29.
The leaves fall, the seasons pass,
only memory is eternal.
Philippe Toussaint married me on September 3rd, 1989, the day of Léonine’s third birthday. He didn’t propose to me on bended knee and all that. He just said to me one evening, between one “I’m going for a ride” and another that “It’d be good if we were married for the little one’s sake.” End of story.
A few weeks later, he asked me if I’d called the town hall to schedule a date. He said exactly that, “schedule a date.” The word “schedule” wasn’t in his vocabulary. That’s how I realized that he was just repeating a sentence that had been said to him. Philippe Toussaint married me at the request of his mother. So I couldn’t have custody of Léonine if we separated. Or take off, from one day to the next, without a trace, as “those girls” do. Yes, in the eyes of Mother Toussaint, I would always be “the other one,” “she,” “that girl.” I’d never have a first name. Just as she would never be Chantal for me.
For the afternoon of the wedding, we’d got ourselves replaced at the level-crossing for the first time since our arrival at Malgrange-sur-Nancy. We’d taken our time off in turns, but we’d never left our barrier together. It suited Philippe Toussaint, that way we could never go away on holiday. And during my time off, since he didn’t change his habits, I worked.
The town hall was just three hundred meters from our level-crossing, in the Grand-Rue. We went there on foot: Philippe Toussaint, his parents, Stéphanie—the Casino checkout girl— Léonine, and me. Mother Toussaint was her son’s witness, Stéphanie mine.
Since Léo’s birth, the Toussaint parents came to see us twice a year. When they parked their big car outside our home, our little place disappeared. Their affluence swallowed up our impoverishment as they reversed in. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich either. As a couple, that is. Over the years, I learnt that Philippe Toussaint had lots of money, but it was deposited in a separate account and his mother had power of attorney over it. Of course, we married with a prenuptial agreement. And we didn’t go near a church, much to his father’s dismay. But Philippe Toussaint wouldn’t compromise.
Mother Toussaint phoned us regularly, usually at the wrong time: when the little one was in her bath, when we were about to eat, when the barrier had to be lowered outside AND Léo was in her bath. She would call several times a day to try to reach her son, who was often out, “going for a ride.” Since I answered most of the time, I would hear her annoyed sigh followed by her voice, snapping like a whip, “Hand me over to Philippe.” No time to waste. Too busy. When she did finally manage to get hold of her son, and the conversation ended by touching on me, Philippe Toussaint would leave the room. I could hear him lowering his voice as if I were an enemy, as if he had to be wary. What could he say about me? I still wonder today what on earth he could say to his mother. How did he see me? Indeed, did he see me? I was the person who fed him, did his work for him, washed things, repainted the walls, brought up his daughter. Did he reinvent Violette Trenet? Did he attribute habits to me? Obsessions? Did he conflate all his mistresses just to speak about one woman, his wife? Did he take a bit of one, a bit of another, a bit of both to piece me together?
The ceremony was led by the deputy mayor’s deputy, who read three sentences from the Civil Code. When he said the words “that you do promise fidelity and support ’til death you do part,” the 14:07 train drowned out his voice and Léonine cried out, “Mommy, the train!” She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t going out to lower the barrier. Philippe Toussaint replied yes. I replied yes. He leaned toward me to kiss me. The deputy, while slipping his jacket on because he was due elsewhere, said, “I declare you joined together by the bonds of marriage.” Deputies of deputies doubtless do the bare minimum when the bride is not in white. As can be seen in the only photo taken by Stéphanie, and that I have left, of this union, Philippe Toussaint and I looked pretty good.
We all went for lunch at Gino’s, a pizzeria run by Alsatians who have never set foot in Italy. Léonine blew out her three candles between two fits of giggles. The light shining in her eyes. Her amazed expression when she saw the big birthday cake I’d had made for her. I can still feel, and feel again, that moment, relive it on demand. Léo, and the same curls as her father.
Léo made me a loving mother. I always had her in my arms. Philippe Toussaint often said to me, “Can’t you let go of that kid a bit?”
My daughter and I mixed up our wedding and birthday presents, and we opened them at random. It was joyful. Well, I, at any rate, was joyful. I wasn’t in white on my wedding day, but, thanks to Léo’s smile, I wore the most beautiful gown of all, that of my daughter’s childhood.
Inside our gift-wrapped packages there was a doll, kitchen utensils, modeling clay, a recipe book, crayons, a year’s subscription to France Loisirs, a princess outfit, and a magic wand.
I borrowed the magic wand from Léo and, with one wave, just one, I said to the little gathering as they tucked into the daily special, “May the fairy Léonine bless this marriage.” No one heard me, except Léo, who burst out laughing and, reaching out for her
