. Since Adèle came everything has changed. She looks after Laura when Anita and Adam are working; she cooks, she sews, she encourages, she mends, she loves them. She bathes their house in a serenity that was hitherto lacking, she gives the family that little bit extra that oils the wheels of daily life, lightens routine, and makes the windows gleam. But that is not all.
Since Adèle came, Anita is writing. She has returned to her notebooks, she has been doing research, listening, taking notes, and, one evening in spring, started work on, shh, a novel. Chapter one, chapter two, the impulse does not fade, Anita is finally in possession of that mysterious thing—something beyond strength, courage, inspiration, tenacity, something that does not interfere with household tasks, motherhood, parenting, love, the body, sexual desire, dreams, hopes—the thing that makes her set down one word after another, one sentence and then another, one page and then another, without losing heart, without self-denigration. Adèle has set Anita free to write. But this is not all.
Since Anita came, Adam has begun another series of paintings, inspired by Adèle’s story and the first pages of Anita’s text. He has cast aside brushes, spray cans, pencils, palettes. He has only made two paintings so far. He is no longer striving to imitate a landscape or a face, but to evoke an emotion, a texture, a taste. He works more slowly than usual, but this new path is enthralling.
On this first Saturday of the summer vacation Adam and Anita are entertaining their friends, a ritual that goes back quite a few years now. People they met in Paris, in the humanities department, at the school of architecture, in an editorial office, in a café, these are people now approaching their forties, still with young children and elderly parents, and secret lives, that’s for sure. From one year to the next they notch up little changes (a few pounds overweight, a child born, a love affair falling apart, the death of a parent),
