She asked me whether we had spoken a lot, Gabriel and me. I said yes. And that this thing about Gabriel hating courage should remain between her and me. I didn’t want the people who thought they had done well putting those words on his memorial plaque to know that they had got it wrong.
The cemetery lady smiled at me.
“No problem. Everything said between these walls remains secret.”
I felt I could trust her, and I spoke to her as if she had added a truth serum to my tea.
“I visit Gabriel’s tomb two or three times a year, to shake a snow globe that I left close to his name. I cut out newspaper articles for him, legal columns that interested him, and I read them to him. I give him news of the world, of his world, at any rate. Cases that are criminal, passionate, eternal. I visit the tomb of my husband, Paul, more frequently, at the Saint-Pierre cemetery in Marseilles. Each time, I ask him to forgive me. Because I will be buried beside Gabriel. My ashes will be placed beside him. Gabriel made all the arrangements with his solicitor, as have I. No one will be able to object to it. We weren’t married. You know, I wanted to come here to tell you that the day my son, Julien, finds out about it, it’s you he will come to question.”
“Why me?”
“When he discovers that my final wish was to rest beside Gabriel, and not his father, he will want to understand. He will want to know who Gabriel Prudent was, and the first person he will ask will be you. Because the first person he will come across when he walks through the gates of this cemetery will be you. As I did, the first time I came.”
“Is there something in particular you would like me to tell him?”
“No. No, I’m sure you will find the right words. Or that, for once, Julien will find his own to speak to you. I’m sure you will know how to help him, support him.”
I was sorry to leave the cemetery lady. I knew it was the last time I would come to Brancion-en-Chalon. I got back on the road. I returned to Marseilles.
2016
I have finished my journal. I will soon be rejoining Gabriel. I know it. I can already detect the smell of his cigarettes. I can’t wait. When I think that, the last time we saw each other, we argued. It’s time to patch things up.
I remember her perfume. I no longer remember her face. Just her white hair, her skin, her fine hands, her raincoat. And especially her perfume. I remember the gentleness of that moment. And the words she applied to Gabriel. Her voice has remained with me, too, its echo, when she told me that, one day, her son would be coming to see me.
When Julien knocked on my door that first time, he made me forget Irène. I found him handsome, in his crumpled clothes. He didn’t look like his mother. She had the complexion of a blonde, smooth, fair, and delicate, whereas her son was typically dark, with messy hair and skin that had soaked up plenty of sun. I loved his tobacco hands touching me. But I was also too scared of them.
Before leaving for Marseilles, I phoned him several times, but his number just rang and rang. It was as if he no longer existed. I even rang his police station, I was told that he had left. But he could be written to, his mail was being forwarded.
What could I write to him?
Julien,
I’m crazy, I’m alone, I’m impossible. You believed me, and I did everything I could so you would.
Julien,
I was so happy in your car.
Julien,
I was so happy with you on my sofa.
Julien,
I was so happy with you in my bed.
Julien,
You are young. But I don’t think we care.
Julien,
You are too curious. I hate it when you act like a cop.
Julien,
Your son, I’d be up for him being my stepson.
Julien,
You really are my type of man. But, in fact, I’ve no idea. I imagine that you’re really my type of man.
Julien,
I miss you.
Julien,
I’m going to die if you don’t come back.
Julien,
I’m waiting for you. I’m hoping for you. I’m happy to change my habits if you’ll change yours.
Julien,
O.K.
Julien,
It was good, it was lovely.
Julien,
Yes.
Julien,
No.
Life has ripped out my roots. My spring is dead.
I close Irène’s journal with a heavy heart. The way one closes a novel one has fallen in love with. A novel that’s a friend from whom it’s hard to part, because one wants it close by, in arm’s reach. Deep down, I’m happy that Julien left me his mother’s journal in memory of them. When I’m back home, I’ll place it among the books I keep preciously on the shelves in my bedroom. In the meantime, I slip it into my beach bag.
It’s 10 A.M., I’m leaning against a rock, sitting on the white sand in the shade of an Aleppo pine. Here, the trees grow through the cracks in the rock. The cicadas began to sing when I closed Irène’s journal. The sun is already beating down. I can feel it prickling my toes. In summer, the sun here burns your skin in just a few minutes.
The holidaymakers with backpacks are starting to arrive, down the steep path. By midday, the little beach will be covered in towels, coolers, parasols. There aren’t many children at Sormiou. In high season, you can only access the creek on foot. You have to walk for a good hour, down from the Baumettes car park. It’s not easy for families. Often, the children who end up here have
