Here, people are still allowed to smoke in the bars. The postmen sign for registered letters themselves when residents are out, so they won’t have to go and collect them. In Marseilles, nothing is done as it is elsewhere.
Yesterday evening, Célia remained with me for supper. She had prepared a seafood paella, which she warmed up in a large pan. In the meantime, I unpacked my blue suitcase, put my dresses on hangers. We took out the little wrought-iron garden table, put a cloth over it, filled two red carafes with water and rosé. We put lots of ice cubes in a yellow bowl, and added a farmhouse loaf and mismatched plates. Everything is mismatched at the chalet. Objects never seem to have reached here together. Célia and I relished the catching up, the swapping of silly stories, the golden rice and the well chilled rosé.
We talked so late that Célia stayed the night. She slept with me like she did that first time in Malgrange-sur-Nancy during the train strike. It was the first time she’d stayed over.
We carried on drinking rosé as we lay in bed. Célia lit two candles. Her grandfather’s furniture danced in the light. We left two windows open to create a draft. It felt lovely. It still smelled of paella. The walls had soaked up its aroma. It made me feel hungry again, I warmed myself up a little more. Célia didn’t want any. When I placed the empty plate on the floor, I saw Célia’s profile. Then her beautiful blue eyes, like two stars in the night. I blew out the candles.
“Célia, I have something to tell you. It’s going to keep you from sleeping, but since we’re on holiday, it doesn’t matter. And I really can’t not tell you about ‘this.’”
“ . . . ”
“Françoise Pelletier was the love of Philippe Toussaint’s life. It’s with her that he lived his last years. He met up with her the day he disappeared, in 1998. But that’s not all. I know why he disappeared. Why he never came back home. That night, it’s not the fire that killed the children . . . it’s Father Toussaint.”
Célia gripped my arm, and just whispered, “What?”
“He tinkered with an old water heater in the children’s room and switched it on. He didn’t know that it was strictly not to be touched. The appliance hadn’t been maintained for years. Carbon monoxide kills, it’s insidious, odorless . . . the girls died in their sleep.”
“Who told you that?”
“Françoise Pelletier. It’s Philippe Toussaint who told her everything. That’s why he never came home on the day he found out. He couldn’t look me in the eye anymore . . . Do you know that song by Michel Jonasz? ‘Tell me, tell me even that she left for someone other than me, but not because of me, tell me that, tell me that . . . ’”
“Yes.”
“It made me feel better knowing that Philippe Toussaint hadn’t left because of me. But because of his parents.”
Célia gripped my arm even tighter.
I didn’t manage to sleep a wink. I thought again of the old Toussaints. They had been dead a long time. A solicitor from Charleville-Mézières had contacted me in 2000. He was looking for their son.
When daylight came through the windows and the draft became gentler, Célia opened her eyes.
“We’re going to make ourselves a good coffee.”
“Célia, I’ve met someone.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
“But it’s over.”
“Why?”
“I have my life, my habits . . . For such a long time. And he’s younger than me. And he doesn’t live in Burgundy. And he has a seven-year-old child.”
“That’s a lot of ‘ands.’ But a life and habits can be changed.”
“You think?”
“Yes.”
“You would change your own habits?”
“Why not.”
92.
Life is but an endless losing of all that one loves.
MAY 2017
Nineteen years, now, that Philippe had been living in Bron. Since he’d done that journey between Charleville-Mézières and Françoise. Nineteen years since he’d turned up one morning at the garage, in a pitiful state. He had decided to be born on that day. To kill the day preceding his arrival. The day before, when he’d spoken to his parents for the very last time. He had drawn a big, black marker line through a past he wanted to leave behind. Put a lid on the Violette years, and double-locked his parents in the dark chamber of his memory.
It had been so easy to be called Philippe Pelletier, to become the son of his uncle. Nephew or son, in people’s minds, it amounted to the same thing. Philippe was “part of the family,” so a Pelletier.
It had been so easy to put his identity papers away in a drawer. To empty his bank account so his mother was out of the picture. To change this money into bonds. Not to vote. Not to use his social-security card.
Françoise had told him that Luc had died in October of 1996. Luc, dead and buried. Philippe had found the blow hard to take. But he had refused to pay his respects at Luc’s tomb. He never wanted to set foot in a cemetery ever again.
Françoise had sold the house a year back, and was living in Bron, two hundred meters from the garage. She’d been very ill, lost a lot of weight, aged a lot, too. Yet Philippe had found her even more desirable than in his memories, but had said nothing. He’d done enough harm around him. Used up his quota of misfortune on others.
He had settled in the guest room. The son’s room. The room of a child who had never existed. Just been hoped for. He had bought himself new clothes with the first wage Françoise had paid him in cash. When, a few months after settling in Bron, he’d mentioned moving into a small studio apartment not far from the garage, Françoise had carried on as if she hadn’t heard him. So, he had stayed
