Sasha replied that the day they knew that my husband and I lived here, they would avoid me and no longer come. That being here would be the best way never to see them again. To get rid of them forever.
The following morning, I met with the mayor. I had barely set foot in his office before he told me that Philippe Toussaint and I would be employed starting in August of 1997 as cemetery keepers. That we would each receive the minimum wage, a house that went with the job, and that any water and electricity we used, as well as our household taxes, would be paid for by the council. Did I have any other questions?
“No.”
I saw Sasha smile.
Before letting us go, the mayor served us vanilla-flavored tea, made with a teabag, and stale biscuits, which he dunked in his cup like a child. Sasha didn’t dare refuse, even though he loathes tea made with a teabag. “Porous plastic attached to vulgar string, the shame of our civilization, Violette, and they dare to call that ‘progress.’” Between biscuits, the mayor spoke to me while consulting his calendar:
“Sasha must have warned you, you’re going to see all sorts. Around twenty years ago, we had rats in our cemetery, lots of rats. We called the pest controller, and he scattered powdered arsenic liberally between the tombs, but the rats continued to wreak havoc, and no one dared set foot in the cemetery. It was like something out of Camus’s La Peste. The pest controller increased the amount of poison, but still no success. The third time, he laid the same traps, but instead of leaving, he hid to try to understand, to see how the rats reacted. Well, you won’t believe me, but a little old lady turned up with a dustpan and brush, and she swept up all the powdered arsenic! She’d been selling it on the side for months! The following day, we made the newspaper headlines: ‘Arsenic trafficking at Brancion-en-Chalon cemetery’!”
78.
There are so many fine things you don’t know about, the faith that brings down mountains, the white spring in your soul, think of it as you fall asleep, love is stronger than death.
Every tomb is a garbage can. It’s the leftovers that are buried here, the souls are elsewhere.”
After murmuring these words, Countess de Darrieux downs her brandy in one go. Odette Marois (1941–2017) has just been buried, the wife of the countess’s great love. She is recovering from her emotions, sitting at my kitchen table.
The countess attended the ceremony from a distance. Odette’s children know that she was their father’s mistress, their mother’s rival; they cold-shoulder her.
From now on, the countess can place her sunflowers on her lover’s tomb, without me finding them later, petals torn off, at the bottom of a garbage can.
“It’s as if I’ve lost an old friend . . . And yet we detested one another. But then, deep down, old friends always detest one another a little. And I’m jealous; she’s the one who’s joining my lover first. She really will have had first dibs all her life, the bitch.”
“Are you still going to put flowers on their tomb?”
“No. Not anymore, now that she’s under there with him. It would be too indelicate of me.”
“How did you meet your great love?”
“He worked for my husband. Looked after his stables. He was a handsome man . . . if you’d just seen his ass! His muscles, his body, his mouth, his eyes! They still send me aquiver today. We remained lovers for twenty-five years.”
“Why didn’t you leave your respective husbands?”
“Odette threatened him with suicide: ‘If you leave me, I’ll kill myself.’ And anyhow, Violette, between you and me, it suited me fine. What would I have done with a great love twenty-four hours a day? Because it’s hard work! I’ve never been able to do a thing with my hands, apart from read and play the piano, he would have soon got tired of me. Whereas that way, we frolicked when we felt like it, I was pampered, pomaded, perfumed, well put together. My fingers never stank of cooking or sour milk, and that, believe me, men really appreciate. You must admit, it was cushy. Trips around the world on my husband’s arm, palaces, swimming pools, and dips in the South Seas. I would return tanned, available, rested, I would meet up with my great love, and we would love each other even more passionately. I felt as if I were Lady Chatterley. Of course, I always led him to believe that the count, twenty years my senior, no longer touched me, that we slept in separate rooms. And he told me that Odette wasn’t remotely interested in sex. We lied to each other out of love, so as not to spoil us. Every time I listen to Brel’s ‘The Old Lovers’ Song,’ I shed a little tear . . . Speaking of teardrops, I wouldn’t mind a final little drop of your brandy, Violette. I sorely need it, today . . . Every time I came across Odette, she gave me a dirty look, I loved that . . . I smiled at her, on purpose. My husband and my lover died within a month of each other. Both from a heart attack. It was terrible. I lost everything, from one day to the next. Earth and water. Fire and ice. It’s as if God and Odette had combined forces to annihilate me. But anyway, I had some wonderful years, I never complain . . . Now, my final wish is to be cremated and have my ashes thrown into the sea.”
“You don’t want to be buried beside the count?”
“Beside my husband for eternity?! Never! I’d be too scared of dying of boredom!”
“But you’ve just told me it’s the leftovers that are buried here.”
“Even my leftovers could be bored beside the count. He was a real downer.”
Nono and Gaston come in to make themselves a coffee. They look surprised to see me roaring
