The lid he had put on the Violette years, for the past nineteen years, blew up in his face right then. His child came back to him, first in ripples, then in breaker waves. At the maternity hospital when he’d seen her for the first time, between him and Violette in their bed, snuggled in a blanket, having her bath, in the garden, in front of doors, crossing a room, doing drawings, modeling clay, at the table, in the inflatable swimming pool, in the school corridors, in winter, in summer, her red, slightly shimmery dress, her little hands, her magic tricks. And him, always distant. Him, as though just a visitor in the life of his daughter, whom he’d wanted to be a son. All the stories that he hadn’t read to her, all the journeys that he hadn’t taken her on.
When he got back on his motorbike, he felt tears dripping from his nose. His Uncle Luc had told him that when you cry from the nose, it’s taking over because the eyes’ gauge is overflowing. “It’s like with engines, son.” Luc. He was such a shit, he’d even stolen Luc’s wife.
He sped off, telling himself that he’d stop a bit further on to get his breath back, and his senses. Glimpsing the crosses through the gates, he thought about how he’d never believed in God. Doubtless because of his father. The prayers he loathed. He remembered the day of his First Communion, the Mass wine, Françoise on Luc’s arm.
Our Father who farts forever
Hallowed be thy bum
Thy condom come
Thy willy be done
On turds as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily beer
And forgive us our burps
As we forgive those who burp against us
And lead us not into penetration
But deliver us from perverts. Omen.
Over the three hundred and fifty meters he skimmed the wall of the cemetery, faster and faster, three thoughts came crashing into his skull, like some violent pileup. Turning back and saying sorry to Violette, sorry, sorry, sorry. Going home as fast as possible to Françoise and leaving for the South, leaving, leaving, leaving. Being back with Léonine, back, back, back with her.
Violette, Françoise, Léonine.
Seeing his daughter again, feeling her, hearing her, touching her, breathing her in.
It was the first time he truly wanted Léonine. He had wanted her in order to keep Violette close to him. Today, he wanted her like one wants a child. This desire was stronger than the South, Françoise, and Violette. This desire took over everything. Léonine must be waiting for him somewhere. Yes, she was waiting for him. He had understood nothing because he had been a bad father, he would become a daddy for the first time, there, where he would be back with her.
Philippe unfastened the strap of his helmet. Just before accelerating around the first bend, accelerating to plow into the trees of the estate forest down below, he didn’t see his life flash past him, he didn’t see the images like in a book when the pages are flicked through, he didn’t want to. Just before the trees, he glimpsed a young woman on the edge of the road. Impossible. She was staring at him while he was moving at nearly two hundred kilometers an hour, and all around him nothing else was still anymore, except her eyes on him. He just had time to think that he’d seen her before, on an old print. A postcard, perhaps. And then he entered the light.
93.
We’re at the end of summer, the warmth
of those evening return journeys, back in
our apartments, life continuing as usual.
I’ve not yet been into the water. Every August, I dread the moment of that first dip. I’m afraid of not finding Léonine. Afraid of not sensing her presence. Afraid that she won’t turn up because of me. That she won’t hear me calling her, luring her, that my voice won’t reach her. That she no longer feels my love enough to come back to me. I’m afraid of no longer loving her, of losing her forever. This fear is unfounded, death will never manage to separate me from my child, and I know it.
I get up, I stretch, I throw my hat onto my towel. I walk toward the vast carpet of emeralds with flashes of pearl. The morning light is harsh, brilliant.
It promises a beautiful day. Marseilles always keeps its promises.
At this hour, if there is any shade, the water is black. The waves are cool, as ever. I advance gently. I plunge my head in. I swim to the depths, closing my eyes. She’s already there, she’s always there, she hasn’t moved from here because she’s within me. Her ethereal presence. I breathe in her warm, salty skin, like when she would lie on top of me for a siesta under our parasol. Her hands running across my back, two little marionettes.
My love.
When I resurface, I look the blue of the sky straight in the eye, I know I will carry her forever within me. That’s what eternity is.
I swim for a long time, I don’t want to get out now, I never do. I observe the pines leaning in the wind, I observe life, I’m very close to it, it’s very close to me. Gradually, I near the shore. Sand again under my feet. I turn my back on the beach, I observe the horizon, the still, anchored boats, small white stones suspended in the light. Nothing is more healing than
