“7:30 in the breakfast room?”
“O.K.”
Between the fifth and seventh floors, they found themselves alone, face to face. Gabriel didn’t take his eyes off her.
The lift door opened onto a dark corridor. They walked to room 61. Irène smelt the stale smoke as soon as he opened the door. Orangey walls, faux Moroccan stucco.
He entered before her, saying, “Sorry,” went to switch on the lights in every corner of the room, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
Irène didn’t know what to do with her raincoat, or herself. She remained frozen at the entrance to the room, like a marble statue, a mannequin in a shopwindow. She looked at Gabriel’s half-open suitcase, his spotless shirts. His sweaters, his pairs of socks. She wondered who had ironed his collars, folded his laundry.
Gabriel came out of the bathroom, smiling.
“Come on in, get undressed.”
Irène must have made quite a face because he burst out laughing.
“Not completely. Take off your raincoat.”
“ . . . ”
“You seem very quiet.”
“Why did you ask me to come?”
“Because I wanted you to. I wanted to see you. I always want to see you.”
“And that wedding ring, what’s that about?”
He sat on the bed. She took off her raincoat.
“Someone asked me to marry them, I couldn’t have said no. It’s hard to say no to a woman who asks you to marry her. And bad manners. And you? Still married?”
“Yes.”
“So, we’re even. One all.”
“ . . . ”
“I often dream of you.”
“Same here.”
“I miss you. Come closer.”
Irène sat close to him, but not touching him. She left a space between them, drew a line.
“Have you ever cheated on your wife?”
“With you, I wouldn’t be cheating on her, I would be betraying her.”
“Why did you remarry?”
“I told you, my wife asked me to.”
“Do you love her?”
“Why ask me that question? Would you leave your husband for me? I don’t have to answer you. You’re a shackled woman, Irène, tethered. Get undressed. Completely. I want to look at you.”
“Switch off the light.”
“No, I want to look at you. No coyness between us.”
“Do you think your three friends thought I was your tart?”
“They’re not my friends, they’re colleagues. Get undressed.”
“You get undressed at the same time as me, then.”
“Agreed.”
72.
Jesu, joy of man’s desiring.
May the inventor of birds make a hero of me.
It’s still raining. The windshield wipers sweep across our faces.
On the back seat, Nathan has fallen asleep. I turn frequently to watch him. It’s been a long time since I watched a child sleeping. From time to time, we catch songs on the radio, and then, as the road bends, they get lost. Between snatches, Julien and I talk about Irène and Gabriel.
“After the Sedan episode, they saw each other often.”
“How does it feel, knowing all that about your mother?”
“Honestly? I feel as if I’ve read the story of a stranger. In fact, her journal, I’m giving it to you, I don’t want it back. You can keep it with your registers.”
“But I . . . ”
“I insist. Keep it.”
“Have you read it all?”
“Yes, several times. Especially the parts where she mentions you. Why didn’t you tell me that you knew each other?”
“We didn’t really know each other.”
“You have an extraordinary way of twisting things, Violette, of playing on words . . . I always want to get you to spit it out. You’re worse than the lot I have in custody . . . Honestly, I wouldn’t like to arrest you . . . I’d go mad questioning you.”
I burst out laughing.
“You remind me of a friend.”
“A friend?”
“He was called Sasha. He saved my life . . . By making me laugh, like you do.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is one. Where are we going?”
“The Pardons.”
“ . . . ”
“It’s the name of a road in La Bourboule. It’s where my father was born. Where some of my family still live . . . They even get married, occasionally.”
“They’re going to wonder who I am.”
“I’ll tell them you’re my wife.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Not enough.”
“What are we going to give the young couple?”
“They’re not that young, in fact. They’d both lived a bit before they met. My cousin is sixty-one and her future husband around fifty. There’s a gas station about twenty kilometers away, we’ll find them some jokey presents. And also, Nathan needs to get changed.”
“I’m already changed.”
“You’re always changed. You live changed . . . You’re always dressed for a ceremony, whether it’s a wedding or a funeral.”
I burst out laughing for the second time.
“And you? Aren’t you getting changed?”
“No, me, never. It’s jeans and sweater in winter, jeans and T-shirt in summer.”
He looks at me and smiles at me.
“You’re really going to buy your wedding presents in a gas station?”
“Really.”
While Julien is filling up on gas, I go to the shop with Nathan. I hold his hand. An old habit. Those gestures you never forget. That are part of us, without thinking. Like a hair color, a familiar smell, a resemblance. It’s been such a long time since I held the hand of a child. I’m so moved, feeling his little fingers gripping mine. He’s humming a tune I don’t know.
I feel lighthearted wandering around the shop. Nathan is wide-eyed at the galaxy of chocolate bars and sweets beside the registers.
I stop outside the door leading to the men’s restroom.
“I’m not allowed in there, I’ll wait for you here.”
“O.K.”
Nathan goes off to lock himself in with his bag of clothes. He’s back out five minutes later, proudly sporting a three-piece suit of light-gray linen and a white shirt.
“You look very handsome, Nathan.”
“Got any gel?”
“Gel?”
“For my hair.”
“I’ll go and see if they sell any here.”
While we scour the many shelves for gel, Julien buys two novels, a recipe book, a box of cakes, a barometer, table mats in every color, a map of France, three DVDs, a compilation of greatest film scores, a globe, aniseed balls, a man’s rain jacket, a lady’s straw hat, and a stuffed toy. He asks the cashier to wrap it all up in gift paper. The cashier doesn’t have any. And adds, with
