Swan Letellier arrived in the hall, pushed open an aluminum door, and walked along the opposite sidewalk. I followed him until he went into the local bar. He went straight to the back of it. Where Philippe Toussaint was waiting for him. He sat at his table, opposite him. They spoke calmly, like two old acquaintances.
Philippe Toussaint was piecing together the story, but which one? He was looking for something, someone. Hence that list, always the same one, that he wrote on the back of a bill or a tablecloth, as though to solve a puzzle.
Through the glass, I could only see his hair. Like that first evening at the Tibourin, when he had his back to me. When, from behind the bar, I had contemplated his blond curls turning from green to red to blue under the revolving lights. The curls had gone a bit white, and the rainbow of his youth had gone out. As had the prism of light through which I admired him. I thought of how, for years now, whenever I looked at him, the weather was always overcast. The pretty girls who were whispering sweet nothings in his ear, as I studied his perfect profile, had disappeared. Must have only been flabby women now in his makeshift beds. The perfume they left on his skin had changed, the refined fragrances had become cheap scents.
They were alone at the back of the gloomy bistro. They spoke for fifteen minutes, and then Philippe Toussaint suddenly got up to go. I only just had time to dodge into an alley at the side of the bar. He started up his bike and was off.
Swan Letellier was still inside. He was just finishing his coffee when I approached him. I could see that he didn’t recognize me.
“What did he want?”
“Sorry?”
“Why were you talking to Philippe Toussaint?”
As soon as he placed me, Letellier’s features hardened. He replied, curtly:
“He says the kids were asphyxiated by carbon monoxide. That someone would’ve lit a water heater, or some such thing. Your husband’s looking for a culprit who doesn’t exist. If you want my advice, you’d both be better just moving on.”
“You can take your advice and shove it.”
Letellier’s eyes widened. He didn’t dare utter another word. I went out into the street and spewed bile onto the sidewalk, like a drunkard.
83.
People have stars that aren’t the same.
For those who travel, stars are guides, for
others, they are nothing but little lights.
Sometimes, I regret having scolded Léonine when she had disobeyed me or thrown a tantrum. I regret having dragged her out of bed to go to school when she would have liked to sleep a little longer. I regret not having known that she would only be passing through . . . I never regret for long. I prefer to conjure up the lovely memories, carry on living with what happiness she left me.”
“Why didn’t you have other children?”
“Because I wasn’t a mother anymore, just an orphan. Because I didn’t have the father that went with my other children . . . And also, it’s tough for children to be ‘the others,’ ‘those that came after.’”
“And now?”
“Now I’m old.”
Julien bursts out laughing.
“Shush!”
I place my hand over his mouth. He grabs my fingers and kisses them. I’m afraid. Afraid of the mess in my house. Afraid of the car doors that will slam in a few hours’ time. Afraid of heading straight for disaster with this affair that isn’t one.
Nathan and his cousin, Valentin, are sleeping on the sofa close to us. You can make out their little bodies, top to tail, under the tangled sheets and blankets. Their dark hair on the two white pillows, like a piece of the countryside sticking out, a little path smelling of hazelnut. Running your fingers through a child’s hair is like walking on the dead leaves in a forest at the start of spring.
Julien, Nathan, and Valentin arrived from Auvergne yesterday evening. During his stay at the Pardons, Nathan had apparently pestered his father, “We’re not going back to Marseilles, we’re going to Violette’s, we’re not going back to Marseilles, we’re going to Violette’s . . . ” Until Julien gave in and drove to the cemetery. They arrived at around 8 P.M., after the gates had been closed. They knocked on the road-side door, but I didn’t hear them. I was in my garden, busy pricking out my last lettuce seedlings. The two boys crept up behind me, “We’re zombies!” Eliane barked and the cats came closer, as if they remembered Nathan.
Yesterday evening, I wanted to be alone, I felt tired, I wanted to retire early, watch a TV series from my bed. Not speak. Above all, not speak anymore. I did my best not to show them that I didn’t feel like seeing them. I would have liked to be happy about this surprise. But I wasn’t. I thought Nathan was talking too loudly, I thought Julien was too young.
Julien was waiting for us in the kitchen. Embarrassed, he said to me, “Sorry for turning up on a whim, but my son is in love with you . . . Can we take you out for dinner? . . . I’ve booked my room at Madame Bréant’s.”
As soon as he opened his mouth, I felt solitude falling off me like a dead skin. His voice seemed to shine on me, as if he had switched on a lamp above my head. Like when
