We stayed for ten days. I barely slept. Something within me refused to let my eyes close, a surplus of happiness, my emotions were off the scale. I had never seen my daughter so full of joy.
Whatever the time, it was daylight. Whatever the time, we swam. Or we ate. Or we listened. Or we contemplated. Or we breathed. Now, only three sentences left our lips, “That smells good,” “The water’s good,” “That’s good.” Bliss makes idiots of us. It’s as if we had changed worlds, as if we’d just been born elsewhere, into a blinding light.
During these ten days, Philippe Toussaint didn’t go off for a ride. He stayed with us. He made love to me and I returned the favor. We exchanged our sun-drenched skin for a semblance of happiness. We were back to how we’d started, but without the love. It was simply for the pleasure, to revel in it all. Everything was far away. The Eastern sky, and the others.
Léo resisted when I covered her in sun lotion. She also resisted when I wanted to keep her in the shade. She had decided to live naked, in the water. She had decided to turn herself into a little mermaid. Like in the cartoons.
Over the ten days, I don’t think we put shoes on. That’s it, I’ve understood what holidays are about: not putting shoes on anymore.
Holidays are like a reward, a first prize, a gold medal. One has to merit them. And Célia had decided that I had several lives’ worth of merit. One life for each foster family, and the one with Philippe Toussaint.
From time to time, Célia came down to see us. She came to inspect our happiness. And like a satisfied foreman, she would leave with a smile on her face, after having a coffee with me.
I showered her with thanks like others shower their wives with jewelry. I created entire parures of thanks for her. And I was far from done. It wasn’t me who closed the chalet’s shutters on the day we left. I asked Philippe Toussaint to do it. If I’d closed the shutters myself, I would have felt as if I were burying myself alive, closing up my own tomb. As Jacques Brel sings, “I’ll make up crazy words for you that you’ll understand.” That’s what I did so that Léo didn’t cry when it was time to go, so that she didn’t cling to the doors of the chalet screaming. I made up crazy words for her. The childhood ones, the simplest ones.
“Sweetheart, we have to leave because in a hundred-and-twenty days, it’s Christmas, and a hundred-and-twenty days go very quickly. So we’ll have to start that list for Father Christmas immediately. Here, there’s no pen, no crayon, no paper. There’s only the sea. And so we must go back home. Then, we’ll need to decorate the Christmas tree, hang ornaments of every color at the ends of the branches, and this year, we’re going to hang paper garlands that we’re going to make ourselves, yes, all by ourselves! That’s why we need to get back home very quickly, there’s no more time to lose. And if you’re really good, we’ll repaint the walls of your bedroom. In pink? If you like. And then before Christmas, what’s coming up before Christmas? Your BIRTHDAY! And that’s in almost no time at all. We’re going to blow up balloons, oh, quick, quick, quick, we must get back home! We’ve got so many fun things to do there. Put your shoes back on, sweetheart. Quick, quick, quick, let’s pack the suitcases! We’re going to see the trains again—and maybe they might even stop running them! And Célia will be in one of them. Quick, quick, quick, we’re going home! And in any case, we’ll come back to Marseilles next year. With all your presents.”
36.
All those who knew you miss you and mourn you.
Irène Fayolle and Gabriel Prudent left the tomb of Martine Robin, married name Prudent. Before leaving, Gabriel Prudent stroked her name engraved on the stone. He said to Irène: “It does feel strange to see your own name written on a tomb.”
They walked along the avenues of the Saint-Pierre cemetery, stopping from time to time in front of other tombs, in front of strangers. To look at photographs or dates. Irène said:
“Personally, I’d want to be cremated.”
In the car park, outside the cemetery, Gabriel said:
“What would you like to do?”
“What can you do, really, after that?”
“Make love. I’d like to take off all your beige and make you see all the colors of the rainbow, Irène Fayolle.”
She didn’t respond. They got into the van and drove as best they could, with all that love, alcohol, and sorrow in their blood. Irène drove and dropped Gabriel outside Aix’s railway station.
“You don’t want to make love?”
“A hotel room, like two thieves in the night . . . we deserve better than that, don’t we? And anyhow, who would we be stealing from, apart from ourselves?”
“Would you like to marry me?”
“I’m already married.”
“So, I’ve come too late, then.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you use your husband’s name?”
“Because he’s called Seul. Paul Seul. If I used his name, I’d be called Irène Seul. It would be a spelling mistake.”
They hugged each other. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t say goodbye. He got out of the van, his widower’s suit all creased. She looked at his hands one last time. She told herself that it was the last time. He waved to her before turning and walking off down the platform.
She took the road back to Marseilles. Access to the motorway wasn’t that far from the station. The traffic was moving well. In just under an hour, she would park in front of the house where Paul was waiting for her. And the years would go by.
Irène would see Gabriel on the television, he would be talking about a criminal case, someone he would defend, and of whose innocence he
