She left carrying her plants in a cardboard box.
October 22nd, 1995
Paul is in remission. We went to celebrate that with Julien. My son lives in an apartment close to his school. I am living alone right now. I feel alone, like before his birth. Children fill our lives and then leave a great void, a massive one.
April 27th, 1996
Three years, now, that I’ve not heard from Gabriel. On each of my birthdays, I think he’ll get in touch. I think, I believe, or I hope?
I miss him.
I imagine him in his garden with his wife, his daughter, his peonies, and his roses. I imagine him being bored stiff, he who only loves smoky brasseries, courts, lost causes. Me.
80.
Speak to me in the easy way which you always used,
Put no difference in your tone,
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we shared together.
SEPTEMBER 1997
Four weeks, now, that Philippe had been living in Brancion-en-Chalon. Every morning, the moment he opened his eyes, the silence got him down. In Malgrange, there was the traffic, the cars and trucks that passed their house, that stopped when Violette lowered the barrier, and the bell ringing out, the sound of the trains whizzing by. Here, in this dreary countryside, the silence of the dead terrified him. Even the visitors prowled around. Only the church bell ringing every hour reminded him, with its lugubrious sound, that time was passing and nothing happening.
Four weeks that he’d been here, and he already hated the place. The tombs, the house, the garden, the whole area. Even the gravediggers. When their van came through the gates, Philippe avoided them. He waved at them from a distance. He didn’t want to get friendly with those three morons. A half-wit who called himself Elvis Presley; another one who was always having a laugh and picking up dubious cats, and all sorts of other creatures, to take care of them; and the third, who went flying the moment he missed a step, and looked as if he was straight out of a lunatic asylum.
Philippe had always been wary of men who were interested in animals. It was a girly thing, melting in front of a ball of fluff. He knew that Violette dreamt of having cats and dogs, but he refused. He pretended he was allergic to them. The truth was, he was scared of them and found them gross. Animals disgusted him. The trouble was, the cemetery was teeming with cats because Violette, and two of the three morons, fed them.
For the first time since they’d moved there, a funeral was scheduled for 3 P.M. that day. He’d set off early in the morning for a ride. Usually, he came back at midday, but he was afraid of coming across the bereaved family and the hearse. He’d driven aimlessly around the countryside and had arrived at Mâcon at lunchtime.
While waiting at a red light, he’d seen some children coming out of a primary school. In a group of little girls, he’d thought he recognized Léonine. Same hair, same hairstyle, same look, same walk, and, in particular, same dress. The pink-and-red one with white spots. At that moment, he’d thought: What if Léonine wasn’t in the room when everything burned down? What if Léonine was still alive somewhere? If she’d been stolen from us? People of Magnan’s and Fontanel’s breed were capable of anything.
He’d switched off his bike’s engine and walked towards the child. Then, as he approached her, he remembered that the last time he had seen Léonine, she’d been seven. And that today, she’d no longer be in a group of children shouting and skipping, but with middle-schoolers. That she wouldn’t fit into her pink-and-red dress with white spots anymore.
As he got back on his bike, the hatred had returned. Hatred of his daughter’s death. He lived here, in this wretched place, because of them.
He’d stopped at a roadside café, wolfed down a steak and fries, and, once again, on a paper napkin, had written:
Edith Croquevieille
Swan Letellier
Lucie Lindon
Geneviève Magnan
Eloïse Petit
Alain Fontanel
What was he going to do with these names? The names of those guilty of being there, guilty of negligence. Who had lit that damned water heater? And why? Had Fontanel just spun him a yarn? But to what end? Now that Geneviève Magnan was dead, he could have just said that she was to blame. He could have told him that the fire was accidental. Stuck to the domestic-accident theory. He could have said nothing at all, too. For the first time, Alain Fontanel had seemed sincere when he’d spoken all in one breath, without stopping, without thinking. But his words were steeped in alcohol. As was Philippe’s perception of them. They were both drunk in that dining room of the devil.
Philippe reread the list of names that he was writing too often. He must follow through. Meet the other protagonists, one on one. It was too late not to know.
* * *
NOVEMBER 18TH, 1997
While showing a woman patient into the waiting room, Lucie Lindon had recognized him immediately. She could remember perfectly the face of each parent she had seen in court, those called “the claimants.” And him, Léonine Toussaint’s father, she had noticed him especially because he was on his own and particularly handsome. On his own, without his wife, alongside the couples who were the parents of Anaïs, Nadège, and Océane.
She had testified right in front of them. Explained that there hadn’t been anything she could do that night except evacuate the other rooms and alert the rest of the staff. That she hadn’t heard the children getting up to go to the kitchen.
Since the death of the little girls, Lucie Lindon was forever cold. As though she were living permanently in a draft. She could cover herself up, but she still shivered all over. The tragedy had plunged her into a
