A Good Life, page 9
I rather like the Matt Damon lookalike. I wait for him to come, prepare what I’ll say to him. It’s him I think of when I’m putting my make-up on in the morning. It’s the first time I’ve fancied someone since it ended with Loïc.
This lunchtime, he said something other than his order: he asked me my name. He was seriously shaking and went for it while I was giving him change on his twenty-franc note. I left work this evening with a cash drawer that I couldn’t balance and a date for the weekend.
I was smiling inanely for the entire journey home, the people on the bus must have thought me weird.
My smile disappears on the second floor. I’ve still got two to go and I can already hear the cries.
Agathe is in the kitchen, crouching, cowering. She’s shielding her head with her arms. Mom is facing her, with her back to me. She doesn’t see me arrive. “Girl, if you think you’re going to speak to me like that,” she says to Agathe, “you’ve got another think coming, no kid makes the rules under this roof.” My sister moans: “I’m so sorry, Mom,” but it’s not enough. Mom raises her arm, her belt is wound around her hand, she’s about to whip it down. It’s been happening more often, with ever more force. She always apologizes afterwards, explains that it’s hard bringing us up on her own, that we’re not easy, that we could do our bit, and then she hugs us, calls us her darling girls, repeats that we’re everything to her, that without us she’d have no reason to live anymore. Never did the thought, or even the desire, come to us to defend ourselves, to push her away. We take what’s coming.
But not this time.
Anger propels me towards her, I grab her wrist, and block the blow.
Her eyes swivel onto me. She’s crimson with rage. For several seconds she remains frozen, arm aloft. I tell myself that this is good, that my intervention allowed her to take stock of the situation, that she’s going to put her belt back where it should be—through the loops on her trousers—and that the evening’s going to proceed with apologies and a few smiles. The snap of leather on my cheek puts an end to my fantasies.
TODAY
AUGUST 8
AGATHE
1:19 P.M.
Emma surfs as well as a pétanque ball. When we were kids, she was the best at it, which shows you can’t take anything for granted. She keeps trying, whether out of pride or pig-headedness I don’t know, and each time she ends up in the water in positions that defy gravity. She reminds me of those wall climbers with their sticky fists. I’m careful not to let slip that I surf regularly with Lucas—for once she has reason to admire me, and I’m not going to deprive her of it.
The tide has gone out, the beach is accessible once more. We come out of the water and lie on the sand to dry out.
“You’re as good as you ever were,” she says to me. “Do you surf often?”
“Never.”
“Come on, it’s obvious you practice regularly!”
“Careful, I read recently that jealousy causes piles.”
She bursts out laughing:
“What nonsense!”
“Don’t feel bad, it’s totally normal to be jealous of my natural grace. You spent more time under the water than on the board, more sponge than surfer.”
Lucas joins us for a cigarette break. His cheeks and nose are covered in green sunblock.
“So, the Delorme sisters, a good surfing session?”
Emma slaps her thigh:
“Oh, it was surfing? I thought it was diving we were doing!”
Lucas is enjoying this:
“Have to say, the conditions weren’t brilliant, it was nicer last week. Wasn’t it, Agathe?”
The jerk.
2:56 P.M.
We return the wetsuits and boards. Lucas suggests we come again tomorrow. My sister declines—surprise, surprise, she’ll need some time to digest all the Atlantic she’s swallowed.
She talks about him as we climb onto the scooter. “He’s nicer than when we were kids,” she says. “Cuter, too.”
He’s the only guy I’ve stayed friends with after trying to be more than just friends. There was a close miss as adolescents (two kisses without tongue and without sequel), then we were together in our early twenties. It followed the same trajectory as the others: a spectacular take-off, promises of everlasting love, then the crash, just as spectacular, just as drastic. It’s quite simple: the sheerest pantyhose has a longer life expectancy than my love affairs. I love as quickly as I unlove. I lived with two of them, was engaged once, believed in it every time, was disappointed every time. With Lucas, it remained a beginning, just simmering, we stopped before we’d really started. He once confided in me that he was like me, a lover of extremes, an all-or-nothing type, scared of the half-hearted. There are some similarities that are best not shared, we remained friends, even if, occasionally, we find ourselves in the same bed or the same position.
I hope that one day I’ll find someone who can hold on to my love. But the problem doesn’t stem from others. It took me a bit of time, a few doctors, and, no doubt, the departure of my sister to understand that.
Like all the girls of my generation, I was lulled into believing in an eternal love that only death could end. Enduring couples are held up as ideals, break-ups considered failures. I’d like to live that. Part of me still hopes for that. But maybe I’m made for loving often, not for loving a long time. Maybe my heart prefers sprinting to long-distance.
For ages, I tried to mold myself to expectations, fit into the standard model, before I faced facts: I recognize myself more often in the exception than in the rule. When I do those magazine personality tests, there’s never a type that corresponds to me. One day Mima told me it was just the norm that wasn’t wide enough; it was a trickle of water after a drought when it should be as vast as the ocean. She was right. Norms are straitjackets, useful only for reassuring oneself by comparison. I’m not normal, I’m a limited edition. Got to admit, it’s a much better look.
“Agathe! Be careful!” Emma screams in my ear.
She really is insufferable. It’s hardly my fault if the traffic light turns red just when I’m lost in thought.
3:19 P.M.
There’s something I’d like explained to me. Why do we always run into the people we don’t want to see, but never into those we’re dreaming of seeing? For example, now, coming back to Mima’s, I’d have loved to find Brad Pitt (on horseback, bare-chested and with long hair, preferably, but I’d have been happy with him however, I’m not fussy). But no, it’s Joachim Garcia waiting at the gate. I consider driving over him, I’d defend myself by saying I mistook him for a speed bump, but I doubt my sister would approve, so I just park sensibly.
“You’ve just run over my foot,” he says when I get off.
“Oh, I didn’t notice. Shouldn’t leave it lying around. A bit like your dick.”
“Hi Joachim,” my traitor of a sister says, politely.
We go through the gate. I close it before he has time to follow us.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
“No, thanks.”
“Agathe, I’d really like to talk to you.”
I roll my eyes conspicuously and throw the keys to Emma:
“I won’t be long.”
He’s wearing faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and sunglasses. I loathe people who don’t take off their sunglasses when speaking to someone. I feel like I’m talking to a two-way mirror. His body language—hands in pockets, half-smile—says totally relaxed, all he’s missing is some chewing gum.
“I sensed you were a bit tense yesterday. I thought all was forgotten, but clearly not, so I’d like to apologize if I hurt you.”
I guffaw:
“Hurt me? You give yourself far too much importance. I’m awfully sorry if you found me cold, it’s just that I didn’t recognize you. You’d vanished from my memory.”
“Agathe . . . ”
“That is my name, yes. And yours is . . . ?”
“We were young, I was immature, it happens to everyone.”
“Death does, too, but that doesn’t make it acceptable.”
He takes off his sunglasses. His expression is exaggeratedly sad, he’s overacting, looks like a basset hound.
“It was better with the shades.”
“I can see you better without them. You’re still just as beautiful.”
“If you could just avoid making me vomit.”
Far from backing off, he keeps going:
“I heard that you’d taken it badly, that you’d done something silly. I didn’t dare call you. Your grandmother didn’t spare me, I thought she was going to sock me one. My mother told me she’d died recently. I’m really sorry.”
Tears well up in my eyes, crying in front of him is out of the question. I’m about to go inside when a woman’s voice calls him from the house next door.
“I’m coming, darling! I . . . I went to fetch something from the car, I’m hurrying!”
He turns to me: “That’s my wife, she’s pregnant. I’d rather avoid . . . Do you have children, yourself?”
“Yes, I’ve got seven, one for each day of the week, like underpants.”
I don’t wait for his reaction. I turn on my heel and go straight into Mima’s. Emma’s having a shower, I grab a handful of cereal and sit in the armchair, facing the fan.
YESTERDAY
APRIL 2000
EMMA—20 YEARS OLD
Mom has pushed the furniture back and hung up some balloons. Everyone’s here to celebrate my twentieth birthday. Mima and Papi came from Anglet, Margaux from Bordeaux, even Cyril was invited, and yet Mom can’t stand him (she finds people who are too nice suspect). Also here are my gym buddies—I hadn’t seen them since I finished school.
Mom had sent me off to buy her some cigarettes, stressing that I should take my time. It wasn’t mega subtle, I suspected something was going on, but not this much. When I got back, they all cried out “Surprise!”, like in the movies. Agathe and Mima brought in the cake: Black Forest gateau.
“Your grandmother wanted to make her tiramisu,” my mother explains, seeing that I’m happy with their choice. “But I knew you preferred the Black Forest. I know my daughter well!”
Mima rolls her eyes, I wink at her. We both know, she and I, that I’d have preferred her tiramisu, it’s my favorite dessert in the whole universe. I tried to make it myself one day. I followed the recipe she’d given me, step by step, the result wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t Mima’s tiramisu. She has this knack of making the simplest dish delicious. I smile at Mom, nodding; the truth would spoil the party.
It’s time for presents. The present, more exactly. A blue envelope with “Happy Birthday Emma!” written on it.
I open it, wondering what it might be and preparing to pretend to be pleased, even if I happen to be disappointed. All eyes are on me and seem impatient to discover my reaction. I realize that I’m thrilled before even reading the card.
“Voucher for driver’s license.”
No need to pretend, I’ve never received such a big present. It’s crazy! They all chipped in to give it to me. I have put a little aside, but between the rent Mom asks from me and the food shopping, my wages go fast, and my boss still won’t move me to full-time. Tomorrow I’m signing up at driving school!
Agathe leads me into her room, she has another present but doesn’t want to give it to me in front of everyone.
From behind her bed, she pulls out a large painting of two people. I recognize us immediately. My little sister and me, her head on my shoulder, her eyes closed, my eyes on her. “It’s my first painting,” she tells me. She giggles, like whenever she’s overcome with emotion: “I signed down there, who knows? Maybe it’ll be worth millions one day!” I can’t take my eyes off the canvas.
“It’s worth more than millions to me,” I reply.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s Mima and Papi, they have to go, they have a drive of nearly four hours ahead. Mima checks that the door’s closed and hands me a little box. I know what I’m going to find in it, I’ve received an identical box every year since my birth. Inside, a cultured pearl.
“It’s the most important one,” Mima murmurs, stroking the necklace around her neck, “because it’s the last one. I feel very emotional, my darling girl.”
I do, too. It’s a tradition Mima’s continued from her own grandmother. Every year, until Mima’s twentieth birthday, she gave her a pearl. The twenty pearls were then strung into a necklace.
“It never leaves me,” Mima often told me.
She strokes my cheek. “My first granddaughter, my darling girl. Twenty, already. You know that, when you were born, I was forty-eight? When I’d walk you in your baby carriage, people took me for your mother, and I must admit, I didn’t always correct them.”
I throw myself into her arms. I love her so much. Without her, without Papi, I don’t know what my life would have been like. Summers with them were always the colorful interlude to all the grayness. I don’t tell them about the daily hell, so as not to worry them, to protect Mom, but I know that they know, that they sense it. That they see the marks. Several times, Mima asked me questions. I lied. She respected that, but with a seriousness I’d never heard from her, she told me: “Just one word, one sign, and you both come and live here.”
YESTERDAY
AUGUST 2000
AGATHE—15 YEARS OLD
Papi died yesterday. Mom decided I should come home, to leave Mima in peace, but me abandoning her was out of the question. Emma is on vacation with Cyril, she’s making her way here to join us.
My heart’s in pieces. I can’t believe I’ll never see him again. Even worse, I can’t believe Mima will never see him again. He set off yesterday morning, and then, just like that, a heart attack, all over. It’s Mima I’ve been thinking of since I heard. I didn’t even faint, which I usually do at any intense emotion, and as far as intense emotions go, this one’s right up there.
The doctor gave her something to help her sleep. I spent the night beside her. She said Papi’s name several times during the night, and Daddy’s name, too. I realized that I’d never really considered what she had felt when he died.
She’s still asleep when I get up, which never happens. I prepare breakfast for her, the same breakfast she makes us every morning: slices of toast with salted butter. I make her a coffee—coffee is so rank, but so are cigarettes, and I still smoke them, pinching Peter Stuyvesants from Mom’s bag.)
The bedroom is dark, I leave the door open to let light in from the corridor. The floorboards creak, Mima opens her eyes. She’s still dressed, her outfit from yesterday. I place the tray at the foot of the bed and slide up beside her. She smiles at me, strokes my cheek, and then, suddenly, I can see the devastation in her eyes. For a few seconds she’d forgotten, and reality has just caught up with her.
I snuggle up to her, like when I was little and she’d console me whenever I was sad. She weeps, her body shakes. I don’t know what to do to comfort her, I stroke her hair, wipe her cheeks, it’s the first time I’ve had to console someone other than myself, and it has to be Mima. I didn’t know one could feel the suffering of someone else so intensely. I don’t know what to do with all this pain, I’d like to throw it out, turn back the clock, bring back Papi and Mima’s smile. I’d do anything for her to feel better, not only for her, but also for me, because I can’t imagine her not being okay, her disappearing, too. I couldn’t bear having to do without her one day.
I get up and hand her the coffee. She calms down a little, breathes in the aroma, closes her eyes. I pinch a slice of her toast. She hugs me.
“Thank you, my little darling.”
“I didn’t put in any sugar, want some?”
“It’s not for the coffee that I’m thanking you. It’s for your love. You’ve already worked it all out, you know that love is the only remedy for grief. It’s all that counts, in the end: making yourself a place in the hearts of others, and welcoming others into your own. You’re special, my darling. You put your emotions before your reason, don’t ever lose that.”
I’m trying not to cry, but she’s not helping me.
“Thank you, Mima. But all the same, I’m not sure I want to be special. Mom says life’s easier when you have no heart, maybe she’s right. At least if you love no one, you lose no one and you’re never sad.”
She smiles, I thought that would never happen again.
“My darling, I’d rather suffer until the end of my days because I’ve lost your grandfather than never have known him.”
“But if you’d never known him, you wouldn’t be sad.”
“I’d be sad not to have known him.”
“You’d feel nothing since you wouldn’t know him.”
“You’ll understand when you’re older.”
I hate that sentence adults resort to when they’ve run out of arguments. I hope Mima’s right, that it’s a good thing to be like I am, because sometimes I feel like my heart’s taking up all the space in my body, and that doesn’t make breathing easy.
TODAY
AUGUST 8
EMMA
5:06 P.M.
An entire wall of my father’s old room is covered in videos. Papi was a movie buff. At the beginning of each week, when he received the TV listings he and Mima subscribed to, he’d mark up the movies that interested him. He’d program his VCR to record them, then cut out the insert with the summary, review, and still, and slip this information into the cassette cover. On the spine he’d write the title and a number. The procedure was then almost complete. He’d just have to open his black book at the page of the first letter in the title and add the movie and its number after those that preceded it. The book—and the shelves—contained several hundred movies, most missing a bit of the beginning or the end, despite the margin of error Papi allowed for when programing the recording. I can still see him moaning about those confounded ads delaying everything.
