“And you? Would you have done that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You live in Aix?”
“No, Marseilles, I delivered some flowers this morning, to the cemetery, for your wife, well, your ex-wife. Before going back, I wanted to have a tea, it’s cold, not that the cold really bothers me, on the contrary, but I was cold. Now, at least, calvados warms one up, I think it’s gone to my head, in fact, I don’t just think, it has gone to my head, I won’t be able to hit the road straight away, it’s strong stuff, calvados . . . Forgive me if I’m being indiscreet, I’m not normally, but how did you meet your new wife?”
“Oh, nothing original, because of a man I defended for years; through preparing his defense, explaining it to his wife, through returning to the prison year after year, we were the ones who ended up falling in love with each other. What about you, has that ever happened to you?”
“What?”
“Falling in love.”
“Yes, with my husband, Paul Seul, we have a son, Julien, who is ten.”
“You work?”
“I’m a horticulturist. Before, I was a hairdresser, but I don’t only sell flowers, I cultivate them, too, I do some hybridization.”
“Some what?”
“Some hybridization. I combine varieties of roses to create new ones.”
“Why?”
“Because I like it . . . Cross-breeding.”
“And what kind of colors does it produce? Two more coffee-calvas, please!”
“Carmine, raspberry, grenadine, or even ‘maiden’s blush.’ I do varieties of white, too.”
“What kind of white?”
“Snow. I adore the snow. My rosebushes also have the particularity of not being affected by the cold.”
“And you, you never wear any colors yourself? Back in Aix, during the trial, you were all beige.”
“I prefer bright colors on flowers and pretty girls.”
“But you’re worse than pretty. Your face has its whole life ahead of it. Why do you smile?”
“I’m not smiling. I’m drunk.”
Toward midday, they ordered two omelettes with salad and a plate of fries to share. And a tea for her. He said, “I’m not sure tea and omelette go well together,” to which she replied, “Tea goes with everything, it’s like black and white, it goes with everything.”
During the meal, he licked his fingers, he licked the salt off the fries. He drank a draft beer. As she combined English tea and her nth glass of calvados, he said, “Normandy and England are like black and white, they go well together.”
He got up twice. She watched the dust, the static electricity around him. In the sunbeams, it looked like snow. And they ordered more fries, tea, and calva. Usually, in such a grimy place, Irène would have wiped the glasses on the lapel of her jacket, but not this time.
When the hearse drove past the café, it was ten past three. She hadn’t noticed the time pass. It was like she’d entered this transport café 10 minutes ago. They’d been together for five hours.
They got up in a hurry, he paid in a hurry, and Irène told him to get in her van, she would take him there. She knew where Martine Robin’s tomb was.
In the van, he asked her what her first name was. He said he’d had enough of addressing her as “vous.”
“Irène.”
“And I’m Gabriel.”
They arrived at the gate that led to Martine Robin. He didn’t get out. He said:
“We’re going to wait here, Irène. What matters is that Martine knows I’m here. I couldn’t care less about the others.”
He asked if he could smoke in the car, she said of course, he lowered the window, he leaned back on the headrest, took Irène’s left hand into his own, and closed his eyes. They waited in silence. They watched the people coming and going along the avenues. At one moment, they thought they heard music.
When everyone had left, when the empty hearse had driven past them, Gabriel got out of the car. He asked Irène to come with him, she hesitated, he said, “Please.” They walked side by side.
“I told Martine that I was leaving her for another woman, I lied. To you, Irène, I can tell the truth, I left Martine because of Martine. The people you leave someone for, they’re excuses, alibis. We leave people because of people, nothing more complicated than that. Of course, I’ll never tell her that. And certainly not today.”
When they reached the tomb, Gabriel kissed the photo. His hands gripped the cross that stood proud on the headstone. He whispered words that Irène didn’t hear and didn’t try to hear.
Her white roses were at the center of the tomb. There were many flowers, loving words, and even a granite bird.
* * *
“But who told you all that?”
“I read it in the diary my mother kept.”
“She kept a diary?”
“Yes. I found it in some boxes last week, while sorting her belongings.”
Julien Seul gets up.
“It’s two in the morning, I must go. I’m tired. Tomorrow, I’m hitting the road very early. Thank you for that dinner, it was delicious. Thank you. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten so well. And had such a delightful time. I’m repeating myself, but when I feel good, I repeat myself.”
“But . . . what did they do after the burial? You must tell me the ending of this story.”
“Perhaps this story doesn’t have an ending.”
He takes my hand and plants a kiss on it. I know of nothing more arousing than a gallant man.
“You always smell nice.”
“‘Eau du Ciel’ by Annick Goutal.”
He smiles.
“Well, don’t ever change it. Good night.”
He puts his coat on and leaves the house, road-side. Before closing the door behind him, he says to me:
“I’ll come back to tell you the ending. If I tell it to you now, you won’t want to see me anymore.”
As I go to bed, I think how awful it would be to die in the middle of reading a good novel.
34.
In our hearts you remain forever.
Three years after our marriage, in June 1992, the French railway came to a standstill. In Malgrange, the 6:29 train became the 10:20 one, which became the
