There are voices, countless words she can make out and tries to eavesdrop on, with little success. The symphony rarely descends from its forte, as though the city’s rhythm consisted solely of insistent timpani rolls punctuated by horns and insults. People everywhere, walking towards a goal, a function. When the light turns green, she starts; at other lights, she is forced to stop and examine the street names. Has she taken the right direction? Where is south? Where is west? She knows the city very well, but behaves like everyone else, concentrating, wondering about the best way forward. One may understand the city, yet it always surprises: a roadblock here, a new one-way street there, suddenly a new shop that catches the eye and sends one down the wrong road. First Avenue, Second Avenue, Fourth… but what became of Third? Was there ever one? She can no longer remember. Perhaps it will appear one day, at the moment deemed appropriate by some theoretical or natural plan of urban development, or perhaps it disappeared to serve some commercial necessity.
Rue des Faubourgs. The gay district is not far now. Already, the façades are different. Someone honks because she did not move quickly enough; a driver passes her, furious, pulls in front of her and slows down to make it perfectly clear that she is at fault. Another stop, more horns, this time directed at a rubbish truck blocking the way. The collectors ignore them. A sudden detour becomes compulsory: a police officer bars access to what appears to be a fire. Shouting, whistling. Very well, if she turns right here, she will have to make the entire detour before heading back to the left… assuming that has not become a one-way street. She too begins to grow agitated and decides to pull over. A motorist stops behind her, apparently thinking she is about to leave the parking space because she has kept the engine running. She switches it off. The driver makes an obscene gesture and speeds away. She feels like answering him and feels foolish, not for being aggressive, but for allowing herself to be drawn into the city-dwellers’ game.
She gets out of the car. The city dances; she immediately feels its rhythm, its jaded sway. She makes sure the parking meter will not fail her, studies her reflection in a shop window and mechanically draws the collar of her coat around her, taking care to free her abundant red hair. A dry bush on eroded rock, she thinks. “And yet you know you are still beautiful. Admit it.” The demon on her shoulder who tells her every truth mocks her pride. She listens only so she may defy him more effectively. “Well yes, I am beautiful.” He bows; she knows she has won him over.
Once more she makes sure the parking meter can be trusted, then activates the car’s security system. It emits a little tune from the year 3000. She studies the neighbourhood. The façades, blackened by exhaust, seem to perspire the misery of grey souls.
She has already given enough to these blind city-dwellers, to these human misfortunes measured by the clock, to the heedless automatism of traffic, to neon days and grey nights, to collisions and sex in the streets. In her consulting room she tasted each person’s dish, the salt and gall of their days, what she called life’s “sall”—salt and gall together. She knows the city only too well, that pious lie of believing oneself alone in the world and free, while lifts rising, descents into the metro, the wind of passers-by and random directions sustain the city’s impassive breath, regiment its soldier-people, its people sold. Yet she had been loved within these walls, in the very heart of the city, with Léo, in his studio perched on the mountain.
That happiness had eventually suffocated her. She had needed to flee, to recover her freedom. Her devil watches, seeming not to believe what she is thinking. And to imprison Léo, or at least try to contain him, she concedes, by drawing him away from the city’s voracious stimulation.
She sets off, passing shop windows and people. Her age… their age; her gaze, their eyes; her body, their vitality; her fabrics, their hype clothes. The comparisons are easy and futile, yet immediate and trivial. People turn to look at her; she is too beautiful, too elegant and, above all, too old to belong in the neighbourhood. People smile at her, kiss in front of her, wink at her. She feels watched, then realises that she is the one watching. The streets are numerous; suddenly worried about which way to go, she asks directions from an effeminate young man, who answers kindly. He wears a modern fragrance, delicate and sexual. She thanks him. He walks away and catches up with his companion, who resembles him and must smell the same, of delicacy and desire. She is not far now from the café where Rémi works. She stops again and studies, almost like a tourist, the details of the neighbourhood’s abandoned architecture. Passers-by avoid her. They observe neither the sky nor their city, but go on their way. A beggar sitting nearby asks her for money in English. When she does not answer, he produces some approximate French. She smiles at him and sighs. He gets up, probably intimidated, wipes his hand and offers it to her as he repeats his question. She asks:
“What is your name?”
He steps back.
“It’s not your damn business.”
He appears angry, then no—he is drunk.
“Are you a cop?”
She smiles at his mistake. When she does not answer, he walks away muttering insults. She lets him go. Not so long ago, she still presumed she could help people like him and offered them her card. In more than forty-five years of practice, not one had ever knocked at her door. Léo simply walked past them, openly displaying his contempt. He never commented on her little exercise, but his silence spoke volumes. She had never tried to convince him; it was none of his business.
She takes a banknote from her wallet and places it beneath the hat the man forgot on the pavement. He cannot be far away.
Her little devil leans towards her ear and softly whispers the word “despair.” She straightens and looks around at this city that has become foreign, strange, remote from her life. Rooted there by her thoughts, has she not once again invoked Léo’s name? She shivers and thinks the wind is turning against her, but a brief return to her surroundings makes her understand that it is merely the ambient air, the city’s churning. She spots the beggar watching her from behind a van. She moves away. The sign of the café where Rémi works is before her.
Before entering, she glances at the beggar. He has taken the money, sits down again and pulls out a bottle of liquor, which he immediately raises to his lips.
“You? Here?”
Rémi’s surprise turns into a lovely smile.
“Did my father give you the address?”
She nods while looking for a free seat.
“There’s a table by the window. Sit down. I’ll serve a customer and come back.”
She takes her seat, removes her coat and mechanically pulls a small mirror from her handbag. She hates what her lips have become, a land cracked beyond measure. They remind her of the growth rings visible inside a felled tree. For all she knows, there are seventy-eight wrinkles on her lips.
“May I bring you coffee?” asks Rémi, whom she did not hear approach.
“An Americano, black.”
He winks and disappears behind the service counter occupying the centre-left of the room. She inspects the place. Lacy music, finely papered walls, fashionable lighting, polished chic of every kind. The clientele is young, student-like, soberly dressed and affluent. The good taste clashes with the neighbourhood. Rémi wears a bow tie over a white shirt… and jeans. She notices then that everyone has some distinctive item of clothing, an oddity. It must be fashionable. She smiles and surveys the décor and the people again. The clientele is inevitably homogeneous. Men with men, a few women among them. She feels their gazes settle on her one by one, distractedly. They must think she is the handsome waiter’s mother, since they both have red hair. Amused by the coincidence, she spies on Rémi. He could indeed have been her son. She meets the curious glances; their owners look away as though they had seen nothing, smile at their companions and make eyes at them. She recognises the gesture, the hunger of wide-open pupils. She senses the silent play of their infertile dance.
Beside the table, a noticeboard is buried beneath leaflets promising deliverance: Inductive Energy Therapy. Psycho-Spiritual Guidance. Sacred Dance. Sex Yoga. Tai Chi. Integrated Body Psychotherapy. Reiki. One might think oneself returned to the time of Christ, she thinks. Time has remained defiled.
Rémi gestures that he will not be long. He serves two customers, one barely entered into adulthood, the other already ready to leave it, adulterated. Both have eyes only for Rémi, who truly is a very handsome man—a dreadful waste for the species, she thinks. He returns behind the counter, then emerges with two cups of coffee.
“Am I keeping you from your work?”
“Oh, it’s fine. This is my break. Olivier will replace me. We’re not crowded.”
“It’s a beautiful place. A little strange, but pretty.”
“Strange?”
“Chic and run-down.”
He smiles.
“That’s typical of rich young people.”
“And gay ones, moreover.”
“And gay ones! Snobbery has no sex. It’s like money. It speaks English and doesn’t know how to say ‘I love you.’”
“You sound as though you know a great deal about the subject.”
He evades the question, offering her only a smile.
“This coffee is good,” she says.
“Isn’t it? Did you have trouble finding us?”
“No, though the city makes me dizzy, I admit. I’m out of practice. The country suits old people; it is older still. Do you like it here?”
He looks at his world.
“No, but it pays the rent.”
“What do you want to do with your life?”
“A strange question for a chilly Wednesday in November.”
She nods.
“You must be wondering what I’m doing here.”
“Getting some air?” he suggests with his most beautiful smile, thereby betraying his curiosity.
She studies him for a moment, his features, the red of his hair, his green eyes.
“We have the same hair. People will think I’m your mother.”
“I never knew mine.”
“I know. I practically watched you being born.”
She studies him again.
“You are very handsome, Rémi.”
He does not raise his eyes, but his surprise shows in a momentary stillness that he hastens to conceal by lifting his cup to his lips.
“I assume you didn’t come here to tell me that.”
He goes straight to the point. She laughs.
“I have a favour to ask. It concerns Armand.”
She feels him tense, as though disappointed.
“It isn’t about sex.”
He raises his head, his eyes slightly cold.
“Why do people think homosexuals think only about that?”
She holds his gaze.
“Because they necessarily think about it. They’re men. It is in their nature. Armand is very ill, with advanced liver cancer. He doesn’t have long, at most until the end of winter. I would like you to look after him. I will pay you, of course. I want you to be there, simply there beside him, whenever he wishes. Hélène will continue providing his nursing care—that was her profession… He…”
She searches for her words. He comes to her rescue.
“You would like me to be a kind of companion to him.”
He must understand quickly, she thinks, because her proposal could easily seem ridiculous.
“More than anything, I would like him to have someone beautiful beside him…”
Nervous flashes cut across his cheek; she concludes that he is angry. He leans back and looks out the window. She adopts a clinical tone, neutral, muffled like a local anaesthetic, just sensitive enough not to alarm him.
“What is it?”
“Beauty…”
“You find that superficial?”
He looks at her, no doubt understanding that he can be frank, but says nothing. She senses a past that prevents him from expressing his emotions properly and in one or two sentences. He gives a mocking smile, brief and incisive.
“Would it be too much of a cliché to say that I am mainly appealing to your inner beauty? You have a very beautiful body, but there are plenty of those in this café… I need someone who knows how to use his beauty wisely, someone intelligent above all, and not vicious.”
“Am I all those things?”
“I believe so, yes.”
He seems flattered but unconvinced. His face passes from doubt to surprise, from irony to concern and finally to a form of sadness.
“And what makes you believe that?”
She must be vulnerable, honest.
“The other day, when you came to work at my house with your father, I cried in your arms. You didn’t push me away. You asked no questions. You knew I needed it.”
“I probably needed it too. I liked that day,” he says warmly.
“Are you truly unhappy?”
He does not answer, but tilts his head to the right.
“Armand won’t live forever…” he says.
“You needn’t fear for the future. I have other plans for you.”
His eyes question her. She senses his disorientation and recognises that indefinable something, the tiny grain of sand that suddenly stops the too well-oiled machinery of self-forgetting.
“Why me, honestly?”
“Do you accept?”
“Why me?”
“I know you,” she says, half lying. “Listen, you have a long life ahead of you. You can afford this ‘adventure.’ When Armand is dead, I will travel around the world with Hélène and Gustave, if he can bring himself to leave his card game. A young person among us would be useful; after that, we shall see. I will leave you free most of the time.”
“Around the world…”
“Yes, free of charge.”
What is she saying?
“Will I get spending money?”
She laughs heartily.
Rémi is waiting for her. He has only two small suitcases. She parks along the kerb, releases the boot, gets out and kisses the young man. Pointing to the luggage:
“Is that all?”
He winks.
“I’m like the disciple before the Lord.”
She laughs. The snow begins to fall thickly, accompanied by a small, nervous, icy wind. She turns up the collar of her coat.
“Would you like to drive?”
“Gladly, especially in this.”
He indicates the car.
“Nice model.”
“It’s from last year. I like it, though I don’t use it often.”
They get in. Rémi smiles, starts the engine and manoeuvres easily through the streets. They leave the city, narrowly avoiding rush-hour traffic.
“It was time to go home. Hibernation is beginning.”
“You don’t go out much in winter?”
“Of course I go out. It’s a manner of speaking. People aren’t the same in winter. They willingly remain at home, attending to themselves. It’s even truer where I live; the country and the river protect us, in a way.”
“That’s true. It’s why I like the city. It’s easier to disregard the seasons there.”
“You don’t regret coming to spend the winter in the country?”
“No. It will make a change, remind me of my childhood.”
He stresses the final word with a hint of irony.
“Did you have a happy childhood?”
“Yes, I think so. Compared with what I hear from my friends, I was spoiled. My parents did their job well, even though I had to leave early because I was suffocating. I was… different.”
“The country isn’t the best place to live as a homosexual.”
“Except when you’re a teenager. Nothing is more erotic than sex in the hay.”
“You don’t have to be into men for that!”
He laughs.
“True.”
“Do you have a lover?”
“I did, a long time ago.”
He laughs again.
“Meaning a month ago.”
“You say that as though it were an eternity.”
“In a way, it is.”
She understands his pain from the tone of his voice.
“Do you still love him?”
“Not anymore. Actually, yes, but can we truly go on loving people who hurt us?”
“Oh yes! Believe me. My consulting room was full of that kind of suffering.”
“And Léo?”
“Léo…”
“Why did he do it?”
“I’ll simplify by saying that I couldn’t give him children.”
Rémi gives a pitying laugh. A few minutes of silence follow while they manage their memories and thoughts.
“Was that truly the reason?”
She glances at him.
“You’re going to like it at our place.”
“Why is that?”
“We like telling ourselves stories.”
“You’ve known one another a long time.”
“We are joined to one another, so to speak. Our boats are tied together, but each of us is free to untie theirs as they see fit.”
“But you don’t.”
“Yes, from time to time. Léo did. Armand will, in his own way, since he is going to die.”
They remain silent for a moment. Marthe watches the roadside trees pass and gives herself over to a heavy sadness.
“Does this thing have winter tyres?”
“My God, no! I forgot to have them fitted.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“That isn’t part of your duties.”
“Well, it is if I want to stay alive. Besides, I’ll have to get around from time to time. I’m becoming madame’s chauffeur.”
She smiles.
“You don’t regret your decision?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me.”
“I don’t quite know what I have set in motion,” she admits like a child.
Keeping his eyes on the road, he turns his face towards her and smiles. She is surprised by how much she enjoys his presence.
“I resigned on the spot,” he says warmly. “This offer was unexpected—and more than I could have hoped for. You’re an intelligent woman.”
“I’m a shrink.”
He laughs.
“No, that isn’t what I mean. Intelligence has a chance to flourish only if it takes an interest in life and pain. Even then, one must keep one’s eyes wide open.”
“And you? What were you doing in a café? You use ten-dollar sentences.”
“I went to university. Psychology.”
“That’s right, you told me the other day.”
“I dropped out. I had other things to catch up on.”
“I see. Love got the better of you.”
“If you like,” he says mysteriously.
She understands that he will go no further and respects his silence. Instead, she discusses what will happen next and explains that she has not yet told Armand.
“Perhaps I’m doing too much?”
Her own question surprises her. Rémi does not answer at once. They are on the main road now. The city disappears around the bend of a hill.
“You’re doing the right thing, I’m convinced of it, and I’m happy to help.”
After thirty minutes on the road, they reach the lane leading down towards the property. Through the trees, she takes the time to look at what can be glimpsed of the estate. Enough snow has already fallen to erase the last traces of late autumn. She repeats to herself that there is no chance, only convergences, beautifully constructed castles in Spain. Blindly, guided by she knows not what, she is weaving her web. She is happy to find her home again. As they approach the house, Rémi gives three small, cheerful blasts of the horn. Lucienne is already on the veranda, intrigued by Rémi’s presence. Bruz is in her arms, as though she had not moved from that spot since Marthe left. Before he gets out of the car, Marthe holds Rémi by the arm.
“Thank you for telling me,” she says, partly to calm her bitterness.
“I shouldn’t have?”
“Tut, tut. Rid yourself of regret quickly, and from now on, you’re to call me tu.”
“Yes, mistwess.”
“Rémi! And one last thing. You must have no modesty around Armand.”
He looks surprised.
“Is that an obsession in your household?”
She grimaces.
“That isn’t what I mean. I told you, it isn’t a question of sex, but of modesty.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“You will. Trust the old.”
She gets out of the car. Bruz promptly leaves Lucienne’s arms and runs meowing towards his mistress. Marthe picks him up and gives him a maternal kiss. Lucienne and Rémi greet one another. The snow has redoubled in intensity.
“They’re forecasting twenty centimetres. I was beginning to worry. And our winter tyres aren’t fitted! What were we thinking this year?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Rémi replies.
Lucienne looks perplexed and silently turns towards Marthe for an explanation.
“I asked Rémi to come and help Hélène. For Armand.”
Lucienne’s face lights up. She bursts into warm laughter.
“Ah! A man in the house!” she exclaims without restraint. “It was about time!”
Rémi winks at Marthe.
“Are the others here?” she asks.
“Yes. Gustave sprained his wrist last night. He drank too much.”
“Nothing serious? And your eye?”
“You’re not going to ask me about that every five minutes, are you?”
Marthe is not disconcerted by the change in tone.
“Are you in a bad mood, Lucienne?”
The housekeeper softens and adjusts her cardigan.
“Sorry! Gustave made me irritable. He came to my room last night. I threw him out with a kick in the arse.”
“He didn’t mean to…”
“He meant to, but he couldn’t! And my kick sent him down the stairs.”
“You could have injured him more seriously.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose! Besides, you don’t disturb decent folk at two in the morning.”
“I see. I’ll speak to him.”
“No need. He understood.”
“I’ll speak to him anyway. I won’t tolerate that. No one has the right to disrespect you.”
Lucienne nods and grows warmer. She addresses Rémi, who has remained silent.
“I’ll show you your room. In fact, you can take your pick. Three are empty. Welcome to this house of old fools! I don’t know how you’re going to have any fun here.”
“Well, I’m having some already!” Rémi says.
“That’s all the luggage you’ve got? And your coat? You haven’t brought only that little fairy jacket?”
“Lucienne…”
Rémi gestures to Marthe that it does not matter.
“But I am a fairy, Lucienne.”
“I know, poor you! That’s no reason to freeze! We’re beside the river, my boy!”
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” he says ironically. “I’m from the country, you know.”
“Don’t make fun of me, young man!”
“I’m not making fun of you. I have a heavy winter coat at my father’s. I’ll go and fetch it.”
“You’d better!”
“You can look in the attic,” Marthe suggests. “Léo’s things are there. I always bought him new clothes for winter, in case he decided to spend some time here. They’ll only need washing so they don’t smell too strongly of camphor. And whatever else you need, you can go back into town and buy. From today onward,” she tells Lucienne, “I’m taking responsibility for him.”
Lucienne whistles.
“Well… Marthe’s bought herself a man.”
Rémi laughs heartily.
“I’m going to stay on the veranda for a while,” Marthe replies.
There, she tells herself as she sits down.
She takes time to observe the familiar landscape. Bruz jumps onto her lap and settles himself, searching for comfort. She places a hand on him; he begins to purr.
“I won’t stay long, my cat. The weather is turning bad and it’s dark. One can’t see a thing.”
This time the cat does not answer with his familiar meow. Instead, he settles more deeply, gently closes his eyes in contentment, his head held high, his back absorbing every one of Marthe’s caresses, as though telling her to continue, not to move, since happiness resides here, in sitting and doing nothing.
“I wish it were so, my friend.”
The wind moans above the river. Will the winter be harsh? She glances at her friends’ cottages, buries her ageing fingers in her cat’s fur, rocks, gradually becomes an old woman. Long hammered into her, the thought has been branded as though with a hot iron upon this door opening before her. Upon the great silence.
She calls the sky as witness. By signing her will, she will dispossess herself of this place. Even though it must await her death, she already considers herself no more than a tenant. The thought makes her dizzy, opens her eyes. There is no chance, only convergences, beautifully constructed castles in Spain. “There,” she repeats to herself. The day has shaken her more than she would like. Hélène is right; she tells herself too many stories.
She commands herself—perhaps it is merely a promise—to shape her life according to the straightest possible path. “That is what you have always wanted to do,” she tells herself. “Yes, I wanted it that way. Hence the sadness.”
She shivers, rises and feels the pain; her arthritis did not appreciate this liberty taken with winter. The fire is going out, she thinks. She enters. Rémi is in the sitting room. He has opened a book and is looking at the sketches drawn by Léo. Lucienne is at her pots.
“Do me a favour, Rémi. Throw that book into the fire.”
Surprised, he holds up the volume to make sure she means that one. She nods. He obeys. She goes into the kitchen and presses herself against Lucienne.
“I’m hungry!”
The next day, she leaves the hotel. The city is not yet fully awake; the traffic lights regulate the movement of the wind. She misses the river. A strange place to build a city, in a basin, sheltered from the great winds, certainly, but thereby alienated and artificial, surrounded by walls punctured with gates. They call it the fortress. And yet, in the secrecy of its streets, it has become a northern metropolis, teeming and Western, plastic and modern. Artists have settled there readily. One thinks of Nelligan’s Norway. Marthe breathes the air. There is no telling whether the day will be fine.
November in the city is nothing like November in her countryside. Since there are no trees downtown, only the air gives any sense of the seasons. Certainly, a little farther from the centre, she could recover the tranquillity of suburban humanity, so cruelly absent from the great boulevards and financial arteries. Her hotel is in the old quarter, but that is precisely all one feels there: history, blunders and tourism’s reclamation of both. She knows a small square farther west. She reaches it after walking around the imposing basilica. All four benches are occupied by homeless men still asleep. She ventures closer all the same; misery, which she has grown accustomed to seeing from above and at a distance, moves her only on rare occasions. She circles the vagrants. They smell strongly and are lightly dressed for the season. Their destitution is displayed without disguise. One of them urinates in his trousers; a damp stain spreads across them. She turns back and decides to sit for a few moments in the basilica.
Despite the early hour, coaches have already emptied their passengers onto the church forecourt. She enters and looks for a place as far as possible from the traffic of sightseers. Before her are votive candles, most of them unlit. The atmosphere fills with tourists’ footsteps and hushed remarks. They have only “ohs” and “ahs” for the starry blue ceiling and the tabernacle’s extravagant ornamentation. People sit down, as she does, some apparently to pray in earnest, others to permit themselves a yawn, already tired by their day.
“And now, what are you going to do with your life?” It is not the Lord calling to her, but once again her inner voice, her faithful conscience, maternal and analytical. “What will you do, now that you are ridding yourself of your past?” Ridding herself? That is hardly certain. She kneels, reminded of childhood, when she still possessed an optimistic heart. “And now?” Is her heart gentler? Sadder? Word games, games of escape, pleasures of the brain. Subdued, certainly—her heart has submitted. It waits patiently to learn the ending; her body is doubtless already preparing for the event, injecting her in small doses with endorphins, calming substances that make her wise, weak, but happy. So what should she do with her life? Continue it; above all, follow it, let it guide her to the end. And then? Then nothing. She leaves nothing behind. No children. She thinks of Marie-Claire. She rises, takes a match, strikes it and lights a first votive candle.
“For Lucienne and her lost loves.”
Another.
“For Hélène and her writing.”
Another, higher up.
“For Gustave and his boredom.”
Yet another, beside the first.
“For Armand and paradise.”
“For Marie-Claire, Luc and the little one.”
“For Rémi and his youth.”
She hesitates.
“For Léo? Why not.”
“For me?”
“This is going to cost you a lot…”
Marthe turns. Almond-shaped eyes look at her with the utmost seriousness. She smiles at the child.
“It doesn’t matter, my dear. The Good Lord will give me credit.”
“What’s credit?”
“It’s as though you lent me one of your toys. Where is your mother?”
The child shrugs.
“Are you here with your mother?”
She nods.
“She’ll be looking for you.”
The child suddenly seems to realise that she might be lost and runs in every direction, loudly calling for her mother. A woman rushes over and takes her in her arms. Marthe watches them leave. The little girl gives her a vague wave. Marthe returns it, then turns back to the votive candles, takes another match and dips it into the flame of one of them. She begins lighting the other cups at random until all are burning. The light intensifies; the flames, enclosed by the combustion of the others, remain straight, almost motionless. She counts them. It does come to a tidy sum. She does not have that much in her wallet. Strange that no one has thought of automatic payment yet. Surely it will come.
She allows this punctual, commercial light to tame her. A single breath would be enough to send her prayers flying. The candles will eventually go out by themselves.
As a child, her nose had been level with the first row of lights, and the slope of votive candles had seemed dangerously vertical, like a wall of evangelical fire. She pressed herself against her mother, tried to crawl beneath her skirt without taking her eyes from the enormous little flames. She bends down and tries to restore her vision to what it was in youth. A futile effort. Her eyes are too large.
As she straightens, she notices an old woman sitting a little farther away in the shadows, who seems to be watching her. Marthe smiles, but the woman does not react, her hands slowly telling the beads of a rosary, her eyes, Marthe realises, fixed on the crucified Christ hanging above the candles. The exaggerated light gives the Lord sharp features. Marthe looks at the old woman, then at Christ. She is not yet as old and will probably never be as devout. She hesitates. Should she put out her candles? She would be extinguishing Christ… Let Him extend her credit, then!
She leaves the church, making her way through the ever denser river of “ohs” and “ahs.” The sun is already stronger, but buffeted by the glass of the office buildings, which diverts it from its course and thereby dispossesses the square of its hour.
She heads towards the restaurant district and lingers in a small bistro, watching people. She relaxes and orders a third coffee. Caffeine no longer affects her. She becomes grey. She easily succeeds in emptying herself; it is a pleasant sensation. There, at the centre of what she calls her thoughts, nothing remains. At least, nothing that can be apprehended. A small flame would lose its light there, and yet something most certainly exists, there, just there, a kind of vibration, a sound, her music. Happy?
She repeats the question. Is she happy? She calls the surrounding customers as witnesses and tries to compare herself with them. The old gentleman to her right: he eats with a bewildered expression and sighs often. A young pair of lovers at the back, comfortably settled within each other’s gaze, their hands intertwined and alive. The waiter, apparently tired and too busy. Her turn to sigh. Then silence, no answer. Or perhaps there is one: a minute certainty, opaque, to little effect. She is not happy, she tells herself; she is simply alive, listening. That is sufficient in itself. There is no happiness but this astonishment.
The old man looks at her. What does he think of her? That she is an old woman who appears happy? What does he perceive that she cannot guess? He quickly averts his eyes and returns to the chicken he is slowly cutting. He probably saw nothing, or quickly extinguished the semblance of desire or a smile. She searches for her air. Everything is merely material for interpretation. She stands; she still has errands to run, including a stop at Simon and Courville about the auction. The old man smiles at her. He reminds her of Armand, but more managerial. The waiter resembles Rémi, but less athletic, and over there the lovers entwine their hands as Léo used to entwine hers. The game of resemblances is tempting but useless.
The waiter gives her the bill she requested. She takes out enough to pay. He thanks her and wishes her a pleasant day. “Be happy,” she hears herself answer. He looks startled, then smiles before responding to the pseudo-Armand, who wants fresh water.
All hands are on deck at Simon and Courville. The receptionist immediately passes the request to his superior, who promptly informs the great man himself, who hurries downstairs to welcome Marthe.
“Good morning, Marthe.”
“Good morning, Jacques.”
She is pleased to discover that the art “world” has not forgotten her. She adopts a warm but distant manner and explains her plan to Jacques, whom, when all is said and done, she barely knows. He is—or was?—a “personal friend” of Léo’s from their younger days. She does not ask for news of him, just as Jacques appears unwilling to provide any.
He seems surprised and concerned and questions her actual title to the works. She asks him to confirm it with Léo. She gives him a list of the paintings she carefully prepared before leaving.
“No one knows these works,” he says.
“They have never left the studio. These two”—she points to The Casimir Effect and the Red Painting—“are simply marvellous.”
He gives her a weak smile, plainly uncomfortable.
“I must see them.”
“Of course. Come whenever you wish.”
“May I keep this list? I need to contact Léo’s agent.”
She takes out another sheet of paper.
“Contact Léo directly instead. Here is his address and telephone number. For now, I would prefer to keep his agent out of it.”
He begins to protest; she motions for him to be quiet.
“Léo will answer you. I don’t want the news getting out just yet. Make your inquiries and report back to me as quickly as possible.”
“Why don’t you keep them? They will increase in value when…”
He stops. She finishes the sentence for him.
“When he dies?”
She gives him an unpleasant smile.
“And what if his death comes after mine? Do you imagine I do not know the value of these paintings and their importance? Think instead of what they will be worth when people learn that the woman who spent forty years of her life with Léo Arcand has decided to sell the paintings in her possession. Moreover, I want the auction to take place in this city.”
He tries to object again. Her gaze tells him she will tolerate none. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he bows to her wishes. She quickly leaves after making certain one final time that her instructions will be followed.
The early November air gives her what she needs. She takes a handkerchief from her handbag and presses it to her lips, sealing them. Her anger surprises her. She finds it childish, yet liberating. She regains her composure and walks purposefully towards her notary’s office.
She has no appointment. The secretary is putting on airs; it is obvious. Rather than challenge her, Marthe plays the game, takes out a calling card and asks her to deliver it. Old-fashioned, but effective.
No sooner has the secretary entered her employer’s office than he brushes past her to come and greet Marthe.
“My dear friend, what a surprise!”
Marthe glances at the secretary as she returns to her desk, thoroughly disconcerted by her defeat.
“Suzanne, I am here for no one. But,” he says, turning towards Marthe and taking her arm, “no one comes to see me anymore. All I do is administer death.”
They enter. A young man in a suit and tie stands.
“My son Victor—Junior to his intimates—my youngest. He has become a notary, and I am preparing to leave him my place. I was beginning to despair. The older boys preferred to become lawyers. What misery!”
She laughs. The young man shakes her hand.
“Victor is a handsome name, though not terribly modern,” she says, staring at him longer than politeness permits.
Victor gives a slight smile.
“He bears my name proudly, does he not? Obviously, you cannot say otherwise in front of your father,” Senior adds, winking at Marthe. “My son, allow me to introduce a great lady, the woman who spent more time than anyone beside the great Arcand.”
“That is quickly said. He was there only in summer, and not always then. One is never truly with an artist; one lives around him.”
“Or the reverse?” Victor suggests. “Artists are reputed to be profitable parasites. Queens put the bees to work.”
Marthe concedes the point with a nod, enjoying this game of polite wit. After these pleasantries, she explains her plans for the sale, then her wish to alter her will. Victor senior and junior resume their notarial demeanour. The father is about to open the file, then stops.
“Victor is gradually taking over my practice. He already knows the broad outline of your affairs, but I must nevertheless ask your permission to continue in his presence.”
“I have nothing to hide,” Marthe replies. “And since one day he will have to administer death in your place…”
Senior smiles, satisfied. He takes a folder from a filing cabinet and opens it before him.
“Here is your current will. Before discussing changes, we will also have to clarify ownership of Léo’s paintings: what you actually possess, what was given to you and what was merely left on the premises.”
“I suspected as much.”
“We will need letters, invoices, deeds of gift—anything that might establish his intentions.”
“Léo had no intentions,” she says. “He had impulses.”
Victor sketches a smile.
“Unfortunately, courts prefer documents to impulses.”
She concedes the point with a nod. Senior begins reading the old will. Léo’s name appears several times, more intrusive on each occasion, as though a stranger had managed to slip into the room. Marthe raises her hand.
“That is enough. I no longer want him to inherit anything.”
“That part is simple,” says Senior. “We must decide, however, who will take his place.”
Marthe thinks of Marie-Claire, her rounded belly, the cottage beside the river. The image seems beautiful but too perfectly composed, like those paintings that seduce before the paint is even dry.
“This morning, I thought I knew.”
“And now?” Victor asks.
“Now I know only that it will not be Léo.”
Victor leans slightly towards her.
“We can revoke the provisions in his favour without deciding today what will ultimately become of the entire property.”
Senior looks at his son with pride he tries unsuccessfully to conceal.
“There. He learns quickly.”
“Or perhaps you taught him everything,” Marthe replies.
She turns to Victor.
“What would happen to the estate if I died before reaching a decision?”
“The will can provide for an interim disposition,” he explains. “We could direct that the property be sold and the proceeds paid into your estate, or temporarily designate legatees. But if you are uncertain of your wishes, it would be better not to transform an emotional urgency into an irrevocable decision.”
The remark stings. She is about to remind him of her age and experience, then thinks better of it. This is precisely why she came to a notary: to hear this kind of answer.
“You are cautious, Junior.”
“A professional reflex.”
“Keep it. It will age you less quickly than certainty.”
Senior bursts out laughing.
“You see, my son? That is a person of sound mind. Make the most of it; they are rare nowadays.”
Marthe picks up the old will and scans it quickly.
“I also want to appoint a new liquidator. And I want my friends protected if they survive me. Lucienne especially. She has lived beside me for twelve years.”
“We will prepare several possibilities,” says Victor. “A fixed sum, an annuity, a right of use… We will need a precise account of your assets and intentions.”
“Death certainly requires a great deal of paperwork.”
“It keeps notaries in business,” Senior replies.
Victor opens a notebook and records Marthe’s wishes. His handwriting is upright and surprisingly elegant.
“You seem familiar with Léo’s work,” she observes.
He hesitates before answering.
“I studied art history before law. My father claims I chose the notarial profession so I could continue associating with artists without starving.”
“And he is right,” Senior declares. “His dissertation concerned intellectual property and artists’ estates. For once, his detours may prove useful.”
“You will come and see the paintings,” Marthe says. “Some have never left Léo’s studio. I also have sketches, letters and books in which he drew.”
Victor appears genuinely interested.
“That will help us establish the provenance of the works.”
Marthe once again notices the small scar on his earlobe. She thinks of Rémi, immediately reproaches herself for playing matchmaker, then decides that old women surely have the right to amuse themselves with chance.
“You may find something else at the estate,” she adds.
His eyes question her, but she offers no explanation.
Senior closes the folder.
“Victor will prepare a draft. You will return to read it and, if everything corresponds to your wishes, we will proceed with the signing before a witness. The original will remain here and we will give you a certified copy.”
“So I must come back.”
“Death can wait for a second appointment,” says Victor junior.
“I certainly hope so.”
They stand. Marthe shakes Senior’s hand, then his son’s.
“Do not take too long all the same. I may be of sound mind, but I remain an old woman in a hurry.”
“We will call you in a few days,” young Victor promises.