A Good Life, page 6
TODAY
AUGUST 7
EMMA
7:22 A.M.
The sea is even calmer than yesterday. I can relax in it without the risk of being tossed out by a wave while doing my favorite thing: floating like a log. It’s only then, facing the sky, rocked by the swell of the water, arms and legs totally limp, that I feel entirely serene. There are still some scattered clouds left over from last night’s rain, together with that earthy smell you get after a downpour. I learned recently that it’s got a name: petrichor. It refers specifically to that scent that rises from wet soil after a dry period. While looking into it, I discovered that languages of all kinds abound in terms that are little-known, yet so poetic. Thus, in Italian, umarells are those elderly men whose pastime is watching building sites, hands clasped behind backs, always ready to offer advice or an opinion. In Japan, the sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees is called komorebi. In Portugal, saudade is a melancholic feeling that’s a mix of nostalgia and hope. I devoted a lesson to this, which my pupils really enjoyed. One of them asked me if there was a word to describe the smell that comes out of the principal’s mouth, which his classmates found highly amusing—as did I, though I made sure not to show it.
The cries of seagulls pierce the silence. I return to a vertical position, the old man is at the edge of the water, surrounded by birds. Like yesterday, he plunges his hand into his bag and throws food to them. Further along, a father and child watch the spectacle. I swim a few strokes before coming out. I intend to return to the house with breakfast, I want to be there before Agathe wakes up, even if that’s likely to be late, considering what time she got to bed. We prolonged our evening under the linden tree, made ourselves tomato and mozzarella on bread and had an impromptu picnic, just as Mima often did. We found the rug she’d use, and we just stayed there, talking about our lives now, going down memory lane, until darkness eclipsed daylight. I then went back to my room and into the arms that Morpheus had been holding out to me for some time. The wind had risen, heralding rain, but Agathe remained outside. In the dead of night, I was awoken by a downpour against the window. Through the curtain, I made out Agathe, standing in the middle of the garden, her face looking up at the sky. Thinking she was having a turn, I tore down the stairs four at a time and ran up to her, but no, she was just fine.
“I love the rain,” she said. “Can’t see why it’s got such a bad reputation.”
She has always liked what others reject, a kind of heightened Good Samaritan syndrome. She’s crazy about Brussels sprouts, passionate about sharks, and has always been drawn to people who’ve been sidelined. One day she adopted a dog, no doubt to repair the trauma surrounding Snoopy, and, of course, she chose the ugliest and oldest mutt at the shelter.
“Stay with me,” she said, as I was heading back for cover.
I went inside and watched her through the window. She looked happy. I got a lump in my throat, it’s what happens when expectations and reality match perfectly. By suggesting to my sister that we spend this week together, I knew what I was coming to do. But my expectation, I realize, lay elsewhere, I just wanted to reassure myself that she was fine. She was always better than me at catching happiness as it’s flying past. I grabbed an umbrella from the hall cupboard and returned to her.
“Are you kidding?” she guffawed. “Get rid of that thing, there’s no point otherwise. It’s like eating chocolate with an anesthetized mouth.”
I closed the umbrella and let the water fall into my short hair, slide down my forehead, my neck.
“Lift your head!” Agathe said.
I closed my eyes and turned my face up to the sky. My T-shirt was drenched, the rain was warm thanks to the summer it was taunting; it ran over my eyelids, my cheeks, my lips, I felt a sob forming in my stomach, rising up to my throat, and escaping into the downpour.
The air is fresher than yesterday, I shiver as I get out of the sea.
“Good morning, monsieur!” I call out to the gulls’ friend.
“Go fuck yourself!” he replies, charmingly.
YESTERDAY
MARCH 1995
EMMA—14 YEARS OLD
I got a warning. It’s the first time that’s happened to me, I’m more used to being highly commended. The teachers reckon I’ve stopped making any effort, and say they want to shock me into knuckling down again. What a rotten idea—if being shot in the foot was motivating, everyone would have a limp. I was even called to the principal’s office, she wanted to know what was going on, since I’ve always been a good pupil. My mother was in the office, she took my defense, explained that things were a bit complicated at home, promised I’d make more of an effort. I promised, too, hoping I’m better at keeping promises made to others than to myself, which I make every evening, then break every morning.
Stéphanie, Marion and Nicolas were waiting for me in the corridor to go back to class. Since I’ve been hanging out with them, Margaux’s stopped talking to me. She says I’ve changed. She’s jealous, I’ve never had so many friends since I stopped being the crawler in the front row. They invited me to the party at Arnaud’s on Saturday afternoon, I’d really like to go.
Mom is parked outside the school. I find that weird, I normally get the bus, but she takes me to have a drink at a bar near the church. As soon as we’re seated, she asks me if I’m angry with her.
I reply with the truth, that sometimes I’m angry, sometimes sad, sometimes scared. She starts to cry, so I add that most often, I’m happy. She says she’s a terrible mother. She explains that she hates herself, and that’s why she drinks. That Dad’s death didn’t help matters. That the more she wants to stop, the more she drinks, because she realizes that she’s not managing to, and she needs to forget that she’s useless. She tells me that, often, she can feel the rage in her stomach, like a monster taking over, that her mother was the same, that she’s done everything not to be like her, but it’s stronger than her, she can’t control it. She strokes my hair, kisses me, repeatedly. She’s concerned about my grades, she thought we were doing fine. She keeps asking me if I love her. If she knew how much. If she knew that, every morning, I go to check she’s breathing. If she knew that I speak to no one about all this so no one can think badly of her. If she knew that, every time I have to make a wish, I wish for her and my sister to be happy. If she knew that the reason I’m in such a hurry to grow up is to be able to help her. I tell her that I love her very much, and hold nothing against her.
“You’re more mature than I am,” she says.
She orders a second coffee and announces to me that she’s going away for five weeks. She’s going to alcohol rehab, and getting help for her depression. I ask her if there isn’t some other solution, but apparently not. Mima will come and look after us, it’s all been arranged. I can’t seem to swallow my cola anymore.
We go to collect Agathe from school. She usually gets the bus, too. She’s worried when she sees us, thinks something serious must have happened. Mom reassures her, we stop off at the bakery, and go home. There are two suitcases in the hall. I hadn’t realized it would happen so fast. My throat is burning, I hold back my tears, Agathe mustn’t understand. Mom explains to her that she’s going to Brittany for a while, for work. Agathe asks loads of questions, and she believes the answers. I’m jealous: I wish I could believe them, too.
Mom suggests we sleep with her for her last night at home, her in the middle, my sister and me on either side. I soon find myself in the cold, without a comforter, with my mother’s elbow stuck in my back, but I really don’t care, we’re all together.
From tomorrow onwards, it’s a promise, I’ll work hard. Never mind about Saturday afternoon.
YESTERDAY
JULY 1995
AGATHE—10 YEARS OLD
Mima woke us up really early to go to the Rhune. Apparently, it’s a mountain from which you can see all of the Basque Country. I’d have liked to sleep some more, so I do in the car, but, after a while, I have to look at the road because the bends are bringing my breakfast back up.
Papi puts on his cassette of Basque songs and sings along in a gruff voice to make us laugh.
There’s already a crowd when we arrive, we queue a little, and then get onto a train all made of wood. There’s no glass in the windows. Mima lets us sit beside the opening, telling us we’ll have the loveliest view. Papi is behind his camcorder, filming the landscape.
On our bench there’s a lady with her two daughters, it makes me think of Mommy. I wish she was with us. She stayed in Brittany longer than planned, she sent us letters and sometimes phoned us. When she got back, all three of us slept together for a week. She promised us she’d never go away again.
While the train goes up, I take photos with the disposable camera. It’s really pretty, we pass some ponies, Mima explains to us that they’re called Pottoks.
When we reach the top, it’s a bit cold, but luckily Mima brought some jackets. I don’t know why, it makes me want to give her a big hug, so I throw myself into her arms, which makes her laugh. A few people are already there, apparently they walked up (they’re crazy!) (or maybe they didn’t know about the train).
I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. On the right, you can see the whole coast, the sea in the distance, the Basque Country inland. Emma and I look through Mima’s binoculars and try to recognize the villages. We can see Ciboure, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, Bidart, Ascain, Nivelle, we even manage to spot the Rock of the Virgin in Biarritz. It looks minuscule, like a land for dolls!
On the left you can see the Pyrenees, and, below us, white clouds that approach like the waves of the sea. I take loads of photos, it’s magnificent, and at one moment I realize that tears are running down my cheeks, but I don’t know if it’s the wind or the beauty. Papi films me, so I hide under my jacket.
We’re going to walk around a bit, not too much because it’s steep for Mima, we see a shepherd calling his flock, we see some more Pottoks, but don’t go near so as not to frighten them, and then we go into the restaurant and I drink the best hot chocolate I’ve ever drunk, but I don’t say that to Mima so as not to offend her.
In the end, I’m really pleased not to have slept on. I think that, when I’m grown up, I’d like to live in the Basque Country. I’ll just have to convince Mommy and Emma, because I won’t leave without them.
TODAY
AUGUST 7
AGATHE
11:06 A.M.
I’ve always loved going into the garage. It was Papi’s den. He’d spend time in it tinkering around, painting, imagining all the new things he could make. He was particularly proud of the wooden worktable in which Mima kept all her sewing gear; the barrel he turned into a bar that lit up when you opened the door; and the revolving shelf he installed in the kitchen.
Nothing has moved. His fishing rods are leaning against the wall, beside the cool box. There’s still that smell of paint. The tools are hanging on the wall, above the workbench. As if he’d just left the garage.
“Found one?” Emma asks, joining me.
“Not yet,” I say, opening a drawer.
We’re looking for a lightbulb—the one in the kitchen is spent. Papi had a whole stock of them, like he did pens, batteries, power strips. He never spoke about his childhood, but Mima had told us, one day, that his parents had been killed during the war and he’d been brought up by his very strict grandparents. I’d inferred that he’d been deprived of everything, and his hoarding was to make up for it.
Opening another drawer, I happen upon a little piece of my childhood.
A small recorder and some cassettes. My heart contracts.
1991, maybe 1992. It was summer. The previous night, while stargazing, Emma spotted a strange shape in the sky. I asked if it could be a flying saucer. Mima laughed and said there’s no such thing. Emma and I weren’t so sure. We preferred to think that extraterrestrials were nice and had come to make contact with us. All night long, our imaginations were in overdrive. The following morning, still sleepy-eyed, we joined Papi at the table in the sitting room, where he’d been waiting for us.
“Girls, I have something for you.”
He pushed forward a recorder and pressed the play button. Suddenly, strange, dissonant sounds, then a voice rose up, nasal, almost tinny. We discovered an extraordinary language, never heard until then. I can still see Emma’s eyes, round as marbles, and mine can’t have been less so. We were astounded.
“Do you think they’re extraterrestrials?” I asked.
Papi nodded his head:
“Absolutely. The cassette was placed outside the front door. By chance, I have a friend who works at a space agency. He was able to translate the message, on condition that we never speak about it to anyone. Do you promise?”
“We promise, Papi!” we replied in unison.
He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, then cleared his throat, to indicate to us that it was a solemn moment.
“Message to Emma and Agathe Delorme. We’ve observed you from our distant galaxy, and we came to Earth to tell you that you are two extraordinary little girls. You’re the pride and joy of your loved ones. Well done!”
I kept the secret, and I’m sure Emma did, too. We never spoke of it again, firstly out of fear of extraterrestrial reprisals, then, as the years went by, fear of spoiling the magic of the scene. Certain childhood memories are like very old paintings, they spoil when exposed to light. So we keep them somewhere inside of us, hidden from view, intact.
I hold the little recorder in my hands and a wave of emotion overwhelms me. In the half-light of his garage, I can imagine Papi inventing the gibberish, holding his nose and hitting metal objects to add the sound effects, just so his two granddaughters would feel unique in the world.
“I’ve found a bulb!”
I join Emma, we leave the garage, and close up Papi’s cave once more.
1:01 P.M.
“Could you come and empty the dishwasher?”
I’m looking at my phone while waiting for the potatoes to cook. I’ve laid the table and chopped tomatoes and onions, but Emma has clearly decided to put an end to the relationship between the chair and my ass. I get up with all the enthusiasm of a slug and join her in the kitchen.
“I presume I shouldn’t put any ham in the salad?” she asks, while making the vinaigrette.
“You can put it in, but I won’t eat it.”
“It doesn’t bother you if it touches your food?”
“Is that a real question, or are you making fun of me?”
She doesn’t reply. I put away the glasses, the plates, I can see her watching me out of the corner of her eye, I get to the cutlery—forks, spoons, knives . . .
“By the way, just so you know, the blades go down.”
I stop what I’m doing and look at her:
“Meaning?”
“The knives. Last night you didn’t put them in blade down in the basket, you can cut yourself taking them out.”
“You just have to take care. Blade down, they’re not properly washed.”
“Of course they are. And also, the cutlery needs to be sorted. Knives in one basket, forks in another, and so on.”
She speaks while stirring the vinaigrette, looking deep into the bowl.
“Emma, you have your way, I have mine.”
“Mine’s more logical.”
“More tight-assed, for sure.”
She stops stirring.
“What’s your problem?” she asks.
“Are you serious? I have the problem? You’ve been on my back since earlier, I’m just reacting.”
She lets out an exaggerated laugh:
“Of course, it was pain-in-the-ass Emma who started it! Agathe’s far too cool to stir things up!”
“Have you lost the plot, or what? Emma, stop, you’re really driving me crazy.”
“So? What are you going to do about it? Slam the door, insult me, have a fit? As usual? You’re great at spoiling the party, I’d forgotten.”
A ball of anger is forming in my stomach. I could almost hold it in my hands, it’s compact, heavy, oppressive. My entire body is shaking, my breathing quickening. The words are jostling in my head, I’m struggling not to hurl them right at her. I chuck the knives into the drawer and shut myself in my room before I say anything I’ll regret.
2:05 P.M.
“Agathe?”
It’s the third time in an hour that she’s come knocking on my door. I’ve locked it. I don’t answer. She can just fuck off.
3:12 P.M.
“Agathe, you must eat something.”
“Get lost.”
“Your food’s ready. I’m waiting for you, to eat mine.”
“ . . . ”
“I didn’t put in any ham.”
“ . . . ”
“I’ve poured you some cola.”
These are apologies in disguise.
My anger has simmered down. We’ve wasted enough time. I open the door, she’s standing there, smiling awkwardly.
“You know what they say, Gagathe, about tough love.”
“Yeah, well any more ‘tough love’ from you and it’s not the knife blades that’ll be upside-down.”
YESTERDAY
NOVEMBER 1996
AGATHE—11 YEARS OLD
The school nurse said it would be good if I went and saw a shrink. When I told Mommy, she said no way, shrinks are for crazy people. Emma said that’s mainly because Mom’s scared I’ll tell the shrink uncomfortable things.
I wish I could manage to get to sleep at night. Every time I go to bed, it’s the same old thing, I think about death, my own, Emma’s, Mommy’s, Mima’s, Papi’s, and my heart beats too fast for me to sleep. I’m scared of fires, too. There was one in the building next door, Christmas evening. We were at Mima’s, so we didn’t see it, but when we got back, the outside wall was all black and the balcony had gotten burnt. Apparently, it was the Christmas tree that caught fire. Emma says that’s rare, that there’s no reason that will happen to ours. Every evening since I’ve had this fear, she helps me check that all the radiators in the apartment are uncovered and the gas properly turned off. Then she comes to my room and answers all my questions until my heart calms down. If it starts racing again, I can go and sleep with her, in her bed. Mommy doesn’t want to hear a word about my anxieties. She says I’m putting it on to get the attention. She’s probably right, but I don’t know why I do that.
