“The living dead that mega-terrify people. I saw a film, and it was mega-terrifying.”
“Aren’t you a bit young to watch that kind of film?”
“It was at Antoine’s, on his computer, we didn’t watch all of it, we were too scared. But I am seven, you know.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
“Have you ever seen any zombies?”
“No, never.”
He looks terribly disappointed. He pulls a delightful face. Tutti Frutti comes in through the cat flap. His fur is soaked. He joins Eliane in her basket, to share some of her warmth. The dog opens one eye and then goes right back to sleep. Nathan leaves his chair to go and pet them. He yanks up his jeans with both hands, and tugs on the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He’s wearing trainers with soles that light up with his every step. They remind me of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” video.
“Is the cat yours?”
“Yes.”
“What’s its name?”
“Tutti Frutti.”
He bursts into laughter. He’s got chocolate all over his teeth.
“That’s a funny name.”
Julien Seul knocks on my cemetery-side door and comes in. He’s as soaked as the cat.
“Hello.”
He glances towards the child, and smiles at me, tenderly. I sense he would like to come over to me, touch me, but he doesn’t move. He merely does so with his eyes. I feel him undressing me. Removing winter to see summer.
“Everything O.K., kiddo?”
I freeze.
“Daddy, do you know what the cat’s name is?”
Nathan is Julien’s son. My heart races as fast as a galloping mustang, as if I’d just charged up and down the stairs several times.
Julien answers straight back:
“Tutti Frutti.”
“How come you know?”
“I know the cat. It’s not the first time I’ve been here. Nathan, have you said hello to Violette?”
Nathan stares at me.
“You’re called Violette?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve all got funny names around here!”
He returns to the table, sits down, and polishes off his cake. His father watches him with a smile.
“We have to go now, kiddo.”
It’s my turn to feel terribly disappointed. Like when Nathan heard that I’d never seen a zombie.
“You won’t stay a little longer?”
“We’re expected in Auvergne. A cousin getting married this afternoon.”
He stares at me. Then says to his son:
“Kiddo, go and wait for me in the car, it’s open.”
“But it’s pissing cats and dogs!”
We’re so surprised by the child’s reply that we both burst out laughing.
“The first one to the car gets to pick the music.”
Nathan promptly comes over to kiss me on the cheek.
“If you see any zombies, just call my father, he’s a policeman.”
He runs out through the cemetery-side door, heading for the car park.
“He’s totally adorable.”
“He gets that from his mother . . . Have you read mine’s journal?”
“I haven’t finished it. Would you like to take a coffee with you, for the road?”
He shakes his head.
“I’d rather take you with me, for the road.”
This time, he comes over to me and hugs me. I can feel him breathing in my neck. I close my eyes. When I open them, he’s already at the door. He’s made my clothes damp.
“Violette, I have absolutely no desire that, one day, your ashes end up on my tomb. I couldn’t care less, in fact. I want to live with you now, right now. While we can still gaze at the sky together . . . Even when it’s pouring like today.”
“Live with me?”
“I would like this story . . . this encounter between my mother and that man, to be for that purpose, for us, in fact.”
“But I’m not fit for it.”
“Fit for it?”
“Yes, fit for it.”
“But I’m not talking about you doing military service.”
“I’m dysfunctional, broken. Love is impossible for me. I’m unbearable to live with. More dead than the ghosts lurking in my cemetery. Haven’t you understood that? It’s impossible.”
“No one can be expected to do the impossible.”
“Yes, they can.”
He smiles at me, sadly.
“Shame.”
He closes the door behind him, and then comes back in without knocking, two minutes later.
“You’re coming with us.”
“ . . . ”
“To the wedding. It’s a two-hour drive away.”
“But I . . . ”
“I’ll give you ten minutes to get ready.”
“But I can’t . . . ”
“I’ve just phoned Nono, he’ll be here in five minutes to replace you.”
70.
One day we will come to sit
beside you in the house of God.
AUGUST 1996.
Philippe had left Geneviève Magnan’s place feeling more wretched than the stones—a strange expression his Uncle Luc often used. He had driven to the cemetery. There was a funeral on that day. The mourners were gathered in the heat, in clusters, far from Léonine’s tomb. He hadn’t brought any flowers. He’d never brought any. Usually, his mother took care of that.
It was the first time he was visiting her on his own. He came twice a year, always with his parents.
His father and mother would park next to the barrier, no longer coming inside for fear of encountering Violette, of facing her despair. He, like a good son, sat at the back of the car, like when he was a child and they set off on holiday, and the back seat seemed vast to him, but at the end of the journey, there was the sea.
Philippe had always told himself that he was an only son because his parents had only made love once, by accident. Philippe had always told himself that he was an accident.
His father, stooped with grief and years of living with his wife, drove badly. Slowed down, no one knew why, accelerated, no one knew why, either. Drove on the left and then too far to the right. Passed when he shouldn’t, didn’t pass on straight roads. Got lost too often. Seemed to ignore signposts.
The journey between the barrier and the cemetery seemed interminable to Philippe. The first time they had done it, he had picked up the smell of burning when they were still several kilometers from the château. The air smelt as acrid as after a major fire.
First, they had stopped in front of the gates of the château to park. Hadn’t felt able to go in straight away, had remained prostrate, all three of them, just like that, in the car. Then they had walked the two hundred meters to the imposing
