He had told Françoise everything. Léonine, Geneviève Magnan, the water heater, L’Adresse, the orgies, the cemetery, his parents’ confession on the sofa in Charleville. Everything, except Violette. He had kept her to himself. On Violette, he’d just said to Françoise, “She’s not to blame.”
As the years passed, he’d forgotten that he’d been called Philippe Toussaint in another life.
Through living with Françoise, he’d got his spirits back. He’d learned to work well in the garage, to enjoy his days of oil, grease, breakdowns, dented bodywork. Through repairing engines, he’d become reconciled with desire.
In December of 1999, Françoise had been ill; a high fever, too high a fever, a bad cough. Anxious, Philippe had called a duty doctor. While writing his bedside prescription, the doctor had asked Philippe whether Françoise was his wife, and he’d said yes without thinking. Just yes. Françoise had smiled at him from under the sheets without a word. A faint, tired smile. Resigned.
On the doctor’s advice, Philippe had run a bath to a temperature of thirty-seven degrees, had guided Françoise to the bathroom, undressed her, and helped her step into the bath, while she clung on to him. It was the first time he was seeing her naked. Her body shivering under the clear water. He had wiped a washcloth across her skin, her stomach, her back, her face, her nape. He had poured water on her forehead. Françoise had said to him, “Watch out, I’m contagious.” Philippe had replied, “That I’ve known for the past twenty-eight years.” On the night of December 31st, 1999, to January 1st, 2000, they’d made love for the first time. They’d changed centuries in the same bed.
Nineteen years, now, that Philippe had been living in Bron. That morning, with Françoise, they’d brought up the idea of selling the garage. It wasn’t the first time, but this time, it was serious. They wanted some sun. To go and settle around Saint-Tropez. They had enough money to take it easy. And Françoise was going to be sixty-six, with years of work behind her. It was time to reap the rewards.
At lunchtime, Françoise had gone to an estate agent that specialized in the sale of commercial properties and businesses. Philippe had gone back to their apartment to change clothes. He had dressed too warmly that morning, had sweated under his blue overalls. He’d taken a quick shower, pulled on a clean T-shirt. In the kitchen he’d made himself two fried eggs, along with cheese spread on yesterday’s bread. While his coffee was brewing, he’d heard the mail falling on the tiled floor. The postman had just slipped it through the gap in the front door. Philippe had automatically picked it up and thrown it on the kitchen table. Apart from Auto-moto magazine, to which Françoise had subscribed to please him, he never read the mail. It was Françoise who did all the paperwork.
He was just turning his spoon in his cup when he read, without really reading: “Mr. Philippe Toussaint, c/o Mme. Françoise Pelletier, 13 Avenue Franklin-Roosevelt, 69500 Bron.”
He read it again, incredulous at the name, Philippe Toussaint. He hesitated, finally picking up the envelope as if it were a parcel bomb. The envelope was white and bore the stamp of a Mâcon solicitors’ office. Mâcon. He remembered the day he’d watched little girls coming out of a primary school. The one that was wearing the same dress as Léonine. The day he’d thought she was alive.
Everything came back to him. It hit him hard and fast, like an uppercut to the stomach. The death of his child, the funeral, the trial, the move, his unease, his parents, his mother, his games consoles, the hot bodies of thin women, the puckered breasts, the fat bellies, the faces of Lucie Lindon and Eloïse Petit, Fontanel, the trains, the tombs, the cats.
Mr. Philippe Toussaint.
He opened the envelope, shaking. He remembered Geneviève Magnan’s hands the last time he’d seen her, when she’d said, “I’d never have done any harm to kids.” She had said “vous” to him, while shaking.
Violette Trenet, married name Toussaint, had instructed a solicitor to settle their divorce amicably. The solicitor was asking Mr. Philippe Toussaint to call the office without delay to make an appointment.
He read snatches of sentences: “bring some identification . . . name of the solicitor’s office . . . marriage contract was drawn up . . . profession . . . nationality . . . birthplace . . . same information for each child . . . spouses’ agreement to the separation . . . no alimony . . . Mâcon high court . . . desertion of the conjugal home . . . no further action.”
Impossible. This had to be stopped, immediately. The time-machine jammed. He stopped reading, slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his biker jacket, fastened the strap of his helmet, and set off for that place. Even if he had sworn never to set foot there ever again.
How had Violette discovered his address? How did she know about Françoise? How did she know her name? His parents couldn’t have said anything, they were long dead. And even before dying, they hadn’t known where Philippe was living. They had never known that their son was living in Bron with Françoise. Impossible. Philippe would not go to that solicitor’s. Ever.
She must leave him in peace. He must leave, move with Françoise, be called Philippe Pelletier. The other surname would always bring him bad luck. Toussaint. A name associated with cemeteries, death, chrysanthemums. A name that stank of the cold and the memory of cats.
Two lives, some hundred kilometers apart. He’d never realized that Bron was so close to Brancion-en-Chalon.
He parked outside the house, on the road-side. A stranger outside a house he’d always hated. That old cemetery keeper’s house. The trees Violette had planted in 1997 had grown tall. The gates had been repainted a dark green. He went in without knocking. Nineteen years, now, that he hadn’t set foot here.
Did she still live here? Had she made a new life for herself? Of course, that’s why she wanted a divorce. To get remarried.
A strange taste in his mouth. Like the barrel of a gun
