A policeman spoke to me, asked me to confirm my particulars, I heard your name, “Château Notre-Dame-des-Prés . . . La Clayette . . . four unidentified bodies.”
I heard the words “tragedy,” “fire,” “children.”
I heard, “I’m so sorry,” your name again, “arrived too late . . . firemen unable to do anything.”
I saw you again, bursting your egg with the pizza dough and making the napkins vanish while I counted: Three daily specials, plus two children’s meals, plus five drinks.
I could have not believed the man speaking to me on the phone. I could have said to him, “You are mistaken, Léonine is a magician, she will reappear,” I could have told him, “It’s a stunt by Mother Toussaint, she’s taken her from me and replaced her with a rag doll that has burnt in bed,” I could have asked for proof, hung up, told him, “Your joke is in very poor taste,” I could have said to him . . . But I instantly knew that what he was telling me was true.
Ever since my childhood, I had never made a noise, so that I would be kept, so that I wouldn’t be abandoned anymore. I left yours, your childhood, screaming.
Philippe Toussaint appeared, took the phone, spoke some more with the policeman, and then he started to scream, too. But not like me. He insulted him. All the bad words we forbade you from saying, your father said them. In a single sentence. Me, your death destroyed me. After that yelp, I stopped speaking for a long time. Him, your death enraged him.
When the 7:04 went by, neither of us went out to lower the barrier.
God, who had deserted the château of Notre-Dame-des-Prés that night, at least deigned to make an appearance around our barrier because one tragedy, on the list of our lives, must have been enough. No car came by, no car came to smash into the 7:04. At that time, that road is usually very busy.
For the following barriers, Philippe Toussaint went and alerted someone, asked for help. I’ll never know who came.
As for me, I lay down in your room and never left it.
Dr. Prudhomme arrived—I know, you don’t like him, you called him “smelly” when he treated your tonsillitis, your chicken pox, your ear infections.
He gave me an injection.
And then another one. And yet another one.
But not on the same day.
Philippe Toussaint called Célia for help. He didn’t know what to do with my pain. He passed it on to someone else.
Apparently, Philippe Toussaint’s parents arrived. They didn’t come to see me in your room. They did the right thing. For the first and last time, they did the right thing. They left me alone. They set off for La Clayette, all three of them. They set off toward you, toward your nonexistent remains.
Célia arrived, after, later, I don’t know, I’d lost all notion of time.
I remember that it was dark, that she pushed open the door. She said, “It’s me, I’m here, I’m here, Violette.” Her voice had lost all its sunniness. Yes, even in Celia’s voice, darkness descended when you died.
She didn’t dare touch me. I was in a heap, on your bed. A heap of nothing. Célia gently forced me to eat something. I vomited. She gently forced me to drink something. I vomited.
Philippe Toussaint phoned to tell Célia that nothing remained of the four bodies. That it was total devastation. That you had all been reduced to ashes. That it wouldn’t be possible to identify you, one from the other. That he was going to issue a formal complaint. That we would be compensated. That all the other children had gone home. That instead of them, there were cops everywhere. That you were all going to be buried in the children’s section, together, with our permission. He repeated that, “buried together.” And that to avoid the journalists, the crowds, the chaos, it would take place in the strictest privacy, in the little cemetery of Brancion-en-Chalon, a few kilometers from La Clayette.
I asked Célia to call Philippe Toussaint back, so he would recover your suitcase.
Célia told me that the suitcase had burned. Célia repeated, “They didn’t suffer, they died while they slept.” I replied, “We will suffer for them.” Célia asked me if I’d like an object or item of clothing to be slipped inside the coffin. I replied, “Me.”
Three days went by. Célia told me that the following day we would set off early. That she must take me to Brancion-en-Chalon for the funeral ceremony. Célia asked me what I would like to wear, if I would like her to go and buy me some clothes. I refused the shopping and I refused to go to the funeral. Célia told me that that wasn’t possible. That it was unthinkable. I replied that, yes, it was possible, that I wouldn’t attend the funeral of my daughter reduced to ashes. That she was already far away, elsewhere. Célia said to me, “For you to grieve, it’s crucial. You must say a final goodbye to Léonine.” I replied that no, I wouldn’t go, that I wanted to go to Sormiou, to the Calanque. That was where I would say goodbye to you. The sea would bring me close to you, one last time.
I left with Célia, in her car. I don’t remember the journey. I was in a haze due to medication. I didn’t sleep; I wasn’t awake, either. I was floating in a kind of dense fog, in the trance of a permanent nightmare in which all senses are anesthetized, all except for pain. Like those people who are put under for an operation, but can feel the surgeon’s every incision. The level of grief crushing my bones was pushed to the maximum of unbearable. Breathing hurt me.
“On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your level of pain?” On “indeterminate, infinite, perpetual.”
I felt as if I were being amputated
