I didn’t reply that the “poor little girl” wasn’t unhappy beside the railway line, whatever the season. That between each train, we did plenty of things in the summer; that we inflated a swimming pool in the garden—of course, our swimming pool was small, but we could still swim in it, and we had great fun. We laughed in our plastic pool. But the verb “to laugh” didn’t feature in Philippe Toussaint’s parents’ vocabulary.
I merely said that in August we were going back to Sormiou, but if Léo wanted to go away with a friend in July, why not.
Once the Toussaint parents had gone, I looked at the brochure for the Notre-Dame-des-Prés holiday camp in La Clayette. “Only our reliability never takes a holiday.” Beneath the slogan, there were the general conditions for enrollment, and in the photos, a blue sky. Rain must have been banned by the person who had compiled the promotional brochure. On the first page, there was a photo of a very fine château and a large lake. On the next page, a refectory where children aged about ten were eating; a studio with the same children painting; the lakeside beach with the same children swimming; and finally, in the biggest picture, some impressive countryside where the same children were riding ponies.
Why is it that all little girls dream of riding a pony?
Personally, I was wary of ponies after seeing the film Gone with the Wind. I was more fearful of Léo riding a pony than of her riding on the back of Philippe Toussaint’s motorbike.
Mother Toussaint had drummed the idea into Léo’s head, “This summer, you’re going to go pony riding in the countryside with Anaïs.” The magic words, the words that make all seven-year-old little girls dream.
The months and the trains went by. Léonine learned to tell the difference between a tale, a diary, a dictionary, a poem, and an essay. She solved some problems, “I get 30 francs for Christmas, I buy a sweater for 10 francs, a cake for 2 francs, and then Mommy gives me 5 francs in pocket money, how much do I have left at Easter?” She learnt about France, its position on the map, its major cities, its place in Europe, in the world. She drew a red spot on Marseilles. She did magic tricks. She made everything vanish, apart from the mess in her room.
Then, on her report card, she proudly showed me, “Promote to next grade.”
On July 13th, 1993, Anaïs’s parents came to our place to take away my daughter.
They were charming. They were like the holiday-camp brochure. There was only blue sky in their eyes. Léo threw herself into the arms of Anaïs. The little girls couldn’t stop laughing. I even thought to myself: Léo doesn’t laugh as much with me.
“I’m tired, I’d like to rest . . . ”
Julien Seul is facing me. He looks drawn. Perhaps it’s the wan light from the walls of the hospital room. It was Nono who called him after paramedics picked me up from the Lucchini brothers’ floor. Nono thinks we’re lovers and that Julien Seul will take care of me. Nono is wrong, no one will take care of me apart from me.
All that I’m able to say to the detective, who seems concerned for me, is, “I’m tired, I’d like to rest.”
If Irène Fayolle hadn’t turned back between Aix and Marseilles to rejoin Gabriel Prudent at the station, Julien Seul would never have entered my cemetery. If Julien Seul hadn’t noticed my red dress peeping out from under my coat on the morning I took him to Gabriel Prudent’s tomb, he would never have got mixed up in my life. If he hadn’t got mixed up in my life, he wouldn’t have found Philippe Toussaint. And if Philippe Toussaint hadn’t received my request for a divorce, he would never have returned to Brancion. That’s all it takes.
I told no one that Philippe Toussaint had come to my house last week, not even Nono.
The first thing Julien Seul noticed, on entering my hospital room, was my arms. He doesn’t miss a thing. He said nothing, but I felt his eyes focusing on my bruises.
But there’s something crazier: when he left my place, Philippe Toussaint was killed at exactly the same spot as Reine Ducha (1961–1982), the young woman who died in an accident about three hundred meters from the cemetery, and who, some say, appears at the side of the road on summer nights.
Did Philippe Toussaint see her? Why hadn’t he fastened his helmet, when he hadn’t removed it between arriving at and leaving my place? Why didn’t he have any identity papers?
Julien Seul gets up, telling me he’ll be back later. Before leaving my room, he asks me if I need anything. I shake my head and close my eyes. And I go over everything for the thousandth time, maybe more, maybe less.
Anaïs’s parents didn’t set off immediately. They wanted to “get acquainted.” Give the girls time to catch up. We went to Gino’s, the pizzeria run by the Alsatians who have never set foot in Italy. Philippe Toussaint stayed at home to take care of the barrier and the “midday trains”: 12:14, 13:08, and 14:06. It suited him fine. He loathed making conversation with people he didn’t know, and for him, talking about holidays, children, and ponies, that was chick stuff.
The girls had a pizza topped with a fried egg, while chatting about ponies, swimming suits, school, that first star, magic tricks, and sun cream.
Anaïs’s parents, Armelle and Jean-Louis Caussin, went for the daily special. I copied them, thinking that it should be me paying
