Gabriel told me that he understood me, that he had stopped smoking, that he had seen a film that had shattered him, that he didn’t have much time, was expected in court in Lille the following day, had to take a plane, had a late-afternoon meeting with his colleagues. It’s the first time he didn’t ask me to go with him, to accompany him. We stayed together for an hour. For the last ten minutes, he held my hands in his, and before leaving, closed his eyes and kissed them.
“I would like us to lie together in the cemetery. After this failed life, I would like us at least to make a success of our death. Do you agree to spend eternity beside me?”
I answered yes, without thinking.
“You won’t slip away this time?”
“No. But you’ll only have my ashes.”
“Even as ashes, I want you close to me for eternity. Our two names together, Gabriel Prudent and Irène Fayolle—they’re as lovely as Jacques Prévert and Alexandre Trauner. Did you know that the poet and his set designer were buried side by side? I think it’s wonderful to be buried with your set designer. You, basically, you were my set designer. You gave me the most beautiful landscapes.”
“Are you going to die, Gabriel? Are you ill?”
“That’s the first time you’ve said ‘tu’ to me. No, I’m not going to die, well, I don’t think so, it’s not in the cards. It’s because of the film I told you about earlier. It shook me. I have to go. Thank you, see you soon, Irène, I love you.”
“I love you, too, Gabriel.”
“At least that’s one thing we have in common.”
82.
Here lies my love.
It happened one morning in January of 1998. I could only just make out their names. Their wretched names. Magnan, Fontanel, Letellier, Lindon, Croquevieille, Petit. They were slipped into the back pocket of a pair of Philippe Toussaint’s jeans, and were almost illegible. The list had gone through the wash, the ink had run, as if someone had cried for a long time onto the soggy paper. I had hung his trousers to dry on the bathroom radiator, and when I went to get them, had noticed something sticking out. It was a piece of paper tablecloth, folded in four, on which, once again, Philippe Toussaint had written their names.
“Why?”
I had sat on the edge of the bath saying this word, several times: “Why?”
We had been living in Brancion-en-Chalon for five months. Philippe Toussaint escaped every day in two ways: on rainy days, with his video games; on fine days, on his bike. He had continued with the habits he had in Malgrange, but his absences were lengthier.
He avoided the cemetery visitors, the funerals, the opening and closing of the gates. He was far more afraid of the dead than of the trains. Of the bereaved visitors than of the SNCF passengers. He would meet up with fellow motorbike enthusiasts to go on rallies in the countryside. Long tours that culminated, I believe, in extramarital diversions. At the end of 1997, he had gone away for four days in a row. He had returned exhausted from his trip and, curiously, I had immediately seen, understood, sensed that he hadn’t met up with one of his mistresses like he usually did.
On arrival, he had said to me, “Sorry, I should have called you, we went further than planned with the others, and there weren’t any phone booths on our route, it was in the sticks.” It was the first time Philippe Toussaint was explaining himself. The first time he was apologizing for not having given a sign of life.
He had returned on the day of the exhumation of Henri Ange, killed in action aged twenty-two in 1918, at Sancy, in Aisne. On the white headstone one could still make out the words: “Eternally missed.” Henri Ange’s eternity had come to an end in January 1998, his remains thrown into the ossuary. My first exhumation. The gravediggers and I hadn’t been able to do a thing to spare his rest. His tomb was too dilapidated and eroded by decades of moss.
As the gravediggers were opening the coffin, ravaged by the weather, the damp, and vermin, I had heard Philippe Toussaint’s motorbike. I had left them to finish their work without me. I had headed to the house out of habit. When Philippe Toussaint came home, I received him . . . Like servants when the master returns.
He had removed his helmet slowly, he looked ill, his eyes tired. He had taken a long shower and eaten lunch in silence. Then he had gone upstairs to have a nap, and had slept until the following morning. At around 11 P.M., I had joined him in our bed. He had shifted himself right behind me.
The following morning, after having his breakfast, he had set off again on his bike, but only for a few hours. Later, he had admitted to me that, during those four days away, he had gone to Epinal to
