FRESH WATER
FOR FLOWERS
Valérie Perrin
FRESH WATER
FOR FLOWERS
Translated from the French
by Hildegarde Serle
Europa Editions
214 West 29th Street
New York, N.Y. 10001
www.europaeditions.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,
real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © Editions Albin Michel, Paris 2018
First Publication 2020 by Europa Editions
Translation by Hildegarde Serle
Original title: Changer l’eau des fleurs
Translation copyright © 2020 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data is available
ISBN 9781609455965
Perrin, Valérie
Fresh Water for Flowers
Book design by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
Cover photo © Carol Oriot Couraye / Cédric Kerguillec
To my parents, Francine and Yvan Perrin.
For Patricia Lopez “Paquita” and Sophie Daull.
1.
When we miss one person,
everywhere becomes deserted.
My closest neighbors don’t quake in their boots. They have no worries, don’t fall in love, don’t bite their nails, don’t believe in chance, make no promises, or noise, don’t have social security, don’t cry, don’t search for their keys, their glasses, the remote control, their children, happiness.
They don’t read, don’t pay taxes, don’t go on diets, don’t have preferences, don’t change their minds, don’t make their beds, don’t smoke, don’t write lists, don’t count to ten before speaking. They have no one to stand in for them.
They’re not ass-kissers, ambitious, grudge-bearers, dandies, petty, generous, jealous, scruffy, clean, awesome, funny, addicted, stingy, cheerful, crafty, violent, lovers, whiners, hypocrites, gentle, tough, feeble, nasty, liars, thieves, gamblers, strivers, idlers, believers, perverts, optimists.
They’re dead.
The only difference between them is in the wood of their coffins: oak, pine, or mahogany.
2.
What do you expect will become of me
if I no longer hear your step, is it your life
or mine that’s going, I don’t know.
My name is Violette Toussaint. I was a level-crossing keeper, now I’m a cemetery keeper.
I savor life, I sip at it, like jasmine tea sweetened with honey. And when evening comes, and the gates to my cemetery are closed, and the key is hanging on my bathroom door, I’m in heaven.
Not the heaven of my closest neighbors. No.
The heaven of the living: a mouthful of the port—1983 vintage—that José-Luis Fernandez brings back for me every September 1st. A remnant of the holidays poured into a small crystal glass, a kind of Indian summer that I uncork at around 7 P.M., come rain, or snow, or gale.
Two thimblefuls of ruby liquid. Blood of the vines of Porto. I close my eyes. And enjoy. A single mouthful is enough to brighten my evening. Two thimblefuls because I like the intoxication, but not the alcohol.
José-Luis Fernandez brings flowers to the grave of Maria Pinto, married name Fernandez (1956–2007), once a week, except in July—that’s when I take over. Hence, the port to thank me.
My present life is a present from heaven. As I say to myself every morning, when I open my eyes.
I have been very unhappy, destroyed even. Nonexistent. Drained. I was like my closest neighbors, but worse. My vital functions were functioning, but without me inside them. Without the weight of my soul, which, apparently, whether you’re fat or thin, tall or short, young or old, weighs twenty-one grams.
But since I’ve never had a taste for unhappiness, I decided it wouldn’t last. Unhappiness has to stop someday.
I got off to a bad start. I was given up at birth, in the Ardennes, the north of the département, that corner that consorts with Belgium, where the climate is designated “transitional continental” (heavy rainfall in autumn, frequent frosts in winter), and where I imagine Jacques Brel’s canal, in his song “Le Plat Pays,” hanged itself.
When I was born, I didn’t even cry. So I was put aside, like a 2.67kg parcel with no stamp, no addressee, while the administrative forms were filled in, declaring my departure prior to my arrival.
Stillborn. A child without life and without a surname.
The midwife quickly had to come up with a first name for me, to fill in the boxes; she chose Violette.
That’s probably the color I was from head to toe.
When I changed color, when my skin turned pink and she had to fill in a birth certificate, she didn’t change my name.
They’d put me on a radiator. My skin had warmed up. The belly of my mother who didn’t want me must have chilled me. The warmth brought me back to life. That’s probably why I love summer so much, never missing a chance to bask in the first ray of sunshine, like a sunflower.
My maiden name is Trenet, like the great singer Charles. It’s probably the same midwife who, after Violette, gave me my surname. She must have liked Charles. And I ended up liking him, too. I’ve long thought of him as a distant cousin, a kind of rich uncle I’d never met. When you like a singer, forever singing their songs means you do end up sort of related to them anyhow.
Toussaint came later. When I married Philippe Toussaint. With a name like that—the day for visiting the cemetery—I should have been wary. But there are men called Summers who batter their wives. A charming name never stopped anyone from being a bastard.
I never missed my mother. Except when I was feverish. When I was healthy, I shot up. I grew very straight, as if having no parents had inserted a stake along my spine. I stand straight. It’s a distinguishing feature of mine. I’ve never slouched. Not even on sad days. People often ask if I did ballet. I tell them I didn’t. That it’s daily life that disciplined me, made me do barre and pointe work every day.
3.
Let them take me or let them take my
