Are those voices? Rémi listens. The wind deals violent blows to the trees, carrying from the river the cries of Antoine and Sophie, who are playing with their new uncle Mario.
On Rémi’s arm, Marthe merely walks in silence along her property.
“I can’t get used to it,” she finally murmurs. “My memories disappoint me, and I’m glad to be rid of this place.”
A slap in the face. The remark is entirely in keeping with this astonishing woman. How well she has aged, Rémi thinks. Her posture remains as straight and, at the same time, fluid as ever, while her still abundant red hair, loosely gathered into a bun, lends her a rebellious air, underscored by eyes that are lively and serenely joyful.
“How can someone be disappointed by their memories?” he asks, partly to challenge her.
“It’s simple. You abandon them for a time; you believe that, like everyone else, they will make a life for themselves; you forget them. And when you see them again, they aren’t what you thought they were.”
“The memory of your memories. You’re reaching far.”
Marthe lifts her head proudly.
“In the end, we never go far enough. Death always catches up with us just when we think the road is only beginning.”
“Do you think about it often?”
“No. Perhaps I’ll live to be a hundred…”
“I hope you do. It’s good to see you again, Marthe.”
She turns her head towards him; her eyes record Rémi’s features, certainly subjecting them to a meticulous, feminine analysis.
“You’re ageing well too. Making bread suits you.”
“Even if I can’t make a success of my love life.”
“But you do. Stéphane is a charming boy.”
“He’s a little old to be merely a boy.”
She laughs. Rémi continues:
“Victor is getting his hands on a beautiful property. He deserves it.”
“Oh, you know… I could have given it to you.”
He exclaims comically:
“You should have!”
“You only had to ask…”
“I could never have afforded even the annual property taxes! I’m glad you’re taking Lucienne back with you.”
“She won’t remain over there, I know. She’ll have to return home. Once she is rested enough, she’ll want to get back in harness. If you could make room for her in your bakery then.”
“I wouldn’t want to tire her out again. Besides, what if I sold it?”
“Where would you go?”
“I don’t know. Teach poor people how to make their bread and grow their wheat, or simply tend your garden in Ireland.”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t want me. Is that it?”
“If you like believing that.”
He watches the children hurry back from the shore with Mario.
“The children are losing a beautiful playground.”
“They’re gaining a swimming pool,” she retorts.
“I still don’t know where I’ll go.”
“Will you live with Stéphane?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I too need a coast in Ireland…”
“I don’t believe that. You’re a man of action. Trust the people around you.”
Rémi listens and nods. Here, or in her new country, Marthe seems to have become a stranger, indifferent to what the people here are living through.
She invites him to sit on a small bench near the river. She tells him about Ireland. The ocean, she says, has no direction as it does here. It is the nature of islanders to believe the earth revolves around them. She tells him that she is transferring her assets to that country, that Hélène and she have reached an agreement with their village priest. They will have their plot in the cemetery; the priest nevertheless suggested they find suitable matches… Rémi tells her they have the time and freedom to die elsewhere, that they are not so old. Marthe agrees but does not seem convinced.
Mario passes them with the children and greets them.
“He’s a kind young man,” Marthe says.
“Yes, Victor will be happy.”
“Do you have regrets?”
“Why didn’t I have the strength to talk?”
“No doubt you had no one to listen.”
“The answer is surely more complex than that.”
“Perhaps your question was poorly phrased. But that’s right! I have something for you!”
She searches her bag and takes out a small box.
“A present?”
“Nothing much! An old object I found while clearing out the attic.”
“You’re getting cheap!”
“Start by opening it!”
“Is it a tie?”
“Open it!”
“A photograph of you posing naked for Léo.”
“If you keep this up, I’ll take it back.”
He unwraps it quickly. A small hourglass mounted in a silver frame.
“We lost our sense of time when we invented the watch,” she says. “You see, it is up to us alone to understand our hours properly. Time stops only if we forget to turn the hourglass over. Vigilance is essential.”
“It’s very pretty. Very appropriate.”
“Naturally.”
“Thank you. I like it very much.”
“It’s one of a kind.”
“And you kept it in the attic…”
“There are memories, sometimes… Perhaps I’ll tell you one day. Ah, our Lucienne is ready. It’s time to leave.”
“What will become of me without you, Marthe?”
“Give me a chance. I’m not dead yet.”
They rejoin the car, where Lucienne and Victor are waiting. Marie-Claire, Luc, Mario and the children arrive in turn. It is time to say goodbye. Lucienne is already in tears and promises Rémi she will return soon. Rémi tells her to take her time. She kisses his cheeks, flooding him with thanks. Marthe kisses him, a discreet brush of the lips, already very distant, accompanied by a maternal farewell.
Victor and Mario take their places in the front of the car. Within minutes, they are on the road to the airport. Rémi invites the children to walk along the shore one last time before he too leaves this place for good.
Marie-Claire smiles at him and draws Luc against her; he kisses her forehead. The children are already at the steps, shouting for Rémi to hurry. Marie-Claire, Luc and Rémi say nothing. Rémi turns on his heel and runs to frighten the children, who flee along the shore, pretending to believe in the big bad wolf.