All Our Wordly Goods (21 page)

During the war in 1914 he had visited Paris twice, once to see his only son who had been wounded and was being treated in a Parisian hospital, the other for the 14 July victory celebrations, when the Allied troops had paraded beneath the Arc de Triomphe. Unfortunately he had set out too late; he’d been pushed back against the window of a little cheese shop, which he’d stared at for four hours before going home hungry and with his new umbrella broken, but still cheerful. Now, he looked at the capital with an indulgent, rakish smile, as if he had just pinched a young girl’s bottom. He was a lively, mischievous old man. His wife had never been able to keep pretty servants for long. Monsieur Hardelot-Demestre imagined how he would convince his nephew, Pierre Hardelot, to take him out to the Paris Casino, and just thinking about it lit up his normally thin, pale cheeks, as well as his heart. Pierre Hardelot didn’t know he was coming. He was there on serious business; if it was going to be successful, the old man thought, Pierre had to be taken by surprise. So he arrived at the Hardelots’ home just as they were sitting down to lunch, Pierre between Agnès and Rose. Everyone was surprised to see him; they asked if he’d like to eat with them. He accepted a piece of the omelette with pleasure; he ate slowly, enjoying the curiosity of his relations.

After a while, they asked him if he would be staying long in Paris.

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I expect to be leaving in two days.’

He stopped for a moment then continued, ‘With at least two of you.’

Agnès and Pierre looked at each other. Rose put down her glass without having taken a sip. Her pregnancy was very obvious and even her face was heavy and swollen. Every now and then she placed her hand on her bulge in a gesture common to pregnant women, as if she wanted to protect her child from some invisible danger. All three of them guessed the truth. Madame Florent’s letters, fuelled with gossip from Saint-Elme, had suggested that Simone might be preparing to make peace, or at least to accept a truce.

‘I come as an ambassador,’ Hardelot-Demestre explained. ‘I have been sent by the people of the Rue Blanche.’ (In Saint-Elme, people were never called by their names; they were described by allusions: ‘The ones from the Place du Marché; our friends who live near the bridge … beside the château …’ The Rue Blanche was where the Renaudins used to live, before Simone had become Madame Burgères. She had moved away, but she and that street would be as one until the last of the Renaudins had disappeared from this earth.)

‘There’s news,’ he continued, gently stroking the end of his beard, ‘good news and bad news, as they say. Some that will hurt you, my dear Rose, and some that can only please you, as long as you are both prepared,
you and Guy, to forget about certain misunderstandings between you and your mother.’

‘Is she … worse?’ asked Rose quietly.

‘Alas, yes, and that is the upsetting part of my message. When the war started she took on an enormous amount of work, as you know. Her male colleagues were mobilised and she never trusted women. To sum it up, she worked too hard and had quite a serious heart attack; and her physical condition influenced her morale.’

Rose cut in. ‘She isn’t in any danger?’

‘No, she isn’t … But what can you do? She feels old; she’s all alone. Her existence is gloomy. She loved you more than you knew, my dear child. She has a tyrannical nature, so maybe she’s unhappy because she has no one to tyrannise,’ he said with a little laugh. ‘Forgive me, Rose, you know that I have the utmost respect for Madame Burgères. In any case, she wants to make up with you. Once the war is over, she would like to share the burden of power with Guy and, until then, she is asking that you, Pierre, come to her at once. Her very words were, “Ask him to come quickly, to hurry,” to help her run the factory, for she is at the end of her tether.’

He insisted for a long time before Pierre agreed. Perhaps Pierre did not want to admit the inner satisfaction he felt; his inactivity weighed heavily on him; he felt weak, useless, old. Energy flowed through his body at the idea that he would work again, have problems to resolve, orders to give, responsibility. At times the
factory had seemed horrible to him; now he thought about it nostalgically, as a widow thinks of a husband who may have been cantankerous but with whom she shared her bed for nearly twenty years.

He resisted for a long time, however, out of a sense of decency. They ended up by assenting. Rose, it was universally decided, must immediately defer to her mother’s wishes. It would be better, more fitting, if the child were born in Saint-Elme, where from now on he belonged, to a certain extent. So Rose would leave the next day. Pierre would accompany her and, once there, he would see; he would speak to Simone; he would decide one way or the other. As for Agnès, she would go along as well and take advantage of the trip to spend time with her mother.

They planned the future slowly, cautiously, choosing their words carefully, prudently, like a child building a house of cards while holding his breath. However, the child understands that the house is fragile, while these middle-class people were certain they knew what tomorrow would bring. Despite Europe’s terrifying chaos, despite the social problems, despite the wars, they had inherited a sense of security; it was passed down through their blood. They counted on the future just as their forefathers had before them. The months, the years to come unrolled before their eyes in slow waves, in gentle undulations, like the flat fields and roadways of their home. Even the smallest detail was planned in advance: Rose decided she would give birth in her
mother’s house; in her mind she was organising the large linen cupboard where she would keep the baby’s clothes and picturing, in the alcove, between the prayer stool and her bed, the baby’s cradle. Agnès was already worried about moving in October, if Pierre decided to stay in Saint-Elme … unless the war ended between now and then. She sighed. How sad. The war wouldn’t be over. It would last as long as the one in 1914. Many people thought the same. The events of the past cast a long shadow and their bloodstained light coloured the times they were living through. They could imagine nothing but the repeat of those four years of glory and horror, the immense, superhuman need for patience until it might end. Pierre dreamed of his son’s return. He himself had come home safely from the last war and that seemed a pledge of goodwill on the part of fate towards the Hardelot family. Once Guy was home, Pierre would say to him, ‘Everything is in order. I’ve worked hard. I’ve kept your house safe for you.’

And so, as his grandfather had believed with such unshakeable faith, it was decreed that the factory would remain in the hands of the Hardelots for all eternity. Only the elderly Hardelot-Demestre was thinking of more immediate, more easily achievable rewards: a trip to the Paris Casino that evening, and the following week a wonderful, if discreet, dinner to celebrate the reconciliation between Simone and her children. He drank his coffee, making little slurping noises, and planned the menu: a good thick soup, some lovely fried
sole, roast beef, a juicy chicken, asparagus and an ice-cream bombe.

The radio was playing dance music interspersed with snatches of political speeches; it washed over them like warm milk; they were only half listening. They paid more attention when the news bulletins came on, but there was nothing to report. Rose went to lie down. Agnès went out to do the shopping. The two men remained alone, discussing factory business and talking about Saint-Elme.

That night, 10 May 1940, after spending the evening at the Paris Casino, Hardelot-Demestre went to sleep and dreamed about a little dancer with rosy skin, who wore a G-string covered in golden stars and leaned over him to pull at his beard using little tongs. In his dream, Hardelot-Demestre was tickling the dancer; she resisted, let out tiny birdlike cries, then grabbed a toy trumpet (the old man had played with such a trumpet when he was a child and he had never forgotten the power it had, its strident sounds, the red and yellow tassels that decorated it). The dancer whispered something in Hardelot-Demestre’s ear but, little by little, her whispering became increasingly mournful, loud and alarming until Hardelot-Demestre woke up, rubbed his eyes and realised he was hearing the sound of the air raid sirens. The Hardelots had made up a bed for him at their home. He hesitated. Instinct told him to go down into the basement and, besides, he respected the laws that required everyone to take shelter whenever there was an air raid
because one of them might prove dangerous. On the other hand these Parisians might make fun of him. So he waited, then coughed a little, so Pierre and Agnès, whose room was next to his, would know he was awake. After a while he heard them get up and come and stand at his door.

‘Did something wake you, Uncle?’

‘I’ll say. What’s going on?’

He understood by the tone of their voices that they were smiling.

‘If you can’t sleep, slip on a cardigan and come and have a cup of coffee. The anti-aircraft defence system is making a racket.’

They all met up in the sitting room. Agnès lit the gas cooker in the kitchen and soon brought them some steaming hot coffee. All of Paris was awake; the weather was too lovely, too warm; people couldn’t stay tucked in their beds while the birds were singing with a kind of joyful intoxication. Out on the terraces women walked slowly back and forth in their dressing gowns or pyjamas. On the balcony opposite the apartment where the Hardelots lived, a very pretty blonde with dishevelled hair looked up at the sky. Agnès too went over to the open window and gazed up.

Hardelot-Demestre followed her. He cleaned his pince-nez, stared at the birds as they flew from north to south. ‘The planes must be coming from over there,’ he said. ‘We’ll be able to see them soon.’

But the birds obeyed their own laws and paid no
attention to the planes; or perhaps the planes were simply too high to worry about, up there in the dazzling blue. They were invisible. Only their sound told of their presence, like a cloud of hornets in a summer sky — and the furious sharp explosions that seemed so close by. Agnès had planted flowers on the balcony. It felt strange to see these sweet peas entwined in the railings, though no one could say why. Stranger still was to feel the first rays of sunshine on one’s neck and cheeks, to breathe in this innocent May morning air while hearing the sound of gunfire. No one was terribly worried; it was a false alarm, like so many others, but it put their nerves on edge and made their senses more alert. The beauty of this spring dawn pierced their hearts and filled them with pain, as if a sharp needle were hidden beneath all this sweetness.

At last, Pierre motioned to them. ‘Oh, that’s it, it’s over.’

He had heard the first blast of the all-clear, that sound which is like a deep breath pulling in all the surrounding air before releasing it in a wail that is both a bellow and a lamentation.

They drank the rest of their coffee and went back to bed.

At that very moment the enemy was marching into Belgium.

The Hardelots didn’t delay their journey because of political events; quite the contrary, they hurried to get to Saint-Elme. All of France was in danger and some vague instinct made everyone want to endure these perilous times in the bosom of their family. Nothing really terrible could happen along the calm streets between the factory and the church, thought Rose. Of course, during the other war, Saint-Elme had been destroyed, but we consider everything that happens before we are born as mythical, with no true link to reality. In Rose’s mind Saint-Elme was indestructible. The dull, solid provincial family comprised of all the Renaudins, the Hardelot-Demestres, the Hardelot-Arques seemed as enduring to Rose as the rocks and the earth. She had never known her family to suffer, to be impatient, anxious, or want for anything in the world. If Saint-Elme were bombed, the thick walls of their
cellars would provide safe shelter; their vast cupboards contained sufficient provisions to withstand a siege, she was certain of it. So what if her contractions began in the middle of a night-time air raid? The doctor who had delivered her lived close by. Even if she died, five pairs of arms would stretch out to take in her child; the entire region was full of friends and relatives. She trusted in Saint-Elme just as she trusted in her mother: harsh, bad-tempered, difficult to live with, but, nevertheless, a refuge, a rock.

Pierre and Agnès, however, did not share these feelings. They weren’t the ones who needed Saint-Elme; Saint-Elme needed them. They were thinking about the houses, the people, the factory; they remembered various faces: the distant cousin who had three sons, all soldiers, the other cousin whose husband had gone to fight in Belgium. The workers needed the Hardelots; they were infuriated by the war and wouldn’t put up with its ordeals for long without reacting with hatred and revolt; yes, they needed them, thought Pierre. There were so few men left in Saint-Elme. Of course, everything had been anticipated: civil defence, evacuation, if necessary, though this was hardly something to worry about. In spite of everything, Pierre said to himself, ‘No one knows this place like we do …’ His anxious heart beat with affection.

They arrived. Everything was calm. Children were playing. The workers were coming out of the factory. The little girls from the orphanage were going to prayers.
The sky was a pure, dazzling blue. It was the season when all the lilacs were in bloom, so every house was full of flowers. In the lower part of the village you could see, through the rough lace curtains, large bouquets on dining tables set for supper. The ironmonger’s and butcher’s wives had them on their counters and in their windows, and from the open doors of the church floated the smell of lilac, as sweet and fresh as a trickle of water flowing through the shadows.

Rose did not expect to find her mother so ill. Madame Burgères was not in bed: in Saint-Elme, unless you were at death’s door, taking to your bed was considered peculiar and somewhat disgraceful. She was waiting for her visitors in the little downstairs reception room, corseted, dressed, breathing with difficulty, sitting up straight in her chair. When she saw her daughter her cheeks turned red. She placed her hand on her chest for a moment, with that anxious gesture common to people with heart problems. She immediately looked at Rose’s face and figure. Then she smiled; Rose guessed that her fit, robust looks pleased her mother. A healthy pregnancy was cause for pride in the family, like a son’s university degree or an ancestor’s fortune.