“My dear Marthe, I’m not the one writing to you—well, yes, but Rémi is typing for me. (‘My God, writing a letter is hard. I ain’t used to it, my thoughts are all jumbled. Don’t put that down, Rémi! I’m talking to myself!’ ‘Yes! Yes!’ Rémi replies, taking the opportunity to kiss you on the neck, Marthe. ‘You old rascal, if I’d wanted to use a tape recorder! Rémi, stop fooling around.’)
So, my dear Marthe, as I was saying. (‘Rémi!’—who gets a smack on the back of the head.)
I miss you an awful lot. I know we’ve said goodbye plenty of times and that, at some point, we’ll have to say it forever. Like they say at Mass, we’ll become dust, nothing but dust. I might make more dust than you, hee, hee, hee. (‘Can you put “hee, hee, hee” in a letter?’ ‘Yes,’ Rémi replies, ‘hee, hee, hee.’)
So I’m wondering why you’re so far away. Seems to me your work at the manor wasn’t finished, that you could do here everything you do over there. Don’t tell me you wanted to rid yourself of your past, especially your Léo. I’m part of your story too. Don’t forget that.
I don’t wanna reproach you. I’m only trying to understand. There are plenty of dead and sorrowful hearts at the manor.
I know it ain’t your fault, but right now the manor belongs to you. Sell it as fast as damn possible. Victor wants to buy it anyway. Cut your ties, but don’t pretend to have one foot here and the other in a grave too far away for us to pay our respects.
You were never part of my world, but when you were with me, at least I could offer you soup.
Apart from that, I’m happy. Rémi and me make quite a pair: him with his troubles, me selling his bread. You could say we’re orphans these days.
We’re sending you photographs of the newborns and the rest of the battered gang. Victor is leaving Rémi; Rémi is in love with Luc, but he might settle for Stéphane. (‘You’re writing that?’ ‘Yes, Lucienne!’) Anyways, when they moan, they sound like they love each other! (‘She listens to us too!’ ‘So what? Come more quietly, that’s all! We can even hear you outside, good Lord!’) Marie-Claire is happy with her two little mites, but she also knows she doesn’t truly have Luc’s heart anymore. You know what I mean. If Victor buys your property, I don’t wanna stay there. Say, if you had room in your house… But maybe I’d be in the way. I’m just saying. The thought only came to me now. I’ve never looked for a home of my own. Seems like I’ve never had to face myself.
I don’t think you ever visited Rémi’s house. It’s real comfortable; he has some funny neighbours. They’ve all got something sexual they need forgiving for, hee, hee, hee. There’s the neighbour, Irène, a little unusual, but I think I’m making a friend of her. She’d like to write a love story about my experiences. I’m not sure that’s done or spoken about. Deep down, it resembles Rémi’s story, don’t you think? Too beautiful to belong to anyone, too kind to stop himself from loving everyone. (‘You’re wrong, Lucienne.’ ‘I don’t care. It’s my letter. Write!’)
Well, now Rémi made me lose my train of thought. Too bad. I wanted to tell you I’m trying to be happy, even though I still haven’t recovered from Dimitri’s death. It seems we’re made for only one person, don’t you think? But sometimes we never find that person or, when we catch them, they don’t remain in our arms for long, leave quickly or simply don’t want to be caught.
Life is foolish that way. That’s how it is.
At least come visit us. You’re the one with money. (‘You told me you had some.’ ‘Oh, stop it!’)
Your Lucienne forever.”
“Can you say that, forever?”
“Of course, Lucienne. If that doesn’t melt her…”
Lucienne rises.
“I don’t feel well. I’m tired. I’m gonna lie down for a while.”
“Don’t you want to read it over?”
“What? Send it right now before I change my mind.”
“You’re angry.”
“Of course.”
“Careful, it’ll make you grow old too quickly.”
“Listen to what I say, don’t watch what I do.”
Lucienne leaves the room. Rémi rereads the letter, then sends the missive by pressing the “Send” button as slowly as possible. There is no stopping it: as soon as the signal is given, the computer prepares the message and uploads the photographs. The progress bar lengthens. There. There is no real race towards Ireland, for the letter has already reached its home port.
“The letter’s sent!” Rémi shouts.
“Thank you, sweetheart… Oh!”
Rémi hears a dull thud.
“Oh, my heart!”
“Lucienne?”