This is what the investigation revealed.
It’s roughly what was written in the police report, drawn up for the public prosecutor.
It’s what was said during the trial (which I didn’t attend), as repeated to me by Philippe Toussaint.
It’s what was written in the newspapers (which I didn’t read).
Detached words, devoid of pathos, precise. “Without drama, without a tear, those pathetic and derisory arms, because there are certain pains that weep only on the inside,” as the song goes.
Edith Croquevieille was sent down for two years, one without remission, because the kitchen door had not been locked, and the surfaces of floors, walls, and ceilings at Notre-Dame-des-Prés were in a bad state of repair. It was never explicitly said, or written, that the children were responsible. One can’t accuse four little victims of seven, eight, and nine years old. But to me, it was implied in the director’s sentence.
What immediately struck me as problematic, in these experts’ reports, is that Léonine didn’t drink milk. She absolutely hated it. A single sip was enough to make her vomit.
52.
Here lies my garden’s most beautiful flower.
While watching the colorful fish in the huge aquarium, covering an entire wall in the Chinese restaurant, Le Phénix, I’m reminded of the Calanque de Sormiou. Of the sunshine, of the beauty in that light.
“Do you swim often in Marseilles?”
“When I was a kid I did.”
Julien Seul pours me another glass of wine.
“The Hôtel du Passage, the Blue Room, the wine, the pasta, the lovemaking with Gabriel Prudent, all that is written in your mother’s journal?”
“Yes.”
He takes a notebook out of his inside pocket. With its stiff navy-blue cover, it looks like the Prix Goncourt winner of 1990, Les Champs d’honneur, which Célia gave me.
“I brought it for you. I’ve slipped some colored sheets between the pages that concern you.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother mentions you in her journal. She saw you, several times.”
I open the notebook at random, look furtively at her handwriting in blue ink.
“Keep it. You can return it to me later.”
I put it away, at the bottom of my handbag.
“I’ll take care of it . . . How does it make you feel, discovering your mother’s other life in her journal?”
“It’s as if I were reading someone else’s story, a stranger’s. And my father did die a long time ago. ‘It’s ancient history,’ as they say.”
“It doesn’t bother you that she’s not buried alongside your father?”
“At first, I found it hard. Now it’s fine. And also, I would never have got to know you.”
“Once again, I’m not sure that we know each other. We’ve met, that’s all.”
“Then let’s get to know each other.”
“I think I need a drink.”
I down the wine he’s just poured me, in one.
“Usually, I don’t drink much, but right now, that’s impossible. And that way you have of looking at me. I never know whether you want to arrest me or marry me.”
He bursts into laughter.
“Marry or arrest, comes to the same thing, right?”
“Are you married?”
“Divorced.”
“Do you have children?”
“A son.”
“How old is he?”
“Seven.”
An awkward silence.
“Would you like us to get to know each other at a hotel?”
He seems surprised by my question. He strokes the cotton tablecloth with his fingertips. He smiles at me again.
“You and me at a hotel, that was one of my medium- or long-range plans . . . But, since you’re suggesting it, we can reduce the waiting time.”
“The hotel, it’s the start of the journey.”
“No, the hotel is already the journey.”
53.
Don’t cry over my death. Celebrate my life.
The second time I saw Sasha, he was in his vegetable garden.
When I entered his house, it was in a mess. Saucepans spilling out of the sink, cups scattered everywhere, empty teapots, too. Numerous papers spread across the low table. The tea caddies covered in dust. But the walls still smelled as good.
I heard some noise at the back of the house. Classical music coming from outside. The door that led to the vegetable garden, at the back of the kitchen, was wide open. I saw the sunlight.
Sasha was at the top of a ladder that was leaning against a cherry-plum tree. He was collecting the sweet fruit in a potato sack. When he saw me, he smiled at me with his matchless smile. And I wondered how it was possible to seem so happy in such a sad place.
I immediately thanked him for the packet of tea and the list of Notre-Dame-des-Prés staff. He replied, “Oh, you’re welcome.”
“How did you manage to find the photos and addresses of those people?”
“Oh, wasn’t difficult.”
“Edith Croquevieille and the others, do you know them?”
“I know everyone.”
I wanted to ask him questions about those people. But I couldn’t.
As he came down his ladder, he said to me:
“You look like a sparrow, a fledgling that’s fallen from the nest. You’re a sorry sight. Come here, I’m going to tell you something.”
“How did you get my address? Why did you send me the funerary plaque?”
“It was your friend Célia who gave it to me.”
“You know Célia?”
“A few months ago, she came to the cemetery to place a plaque on the tomb of your little girl. She asked me where it was, I accompanied her. She told me she’d imagined the words you would have had engraved if you’d come here, in person. She’d chosen the words for you. She just couldn’t understand why you had never set foot in the cemetery. She said it would probably do you good. She spoke to me about you for a long while. She told me you were in a bad way. So, the idea came to me. I asked her permission to send you the plaque so you would come and place it yourself. She hesitated for a long time, and then agreed.”
He grabbed a Thermos left at the end of one of his garden’s paths, and poured me some tea in a glass from the kitchen, murmuring, “Jasmine and honey.”
“I had my first garden at nine years old. One square
