The morning resembles a church, vaulted and cavernous, slightly outside time. The outlines of the cottages soften beneath the falling snow; the trees hold nothing now. To the stillness of every morning is added the silence of every winter. Her seventy-eighth winter, Marthe thinks, still sitting outside on the veranda despite the cold season conquering the property. Not even the rustle of wings in the flight of time. She drives away her thoughts, smooths her mood, hears the snow, sees the wind, divines the sun around the bend of morning, breathes in the fresh sky, holds her breath, exhales a warm residual mist. Though she knows it moves in every direction, she can perceive the direction of time: a kind of circle, ripples on water, as though every instant of her life were a drop cast, utterly without intention, into a peaceful ocean.
At this precise moment she feels well, free of the constraints imposed by her solitude. The wind rises and forces its way through the weave of the fabric. That alone is enough to disturb her tranquillity. The tangible presence of things, their movements, their colours, the trees, the snow, the cry of winter birds, the dull rumble of the river scraping its bed—each of these manifestations, quiet though they are, suffices to cloud the surface of this time which, for an infinitesimal fraction of a second, she had believed entirely her own.
She raises her eyes to the sky and can barely distinguish the cloud cover, so completely has it scattered into countless white insects. She settles back in her chair, adjusts her blanket and rocks. Bruz refused to come out, preferring the warmth of his mistress’s bed to winter’s rigidity. She prefers the straight chair to the soporific armchair, the Spartan life to indulgence. She pauses. Infertility to incarnation? She must not forget to throw a book into the fire. She has all winter to burn her library. The thought tames her.
What time could it be? She is not wearing her watch. Time eventually takes on a sameness, becomes the flat horizon of an exponential ending. She looks at Léo’s former cottage. It would take so little for shame to surface again, for the heart within her to stop, once and for all, dispossessed.
The door opens. Marie-Claire’s head appears as Bruz quickly slips outside. The young woman smiles.
“Good morning. He was meowing at the door. I hope he’s allowed out…”
Marthe returns her smile.
“Of course. Did he wake you?”
“Not really.”
“Would you like to sit down?”
“I’ll be right back.”
Marie-Claire closes the door. The snow grows heavier, and a few gusts almost make Marthe regret sitting there. A current of warm air drives away the foul air, however. Bruz licks his front paws, pausing from time to time to stalk a flake, astonished to see it disappear on the ground, then tries to claw another. A futile effort: the prey vanishes on contact with his fur.
“It melts, Bruz. Do you understand?”
The cat looks at her and, as usual when she speaks to him, answers with a meow. He returns to his grooming, only to stop almost at once when a flake has the audacity to land on his nose. He tries to catch another, then seems discouraged; he yawns, arches his back, stretches his front paws, meows and jumps when the door opens again to reveal Marie-Claire.
As always, Marthe keeps another blanket hidden beneath her own. She hands it to Marie-Claire, who thanks her and sits beside her.
“Did you sleep well?”
The young woman makes a face.
“Yes and no. It’s always the same when I sleep away from my own bed for the first time.”
Marie-Claire has gathered her hair into a clumsy yet graceful bun, even rather old-fashioned and feminine.
“It’s quite the opposite for me. I can sleep anywhere. Sometimes I even forget to go upstairs and sleep where I am, like a horse.”
“You’re lucky…”
How can she tell her to use the familiar form of address? She decides it will come.
“Bah, we each have our share of luck. Besides, in your condition, it is natural to sleep lightly. Your senses awakened the moment you became pregnant. You sense danger.”
“Danger?”
“It’s a female reflex. You have a life to protect now… You’re on the alert.”
“I’d never thought of it that way, but it makes sense.”
Marie-Claire wears a slight smile, visibly proud of what is happening to her. She studies the landscape.
“This is a place blessed by the gods.”
“Are you truly happy to be here?”
Marie-Claire nods happily.
“And Luc?”
She gives Marthe an amused look.
“Yes. Why?”
“Pay no attention to me. It’s a professional reflex. I need to know the whys and wherefores.”
“I’m truly happy we found this place. I think I needed it.”
Marthe restrains herself from asking why. The young woman touches her belly beneath the blanket and calls Marthe to witness.
“I felt him…”
Marthe smiles at her.
“And you, you don’t have any children?”
“No.”
Marthe looks into the distance and says nothing more. The snow intensifies.
“Well, it almost looks like a storm,” she says, partly to change the subject.
But the snow suddenly becomes very calm again.
“I doubt it. It’ll surely be fine today.”
Marthe laughs.
“Did I say something funny?”
“No, no. I saw myself again with my father. I always sat with him on a veranda like this one. We lived farther south, along the coast, but the ritual was the same. I would nestle against him in the morning and wait for him to utter his magic phrase, his assessment of the day. When he said, ‘It’ll be fine,’ I was happy, because I knew I could play outside for a long time, even in winter. When I arrived here, I immediately began getting up very early to come and breathe in the weather.”
“You haven’t changed.”
“In a way.”
Bruz jumps onto Marie-Claire’s lap and settles there without asking permission.
“He’s purring… What a beautiful cat.”
“He has adopted you.”
“Cats always behave that way with me.”
Marie-Claire strokes the animal, who flattens himself more heavily against her.
“And this Léo?”
“Léo Arcand, the painter. Do you know him?”
Marie-Claire’s eyes widen.
“The great painter?”
“Yes, the great painter,” Marthe says, placing weary emphasis on “great.”
“He left you?”
“For another woman, yes.”
“At his age?”
Marthe laughs. Then she sighs.
“Yes, at his age.”
She draws the blanket around herself. The snow has almost stopped, as has the wind. It’ll be fine, indeed.
“He left like a thief.”
“Are you still in love with him?”
The question does not surprise her; she is instead pleased by the young woman’s frankness.
“It took me five years to decide to renovate the cottage you’ll be living in.”
“Why did he leave?”
Marthe shrugs.
“I’m sorry. That’s probably too personal.”
“It’s all right… I have nothing to hide. I couldn’t give him children, and he didn’t like that… but, as you say, at his age…”
“Were you together long?”
“Forty years.”
Marie-Claire whistles.
“The bastard…”
“Careful, you’re talking about the great Arcand.”
They laugh.
“They’re all the same, then…”
“Are you in love with your Luc?”
Marie-Claire looks her up and down, amused and conspiratorial.
“Shall I tell you in forty years?”
“I won’t be here anymore. You’ll have taken my place here…”
“Here?”
“It’s only a manner of speaking.”
She is lying. A plan is taking shape. Like grandmothers or lonely women, Marthe weaves her fabric, knits her wool tightly. She likes the idea; she will have to speak to her notary. The sound of pots and pans comes from the kitchen.
“Lucienne is up. Shall we have breakfast?”
Standing with both feet in dying snow, Marthe waves to the departing car. She hears Bruz meowing at Armand’s door. He is asking for Katou. Armand must surely be up by now. She walks towards his cottage and knocks.
“It’s open.”
She opens the door and Katou immediately darts out. The two cats run towards the woods. Marthe finds Armand sitting in his sitting-room chair.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Not really. Would you like coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’ve already had breakfast.”
“Then come and sit down. I was beginning to feel bored.”
“That isn’t like you.”
Armand makes a vague gesture.
“When one is dying…”
“Don’t say that…”
“Why?”
“I don’t know…”
He gives her his tenderest smile and pats her hand. As yesterday, she notices the apparent calm of the place. Nothing is untidy, and yet it seems abandoned. She examines Armand.
“You seem to be ageing five years every day.”
She strokes his balding head.
“Why is this happening to you?”
“What, dying?”
“You know what I mean. We all die, but some deaths are more elegant than others.”
“Very poor consolation, my dear. Besides, with the right pills…”
“I don’t like it when you talk that way.”
“Neither do I, you know. But that’s life—or rather, death… You’re right, it isn’t like me to be bored. It’s simply that I don’t feel like doing anything at present. Anything alone, I should say.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No…”
She gets up.
“Well, that is the first thing to remedy.”
She heads towards the kitchen.
“Forget it. I’m not hungry.”
“That’s no reason.”
“Food won’t stay down. I vomit it.”
“Liar.”
“Marthe!”
He shouted. She returns to the sitting room. He suddenly appears very nervous, then uncomfortable.
“Forgive me,” he says. “You’re right, I should eat… I’m afraid.”
She approaches, bends down and puts her arms around him, but feels him distant, reluctant. She releases him and sits. He says nothing, immersed in thoughts she does not think it wise to try to guess.
“So, would you like eggs or toast?”
Armand smiles at her.
“It ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings…”
She laughs and heads for the kitchen.
“Toast will be enough. You’re very kind. I could get up and make it myself.”
“It’s all right… I may have a housekeeper, but I still know how to use a toaster. I’ll ask Lucienne to come and clean in here. It smells dusty.”
“You mean it smells like an old bachelor.”
“Same thing…”
“Death is strange, Marthe. I waited for it all my life. I wanted it to deliver me from my cowardice about living, from my fear or my inability to be happy. And when it finally comes, after all these years, I can only be angry with it for not coming sooner.”
He leaves pauses of varying lengths between his sentences.
“Now I am obliged to take stock, to tell myself I should have done this or that, to take responsibility, in a sense. And then I tell myself no. How can one take stock of something one knows is already forgotten, or that will never be entered in any ledger? I’m not like Léo. I leave nothing on this Earth… That is why I’m bored. I have nothing left to do here.”
“I could say the same about my existence.”
“Very well. That changes nothing for me. I don’t care about other people’s destinies.”
She returns with toast and a glass of orange juice.
“Your refrigerator needs cleaning, or even replacing. I’ll go and shop for another one.”
He stares at her.
“I’m talking to you about my existence and you’re talking to me about my refrigerator.”
“It’s the same thing!”
“Am I supposed to find that funny?”
“Why not?”
He sighs. She senses his anger.
“Can you tell me what you haven’t lived, Armand?”
He stares at her, wide-eyed.
“You asked me the same question twenty-five years ago.”
“You never truly answered.”
He takes a piece of toast and swallows it quickly.
“You see, you were hungry…”
He sighs.
“I know… and I know I never truly answered that question. Besides, what possible difference can it make?”
He takes a sip of orange juice and studies the glass.
“Half empty, half full…”
“Why this sudden bitterness?”
He looks at her with sad eyes.
“Am I allowed to feel discouraged?”
He softens. His features lengthen, and she sees deep furrows of weariness appear on her friend’s face. This agriculture speaks for itself.
“Suffering spurs the quest,” she says.
“A quest presupposes a goal,” he replies abruptly, though his sigh remains steeped in sadness.
He swallows a piece of toast, takes a sip of juice, seems to reflect, eats more toast and finishes his glass. He smiles at her.
“That was good.”
She returns his smile. He looks at her, his eyes keen and warm.
“I have no reckoning to make for anyone, Marthe. Making one or not making one is equally useless. I did not hurt others unduly; I did my human work, I suppose. I know I did no harm to others, but to myself… and if there is a court that judges such offences, it is an inner one, secretly constituted. Only shrinks listen at the doors.”
She laughs. He continues, returning to sadness.
“These days, let me tell you, the court sits for very long sessions. And yesterday evening, when I saw those two young people… especially Luc, I must admit, I realised what I had missed in this life: never having surrendered myself completely to someone.”
“Had you done so, it might have killed you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“People like you, cautious people, tend to get swept away when an opportunity for happiness suddenly appears. Your caution probably kept you safe.”
“Much good that does me. And what do you mean, ‘people like me’?”
“You are sensitive and reckless. Your desire is uncontrolled. You never learned to distinguish pleasure from happiness.”
“Pleasure and happiness,” he says, “are not two separate worlds. Perhaps one attracts the other? But I suppose you’re right. When I see flesh, I lose all my senses, especially my reason. My shyness protected me and I remained alone for lack of courage to let myself be hurt. So I hurt myself another way. I should have become a priest; at least I would have had an excuse for being neurotic.”
Once again she observes sadness at work. Armand massages his right side.
“Does it hurt?”
He smiles faintly.
“Only when I eat… Yes, it hurts terribly.”
“There is still time to resume treatment.”
He shakes his head.
“My doctor said it. My liver is too diseased; I wouldn’t survive much longer.”
“Doctors can be wrong.”
“Yeah, like the rest of the specialists.”
She does not close her inner doors against the attack.
“You were an excellent musician, an excellent teacher. You are an excellent friend, a sensitive, affable human being.”
“That does me a world of good too.”
“Even if you had found the man of your life, it would change nothing about what is happening now…”
He studies her.
“We end up back where we started, don’t we?”
“In a way.”
“Léo made you happy all the same.”
She stands and picks up her jacket.
“I no longer know. My past haunts me, certainly, but that is precisely all it is: a haunting, a ghost.”
She approaches him and kisses his dull forehead. At once, she feels her friend’s fever.
“You don’t feel well.”
He pats her hand.
“No, not particularly.”
“Come and lie down.”
“I’m all right, I’m all right,” he says with a grimace. “I don’t want to sleep. I would like to remain awake all day, keep my eyes open all night.”
He adopts an enigmatic tone.
“Soon it will be the true night.”
“You could live a long time yet.”
“No, there is no point hiding anything from ourselves. My time is up. I will be part of the statistical average. Do you see that clock over there? I hear it even when I sleep. It belonged to my grandfather. When he was old and sick and could no longer move from his old rocking chair—he even refused to go to bed—he would stare at it silently for hours. Sometimes he said funny things, such as: ‘Some seconds are shorter than others.’ ‘The damp slows it down.’ ‘It’s in quite a hurry today.’ I understand him now. It’s a good clock; its ticking never fails. And yet, when you pay attention, you realise it is like the rest of the universe. It sails over swells, tries to hold its course, but the winds do not always blow from the right direction.”
He stands despite his obvious pain.
“The disease is advancing quickly,” he says. “It is hungry. And I believe I am giving it free rein. A shame we die only once. We would live so much better with that knowledge.”
“Knowledge of what?”
He smiles at her.
“I couldn’t rightly say. It’s like God: unnameable and inedible. I bow before it, that is all. Strange, isn’t it? A moment ago I was angry; now I am sad.”
“It’s like refrigerators. Same thing.”
He vaguely appreciates the humour.
“You’re still alive and healthy, Marthe. You carry the hope of the present within you. Everything can change with every hour you live.”
“The possibilities are limited all the same.”
“Oh, not that limited. You are still magnificent. You could find happiness, live again after these five years of absence. You have the freedom.”
He lowers his head and studies the floor.
“You smelled Léo, tasted him, were filthy and intoxicated with him. I was always sad, lost, alone and envious. And it is true, I knew other joys and other forms of happiness. Music was very good to me, very patient. But I could never be an animal with it. That is what I regret most, Marthe: never having been filthy.”
“That is an original way of looking at love.”
He looks at her.
“Admit it. You loved the way Léo fucked you.”
She takes the blow badly, starts to say something, then thinks better of it and sits down. Armand’s tone softens.
“Forgive me.”
“It’s all right, my friend. You’re right. I loved everything about that man, but I think that was why I could bear him. I…”
“You could surrender. You could be yourself and only yourself. You knew yourself to be fertile; you believed yourself eternal. By joining with him, you became his life, in a sense. You became an artist. You tasted honey, and that is what made your life bearable.”
He looks out the window.
“Must one stand outside things to understand them?” he says with a sigh.
“But I no longer have that Léo, and I am still alive.”
“You retain the memory of him. It is the past, ghosts, as you say, but it is enough. That famous Casimir effect—well, that is what it is. It is the mysterious energy we pass from life to life, caress to caress, wound to wound.”
“Then something of you will remain when you are no longer here.”
“No doubt…” he says, keeping his gaze outside. “No doubt. That will be my sole consolation. A little something automatic left by a life that was mechanical.”
His face hardens again. She tries to soothe him.
“You’re too severe…”
She rises and rests her head on the old man’s shoulder. Together they watch the snow begin to fall again.
“There’ll be plenty of snow this winter. I can feel it,” he says.
“Yes, the bees nested high this year.”
“I wonder what ants dream about in winter.”
“That tomorrow—that is, next season—there’ll be a whole grain of sand to move away from the entrance.”
He snickers.
“I love you, Marthe. I love all of you. Why death? Can you tell me that?”
“Do you want the standard answer?”
He laughs.
“No, thank you. Questions will always be more musical than answers. Look, here comes fat Gustave to play cards.”
“I’m going into town.”
“Mercy on the poor!”
“What is it?”
Lucienne does not look up from her knitting and speaks with deadpan irony.
“You’re going into town. It’s a miracle!”
“How is your eye today?”
“Look. Just as black as yesterday.”
“It will fade quickly.”
“I hope so. I’m not going back into town until it’s gone.”
The housekeeper sighs as though this were a penance imposed by the Good Lord.
“Would you like me to pick anything up?”
“No, we’re fine. We have everything we need. What are you doing in town?”
“I want to see Rémi, Henri’s son. I have something to ask him. I’ll tell you about it later. I’ll stay at the Hôtel Marie, as usual.”
“Don’t stay up too late. It’ll give you wrinkles.”
Marthe leaves without responding to the housekeeper’s affectionate irony. Hélène is walking along the shore; she waves. Marthe decides to say hello before leaving.
Katou is standing at the edge of Armand’s cottage door, meowing. Through the sitting-room window, Marthe sees the two men playing cards. Armand looks outside, notices her and smiles, then returns to his game. Katou meows.
“Armand!”
He looks at her. Did she shout loudly enough, or is it chance? She points to the door. Gustave gets up and opens it. Katou goes inside. He gives Marthe a vague wave without actually looking at her. Hélène has come closer.
“Good morning!”
They kiss.
“I’m going into town and staying overnight. Would you like to come with me?”
Hélène looks at the river.
“No, thank you! I want to make the most of the last days when we can still walk beside the river.”
With a broad gesture she presents the waterway to Marthe and adopts an inward tone, close to prayer.
“I wish I could describe every one of those waves.”
Marthe says nothing, waiting for what does not follow.
“What are you doing in town?”
“I want to see Rémi. I’d like him to come and live with us for a while, to help accompany Armand.”
Her friend raises her eyebrows in approval.
“You understand? It will help you. You shouldn’t have to look after Armand all the time.”
“Do you think he’ll agree?”
“Yes. I have an idea about that.”
Hélène returns to studying the river.
“Have our young friends left?”
“Yes. Didn’t you see them?”
“I did. It was a way of keeping the conversation going.”
Hélène studies the shore, fills her lungs, a contented smile on her lips.
“I always find it difficult to leave this beach, to abandon it for the winter,” she says.
“It’s true that we miss it during the cold season. What are you writing about?”
“Nothing. I write about everything and nothing. I’ve had the nose of a bitch lately. I’m looking for a hole.”
Marthe links her arm through her friend’s.
“What else have you developed? A viper’s tongue and an ostrich’s pen?”
Hélène laughs. They remain motionless, letting the wind lash them. Marthe glances towards her house. Bruz climbs onto the kitchen windowsill. A few seconds later, Lucienne opens the door and calls him. For a moment, he pretends not to have heard.
“Bruz, damn it, it’s freezing. Come on!”
The cat obeys in the face of Lucienne’s irritability. As he passes between her legs, the housekeeper catches him and holds him at arm’s length, looking at him as though the gesture were meant to demonstrate her omnipotence and signal her disapproval, then draws him against her neck. The cat submits. Marthe returns to her quiet observation of the river.
“The tide will be high soon,” she observes.
“Isn’t it the full moon today?”
“No, another few days, I think.”
“Armand has started taking some of his medication again.”
“Has he? He didn’t mention it this morning.”
“He hasn’t changed his mind. The pain is simply too great. He won’t have the courage to endure it much longer.”
“The courage?”
“The strength.”
“You always thought him weak, didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter to me. I am sad for him. He didn’t live his life.”
“We never truly live our own.”
“Speak for the others.”
“Armand told me the same thing—that I was lucky to live with Léo.”
“In a way, yes, and I’m hardly the one who needs to tell you.”
“I know. We make of our lives what our minds choose to make of them.”
“Or our hearts.”
“Or our hearts,” Marthe echoes.
“We’ll go to bed a little less foolish again tonight!”
They laugh and return to the shared silence they have known so often. The river is agitated. One might believe it angry. Marthe rests her head against her friend’s.
“Where would you like to travel?” Marthe asks.
“Everywhere!”