“He’s all right. He’s out cold, but his breathing and pulse are steady. He probably took too much morphine; his condition certainly suggests it. We can leave him here until we take him home.”
“Are you sure?”
Hélène nods.
“I blame myself for not being vigilant enough.”
“Yet you’re the one who filled his pocket with medication.”
Hélène stops.
“What are you implying?”
“That you know how to take risks.”
Her friend gives a brief smile.
“He’s in too much pain. He should be in hospital; this makes no sense.”
“Is that the only solution?”
Hélène shrugs.
“No. If he died, that would settle his problem…”
“He might hear you.”
She sighs and folds her arms.
“I don’t think so. The morphine has put him into a deep stupor.”
She sits beside Armand.
“I didn’t want it to end this way.”
Hélène sits beside her.
“What did you think would happen? That it would be like the movies, all of us at his bedside with symphonic music playing around us?”
“You’re very sarcastic, my dear friend. I told you some time ago: I have no experience of dying.”
“Armand isn’t dead, Marthe. He’s asleep. Are you afraid?”
“No—or rather, yes, but of only one thing: that everything might suddenly become ugly.”
Hélène snickers.
“You really do think you’re in a movie or a book.”
“And where do you think you are?”
Hélène rises.
“Remember that discussion about boredom? I’m afraid my experience of death brought me there: I locked away all my feelings about it in a trunk and put the trunk in an attic I never visit.”
“You should have a garage sale.”
Hélène laughs and heads toward the door.
“Coming?”
“Go ahead. I’ll join you.”
Her friend leaves the study. Marthe takes Armand’s hand and studies his emaciated face, frosted by the drug. Someone is playing the piano on the other side of the wall. From the notes she hears, she knows it is Gustave. She tells herself, this time without fear of being put in her place, that she does not want it to end this way.
She rises and goes to the window. Bruz is there. She strokes her cat. Christmas night is black, haunted by the wind. Frost tries to attack the integrity of the glass like rust on inferior metal.
“I hope I haven’t done all this for nothing, Bruz. You’ll ask me what ‘all this’ means, and I won’t know how to answer in a single sentence. My life. Their lives, in the living room.”
The cat meows.
“Your life too, of course. But you have nine of them, don’t you? Which one are you on now?”
“I don’t want to go to hospital,” Armand says in a cavernous voice.
She starts and moves closer.
“You aren’t asleep? Are you in pain?”
She sits again and takes his hand. Armand does not answer. She touches his forehead and shakes him; he begins to snore. She sighs.
“How much of my speech did you hear? Did you understand what Hélène said?”
She quickly leaves the study before she becomes incapable of recovering the good spirits she left at the door. The others greet her with enigmatic smiles. The festive mood has gone. Marie-Claire leans against Luc; Lucienne yawns extravagantly. Hélène sits near Gustave, who is tinkering at the piano, while Rémi has settled by the fire between Victor’s legs as Victor sits in an armchair.
“It isn’t very gay in here,” Marthe says.
“Naturally. Only two of us are.”
“Does the hour always make you this clever?” Luc asks.
Rémi turns toward him.
“Careful. I bite and suck the blood of anyone who challenges me.”
Is she the only one who understands Rémi’s sexual allusions? She watches the others smile politely.
“We’d be better off going to bed,” Gustave says, rising and closing the piano. “We’re too old to suck anyone,” he adds, looking coldly at Rémi.
“No one is going to bed like this,” Marthe says. “It’s Christmas. We have to frighten winter and tell it we’re very much alive. Let’s at least dance. Luc, can you find us some suitable music?”
“No, wait,” Hélène says. “I brought something. I planned to end the evening with it.”
She searches her handbag and hands the compact disc to Luc.
“We need partners!” she orders.
Gustave approaches and bows to her. Luc invites Marie-Claire. Lucienne shrugs and motions Dimitri toward the middle of the living room. Marthe turns to Rémi; he rises, salutes, and before joining her kisses Victor fiercely. Victor is dumbfounded but visibly happy. Marthe laughs. Rémi takes her in his arms. The singer begins the first song, a languorous lament.
“What is this?” Gustave asks. “It certainly isn’t a cha-cha!”
“Be quiet, Gustave, and hold me close,” Hélène says. “Make the most of it; I won’t allow it often.”
Rémi presses Marthe against him. Every couple sways more than dances.
“How is Armand?”
“Asleep. He isn’t dead yet.”
“Why would you say that?”
“What have you been plotting with him?”
He does not answer and holds her tighter.
“How does it feel to be in the arms of a charming young man?”
“Like a used handkerchief someone left in the middle of the table. Why won’t you answer me?”
“Because there’s nothing to answer. I haven’t plotted anything with him. He’s old enough to know what he’s doing.”
“I’d like to believe you, even though you’re lying.”
She presses against him. He holds her and strokes her back.
“You have magical, magnetic hands. You could have made a woman happy.”
“Victor says the same thing, but he swears he’ll never wear a dress.”
“You great fool!”
“I changed my will a few months ago,” she says quietly, looking at the young couple. “I only have to decide what will become of the property. I thought of Marie-Claire.”
Rémi stops dancing for a moment.
“You hardly know her.”
“I know how to judge people.”
“Perhaps. But you don’t yet know what they’ll do with their lives. Neither does she.”
Marthe stiffens slightly against him.
“You think it’s a bad idea?”
“I find you naively young and thoughtless for a seventy-eight-year-old woman,” he replies rather cheerfully.
He becomes serious again.
“You want to travel, not disappear. You’ll need somewhere to come back to. So will Hélène and Gustave. This house is still yours.”
“And after us?”
“After you, you can decide when the time comes to die. But not tonight, and not because Armand is dying.”
The remark strikes her more surely than a reproach. She looks at Marie-Claire dancing with Luc, her round belly between them, and understands that she had turned that image into an answer.
“You think I’m mad?”
“No. I think you’re in a hurry to give everything meaning.”
She begins following the music again.
“Rémi Lemay.”
“Yes, Marthe Archambault?”
“You’re beginning to annoy me.”
“That’s why you chose me.”
“What’s happening with Luc?”
Rémi snickers.
“I’m in love with him. That’s all.”
“Why?”
“You can’t control such things.”
“And Victor? And Marie-Claire?”
“Let’s begin with the easiest one. Victor.”
“You’re cruel.”
“Not at all. I care a great deal for Victor, Marthe. I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Bad attitude.”
“What?”
“Don’t pity the people you love.”
“All right.”
“And Marie-Claire?”
“I think she loves Victor.”
“How dreadful,” Marthe says, laughing a little too loudly.
“It isn’t funny!” Rémi says, stiffening.
“Yes, it is. Forgive me, I’m simply past that age, thank God. In any case, you’ll do as you please, but you won’t touch Luc.”
“I don’t like what you’re saying, or the way you’re saying it.”
Marthe presses against him.
“Don’t be angry. You owe me respect on this point. I have experience of these things, you see. And you’re leaving on the trip with me, remember? Forgive me for putting it this way, but your hormones will make you fall in love with plenty of Italians.”
“Oh? We’re going to Italy?”
“Among other places,” Marthe says with a snicker.
Rémi kisses her neck.
“Hey, lovebirds, wait until you’re alone to get filthy!” Gustave shouts.
“Shut up! You can see I’m busy seducing him.”
Everyone laughs. Good humour returns and lightens the atmosphere. The Portuguese singer’s melodies grow livelier.
“You’re right, Marthe. My cock loves Luc; my heart has no interest in him.”
“You men…”
“How long has it been since you made love, Marthe?”
“What a painful trick question!” she says with a sigh. “Too long, and yet I no longer want to. You need to understand this about women, my boy: the warm breath of someone’s mouth upon our skin arouses us more than the mere penetration of a fine, round, upright cock.”
“I’ve never loved women.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Trust yourself. What are you going to do with Victor?”
“Stick my cock in him.”
“You can be vulgar when you want. You’re like Léo.”
“I know. Great minds think alike.”
“But seriously—Victor.”
“You’re rhyming now?”
He laughs.
“He wants to keep me. I suppose he needs me to help him keep his head above the suffocating waters of the notarial profession.”
“And you? What can he give you?”
He does not answer.
“Are you pitying him again, or denying yourself to him out of some fear I can’t fathom?”
“Why do you have to know every last detail of a situation?”
“To keep from losing my way, Rémi. To save myself from boredom.”
The music turns into a musette waltz. Rémi sways, drawing Marthe into that little erotic game of the smoky cafés of southern France. She laughs, followed by Hélène, who roars at Gustave’s attempt to imitate Rémi. Dimitri calls out something in Greek, trying to join in, and because no one understands, everyone bursts out laughing. Dimitri is proud of himself without realizing that he had nothing to do with it. Lucienne grows hot keeping up with the waltz; Dimitri likes what he sees bouncing before him.
Suddenly the music becomes languorous again. The tired couples separate and everyone sits down. Lucienne looks at the time.
“Two in the morning.”
“Time to go home,” Gustave says, sweating.
“Oh?” Hélène says, disappointed. “I was just beginning to enjoy myself.”
“We could continue in my cottage,” Gustave replies.
“Never, do you hear me?”
“We should take Armand home,” Victor says, emerging from his silence and apparently eager to end the evening as quickly as possible.
“You’re right,” Marthe replies.
She studies him and realizes that she has suddenly begun to pity him too much.
“I’ll get Armand’s things,” Rémi says.
Hélène opens the study door; Luc follows her.
“I’ll stay with him tonight,” Gustave announces.
“There’s no need,” Hélène says. “He’ll sleep like a baby, I assure you.”
“If you say so.”
Marthe toys with revealing what she heard Armand say earlier, then restrains herself. She approaches Victor.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, very well.”
“I’m glad you’re here, you know.”
“Really?”
“Yes. How is your father?”
“Disappointed that I’m not spending Christmas with him.”
“Is he better?”
“Yes. Suzanne is with him.”
“I hope he isn’t too lonely…”
Victor laughs.
“I’m glad to be here too. I prefer this…”
“…energy?”
“That’s it.”
Marthe smiles.
“Are you happy in your notary’s office?”
“Those are a lot of serious questions for Christmas.”
She senses that he is harder to coax than he appears.
“People who are hurting find every question too serious,” she says, stroking his hair.
She feels him resist.
“It’s Rémi, isn’t it?”
He stares at her.
“That question is indeed far too serious. We’ll discuss it another time, okay?”
She rises.
“Okay, as you say. We’re all tired, it’s true.”
“But we will discuss it,” he insists.
Under Hélène’s direction, the men move quickly. They lift Armand and carry him home like Christ taken down from the cross. Ten minutes later, they are already out of the house. Lucienne takes the opportunity to tidy the dining room. Marthe remains by the fire; Marie-Claire joins her.
“It’s sad.”
“What is? Oh, Armand,” Marthe realizes. “Not really, Marie-Claire,” she says, lying as convincingly as she can. “We had to expect it.”
“A strange Christmas, anyway. Usually I’m bored to death, but here there’s a…”
“…an energy?”
“That’s it.”
Marthe laughs.
“Did I say something funny?”
“No. I’m amusing myself at your expense. Victor said the same thing earlier.”
“I like that boy.”
“I know. It shows in the way you look at him and touch him.”
“Nothing gets past you.”
“Nothing gets past you, you should say.”
“I know. I have trouble with that. My upbringing points in the other direction.”
“The direction of false respect.”
Marthe takes Marie-Claire’s hands.
“I’m happy you came to live here.”
“So are we. More than you can imagine.”
“By the time we return from our travels, the baby may already be walking.”
“You will come back, then?”
Marthe smiles, surprised by the question.
“Of course. We’ll have to live somewhere.”
Marie-Claire squeezes her hands.
“I’m glad. The house would be too large without you.”
The words soothe something in Marthe that she had not yet known how to name. She draws the young woman against her, then lets her return to Luc.
As he usually does after knocking and receiving an answer, Rémi puts his head through the partly opened door.
“Come in,” Marthe insists.
“I wanted to wish you good night. Am I disturbing you?”
“Of course not. As you can see, I’m not asleep. I don’t particularly want to be. Is Armand settled in bed?”
Rémi nods and approaches. Marthe is brushing her hair.
“He woke before I left and asked where he was and what my name was. So I stayed with him awhile. He fell asleep again almost immediately. Victor left too. He wanted to return to the winter cottage.”
“He could have stayed.”
“He could have stayed,” Rémi repeats.
“You didn’t like his giving you that ring, did you?”
“Nothing can be hidden from you, High-Priestess-Who-Gets-Right-to-the-Point.”
“I would have been pleased in your place.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me to answer that.”
“Give it to me.”
She hands him the brush. He takes a lock of hair and slowly runs the brush through it.
“This hair is already brushed.”
“I never said otherwise.”
“And it will have to be brushed again tomorrow morning.”
Marthe smiles.
“In the morning, my mother used to say, you brush your hair so it will shine in the sun; at night, to welcome the stars. It is a way of opening the day, of opening the night.”
“Or closing the night and closing the day.”
“Of course. Every movement implies two truths.”
“We’re thoughtful tonight.”
“You started it!”
They smile. He stops brushing.
“I enjoyed the evening. It made a change from faggot parties.”
“Do they celebrate differently?”
“Not really. The nights in bars are all alike. It’s always a party.”
“Noise, rather.”
“Yes. When you’re young, celebration and noise are much the same thing…”
She feels him sink into thought and waits. People reveal themselves so well when given time to open, when watered with silence.
“Were you truly that sad when he left?” he finally asks.
The question surprises her a little.
“That isn’t the word. Fidelity is like motherhood, a visceral feeling. Once you’ve tasted it…”
“And in the end you found yourself barren and abandoned.”
“Ja, Herr Professor.”
“Is that the sum of your life?”
“No. The present is richer, come now.”
She takes back her brush.
“I’m not sleepy,” he says, apparently wishing to remain with her.
“Neither am I.”
“Shall we play cards? Strip poker?”
“Is Gustave putting ideas like that into your head?”
“Perhaps.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather have an herbal tea to help tonight’s meal go down. Next year we’ll have to reduce the calories.”
She stops and shrugs.
“But where will I be a year from now? Lucienne won’t be here to prepare all those delicious, wicked things, and I have no intention of taking over. Cooking was never my domain.”
“Will we still be travelling?”
“Who knows? Shall we go downstairs?”
Rémi catches Bruz as he slips between his legs.
“Are you coming travelling with us, Bruz? And will Gustave come?”
The cat narrows his eyes and meows. Is he protesting, or demanding the full petting service?
“I’m not sure. Hélène told me they found an abnormality in his prostate.”
“Cancer? Your crowd is dropping like flies.”
“I haven’t dropped yet, dear friend. And Gustave’s problem may be something else. As we age, false alarms are normal. It’s like an old airplane: warning lights come on and no one knows quite why. But it keeps flying.”
They reach the ground floor.
“Wait in the living room. I’ll make the tea.”
Marthe enters the kitchen. Lucienne has already put everything away; Marthe sighs. She slowly goes through the steps of preparing the tea.
Tonight she feels old. Living through too many hours at once suits her less and less. Some hours seem denser, their current stronger and deeper. The old drown easily in them.
The water is already simmering. Where was she during that brief instant? Now it is boiling. The absence disturbs her. She removes the kettle, fills the teapot, rapidly replays the evening, then sets the pot on a tray with two cups and the sugar. She concentrates on this commonplace act like a Buddhist. It works.
The oils of her body grow heavier as the hour advances. She cannot help thinking of Léo, yet manages neither anger nor expectation. Her boat is slipping its moorings one by one. In the night’s silence, she can almost hear the ropes slacken. She worries; such sensations usually foretell an event. She listens to the air, but the sound has vanished. She looks in the mirror. It returns; she stiffens and nearly drops the tray. She breathes, listens, studies the room. It does not return. She resolutely enters the living room and finds Rémi half asleep by the fire. She sets the tray on the hearth, which often serves as an improvised seat, and adds a cushion. Rémi wakes and straightens.
“Are you sleeping, or shall I pour?”
“I’m answering, so I’m drinking.”
“You’re more tired than you admit.”
“It’s the alcohol.”
“This is called The Seven Plants of Happiness.”
“Pretty name. Oh! It’s hot.”
“Didn’t your mother teach you to blow on hot drinks?”
“Yes, but she also said it was high time I thought about girls, so I began doubting everything she had taught me.”
She laughs.
“Cheers!”
They blow and sip. Marthe leans against the stone fireplace. New logs burn beside her.
“Thank you for the fire,” she says.
She sighs and listens to the wind in the chimney.
“Is it cold outside?”
“Yes. Not very Christmassy.”
“We celebrated well enough. Wind, cold and snow never greatly affected my disposition. I have always accepted them and made them companions. Listen to the wind; heal your soul.”
“You couldn’t do that in the city.”
“Everyone has their mystery, Rémi. I chose the wind; it’s personal. Instinctively, what would you choose?”
“Flesh?”
She snickers.
“Does sexuality worry you that much?”
He asks for her hand. She puts down her cup and offers both. He strokes her fingers and presses her palms.
“Touching someone is like speaking into their ear.”
“You should become a masseur. Or a shaman.”
He smiles.
“I prefer love.”
“That limits you to a certain category.”
“And listening to the wind doesn’t limit you to solitude?”
She withdraws her hands and massages her cheeks.
“The wind goes everywhere. It brings us people’s stories. Invisible forces bind us.”
“Léo and I played a game. Hold your hands before you as though against a wall.”
He obeys. She does the same without touching him.
“Now close your eyes.”
She closes hers. Their hands immediately become antennae.
“Cool,” he murmurs. “Is that your Casimir effect?”
“That is all it is.”
She lowers her arms. He keeps his position.
“Where are you?”
She laughs.
“What are you seeking in love, Rémi?”
He opens his eyes and takes his cup.
“You mean sex?”
“Love, Rémi. Love.”
“I don’t know what love is.”
“You’re more intelligent than that.”
“So are you. It doesn’t stop you hurting despite your age and all those years.”
“Everything in its time. I trust the wind; it wears away mountains if one is patient.”
“Mountains live longer than we do.”
“They don’t dream as much.”
Marthe sips her tea.
“Three months ago I sat on the veranda and thought I heard voices. I wanted to know what they were saying, then realized it was only the wind. Yet those voices seem to have been a signal. In only a few weeks, everything shifted, changing season and direction at once. I certainly took steps to make it happen, but why at this precise moment of my life?”
“The right stars at the right time, Armand would say.”
She looks at the fire. In the half-light, the flames cast shadows on the walls that seem to come alive.
“It is like this fire. The logs scarcely move, the flames rush, the shadows race across the walls. From a distance, everything would appear motionless. From one end of the telescope, everything moves too quickly; from the other, too slowly. Looking backward weighs me down. Looking ahead, the days advance like shadows driven frantic by the flames.”
“Then we can make whatever we wish of everything that happens?”
“In a way. Thinking of Léo and our years together makes my flesh cry out with hunger; looking at you makes me feel the urgency of doing something else. It is like hair: we brush it pointlessly at night to soothe the day, then in the morning to untangle the night’s agitation. Or like a writer returning to the beginning after learning the ending just written. Inevitably, the reading changes. The writer corrects, alters, erases, rebuilds. We can make our story say whatever we want, provided we discover meaning in it and draw nourishment from it.”
“There are bad stories and bad interpretations. People kill for belief in obsolete tales.”
“And others are there to set their books the right way up.”
“Where is truth in all this?”
“In our dialogue, Rémi. In the wind around us.”
“How could Léo leave you?”
She takes time to sip. What should she answer: a wise old woman’s words, or a young girl’s cry?
“I had answers with him; I thought my book well written. Perhaps I didn’t doubt enough.”
“But still?”
“Still what?”
“You’re wounded.”
“Yes. My great brain has been hiding the truth from you. My body is more mechanical, and it no longer has its sweet.”
“That’s a rather simplistic account of sorrow.”
“The answer lies not only in flesh, but above all in dialogue extended over many years. So you cannot simply decide whether Victor is good for your existence. Though I grant you, it might be someone else.”
“Time heals things?”
“Time is only mortar. We do the building.”
“To build what?”
“I can only answer: our destiny.”
“That means nothing.”
“Try forcing yourself to think as though you were an old man.”
He rises, yawning and stretching. Marthe knows he is displaying his body for the pleasure of showing off his youth.
“If I were you, I’d go to Victor.”
“You think so? Perhaps you’re right. But his father doesn’t like me much.”
“He is protecting his son.”
“You judge me harshly.”
“I want you happy. We could invite Victor to travel with us.”
“The crowd is growing.”
“How much do you think Léo’s paintings will bring us? You have no idea.”
“Victor mentioned large figures.”
“In any case, he cannot stay with us long. He has his father and his affairs. He has a road to travel. He’ll be busy.”
Rémi kisses her forehead. His already rough face recalls mornings when Léo kissed her before leaving bed to paint.
“It’s half past three. A little late to arrive at someone’s home.”
“There is no wrong hour to redeem yourself, and I wager he told you to come at any hour you wished.”
“Do you listen at doors?”
“No. I have experience and a great deal of imagination. I’ll see you out.”
“I’ll get a few things.”
While he prepares in his room, she dresses warmly and goes outside. It is bitterly cold and very dark. The night immediately enfolds her in its unreal silence. Rémi joins her; she hands him her car keys. He kisses her cheek.
“You smell good.”
“I always smell good, and I shower less often than that uptight Victor.”
“Say you love him.”
“No. I won’t say anything. I might get my story wrong.”
She laughs.
“You learn your lessons well.”
“Will they lead me to happiness?”
“I don’t know, but they will certainly lead you to a cold if you stand out here wearing so little. Honestly…”
He runs away.
“I’m young!” he shouts.
“Touch wood!”
She watches him open the garage, drive out and flash the headlights as he passes. Laughing, she follows their glow up the hill until it disappears. Back in darkness, she considers sitting and awaiting morning. She yawns. Her body orders her to find a few hours’ sleep. She looks once more into the dark. As she passes, she thinks she sees a figure in Armand’s front window. She expects him to turn on the light, his senses recovered. The window remains opaque. She must have mistaken Katou for her master. The wind suddenly howls; she shivers. It smells like a storm. Or is that merely her imagination again?
She goes inside. Tomorrow she will visit Armand. If necessary, she will ask his doctor what should be done. This is the end, she tells herself: the end of the night, the end of a story, the continuation of everything else.
She closes the door. The manor is silent with a patient silence. She removes her coat and boots. Bruz watches from the stairs. She picks him up as she climbs. What a docile creature, she thinks. She places him near her neck; he settles properly, front paws on her shoulder, and purrs. She climbs slowly.