It will never change, this great waterway, sometimes bloodless when the summers are too dry, sometimes swollen enough to inspire fear when spring lasts until autumn. One returns to this river, happy that things do not change, that disrupted habits can close again here like an imposing, timeless dew washing away doubts and regrets alike.
“We sure never get tired of it.”
“You’re right, Lucienne,” he replies, drawing in a great breath. “You don’t miss this place too much?”
“Not at all! I know this river as if I was born beside it! It’s an old acquaintance, but I could just as easily do without it. The sea in Greece was beautiful, you know. In fact, water is beautiful, period. Everywhere you can go. Everything that’s grand, everything that’s big…”
She leaves her sentence unfinished, shaken by a mischievous little laugh.
“It just feels funny coming back here, even after only three weeks away. I felt the same when I came back from Greece. The river comforted me, you might say. It didn’t tell me anything, obviously, but it comforted me. You understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You seen Luc?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll come back to you from time to time.”
“That’s what’s terrible.”
“Well, it’s better than a kick in the ass!”
Rémi turns towards her.
“Do you realize what you just said?”
“What?”
“Never mind…”
“Well, speak of the devil.”
“Which one?” Luc asks cheerfully.
“I’ll leave you two,” Lucienne says. “I’m gonna go smooch the new babies!”
“Be careful you don’t give them your diseases,” Luc replies.
“Pffff!”
Luc takes Rémi by the shoulder, drawing him close.
“What happiness!”
Rémi does not want to answer for fear of seeming insensitive or bitter. Instead, he watches the waves chasing their foam. From time to time, Luc holds him a little tighter, apparently just as incapable of saying more. Better to leave it there, Rémi interprets, to remain good friends and thus preserve the illusion that everything is black and white: life, death, children. He would like to tell Luc he already does not believe a word of it.
“You were hiding things from me…”
“What things?”
“Freddy…”
Luc snickers.
“Someone’s been running her mouth.”
“Never speak badly of Lucienne, okay?”
“I don’t see how it concerns you.”
He frees himself from Luc’s grip.
“Well, no, it doesn’t concern me at all. You only used my bare ass without protection, and suddenly I have no idea who you’ve fucked. I thought you were more…”
“More what?”
Rémi is angry. Because Luc is slipping away from him and he selfishly craves him.
“I thought you were truly in love…”
Luc seems shaken. He loses his smile only to invent another, harder one.
“You sound like Marie-Claire… and what would it have changed, Rémi?”
“Let’s say it wouldn’t have changed anything. I don’t feel like fighting with you.”
“Freddy and the others are in the past. It was a crisis I went through…”
“Of course…”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’ve seen worse, Luc. You don’t need to justify yourself.”
Luc would like to protest, but the smile Rémi shoots him seems enough to disarm him. Rémi understands. Silence returns between them. Rémi’s desire prowls behind the walls of their skin, searching for a crack, a chance to slip out a tongue, slide in a finger. But nothing, neither the day nor Luc’s manner, permits such an escape. If he must forget, then he will, knowing that one of these days he will better drink, in small sips, memories made icy and sweet by time.
Luc breaks the silence.
“Marie-Claire and I want to move back to the city. We talked at length with Victor…”
Rémi waits for the rest, which does not come. The silence in which Luc takes refuge already says a great deal. He begins to understand.
“Victor is offering you his house.”
“He wants to talk to you about it.”
Rémi pulls away from Luc.
“I see…”
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you before he raised it with you.”
“It’s all right… Don’t worry. But I think the large pool is dangerous with children. You’ll have to put up a fence.”
He is surprised by his own detachment. Luc nods.
“Maybe it’s only a whim. I’ll think about it.”
He falls silent for a moment, then comes alive:
“I won’t say what I’m about to tell you very often.”
Rémi does not want to hear. Above all, he wants neither to wound nor to be burned.
“No, don’t say anything. I understand you.”
Luc looks at him, relieved.
“I would only like you not to pretend nothing happened, to acknowledge your tenderness when you’re with me.”
Luc smiles at him, but Rémi knows he is struggling against this almost theological proposition.
“You’re right,” Luc murmurs, in a voice too cold for Rémi’s liking.
“I know.”
Where will he go? Rémi wonders. The idea of finding a small apartment downtown does not displease him. Looking at the river, he feels instead like coming to live here, in an inhospitable place where things to do outweigh things to imagine. By that measure, Africa, Bangladesh, Brazil or the planet’s hospitals are the obvious places. Continuing to make bread is a happy compromise.
“When do you want the house?”
The question seems to surprise Luc.
“There’s no rush. I…”
Luc stops. He kisses Rémi on the temple before moving away. Rémi lowers his eyes, then raises them to contemplate this river that will not change, even when Rémi goes away, dies. The water flows to the left; he follows it for a while, unable to understand anything. His thoughts jostle one another, presenting him with distractions on silver platters that he refuses one by one. It is good to be silent, to believe himself, for a time, outside his own life, even and moving in a single direction, without contradiction. He is losing Victor.
At this distance, the river, the sky, the sunlight—nothing changes. The clouds, for their part, seem to repeat themselves. There is nothing to say about this story except to repeat endlessly that he is losing Victor.
He hears footsteps and turns. Victor waves. Rémi sits on the ground. Victor does the same.
“Welcome to the confessional by the river. Repent, my brother, and confess your sins.”
Victor smiles faintly.
“Hello, my friend.”
Victor’s voice is colder than Rémi would have liked. When he arrived, Victor kissed him and officially, almost comically, introduced Mario. “I already know him,” Rémi replied mysteriously. Mario remained behind Victor, as though afraid Rémi might bite him.
“Friend?”
“That’s what we are, isn’t it?”
“What we’ve become?”
“I don’t think we ever stopped being friends, from the beginning.”
Victor is right.
“I loved you,” Rémi murmurs.
Victor grimaces.
“When did the present become the imperfect?”
“Is this really the time to make a scene?”
Victor smiles, looks at the river and curls in on himself, resting his chin on his knees. They have not seen each other for a week. An absence that might have gone unnoticed under other circumstances. This time, time possesses the strength to create distance. The point of no return has been reached, and reality thus becomes clearer, reflected also in the river of regrets.
“You have your father’s peaceful smile more and more,” Rémi says warmly. “You’re right. I would have loved you, Victor. I would have loved you very much.”
Victor turns towards him, his eyes stricken. Rémi understands the damage wrought by his clumsy words.
“How long have you thought that?”
Rémi does not know what to answer. If he is to be honest, he will have to reveal every vice that accompanies his truth.
“You never wanted to talk, Victor.”
“You never wanted me…”
Rémi flinches. It is false, but it is too late. He has been telling himself that for too long now. He thinks of Stéphane. Looking at the river is no help, and looking at Victor makes him tell lies.
“I don’t know when I stopped loving you…”
Victor seems to take the blow with pride.
“I know when, so stop lying to me.”
Victor must be thinking of Mario.
“Are you happy with Mario?”
He perceives anger at the edge of Victor’s lips.
“He isn’t you.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Don’t be an ass, Rémi.”
“It was a serious question.”
“Do you truly doubt what you mean to me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re deaf and blind.”
“You think so?” Rémi asks, disappointed. “At least you have the courage to act openly, to tell me the truth.”
“No… Rémi, you have no idea what a liar I am.”
“Let me guess. You’ve known Mario longer than that.”
“Four years.”
Rémi stiffens and tries to calm his eyes. Victor continues smiling and gazing into the distance.
“Don’t go thinking I’ve been cheating on you all that time, the way you always did. I let you get away with too much; no doubt it suited me. I don’t want to reproach you more than necessary. My happiness exists elsewhere, that’s all. You seemed to have understood that long ago without daring to tell me. Or rather, you’re right: I refused to see it. Marthe muddled my thinking. Damn shrinks… She told me you had your own way of loving and would probably find it very hard to change, that only time would eventually make you more trusting. Blah, blah, blah. I still love you, Rémi, but surprisingly, it is the free Rémi I love. And yet it hurts me too much. You aren’t made for me. Mario was more the closeted type. I simply bided my time; I waited patiently for my moment because I know I’ll have more influence over him. You were inaccessible from the start. Mario never had a boyfriend, despite what I may have said. He lived with his mother. She died, and he became another man. You see the picture. Classic. I often tried to tell you, but I had neither the courage nor the certainty. Mario is simpler—better, in fact.”
“You want to sell the house.”
“Luc told you? It’s a plan I’ve been entertaining for a long time.”
Victor smiles faintly at him.
“We’re civilized beings, aren’t we? You’ll soon receive a registered letter. Even though I own this house, you have certain rights.”
Rémi dislikes the way Victor emphasizes the last word. In trying to do the right thing, Victor places himself on the side of the good and pushes Rémi among the guilty. Rémi clenches his teeth. He wants the anger between them to erupt, for them to get it over with; one sharp snap of the teeth.
“I’m prepared to compensate you. Marie-Claire and Luc aren’t in a hurry, but the sooner, the better for both of us. I was surprised by the turn of events. Mario entered the picture faster than I expected, even though I did everything to create the circumstances. He’s a notary, I’m a notary, we laugh at the same commas. It suits me.”
“It’s true that you’re a very proper fellow.”
Rémi again seeks to call the river as witness. If he had the power, he would create a great tide to drown Victor’s goodness.
“I thought I’d do this properly, but you spoiled the sauce a little with Luc.”
If he had the power…
“I think you’d do well to bring your books up to date. You’re missing some pieces of the puzzle,” Rémi replies dryly.
Victor looks at him, disconcerted; Rémi shrugs.
“It doesn’t matter. Go back to your Mario and his commas, go fuck yourself and keep your money!”
Victor rises quickly.
“I know you too well, Rémi, to believe you mean what you just said. I don’t like fighting, and I love you too much for that.”
Rémi’s anger melts like snow in sunlight. Victor continues:
“Our mistake was trying again.”
“No, you’re wrong. Our mistake will be refusing to continue.”
Surprised, Victor shakes his head.
“Above all, don’t play that game with me.”
He turns on his heel, leaving Rémi with a grotesque pain in his jaw. Refusing to continue? Did he say that? Where did that slip come from? That nest of vipers called truth? He grows agitated and struggles against sadness.
“Rémi!” Luc calls. “Come see how beautiful they are!”
Rémi signals that he is coming, but instead descends the steps leading to the shore. He removes his shoes and rolls up the trousers he had chosen as his Sunday best. He also removes the shirt he thought appropriate for the occasion.
The tide, high and greedy, licks his feet. He stands still. His jaw remains clenched, his eyes obstinately searching for a detail, any sign, a wave larger than the others. The water rises a little more and reaches his calves. Even at the height of summer, it remains cold; one might think it impatient for winter’s return.
Beneath his feet, the sand is rough, crudely sculpted by the lumbering tide. He wants to walk, but finds no comfort in it. Luc returns to see what he is doing but remains at the top of the steps and waves. Rémi begins to doubt his perceptions. He answers with the same gesture. Antoine appears beside his father and tugs his hand, urging him to rejoin the others. Luc lifts him and spins him around. Antoine shrieks in his young girl’s voice. Sophie comes running and asks her father to do the same for her. Abandoned, Antoine picks up the pinwheel he had dropped, a gift from Rémi, and begins running as he watches what the wind does to the toy.
From where he stands, Rémi can see the gathering of adults on the veranda. Marie-Claire reigns with her two newborns. Lucienne flits about like a bee before its honey. Irène caresses one of the children.
Rémi lowers his eyes and savours the moment. His feet sink. He searches for an area of the shore where walking will feel pleasant. The sun quickly dries his feet, creating a stubborn breading of sand between his toes.
Victor is a bastard, Rémi tells himself. That is as far as his anger goes. He retreats into it and, naturally, a thin layer of blood clings to his heart, forming a new envelope, a supple paste that will harden with time.
He heads west, away from the place where he and Luc made love. He picks up a stone and hurls it fiercely into the water. The river’s surface is too lively, and the pebble sinks immediately without skipping. It does not matter. Rémi throws another stone, then another. He continues walking, throwing stones until his arm hurts. The afternoon, like him, grows tired. He reaches that place where the river becomes an enormous mouth vomiting into the Gulf the sum of the alluvium it has gathered since the Great Lakes.
He throws one last stone that will never reach the horizon. He sighs, soothed. For he is free.