At the piano, Armand’s hands create slow waves. The singers stand ready, but the introduction is longer than one remembers. Here, a slowing; there, a tension that resolves without yet making way for the voices. Fauré’s music resembles a still sea, Zen-like, content in its quiet power. At last, Armand gives one final rubato; it is now or never. Gustave fills his lungs and enters mezzo piano:
“Word equal to the Most High…”
Armand’s higher voice joins his:
“Our sole hope…”
The long melodic line demands breath; the two men have little to spare and must breathe in the wrong place.
“…eternal day of earth and heaven.”
The words make no sense, as usual in this kind of piece, but that is the nature of the sacred. One need only silence reason and allow fear and humility to speak. Meanwhile, Hélène swells her chest and blends her alto with the men’s voices.
“…of the peaceful night.”
Marthe joins them.
“We break the silence…”
Fauré’s music is not proud. It is easy to feign reverence; one need only ignore the words a little.
“Pour upon us the fire of your mighty grace…”
They must quicken slightly. The music rolls in broader waves. Marthe sees herself again as a child at Mass, anchored to her father’s leg while the choir sang with vehemence words she did not understand. She searched for the source of the sound, but the choir loft was too high. “Who’s singing?” she kept asking her father. He would shrug, which never failed to frighten her. Since he did not seem to know, she imagined they were ghosts and that this explained why no one looked back.
“Let all hell, let all hell… flee at the sound of Thy voice!”
That mania for giving the good Lord capital letters. Subito piano.
“Dispel the sleep…”
The quartet sounds good. Armand cues each entrance with his head. No one truly watches him, since they all know the piece by heart. The Cantique is soothing.
“That leads us to forget Thy laws.”
Make sense of that if you can. Yet the magic works. The piece ends as it began, gently, in successive waves at the piano, while the voices, like ecclesiastical sirens weakened by immortality, humbly implore the Most High.
“And may it return filled with Thy giiiiiiiiifts.”
Pianissimo.
Silence follows, the voices sated. They burst out laughing as though they had eaten something delicious and surprising. Armand cannot resist pointing out their weaknesses. They listen politely; after all, he is the music teacher. But they do not give a damn. They sing for pleasure.
“What if we sang the Ave verum?” Hélène pleads.
They agree. Mozart! They rummage through their scores. Gustave cannot find his and grumbles while the others joke about his legendary disorder.
“Get on with the birth so we can hold the christening,” Hélène teases gently.
“Come to bed with me, darling. We have to make the baby before we go to the hospital…”
Gustave’s quick retort earns him a swat from Hélène’s score.
“Here it is!”
They fall silent after clearing their throats. Armand gives them their notes. Hélène sings hers back. Armand reproaches her, because one must never repeat a note after it is given. The fire in the hearth plays notes of its own. The room is becoming rather warm. Armand raises his arms; the instant his fingers touch the piano, they must begin to sing.
The tone is entirely different with Mozart; one cannot tell whether to remain serious or picture angels stuffing themselves with chocolate éclairs. The spectacle is a little comical, Marthe thinks. On one side, Mozart’s carnal music; on the far slope of the mountain, four old people whose beautiful but frail voices can no longer quite soar above the melody. Perhaps by moving a little closer to Hélène, Gustave will lend some vigour to the low notes; perhaps by resting a tender hand on Armand’s shoulder, Marthe, perched high in the upper register, can draw on his sensuality? Nothing helps. Marthe wears her A ragged and Gustave drifts somewhere between C and D. Or is it E? Sweating, Armand grimaces at his companions’ irregularities, but also at his own rhythmic weaknesses. They love Mozart, but they are no longer truly equal to it. They finish the piece with a breathless Amen. Hélène abruptly sits down with a knowing laugh. Marthe follows suit, asking Armand to make room for her on the bench while Gustave wipes his brow. Armand is about to open his mouth, but Gustave immediately stops him.
“No need, Armand. We botched it!”
Frustrated, the pianist snaps his score shut. Gustave searches through his things and quickly hands out the surprise piece. Armand sulks even more.
“This thing of yours is a cappella!”
Gustave shrugs.
“So what?”
Hélène and Marthe try to decipher the score, frowning.
“Good grief!” Marthe says.
“Good Lord!” Hélène adds.
“Come now, ladies,” Gustave corrects them. “It isn’t that difficult, it’s just… modern. You’ll see. It’s as beautiful as Arvo Pärt.”
Hélène is not reassured. She reads the composer’s name on the cover of the score.
“Luengen—where does that come from?”
“She’s Canadian and alive.”
“Ooh, now that’s modern,” Hélène adds.
Gustave hastens to ask Armand for their starting notes and, to please him, asks him to accompany the choir for the first reading. Once the chord is given, the quartet embarks upon the perilous task of learning this contemporary Salve Regina. The melodies are beautiful, contrapuntal and in different keys. They stop often and begin again. All four concentrate, oblivious to the passing of the first hour, then the second. Little by little, the Salve Regina reveals its charms. A still-fragile cohesion emerges from an undifferentiated mass of sound. Then, without their quite knowing why, beauty reveals itself; the force of tension and release creates harmony. Armand has stopped accompanying them. Left to their own devices, the four voices submit to the demands of the composition. They increase the tempo to approach what the composer intended. Finally, after this long process of trial and error, the four friends manage to sing the piece without interruption.
Surprised by the effect it has on her, Marthe exclaims once more:
“Good grief!”
“Good heavens!” Hélène adds.
Gustave appears delighted. Armand looks at him and grants him this victory.
“Got any more like that?”
Hélène protests.
“Mercy! It’s very beautiful, but give us time to learn it properly!”
Gustave tries to reassure her.
“I only have one. A friend sent it to me.”
He changes the subject, looking at the time.
“But I’m hungry!”
In response, Armand begins a piece by Chopin while the others silently put away their scores. Marthe goes into the kitchen and takes from the refrigerator the sandwiches Lucienne prepared that morning. There is also a salad, homemade dressing and cheese. Gustave is already at the table. Amused, Marthe watches him from the corner of her eye as she removes the plastic wrap covering the dishes.
No one says a word, waiting for Armand to finish playing. Hélène turns the pages for him. Marthe asks Gustave to go stoke the fire instead of pawing through the sandwiches. While he obeys, she finishes setting the table. Chopin is sad and serene at once. Perhaps they are the same thing after all. Armand finishes, and they applaud. It is already noon.
“Lunch!” she calls unnecessarily.
The Wednesday ritual continues. Everyone takes the same place as at breakfast, a habit formed very early, as in families: Marthe at one end of the table, Gustave at the other, Hélène to Marthe’s left, Armand to her right.
“Enjoy your meal!” Hélène says maternally.
They descend upon the sandwiches. Gustave avoids the alfalfa-sprout ones, preferring chicken. Marthe serves them salad. They discuss the pieces they sang. The sun charges victoriously through the windows. One might believe it were summer.
“Wine, anyone?” Marthe asks.
“Don’t mind if I do!” Gustave proclaims, always ready for a drink.
Marthe searches the wine cabinet.
“Do you have that Chilean one from the other day, Marthe?” he asks.
Marthe shifts a few bottles.
“Sí…”
She hands him the bottle to open. They smile as the wine flows into the glasses. Gustave proposes a toast:
“To music!”
“To love!” Hélène adds.
“To pleasure!” Marthe suggests.
They wait for Armand’s turn, but he says nothing, lost in thought.
“Armand?” Marthe prompts.
He smiles faintly.
“To life…”
“Not very convincing,” Gustave says dryly.
Armand produces his smile again, then scowls.
“Oh, that’s enough…”
They sit down again and move on. Marthe observes him briefly: there, especially at the corner of his lips, a nervous tension. Feeling her gaze upon him, he raises his eyes towards her, only to look away at once. Marthe is overcome by a weary sadness.
“I wonder what Lucienne is doing at this very moment,” Gustave says.
Hélène snorts with laughter.
“Guess!”
“I admire that woman,” he adds. “She flits from flower to flower like a queen bee, and she makes damned good sandwiches!”
He raises his glass.
“To Lucienne, her love affairs and her homemade dressing!”
The others raise their glasses in turn and laugh.
“Ever fucked a fat woman, Armand?”
“Gustave!” the two women protest in unison.
“What? It’s a fair question! Lucienne is a beautiful woman, but she’s—how shall I put it?—imposing. I don’t have much experience with that. Must be difficult to manage…”
“Naturally,” Marthe remarks slyly, “anything complicated and subtle frightens men. It’s all in your head, my friend. You’ve looked at too many porn magazines… And why do men never wonder how women manage their beer bellies?”
“Porn books!” he corrects her. “As for the belly, you just have to find the right angle. I can tell you that, yes, I once fucked a very fat woman. I was completely drunk and don’t remember a thing. Must have been good…”
“Because when it’s good, you lose your memory?” Hélène says sarcastically, still angry at Gustave’s vulgarity.
“That’s why I faint whenever I think of you.”
Hélène snorts with laughter and, with a playful shrug, signifies that she does not believe him for a second. Marthe notices that Armand is not inclined to laugh. Gustave returns to the subject of Lucienne.
“Anyway, with the success she has, she must be pretty good in bed.”
“That’s all you think about! At your age…”
Gustave looks Hélène up and down. Their oft-repeated game does not seem to weary them.
“You’re both repeating yourselves,” Marthe says, trying to draw Armand into the conversation. It works.
“Empty barrels make the most noise!”
Gustave gives him a haughty look.
“And the Little Prince couldn’t get it up.”
“All right, that’s enough, Gustave,” Marthe scolds cheerfully.
Gustave directs his haughty gaze at her.
“Mother Superior has spoken.”
Marthe makes a face at him. Hélène helps herself to more salad. More wine is poured. Marthe notices that Armand is making an effort to participate. They continue eating and exchanging banalities. The bottle empties quickly; their spirits grow merry, then slacken. After a brief silence, Gustave announces that he is going to play cards at a friend’s house. Hélène hesitates over what she might do; Armand mentions drawing up a natal chart for one of his cousins. Gustave asks if she is widowed and rich. Armand does not answer. Marthe casts out a line.
“It’s been a long time since you read my chart, Armand… I have a plan…”
The others look at her. Hélène smiles as if to encourage her. She hesitates. The prospect of renting Léo’s cottage already makes her dizzy.
“I… I haven’t really thought it through yet…”
“Oh, that’s dangerous,” Gustave says.
Hélène motions for him to be quiet. Marthe continues.
“I know it could mean a great many upheavals for you, but I think I would like to rent out Léo’s cottage…”
An astonished silence. Gustave is the first to respond, with a whistle. Marthe rather regrets having raised the proposal so quickly. Hélène finally breaks her silence.
“I have no objection. It’s starting to smell dusty around here!”
Gustave does not seem to appreciate the comment. Marthe immediately understands his fear, or rather, his weariness at the thought of change.
“You’re not saying anything, Armand?”
He gives her the same faint smile as before.
“It makes little difference to me, you know. You’re the owner…”
Marthe is not satisfied with his answer and sighs.
“Listen… it’s only an idea… I suggest we put our trust in fate.”
“Why do you want to rent out the cottage?”
Marthe looks at Gustave and smiles.
“I may be old, but I still have things to resolve and things to live.”
“Aren’t you past the age for that sort of thing?”
Marthe grows impatient, not at all pleased by Gustave’s cruel logic. Better to answer with a question.
“The age for what, Gustave?”
He shrugs in ignorance and suddenly seems resigned.
“I don’t know, Marthe. Maybe it’s because I’m growing stiff. We’re past the age for plans, that’s all…”
Hélène and Marthe look at each other; they will outlive them, without a doubt.
“I won’t rent to just anyone…”
“You could also simply clean the place out, burn everything, or turn it into a tearoom…”
Armand’s remark catches her off guard.
“You’re right, Armand. There are other possibilities…”
Gustave smiles at her. He stands.
“We’ll see. You never know, perhaps it’ll be some lively little fifty-year-old matron.”
Hélène feigns outrage.
“There he goes again!”
“In any case,” Marthe adds, “nothing is certain. First, the cottage would have to be renovated and the past destroyed…”
“Destroyed?” Hélène asks, surprised.
Marthe reflects on the slip and does not know what to say.
“By the grace of God!” Gustave declares.
Armand remains seated, his gaze lost. Gustave, now at the door, says goodbye and adds:
“Keep us informed. I’m off to play cards.”
“Will you drop me in town, Gustave? I suddenly feel like spending money.”
“How will you get back?”
“By bus, or I’ll call to see whether you’re done with your pretend poker game…”
“It isn’t that pretend… Come to think of it, would a game of strip poker with the boys interest you?”
They close the door on their foolishness. Armand has still not moved. Marthe waits a few seconds, making sure Gustave and Hélène are indeed walking away from the house.
“Would you like coffee, Armand?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
He stands and goes to the piano. He begins to play. Marthe recognizes a piece by Scriabin. She plugs in the kettle, takes out two cups and the teapot, and chooses an Indian tea. She opens the jar; the scent of the leaves immediately fills her nostrils.
Armand plays sadly. While waiting for the water, she leans against the counter and looks out the window. She feels relieved. She thinks back to their discussion and feels sorry for Gustave. It is so easy to invoke age as a reason to do nothing. Outside, she observes the tree near the house, which has lost almost all its leaves. Of course she is old. Of course. She should have told Gustave that starting over was not the point, only continuing, taking up the road where Léo had abandoned her. The kettle is already beginning to tremble with the water. That is it: to continue. Love has undoubtedly become impossible, and in any case it no longer interests her. She has had her share of caresses. Besides, she is not alone; her friends are here. So…
She watches the bare tree, shaken by the wind. She touches her belly and becomes aware of the gesture. He gave the other woman a child…
The kettle shrieks. The water will be too hot. She notices that Armand is no longer playing.
“Armand?”
“Coming…”
But he does not come. Through professional reflex, she drives away her reveries and focuses on what appears to be happening to her friend. He emerges. She smiles at him.
“We could have tea in the living room.”
“Good idea,” he says. “Let me help.”
He takes the tray from her hands. As she passes, she looks at herself in the mirror. A lock of hair has come loose. She puts it back in place and examines her face, no longer attending to the wrinkles but to the harmony of the whole. Another professional reflex: give the patient no opportunity to be distracted by unfamiliar features. Be a mirror, not a prism… “Only in the morning, while you’re asleep, can I hold on to your true face…” Léo once told her.
She joins Armand, who has already poured the tea. The fire is dwindling. She sits and watches the embers for a time. Who was whose mirror? She does not wish to answer that bottomless question. She takes a sip of tea.
“What is it, Armand?”
He starts, means to protest, but his shoulders sag. He takes his time sipping his tea, then smiles at Marthe.
“Nothing escapes you, does it?”
She does not want to answer. He draws a breath that betrays surrender more than renewed energy. He looks at the fire as though afraid to address her directly.
“I went to see my doctor last week.”
He falls silent. At that instant, she already anticipates what follows. She assembles the information gathered since morning. The bird, Armand’s dream, her intuition beside the river… her own desire to see things change in her life. He touches his liver.
“I’ve had this discomfort here for some time…”
“Cancer?”
He starts again, then just as quickly resigns himself, once more, to the psychoanalyst’s accuracy. He sighs.
“The doctor thinks so. I have to undergo tests. I’m going this afternoon.”
“They’re moving quickly.”
Armand takes her hand and draws it towards his abdomen.
“Feel.”
Marthe starts in turn but lets nothing show. She feels the mass; it is almost spongy. She understands the doctor’s haste and also realizes he must have reprimanded Armand.
“That didn’t appear yesterday…”
Armand twitches.
“No, it didn’t. It’s been there for about six months.”
“And you told us nothing.”
He looks her up and down. She cannot tell whether her frankness angers him or whether he is merely struggling against the truth.
“You mean I told myself nothing…”
She withdraws her hand and touches his forehead. They remain silent for a few moments.
“It could be something else,” she says without conviction.
He shakes his head.
“No, I don’t think so. Besides, I saw my death in my chart.”
“You always told me that couldn’t be seen.”
“I know, I know,” he says, visibly annoyed.
“What did the doctor tell you? You must have asked.”
He nods, but does not continue. She waits. Despite the sadness of the moment, she suddenly finds something angelic and peaceful in his features.
“By spring if we do nothing… We’ll know more after the tests.”
“What do you intend to do?”
He looks at her. She senses that he has something in mind…
“Play the piano.”
She translates at once:
“You don’t want to fight?”
He lowers his head.
“I don’t want to suffer, that’s all. Remember, you were the one who told me that, in the face of the inevitable, we had to remain ourselves, continue on our course, whatever happened. Until now, that’s what gave me the strength to carry on.”
He holds out his hands.
“I played and played and played…”
He gestures around the living room.
“And I landed here, in this haven of peace.”
Marthe smiles. He rises.
“May I put on another log?”
She nods. He busies himself; the impact of the news, far too intellectualized at first, now reaches her heart.
“It’s sad,” she says, suddenly at a loss.
He awkwardly throws a log into the fireplace and barely catches it with the poker before it rolls out of the hearth.
“It’s simply life, Marthe.”
She sees the familiar moisture gathering around his eyes, announcing an overflow of emotion.
“It’s so difficult to let go.”
“Aren’t you throwing in the towel a little too quickly?”
A cloud suddenly and very briefly obscures the sun. Marthe has the impression that during that short interval, Armand’s eyes display a certain pride. When the light returns, however, every trace of bravery has vanished. He heads for the front door with determined steps. She feels the situation slipping beyond her control.
“Don’t you want more tea?”
“No, thank you. I have to go. They’re keeping me overnight; I’ll probably be back tomorrow evening.”
“I confess I’m surprised, Armand. A little while ago, you acted as though nothing were wrong. You walked with us, ate, laughed. And now you’re disappearing.”
An unfortunate choice of words; Armand pays it no mind. She continues:
“What do you want me to tell the others?”
He stops for a moment and lowers his shoulders; she senses that the detail irritates him. Still, he answers decisively:
“The truth…”
“You hid your hand well.”
What is she saying? She pinches her lips together. “You’re nothing but an old woman now.” In secret, she hears herself answer her nasty inner voice: “Go fuck yourself.” Armand turns, seemingly not offended in the least, smiles at her, then opens the door and leaves.
“Until tomorrow,” she hears him sigh.
He goes, leaving her somewhat unsatisfied. And alone. She returns to the living room, checks the colour of the tea, which may have steeped too long, pours herself a cup anyway and sits in her armchair. The sun and clouds amuse themselves by drawing shadow pictures on the walls.
“Admit you didn’t see that one coming.” She concedes the point. Six months, Armand said. What has happened during that time? She had already noticed, as she did this morning, his shifting moods. But what else? She cannot say. She realizes that, at first glance, she herself has nothing to say about her own life. Spring had been exceptional. Whole days of great heat had quickly swept aside the winter’s more than abundant snow. Long evenings spent reading, writing and meditating. Little anxiety. Summer, afterwards, had been a succession of beautiful days. There had been that gathering of old psychoanalysts, a week spent not reinventing the world but rather dismantling it, or tacitly concluding that none of them had discovered anything at all. Or that whatever they had found belonged to folk wisdom.
Was that it, then, that feigned lull? That radiance of things before life succumbs, that clichéd calm before the storm? She shakes her head, then laughs at the gesture because she is alone. Too easy to rake through the past in order to rationalize the present. Why not simply say she has been caught off guard?
A familiar shadow takes shape, accompanied by another just as well known. Bruz and Katou have returned from their excursion. Armand did not think of his cat. She rises and opens the window for them. The two animals leap onto the floor and immediately circle Marthe’s legs. She bends down and strokes them.
“Hello, my beauties.”
They meow.
“You must be hungry, unless you’ve had your fill of mice?”
They continue rubbing against her.
“Doesn’t look like it. Let’s see what we can find in the kitchen.”
The cats follow. She takes the tin of dry food and gives it a gentle shake. They grow excited.
“Wait, wait…”
She takes out two bowls, places them well apart and pours in the kibble. The cats need no coaxing. For a while she strokes her cat, who begins to purr while continuing to eat. She rises slowly, gripping the counter. And it is as she stands that the news she has just learned assumes its full weight. Tears rise within her and she has to sit down. It lasts only an instant, for in the end she does not cry; instead, she considers the months to come. They will be heavy. A thought crosses her mind that she immediately judges selfish. Armand’s illness thwarts her plans, though they were still only embryonic. She approaches the window and searches, on the off chance, for that morning’s bird. Was it truly a sign? The old people in the village would nod. The cats crunch their food noisily. The tide is rising.