Luc’s satisfaction, Luc’s happiness, his teeth, his laughter, his excitement, his mouth greedily swallowing chocolatines, his puffy but happy eyes, his body unfurling like a sail, time rushing into it and quickly carrying him back into the fold of marriage. Rémi smiles at him and shares his joy. His own eyes are swollen from insomnia; Lucienne woke him, for he would have slept right through. They hurried to relieve Claudine. The bread was waiting, some loaves still quite warm, Claudine eager to return to her Armenian. Kisses on the cheek, the sound of a motorcycle, then the doorbell, followed by another and another, punctuating the first hour in quick succession.
But nothing helped. Rémi had trouble getting into the day, which was unusual. Then Luc’s arrival practically rooted him to the spot. He did not stay long, for he had to return to work for the morning to finish a “mix delivery,” whatever that might mean. All Rémi retained was the handshake, distant yet present, with Luc’s belated caress against his palm as their hands parted, until one final pressure of the fingers, a lost desire. So Luc has not forgotten. Rémi is immediately troubled, for an insistent truth, he realizes, will not let go: he is in love with Luc. So much the worse.
The croissants sold out quickly this morning. Another heat wave is forecast, briefer than the last. Marie-Claire gave birth at term. Luc invited them to the country on Sunday to celebrate the twins’ arrival. Lucienne asked what their names would be. Simon and Audrey.
The day flies by. A workman arrives in the afternoon. Rémi explains the work that needs to be done at the front of the shop. He needs a quote by tomorrow because he has an appointment with the bank. The workman—his name is Pierre, found through the gay community directory—makes no attempt to hide a promising smile. Too young, Rémi thinks, even though the man makes no advance; he merely leaned close to show Rémi the sketch he drew of how he intends to install the air conditioner. No, Pierre is not hitting on him. Rémi is almost insulted. He catches himself glancing furtively at the mirror. Anxiety weighs down his features, and insomnia has hollowed his eyes.
He sighs loudly.
“Are you all right?” the workman asks.
Rémi smiles faintly at him.
“Yes, yes, it’s age, you see.”
The man does not seem to understand. Rémi places a hand on his shoulder as he rises. He feels him stiffen.
“Never mind, Pierre. You’ll get me your quote quickly?”
“I got the job?”
“Did you doubt it?”
Pierre thanks him and leaves the bakery.
“My God, what did you two do back there? We couldn’t hear a thing,” Lucienne chuckles.
“Nothing, Lucienne, nothing!”
“You’re making more croissants?”
Rémi smiles at her.
“You think we’ll sell them all?”
“Your dough is already warm. I saw it on your counter.”
“You’re right, I was going to make them. I’d almost forgotten.”
“You don’t look like yourself.”
“Yeah… I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“It’s starting to hit you,” Lucienne says, picking up her knitting.
She works a few stitches, smiling.
“I wouldn’t have named the twins that. Seems to me Freddy and Chloé would’ve been better!”
“It isn’t too late. Suggest it to them.”
“Yeah, right. They won’t wanna set in stone the name of the little brat who fathered Sophie!”
“And yet memory is the only thing that matters.”
“Well, how you remember matters most… Sometimes it’s better to lie to yourself a little.”
“Sure…”
Rémi does not want to contradict her. A customer enters. He asks for a good bread with fibre. Rémi suggests the “Health.” Nothing but good things inside, he maintains. And silently, to himself: “Now that, my dear Lucienne, is lying, pretending, jumping straight to the conclusion. Healthy ingredients do not necessarily make a healthy product.” He gets bogged down. Bread is bread. The customer takes two loaves and leaves, happy to have bought what he needs to live a long life.
“We’re going to run out of bread again. I’ll ask Claudine to increase the recipes.”
“Business is good!”
“Not good enough for my liking. And since I’m about to lose everything…”
Surprised, Lucienne stops knitting.
“What do you mean?”
“Can’t you see the storm coming?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Victor and me.”
“Oh… come on now. You’re still young. Even if you had to sell the house, you could live downstairs for a while, and your old folks upstairs surely don’t have much longer… Besides, you’ve got Marthe, I’m certain; she wouldn’t let you down. No, no, I wouldn’t worry. What’s more, I’ll tell you, even if none of that worked out, well, you’ve got me… I have my savings…”
“Don’t start that with me, Lucienne. It’s your money, and I can manage on my own.”
“Well, yes. That’s how it is. I’d rather give it to you than to the rest of my sisters, who always looked down their noses at me a little! Anyways, we ain’t there yet. We’ll cross the bridge when we get to the river.”
“If there is a bridge.”
“We’ll build the damn bridge if we need one! It ain’t like you to be this way!”
Rémi smiles at her.
“You’re right…”
Lucienne resumes her knitting.
“Damn, I dropped a stitch! Tonight, you’re resting. You ain’t yourself.”
Lucienne’s words make his features feel even heavier. He comes within a hair of crying.
He takes refuge in the back room. The day is not over.