Her eyes framed by long lashes, like so many petals on a flower drunk with perfume, the child waits impatiently for the car door to open and reveal her “uncle” Victor.
“Isn’t this my beautiful To-to-to-phie!”
“So-phie!” she corrects, throwing herself into Victor’s arms, who catches her and pulls her close.
“It’s not To-to-to-phie?”
“No!”
Rémi tousles her hair.
“And what about me, miss? You’re ignoring me?”
She rushes towards him. He plants a kiss in the hollow of her neck. The child bursts out laughing, wriggles free, and runs towards the house to tell her mother.
“How big she’s gotten!” Victor exclaims.
Marie-Claire comes out onto the porch.
“Hello, my lambs. Happy birthday, Rémi!”
“Well, we’ll have to go around now to give you a kiss! What are you waiting for, quintuplets?”
They kiss. Rémi hands her the bottles of wine, the cheese, and a few baguettes of his own making. She applauds.
The conversation quickly turns to Marie-Claire’s large baby bump. Twins! There is surprise, exclamations; Marie-Claire will have to stop teaching. Rémi notices her grey hairs. He tells her she’s wearing herself out too fast as he touches a strand escaping her bun. She shooes him away like a bad fly and fixes the rebellious hair, mentioning it runs in the family. But still, Rémi thinks, she does everything in this house, everything with Luc, of course, but it’s still far too much when you add the teaching load and the numerous visits from students or friends who take advantage of the quietude of the cottages.
“Where are the others?” Victor asks.
“Lucienne is at her place; Antoine and Luc are down by the beach. A tree was struck by lightning last night and is blocking the path.”
Marie-Claire, Rémi thinks, is increasingly adopting the rhythm of the river people. “There is this to do,” “there is this that’s here, that shouldn’t be,” “it’s time to wait, to act,” “when does it come for the land?” “It’s time to go in.” Rémi understands this. His bakery absorbs him in the same way. “There is this to do,” “the mixer’s broken,” “there are so many breads to make,” “there’s an emergency,” “it’s time to wait,” “it’s time to close up.”
“I’ll go say a word to Lucienne.”
“You should let Luc know we’ve arrived.”
“OK.”
He watches them go inside. Each visit to this mansion takes him back eight years. With regret, he realizes that nothing here living is identical to what was; that what has been built has eroded, and the ghosts of the past resemble the shadows of the present.
What would these places have been if Marthe hadn’t fled to her Ireland? He observes the cottages to the right of the mansion. Gustave’s burned down five years ago, almost at the same time as his death. Marie-Claire has transformed the spot into a pretty vegetable garden enclosed by a cedar hedge. He heads towards the cottage Armand used to inhabit. Perhaps he should have burned that place down too after Armand’s tragic death…
He stops before the steps leading to the cottage porch. A kitten emerges from behind an old wooden box. Rémi bends down slowly and calls out:
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk.”
The kitten meows louder.
“Have you lost your mommy?”
The kitten hesitates, then meows. A large black cat emerges from the corner of the cottage. Probably the mother, stopping instantly to evaluate the enemy. She arches her back. Rémi understands and moves away.
He passes the cottage that Hélène occupied. Before him stands the one now inhabited by Lucienne. Eight years ago, Marie-Claire and Luc had moved in there after Marthe had it renovated. Previously, the cottage had remained empty for five years following Léo’s abrupt departure. A string of events, Rémi thinks. Before Marthe, there had been other inhabitants, other dramas and happiness. Before those, other anxieties and deliverances. Before those, similar stories and confidences. The memory of these places has no end or beginning, just like the multiple interpretations each person can imagine. Strangers, Marthe and Léo, often Marthe, Hélène, Gustave, Armand, Lucienne, sometimes all this crowd and a bit of Rémi, then everyone except Léo, sometimes Léo in the memories, then Marie-Claire and Luc, sometimes Luc and Rémi. A moving and incessant game of foam as beautiful as it is evanescent.
Rémi goes around the cottage. The vast expanse of the river presents itself to him. Léo had made this cottage his workshop and his den. Rémi stops in front of the river. Where is Luc? Before trying to rejoin him, he must pay his respects to good Lucienne. He spots her, sitting in a rocking chair, knitting. She looks sad. He smiles. She hasn’t seen him yet. He isn’t used to the idea of seeing her so thin. Twenty-five kilos less in a year, doctor’s orders. The ample flesh that had long been the delight of men in the region has given way to loose, tired fabric. Every knitting motion creates waves in the aged flesh. He takes a step, still smiling. She startles upon seeing him, but her fright liquefies and gives place to a maternal smile.
“It’s you, my boy? Ah, how glad I am!”
She drops her knitting and stands up, extending her arms. Rémi says nothing yet, adopting the frightened air of a child about to receive a deluge of caresses. Lucienne takes his head in her hands and covers him with kisses.
“I told you not to do that in front of everyone,” Rémi jokes, “people will think we’re lovers.”
She pushes him away, patting his shoulder.
“You old snoreau, you’ll never change! Well, I must be getting old; I didn’t even hear the car arrive!”
“You knit too much!”
She bends down to pick up her wool. He prepares to do it for her, but she makes an impatient gesture.
“I’m old, but I can still pick up my things. And being as skinny as I am, it’s even easier!”
“It suits you, you know.”
She stands up and chuckles.
“Don’t talk nonsense. I’ve been fat all my life; now I feel like I’m melting before plunging into the grave.”
“You’re not going to die, come on.”
“Yes, like everyone else, that’s how it goes. Come sit down…”
She pulls a stool forward and gestures for Rémi to move things lying nearby further away.
“Is your bakery closed?”
“Yes…”
“You’re still as handsome,” she says softly. “And you coming to visit us, that’s nice!”
Rémi casts a sidelong glance at her.
“They didn’t tell you? It’s my birthday today!”
She blushes and widens her eyes.
“Oh, indeed! Marie-Claire told me yesterday… I apologize… I’m really losing chunks of my mind.”
Flustered, she gives him more kisses wishing him a happy birthday. Rémi gladly accepts this second wave of caresses. Lucienne chuckles, resettles comfortably in her rocking chair, and resumes knitting.
“Aren’t you a bit hot for knitting?”
“I’m preparing for the arrival of the twins! Marie-Claire produces! By the time they’re big enough to wear that, it’ll already be autumn!”
“Always as far-sighted as ever.”
“That was my profession for forty years: being far-sighted… Have you heard from Marthe?”
“Yes, she sent me an email these past few days.”
“What’s that?”
“An email! A electronic message, by computer!”
“Couldn’t she just call like everyone else?”
Rémi detects a hint of bitterness he refrains from noting. She continues in a sharp tone:
“She never calls… or almost never.”
“She’ll come back… she told me she’s thinking of visiting us.”
“It’s about time!”
“They’re in Ireland now. They’re going to die there, she told me. They bought their plot in the cemetery.”
Lucienne stops knitting and looks at him with frightened eyes.
“My goodness… What are they doing there? Their place is here!”
She looks over the estate.
“There’s no more life here since they left.”
“You were gone too.”
“Well, I came back, and fast besides!”
Rémi doesn’t answer, for he knows the deep-seated anger of the former maid. Everything for her plays out in a region deeply buried under her countrywoman’s shell, and she herself might have no control over the tectonic movements of her moods.
She begins to hum, as if she had forgotten Rémi’s presence. He observes her. The last seven years have been hard on her.
“Why do you still wear black?”
She startles.
“Well, I’m a widow!”
“It’s already been seven years… and besides, Dimitri, you knew him for less than a year…”
“No big deal… he loved me, though. I owe him that much.”
“He didn’t last long, that one.”
“No…”
“That’s no reason to wear black, you know, especially in this heat. You surely have nicer dresses.”
She puts down her knitting; her expression conveys anger or boredom, then she seems to change her mind and soften.
“I have nothing to wear on my back… with this diet…”
“I say it suits you; it highlights your beautiful hair.”
“The hair runs in the family. We all died with our mane. Speaking of death, how is your father doing?”
“He’s well… I almost took him today, but he didn’t want to.”
“He’s still in love with me.”
“That would have made you a fine match.”
“No!”
Rémi bursts out laughing.
“What do you mean?”
Lucienne moves closer to him.
“I can tell you this. Your father is kind, but he never knew how to really please; he was a bit too quick, if you see what I mean…”
He doesn’t know if this detail about his father’s sex life interests him, but he doesn’t want to upset Lucienne.
“And then Dimitri entered the picture…”
She sighs.
“To be so good and die of a heart attack while going to pee, what horror.”
Rémi holds back his laughter, which isn’t lost on Lucienne.
“You’re laughing at that!”
“Sorry,” he says, struggling to regain his seriousness.
“It is funny when you think about it!”
She chuckles.
“Aren’t you going to see Luc?”
Lucienne’s sudden question destabilizes him.
“Yes, yes, but I had to come pay my respects.”
“Well, that’s done! He’s down on the beach with Titoène.”
“I know, Marie-Claire told me.”
“Well, that’s that…”
Lucienne smiles as she returns to her knitting. Ben c’est ça is one of those rural terms that doesn’t deceive. C’est ça qui est ça. C’est ben pour dire. Expressions that say a lot while signifying they don’t want to lengthen things; it’s what it is.
Just as well to go with it and rejoin Luc.
“We’ll see each other later,” he says, standing up. “And I’m sure you have a beautiful dress to put on for my birthday.”
“We’ll see…”
“That’s that…”
He walks away humming.
Antoine and Luc work around a tree. Shirtless, Luc gestures towards his son for him to step back while he operates the chainsaw.
Sighting Rémi, Antoine runs towards him. Rémi takes him into his arms.
“Hi, uncle!”
“Hi, you. Still as ugly?”
Antoine bursts out laughing.
“I’m not ugly!”
Rémi hugs him tight.
“Of course you’re not ugly. You’re the most handsome boy in the world!”
He arrives near Luc, who smiles at him.
“Handsome guy!” Rémi can’t help but throw out.
Luc puffs out his chest, pretending not to accept the compliment. Still, he wipes his abdomen with a towel and throws it to him. Rémi catches it and brings it to his nose. Antoine grimaces:
“‘Ugh, that must smell bad.’”
Rémi passes it under Antoine’s nose. Antoine makes another “ugh.”
Rémi and Luc exchange smiles. Luc returns to his tree.
“And you, the bakery?”
“I’m on vacation, but otherwise, things are rolling along quite well. I’m not bored.”
Rémi watches him prune the dead tree.
“You’re in shape; you working out?”
“Yes, at the gym near the office.”
“The muscles suit you.”
Luc tosses a billet to him. Rémi helps him store the wood under a tree sheltered from the tide. Antoine plays further away, scaring the waves. Luc watches him from the corner of his eye.
“He’s growing up well,” Rémi comments.
“Yeah. The family is fine.”
“Two more coming!”
“Yeah, for fuck’s sake!”
Luc bursts out laughing, grabs his crotch.
“There’s plenty of stock in there!”
Rémi decodes his friend’s gesture, proud of the shared intimacy, sad to know its meaning too well: a categorical refusal to “jump the fence.”
“And work?” he asks to counteract his sadness.
“It’s going; no complaints, there’s tons of work.”
“You don’t come to see me often. You’re not far when you’re in town.”
Why push him back into sadness?
“You know…”
“Know what?”
“The work is demanding, and it’s too complicated.”
“And with Marie-Claire?”
“It’s going… Still in love, still after women, if that’s what you want to know…”
It’s Rémi’s turn to chuckle.
“Naturally. It doesn’t stop you from kissing guys like no one else.”
Luc doesn’t answer. Rémi fears he went too far, but Luc still doesn’t react. Rémi looks at the horizon. The river seems as hot as everyone else; the waves are soft, the birds slow, almost zen. Six years ago, Rémi remembers, Luc had kissed him for the first time. It was in the dead of winter. Rémi was just passing through. A quick, violent kiss. A mysterious phrase: “I could have loved you.” Footsteps on the snow; Luc had distanced himself and resumed work in the old stable. Marie-Claire came to bring them a hot drink. Luc had kissed her in front of Rémi, a bit too hungrily. Rémi left for France the next day. When he returned for good, the incident hadn’t been discussed, but Luc didn’t hesitate to touch his arm, his shoulder, to embrace his waist. A few rare moments, still, when they had been alone, in the car; a silence of iron and lead between them; Rémi could measure the amplitude of Luc’s breath. Finally, last year, Rémi can give the date, the hour, and the weather. Once again alone at the mansion. Luc had made love to him with an expertise that surprised Rémi. Then, once again and again the watertight dike of silence. Rémi had tried to call him a few times, but it was always Marie-Claire who answered…
“Move over; the branch might fly off.”
Luc finishes pruning the tree. They do everything in silence.
“Antoine! We’re going back home.”
The little boy, far away, runs towards the house.
“Watch out, little worm!”
But the boy is already on the steps leading to the property. Luc picks up his shirt near the billets. Rémi follows him. Luc grabs him by the neck and presses him against the wood. They look at each other.
“What are you waiting for, Luc?”
“I want to, but I’m trying to control myself.”
Rémi laughs.
“Why?”
“To offend no one.”
“That’s a good point, but I think you have an erection.”
Luc chuckles, brings his lips closer. Rémi opens his. He can feel the particular smell. Luc kisses him, drives his tongue deep into Rémi’s throat with a roughness that has nothing to do with what happened last time. But Rémi swallows it all, like a greedy bird. Luc pulls away, picks up his shirt, and walks away whistling.
Rémi sits in the sand, seeking his breath. Luc disappears from his view. Rémi sighs, looks at the river. Seen from this angle, the watercourse resembles draining blood, blue. Weighed down by impurity, the foam cannot reach the sky; it falls flat, creamy like seed. Luc’s words float on the gravelly waters: “To offend no one.” A bad truth.
The desire to cry mixes with the anger of having been so easily defeated. He tries to calm down. He is not part of that small group that needs protection from offense. Pitying himself would be clumsy given the circumstances since he has obtained a bit of what he wanted. He closes his eyes, salivates, searching his tongue for Luc’s taste. Can one smile and grieve at the same time?
Breathe, reconnect with the centre of his existence, that which inhales, exhales, that dreams of nirvana. He straightens up, keeps his eyes closed, bends his legs under his body, places his hands on his knees, palms facing the sky. Inhale, whiten his air, transborder the oxygen, fill his holds with carbon, cast off the moorings, exhale. Luc, Luc. Inhale him, exhale him. Stéphane, Stéphane. The other in desire, the other in memory. Victor, Victor. Him in tenderness, him in distress. Rémi opens his eyes. Nothing helps; the breathlessness persists. The time when the heart accelerated and decelerated at high speed is over; the oils have lost their effectiveness, the membranes have stretched. The time when he allowed himself not to count is over. Infinity is over.
“But you’re only forty-three,” he tries to tell himself.
“But you’re no longer twenty either.”
The discourse is new within him.
“Really?”
End of lies; begin the secrecy. Since the count of years accelerates, since desire becomes increasingly painful to live, it is better to abdicate. Smile.
“Not yet,” protests the brain, armed with warlike substances it releases into the veins. The heart quickens. Luc. Luc. He will have his skin, at least one more time. Completely.
“And after?” another brain launches. After? Rémi resumes the path to the mansion. He is only forty-three; he can still accumulate questions. He walks, watches the blue blood of the river carry the alluvium. After? After all, what is waste for one will be food for another. Redemption will be all the greater.
The sight of the river, the heaviness of steps struggling against the sand, the calm prowess of birds finally soothe his thoughts. He strives to place an Asian smile on his lips. This effort bears fruit. The face relaxes. He climbs the steps of old stones, turns towards Lucienne’s cottage, where she is still sitting on her porch, knitting. He sits beside her, says nothing.
“You don’t speak loudly,” she says after five minutes of silence.
“Neither do you!”
“I’m old; I no longer need to speak.”
Rémi rests his head against the old lady’s shoulder; she stops knitting to sigh.
“Luc kissed you?”
“How did you know that, old witch?”
“I have a good nose, and a good heart. He’s already confided in me, you know.”
“What could he have told you?”
“He’s a good boy, and I understand his trouble. Everyone would want to kiss you.”
“Even you?”
Lucienne laughs.
“No, not me. You don’t weigh enough!”
“In addition, she insults me!”
“It’s because I love you too much.”
“That’s enough, that’s enough…”
Lucienne laughs again.
“When you’re as old as me, you’ll be humbler; it will relieve you.”
“You’ve had your share of pain too.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, still laughing good-naturedly.
“Are you happy to be old?”
“No… especially when said by a handsome boy like you.”
“You just told me I didn’t weigh enough.”
“You will never understand women.”
“Should I?”
“Yes! And besides, you’re smarter than that. You have a good nature.”
These words do her good.
“You should come live with me; I’m sure you’d keep me on the right track!”
“What track? It seems you take quite a few routes.”
“Am I looking for myself?”
“Hurry up; you’re starting to run out of time to explore…”
“I know…,” he says, in a suddenly glum tone.
Lucienne laughs again.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m bragging because I’m too old to act otherwise. I’ve sinned quite a bit too.”
“Sinned!”
“Yes, sinned! Let’s say I was fishing rather. Or did I get fished? I’ve bitten on quite a few hooks…”
“You liked sex, didn’t you?”
She looks at him, blushes.
“In my time, we didn’t pronounce that word. It always makes me a bit shy when it’s said.”
“But never when you were doing it.”
“Yes, of course… It was really a sin for us.”
“Were you a slut?”
“A little respect, my boy!”
She raises her voice, but to bring it down again immediately.
“You’re right. It didn’t really bother me. I took whatever passed. I was fat; I was convinced that was the only way to have pleasure. And don’t go telling me that fat people eventually find their happiness; I’ve heard that from the fat themselves. To each rag its own shred, they said. Me, I wanted more; I had ambition, if you can say that. I didn’t keep them with me, but I did know handsome men, muscular guys, from the young white-bread to the highest bidder and oldest…”
She chuckles, keeping one eye on her knitting advancing mechanically.
“At first, it was almost out of vengeance that I stole other girls’ boys. And at a certain point, I did it just for the pleasure it gave me. I was never really a woman for that kind of thing. It’s true! Me, my desire to have only one man take care of me in old age, I didn’t believe that until very late.”
“Dimitri?”
“No, a bit before, though…”
“You wanted to live.”
“Exactly that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I regret nothing! If I had to…”
“It’s like me…”
“I know…”
“I find it ridiculous to go around Luc.”
“Then just stop.”
“Easy to say.”
She puts down her knitting and smiles at him.
“What are you really looking for?”
When Lucienne wants to get to the bottom of things, her rural accent surfaces more strongly, as if only it could express ideas clearly and without embellishment.
“Oh, well, don’t answer me. I’ve done that too, tormenting myself over someone. And Luc, it’s not your fault. I’m sure he jumped on you. Between him and Marie-Claire, it’s a rollercoaster.”
“Oh… Victor didn’t tell me.”
“He must not know.”
“You think? Marie-Claire and him are tightly woven.”
“There are things women only tell other women. Luc has become… different.”
“He’s a budding queer.”
“Don’t take your desire for reality! Just different, like less at home in his place. You have to say that Marie-Claire doesn’t help.”
“I feel like it’s getting interesting.”
Lucienne chuckles.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you all this; you’re already entangled enough.”
She stands up and puts her knitting away in a box on the floor. Six kittens invade the porch, stop, frozen before Rémi who is clearly not part of their universe. The large black cat from earlier arrives and repeats its routine of arching its back, proudly imitated by its progeny which fails, however, to impress or maintain its balance. Lucienne raises her voice.
“Nerves, Albertine; no danger!”
The cat emits a long whistle; galvanized, the kittens flee behind her.
“Albertine, for heaven’s sake, out!”
The cat startles at her mistress’s aggressive gesture and scrambles away with her kittens behind the trees further down.
“A real crazy cat, this one,” says Lucienne.
“Is she yours?”
“She’s Katou’s daughter; you remember her?”
“Yes, for that…”
“You remember her master more.”
“Well yes…”
Lucienne makes the sign of the cross.
“Why do you do that?”
“Because I’m Catholic!”
“You didn’t go to mass much, and you lived too much in sin…”
“I’m not a Mary Magdalene!”
“I didn’t say that…”
“Yes! And deep down, you might be right…”
The old lady sighs.
“Well, go rejoin the others; I’ll put on a dress.”
Rémi smiles.
“What? Did you really think I’d wear black for your birthday?”
“I thought you had forgotten?”
She laughs as she enters the house.
Like cats, the children chase their shadows, playing to catch one another while seeming to pay no mind to who should win. The strong winds constantly sweeping the shore cannot dislodge the thick heat. They only make it bearable by stripping away the humidity that, in the city, has already killed the desire to love summer.
The adults have sat around a large quilt. For Marie-Claire, they made an impromptu chair against a tree with pillows and cushions. Lucienne preferred to sit on an old garden chair.
Despite the relative abandonment of the place, Marie-Claire and Luc having only time to deal with urgent matters, the mansion has retained the ample allure of a property that has known its hours of glory: carved wooden chairs, scalloped dormer windows, strong trees, a welcoming view of the great river.
“No two ways about it, we feel good here,” declares Rémi, tearing off a bunch of grapes.
On the blanket, burst cheeses, baguettes reduced to their crusts, cold meats attacked by ants, fruits, two bottles of wine, white and red, almost empty, attest to this country pleasure.
No one comments. The conversation has stopped as if the heat had won out over their intelligence. Marie-Claire watches the children with a smile. Luc and Rémi throw bread balls at each other. Victor asks them to stop. In her tulip-red dress, Lucienne observes him, squinting. This doesn’t escape Rémi.
“What are you thinking about, Lucienne?”
They turn their attention to the former maid, happy to finally bite into another subject of conversation.
“Nothing!”
Rémi won’t let her dodge like that.
“When you squint your eyes, Lucienne, it means something is scratching inside.”
Lucienne shrugs but says nothing else. Rémi tries a diversion.
“You have a beautiful dress; it’s good to see some colour on you.”
The others agree. Lucienne invents a small polite smile, pulls at her dress which rises too easily with the wind, casts a short glance at Victor, then at Luc, Marie-Claire, finally at Rémi whom she lingers on a bit longer.
“I’m old…”
Silence falls. The children are the only ones not listening. They spin around until dizzy, then collapse into the grass, laughing exaggeratedly, get up and start again. One or another will end up injured or nauseated, but the adults let them do it.
“It’s nothing… and I’m bored.”
Marie-Claire sits up, places a hand on her belly, grimacing.
“Aren’t you happy with us?” she says, unconvincingly.
Lucienne smiles at her to calm her down.
“Well no, that’s not it.”
She looks at them again.
“Could you give me a little wine, Rémi? White, come on! You know well I never drink red; it gives me palpitations. Thank you.”
She brings the glass to her lips; her eyes darken.
“I miss Marthe. It’s not the same here since she left. Oh, I know, I went too. But I came back quickly, as you know. Damn, it was hot there. Even Dimitri couldn’t handle it; the heat killed him.”
“Are you sure it’s the heat?”
Lucienne shoots Luc a cold glance.
“Don’t laugh at that, little devil; you’d do well to follow Dimitri’s example.”
Rémi doesn’t let time for possible awkwardness to intrude between them.
“What would you like to do, Lucienne?”
She raises her arms to the sky.
“I don’t know! I need to move around, it seems! I’m not made for retirement! You’re very kind, Marie-Cé and Luc, to take care of me, but what can you do? I’ve cleaned this house for so many years and it seems I did it for nothing! Your new maid whom you have once a week, Clarisse, she’s too thin; I’m sure she does the rounded corners, and I get tired just thinking about it!”
Marie-Claire wants to protest, but Lucienne stops her by rubbing her hand.
“It’s not your fault, Marie-Cé. If you had thirty maids under your charge, it would be the same. It’s me who is extra, it seems. I have too many memories…”
Lucienne collapses.
“And I’ll eventually end up dying.”
“A fine subject for a birthday,” responds Victor.
Lucienne stares at him.
“It’s Rémi who asked what was wrong with me; well, I’m answering him!”
Rémi stands up, places himself behind her, and massages her shoulders.
“Your life isn’t over; you still have plenty to live and do.”
“Right, I’ll live to be a hundred… Lord, you give a good massage. Move down a little, would you? Ah… a man’s hands, even if he is queer…”
They laugh.
Luc raises his glass.
“To all the beautiful queers in the world!”
Victor negligently raises his, not smiling at all; Marie-Claire looks away. Lucienne raises her glass, laughs.
“And to our birthday boy!”
They point their glasses towards Rémi.
“Antoine! You’re going to be sick if you continue like that!”
“Why don’t you let him do it, Marie-Cé?” Lucienne asks gently. “Dizziness is what matters; it helps pass the time.”
Marie-Claire doesn’t seem to hear it this way.
“I experience dizziness differently these days.”
Lucienne smiles, pats her hand.
“I know well; that’s just my way of speaking… But I would have loved to have children.”
“Could you not?” asks Victor.
“I didn’t want a husband!”
“A husband is useful; it helps pay the bills,” Luc jokes ironically.
Marie-Claire throws a small pillow at him.
“As if I weren’t capable of earning my living!”
“No, that’s not what I meant, sweetheart.”
The conversation goes in other directions. Rémi looks at the river. He also misses Marthe, but no more than that. He plunges his hands through the loose muscles of his old friend Lucienne, who responds to each finger pressure with a sigh of pain and satisfaction. No, really, he has tied himself to too many bodies and distanced himself from too many promises not to recognize the futility of attachment. The nonsense of hours of waiting that linger nowhere on existence… counted years… river years, dust. He observes his friends; his gaze lingers on Luc’s well-shaven neck. Rémi would like to bite it there. Boredom can never compete with the choreography of desires.
“You could come stay with us for a while,” he suddenly says to Lucienne, without thinking too much, interrupting everyone. “I’ll take over the bakery in a week. You could help me, answer customers. I have an employee who broke his leg.”
Victor raises disapproving eyebrows at Rémi, who pretends not to notice. Marie-Claire protests:
“But her place is here, come on! The children adore her; what am I going to do to watch them?”
Rémi feels Lucienne stiffen. She breaks free of his hold. Before she opens her mouth, he tries to lower the tension.
“Just for three weeks, until I find a replacement.”
Lucienne softens. Disappointed?
“You’re not saying anything, Lucienne? Nothing prevents you from getting your footing; in summer, the traffic is lighter. Afterward, you could come help me from time to time, just to change things up?”
Lucienne turns to him, visibly moved.
“You’d do that for me?”
“I’d mostly be doing it for myself. I’m sure you’d attract all the little old men in the neighbourhood.”
“That’s it; laugh at me!”
He forces her to resume her position on the chair and submit to his massage.
“No, my beautiful Lucienne.”
“I’m a baker’s daughter; you knew that?”
“Yes, Lucienne, we know that!” they say in chorus.
“That’s it; laugh at me!”
“No, my beautiful Lucienne!”
Rémi is happy; he returns to his place while Lucienne begins for the umpteenth time to tell her childhood. A family of sixteen children. The father was a baker almost out of obligation to feed his family.
Victor doesn’t smile, eyes fixed on nothing. Rémi shrugs. Everything is dust, including his companion’s mood swings. He smiles. Luc doesn’t lose sight of him; Marie-Claire always watches the children. Rémi tries not to add more oil to the fire.