Through the open window, she hears Henri and his men joking and hurling insults at one another. Henri has taken the wire guards from the shed and is arranging them around the shrubs according to a long-established code. He has winterized Marthe’s garden ever since she moved to the region. They are the same age and know each other in a superficial, friendly way. Two of Henri’s boys are with him, as well as a man she does not know.
They rake the leaves. The wind does not play with them too much, so the work proceeds quickly. She turns her attention back to the letter she must write. The page, too white, does not help her find the right words. She writes the date, waits, then quickly writes “Léo.”
Her hand falls silent. She lowers the pen on the page and looks through the window at Rémi, one of Henri’s boys, removing his shirt. The fellow does not feel the cold. He is muscular. She thinks of Armand; he would not have disliked the spectacle. He would have settled on his veranda with a book and pretended to look elsewhere. She smiles, then her lips tighten.
“Léo,” she reads again.
Then, resolutely, she writes:
“I hope you are well.”
It begins badly, with a lie. She gives analysis no time to stop her.
“This afternoon, I am having your paintings moved into a room in the house. I would like to know what you wish to do with them. They are your property, after all.”
She stops writing and watches the boys throwing leaves at one another. Henri soon calls them to order; he needs help positioning the guards around the shrubs. The man she does not know volunteers.
If Marthe ends her letter this way, she will appear to be still under the sway of anger; if she continues, she will have to speak about herself.
“Armand is ill. I thought you would want to know, assuming the past matters to you at all.”
There. Her anger is confessed.
“He is in the hospital; they suspect liver cancer.”
A new paragraph. Hesitation. How can she say everything without giving him too much hold over her life?
“I still have neither understood nor accepted your departure. I am seventy-eight. No one in the art world seems to speak of you anymore.”
She finds herself ridiculous. What does she know of that world apart from the gossip of sympathetic friends? One voice urges her to end the letter on this denial-question-trap. Another points out that at seventy-eight she should be less childish.
She looks once more at Henri’s boys, then at Henri himself, roaring with laughter at the youngest one’s antics.
Well, no! Age is only biological. She has nothing else to say to him, indeed.
She signs and rereads it feverishly, grimaces; it is clumsy, but she can find no other way to say what she has to say. She folds the sheet in three, takes an envelope, finds the address of Léo’s agent in her book and copies it quickly, not forgetting the return address. She affixes a stamp, abruptly throws the letter into the wastebasket, rises, sits at her dressing table, undoes her bun and begins to comb her hair, stops immediately, rests her elbows on the small table and looks at herself in the mirror.
She feels no satisfaction. Nothing could provide it, obviously. She sighs, finds herself old, but above all disappointed. After self-pity comes boredom, and she sighs again. Is she not a beautiful woman, even with those rivers across her face? Does she not still radiate that authority, dearly acquired through doubt and self-denial? Is she not unhappy at the same time? Beautiful but lost, dropped on the ground like a leaf whose season is done? She judges the thought narcissistic, then forgives herself, gives her hair another stroke of the brush, remakes her bun, rises, retrieves the envelope from the wastebasket and leaves her room. She joins Lucienne, busy in the kitchen, and places the letter on the table.
“Could you mail this, please?”
Lucienne glances at it while continuing to stir what is simmering in a pot.
“Is it urgent?”
“When you go to the village.”
Lucienne answers gently:
“Why don’t you go out yourself? It’d do you good. You’re always shut up in here…”
Marthe smiles faintly.
“I know, Lucienne. I know…”
“You could give it to Henri or Bob…”
“That is certainly true.”
Marthe moves closer to smell what Lucienne is preparing.
“Soup? Why so much?”
“I always make lots of it, Marthe. Come on!”
“But two pots?”
Lucienne does not answer at once. Marthe begins to understand.
“It’s for Armand?”
The maid answers indirectly, her voice warmer, holding out a spoonful of soup.
“My sister died of cancer. Once they’ve stuffed Armand full of their chemical shit, the way they did Nicole, he won’t be able to swallow much…”
Marthe admires Lucienne’s foresight.
“If only I’d had your clarity of mind when Léo left.”
Lucienne glances at her, trying to understand this sudden return to the past.
“Léo was under your skin, Marthe. Nothing can stop a woman from wanting to silence her pain.”
“You’re right again,” she answers softly, defeated.
She sits at the table. Lucienne leaves her pot and follows suit, patting her hand. She notices the address on the envelope.
“You wrote to Léo?”
“Yes…”
Lucienne shrugs; Marthe feels compelled to explain.
“I want him to tell me what to do with the paintings. And I told him about Armand. They were friends.”
Lucienne rises.
“You could burn them…”
Marthe smiles.
“I’ve thought of that already.”
“I know. I’m the one who stopped you.”
They laugh. Yet Marthe is afraid she may cry. Has that been all she has done for five years—not live? Once again, she must convince herself otherwise. She had travelled, certainly, and studied. She had also surrendered to periods of profound weariness, of comatose lethargy, inclined to commit reckless acts like that evening in March when she headed towards Léo’s cottage with two cans of petrol. Seeing her through the window, Lucienne had run to stop her. Marthe had already doused the veranda when, after a false step, she slipped and spilled the rest of the petrol over herself. Had she been holding a flame, she would have immolated herself. Lucienne brought her back to the house, cursing her freely. Soon afterwards, Marthe left for Egypt to stay with a psychoanalyst friend. When she returned two months later, Lucienne behaved as though nothing had happened.
Marthe sighs.
“I’m going to see how far the men have got.”
“Tell them lunch will be ready soon.”
Marthe goes outside. Cleared of dead leaves, the lawn has recovered its summer appearance. The four men have gathered the leaves in one place. Rémi arrives with the small tractor and trailer. They begin filling it, but will have to make several trips. Henri greets her with a nod. He informs her that they will burn the leaves on the strand once the tide is low enough. Marthe knows the procedure perfectly well but, as always, says nothing.
“Your lunch is ready. You have time to go and get something to eat.”
“Don’t mind if we do.”
“Any news of Mr. Léo?” Rémi asks.
“None of your business, young man,” Henri answers sharply.
Young man… Rémi must be thirty, Marthe thinks. She signals to Henri that it does not matter. To change the subject, she asks whether he is married. But the attempt fails. Henri’s face darkens further. Looking more closely, Marthe notices Rémi’s earring.
“Do you live in town?”
He winks at her.
“Yes, I work in a café. But I’m on holiday for a few days. I need my country vitamins. I’m very happy to discover this estate; my father has often told me about it.”
Marthe laughs at Henri’s funeral expression. He has never really known what to do with a son so much freer than himself.
“All right, boys, let’s go eat. Coming, Gaston? Ah, Madame Marthe, this is Gaston, a friend from town. He’ll be staying with me for a while. His wife passed away.”
“My condolences, sir.”
The man accepts them without showing any sign of acknowledgement. They head towards the house. Rémi remains with Marthe and gently takes her hands.
“I liked Léo, but what he did to you wasn’t right.”
Marthe squeezes his hand in gratitude and asks very softly:
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
He winks again. Is it a habit, or a way of compensating for his shyness? He kisses her cheek and leaves to join the others. Left alone, she approaches the river. The wind has grown cooler despite the sun at its zenith. She walks to the old stump near the dock and sits. The horizon immediately envelops her. She listens. Only the trees and their thinning branches, only the water, as atonal as ever. Nothing else. Autumn resembles the end of a concert, when the audience leaves amid an apprehensive din. It will surely snow soon; the air already smells almost of ice. She pulls her shawl higher over her shoulders and replaces a loose lock of hair. The place’s apparent indifference gives her a sense of well-being renewed countless times. And for the umpteenth time, she takes pride in having found this place.
She senses a presence behind her and turns. Katou is watching.
“All alone, sweetheart? Has Bruz abandoned you? I know what that’s like.”
Katou allows herself to be picked up. Marthe holds her beneath her chin. The cat immediately purrs. Marthe closes her eyes and listens to the animal’s mysterious murmured song. Everything resembles everything else on this Earth: purring, waves, sighs, loves, all echoes of the great noise that occurred at the beginning of the world, a score repeated, rewritten, transcribed and embellished millions of times, then forgotten.
She hears a door close. Turning, she sees Gustave and waves. He comes over and sits beside her.
“I’m going to see Armand,” he says resolutely.
“You won’t be able to see him. He must be somewhere in the hospital undergoing tests.”
Gustave slumps.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Marthe observes him.
“Why do you want to see him so soon?”
He shrugs.
“I miss him already!”
“He isn’t dead, Gustave.”
He studies her with the blue eyes Marthe has always loved, a silver blue devoid of falsehood. She strokes his hair, sensing how unsettled he is.
“It won’t be easy, I know.”
“What won’t?” she asks.
“Well, all this. What’s happening to him.”
“It will be difficult for us?”
He studies her again, probably meaning to signal that she is preventing him from going in circles. Then he admits the obvious.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Are you afraid of dying?”
“Dunno. Doesn’t feel like it’ll happen any time soon, so I don’t think about it.”
He hesitates before continuing.
“My life is over anyway. I don’t much care.”
He picks up a leaf that escaped the workers’ rakes, slowly tears it and lets the pieces fall. Marthe watches his performance.
“And you don’t mind waiting like this?”
He gathers other leaves and tries to throw them into the distance, but they are so light that they hover in place and fall back to die on the ground.
“I don’t have a choice, do I? Besides, I feel good here. I rest, play cards, take it easy. Aren’t you the same?”
She smiles and questions the horizon, which never tells her anything.
“Since Léo left, I no longer know.”
He spits on the ground as though warding off bad luck. She takes no offence.
“You lived,” he says in a misted voice, “what you had to live with him. That’s what I think.”
He holds his hands parallel before him, then abruptly pulls them apart with an ironic pfft.
“You think it’s that simple?” she asks.
He remains unruffled.
“It could be.”
She does not answer. Katou is still asleep. Marthe picks her up with no regard for her sleep. The cat does not protest and begins to purr against Marthe’s neck. Gustave appears exasperated.
“Ah, women!”
He stands.
“And you’re too old for all this grief, Marthe. You’re worth more than that and you know it perfectly well!”
She smiles at him.
“I know, Gustave. I’ve been telling myself so for five years. Thank you for reminding me.”
Henri’s sons emerge from the house. Gustave takes his leave, suddenly eager to go and play cards with his friends in the village. She does not detain him; his factory-manager psychology was beginning to bore her. Rémi approaches.
“Eat well?”
“Yes, thank you!”
The other workers are already busy. Rémi looks at the river and breathes deeply.
“And your father—what is he still doing in the house?”
He winks.
“Maybe his pencil needs sharpening…”
“He’s too old, come on…”
“Well, with the new pill…”
She immediately stops smiling, caught off guard.
“You don’t mean it! He takes the pill?”
He bursts out laughing.
She anxiously watches the house. Not in the kitchen, surely? But Henri emerges with a lit pipe in his mouth. She smiles at Rémi.
“You’re pulling my leg!”
He bows and runs to join the others. They carry the leaves towards the river. Marthe sits again and watches their many journeys. Soon the leaves form a dishevelled mound. The men insert newspaper throughout and use branches to bore air holes. Then they set it alight.
Hélène leaves her cottage and comes to sit beside her.
After quickly burning the mound’s surface, the fire now has greater difficulty reaching its depths. Thick whitish smoke rises, seized by the wind and sculpted in every direction, granted a beauty as intense as it is fleeting. The smell of burning leaves reaches them.
Hélène sighs.
“I hope Armand gets in touch soon…”
Marthe feels calm.
“We’ll know soon enough.”
She rises and puts down the cat, who, as though propelled by an invisible spring, heads towards the woods. Marthe follows her with her eyes. Bruz appears from behind a rock. The two felines begin a playful race. Hélène has risen as well.
“We’ll have to visit him at the hospital,” she says, “and talk to his doctors. Armand won’t tell us anything. I can feel it.”
“You’re right.”
They move closer to the fire. Their shoes are unsuited to the strand’s heavy dampness, and they walk carefully.
“Did you see the widower Henri brought with him? He’s not bad.”
“His wife just died,” Marthe says.
“Oh well…”
They laugh. Hélène greets the men, is introduced to the widower and casts him an improper look. But he does not appear to understand the allusion. Hélène returns to Marthe with a sarcastic wink. Marthe greets Roger, Henri’s other son, but he is not talkative. Henri tends the fire with mixed success while Rémi calmly fills his lungs, as though drawing from the surrounding air the source of a happiness impossible to find elsewhere.
At that moment, Bob and his own workers arrive.
“Here’s Bob,” Henri announces.
Marthe is amused by Henri’s propensity to describe the obvious.
“Rémi, stay by the fire,” he orders. “We’re going to help old Bob.”
“Okay, boss!” Rémi replies, making an amused face at Marthe.
She is no longer convinced of his good humour, and he seems to understand, for one corner of his mouth falls slightly. She does not take the time to interpret these signs as betrayals of the mind and instead goes to meet Bob. There is no such thing as chance, she tells herself; there is only one and the same river inside our souls. That Casimir effect again… She takes note of the thought and will try to convince herself of it later. Or feed upon it.
Bob has brought along two men Marthe does not know. Introductions are made; she has already forgotten their names. Bob and Henri exchange the words of villagers: “Whatcha been up to these days?” “Same old routine, and I still have the Auberge des Hamel to look after.” “Still lots of people there, even this late in the season.” Marthe listens as they predict the weather for the rest of the season, glancing occasionally at Hélène, who is just as amused by these old cocks strutting before the ladies. When the males have finally exhausted their ammunition, she invites them to tour the work that needs doing.
First, Armand’s roof. They bring a ladder; Bob climbs up and comes down again almost immediately. It is nothing serious. An hour and it will be done. Next, they examine the window in Hélène’s cottage. They will have to return; the frame is rotten. Bob will look in town tomorrow; the village hardware man charges too much, a thief, he tells Marthe. She says to do his best. They observe the manor from a distance. It is in good condition. In spring, the dormers and cornice will need repainting. Marthe leads them to Léo’s cottage and asks Bob to inspect the exterior. Henri does not hesitate to offer his opinion. It is sound; the cottage will need a coat of paint, like the other buildings, but that can wait until spring. They enter. Bob whistles.
“Been a long time since anyone came in here!”
No one comments. Marthe gives her instructions.
“All the paintings must be taken to the manor. Lucienne will tell you where to put them. Estimate how long it will take to repaint everything. The kitchen needs rethinking. Hélène, can you help? I want a woman’s touch…”
She stamps the floor.
“Sand and refinish this. There is far too much paint on the floor. I want the place habitable again.”
“Thinking of renting it out?” Bob asks.
Marthe looks at Hélène, who has set to work taking down the curtains from a window. She winks.
“Perhaps, Bob. Do you know anyone who might be interested?”
“Might do,” he answers, scratching his forehead with his cap. “One of my nieces would like to move to the country for a while.”
His gaze circles the rooms.
“Might suit her… She’s pregnant, she plays music. What do you call it again, that big violin you put between your legs?”
“A cello,” Hélène calls, throwing the curtains down before them. “Is she married?”
Bob shrugs.
“Married, married—I don’t even know. I’d have to ask my sister. She lives with some fellow, anyway. Must be the father.”
“These days, you never know,” Henri says gravely.
“Yeah, these days,” Bob comments, suddenly appearing overwhelmed by the century.
“I don’t know what I want to do yet,” Marthe says, “but mention it to her. You never know.”
“She happens to be visiting us this weekend.”
“Well,” Hélène summarizes, smiling as she throws another pile of curtains on the floor, “fate works in mysterious ways!”
Marthe feels her friend is jumping to conclusions a little too quickly, but allows herself to be won over by her good humour.
“There are too many old things in here,” she tells everyone. “Let’s start with the paintings… then the rest. I think we’ll burn everything…”
Faced with the others’ stunned expressions, she explains:
“I mean everything lying around. The furniture can be stored in the basement until the place is habitable.”
Two of the workers are already handling the large red painting and nearly drop it. Marthe cries out.
“Be careful!”
She bites her lips. Her blood surges. For a fraction of a second, all the love she bore Léo, everything she buried and rooted in her heart, all the happiness that had remained silent until now rises to the surface, flushing her cheeks.
“You wouldn’t know it, gentlemen,” Hélène says solemnly, “but that painting is worth big bucks.”
The two men’s expressions make clear that they could not care less. Still, they nod to please the little lady, and all but move about mockingly on tiptoe.
Marthe regains her composure. She has the paintings taken down and gathered near the door. There are many of them, scattered through every room. She feels slightly dizzy at what she regards as blasphemy against the past. She stands and points out the boxes in the bedroom. They contain numerous sketches. The men make a great deal of noise and shift the furniture; dust fills the rooms, and Marthe feels as though she is waking the dead. Worried, Hélène touches her now clammy forehead.
“You’re as white as a sheet. Go outside for a while. I’ll take care of it.”
“The back room. Have them put all this in the room beside my bedroom.”
“All right.”
Hélène gently pushes her outside. The others pretend not to notice.
Outside, Marthe sits and places her hands on her knees. The wind has grown colder; it still smells of snow. She glances at the clouds. A great master, time occasionally permits itself treachery.
Hélène’s orders to the workers reach her as if muffled. She sighs and sees Rémi throwing stones instead of watching the leaf fire. He must sense her presence, because he turns and waves. She does the same. He continues watching her. He can certainly see very little at that distance, and yet, because of this alchemy of consciousness, she feels obliged to wave again, then stand. He lowers his head and kicks a pebble away, then looks at the river. She adjusts her shawl over her shoulders and walks towards him. As she steps onto the grass, thereby leaving what is already no longer Léo’s cottage, she feels both sadness and lightness rise within her. The muscles of her body relax, causing her to lose her balance slightly, as if she had suddenly lifted from her shoulders a happiness too heavy or an unbearable sorrow. She steadies herself, realizing with shame how simple it was to draw a line through the past. She stops before the stairs leading to the beach. Rémi watches her with a smile. It was that simple indeed. She descends. As simple as taking these stairs.
The cottage door opens and Léo’s immense paintings emerge into daylight. She does not turn, reaches Rémi and, raising her arms, asks him to hold her.
Taken aback, he receives her in silence. The young man’s warmth surprises her. Nothing changes. Skin is a shore; the soul, on the verge of drowning, runs aground there and surrenders.
She remembers her desires. She weeps.