George's Grand Tour (14 page)

George was taken to the operating room. Was he scared? Worried? No; never before had he felt so profoundly himself. He was an island, a huge island made of everything he had been and had ever dreamed of being: all of his memories, the feelings he had never been able to control, the body that had been the cause of so much joy, pain, strength and despair. All of the things that made George Nicoleau who he was were on this island, on this hospital bed.

On the operating table this feeling momentarily disappeared, and he felt the island breaking up, scattering. But the sight of the other George, George-from-Cameroon, smiling at him from a corner of the room, helped him gather his strength. He was put under anaesthetic, which made him feel as though he were floating on gently undulating waves. George-from-Cameroon was still smiling; so was George-from-Chanteloup, even if no one could see it.

The news did not come as a surprise to anyone except the doctors. They had gone over percentages, medication, emergency measures, had listed everything they had and had not been able to do. George had never regained consciousness.

Adèle had not been able to get back before now. The funeral had been planned for the next day. Her mother, who had just arrived from Peru, would be waiting for her at Poitiers airport. She had not been able to make it back in time to say goodbye to her father, which broke Adèle's heart.

Adèle stepped onto the tarmac, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. She didn't dare look up at the tiny airport; she had not seen her mother for almost two months. She was afraid of telling her the whole story, she was afraid of grief, of her own and her mother's. She was overwhelmed by the events of the last few days.

Finally, she caught sight of her mother. The woman who normally had perfect posture, whose stylish suits hung elegantly on her slim frame, was now wearing jeans and a dark jumper and was sitting alone on a bench in the deserted terminal. They hugged, holding on to each other for a long time, both trying, in vain, not to cry. It was her mother who finally pulled away, looking at Adèle with a smile.

‘You look like you've lost weight,' she said.

‘It's the food on set,' replied Adèle, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. ‘It's horrible, the stuff they serve us, full of sugar and fat. So I just don't eat it. When did you get here?'

‘Yesterday evening.'

‘How was the trek?'

‘I didn't go on a trek,' Françoise answered, sounding oddly calm.

‘Oh? Was it cancelled or something?'

‘No. There never was any trek. Oh, I was in Peru, but in Lima. I had a phone, internet, email, even my mobile worked out there. I had everything.'

‘Oh. Well Grandpa thought that—'

‘Yes, I know. I spoke to him on the phone on Monday. I told him everything. He understood.'

Adèle felt a surge of anger. She had never liked lies and she was not sure what to make of this one. They were now the only ones in the terminal, which seemed vast, in the middle of the empty airport. There wouldn't be another plane here until the evening.

Adèle tugged awkwardly at her sleeves until her mother spoke again.

‘You know, Adèle, your grandfather was ill for a very long time. For about fifteen years, actually. And for the last five years, since your grandmother died, I was the one who looked after him. I was all he had; I couldn't just give up on him, and I was doing it all on my own. You know he never wanted a nurse or anything. For five years I was constantly in contact with his doctors, constantly making sure his affairs were in order “just in case”; basically holding him up, all that time. So many times I kissed him for what I thought was the last time. So many times I came running back when I thought it was the end. And things have changed in my life over the past five years, with your father, you know, even after the divorce, things were difficult, and then I met Patrick just as Grandpa got very ill again, seriously ill with his ulcers, you probably don't remember. I ended up spending more time looking after him than living my own life, or … Anyway, that's how it was.'

She paused for a moment before continuing.

‘And then one day last year, I realised that I had to make a choice, because it couldn't go on like that.' Her voice was steady, but Adèle could hear a note of fragility that she had never heard before. Shyly, she tried to take her mother's hand, but Françoise gently pulled it back.

‘I'll spare you the details, sweetheart, especially because everything is much better now, I promise. But I had to start taking care of myself. And by talking to friends who've been through similar things, and then to a psychologist … I've realised a lot of things.'

She stopped talking, and took a deep breath. Adèle looked at her mother, and noticed she looked more tired than normal, and older.

‘I had to let your grandpa live his life. Even if that meant letting him go – I mean literally letting him go – because that was what he wanted. And I had a life to live as well. We were so unhappy together. I was too attached to him; I would have preserved him in formaldehyde if I could have, he said. And he was probably right. We both needed some fresh air. I talked to Thérèse a lot about all of this, and she told me about what Charles was going through. One day she told me about their Tour de France plan, and what she hoped it would do for Charles. I knew how much your grandfather was looking forward to it, because it was a way out, even if he knew he was taking huge risks with his health. But if I had still been on the scene, he would never have gone. So I decided that it was now or never. I went to Lima to stay with a friend and have some time alone. But it wasn't an easy decision. I asked Thérèse to keep me in the loop. She called me when he was taken to hospital but I … I didn't come back straight away. It wasn't the first time your grandfather had been taken to hospital, you know … And in some way, maybe we had already said our goodbyes.'

Françoise put her head in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking slightly. Adèle put her arms around her mother. She was no longer angry. The sun cast huge shadows through the terminal windows. The storm had passed.

When it started to rain again an hour later, the terminal was filled with their laughter. The Tour, which had had such an impact on their little family, was a mine of anecdotes that Adèle took great pleasure in exaggerating for the amusement of her mother. By retelling all the stories with the help of her mobile phone, she was
able to prove to her mother that she had made the right decision.

They finally left the airport and drove a hire car to the Grand Hôtel de Poitiers, where Françoise, in an effort to put off the inevitable task of going to her father's empty house, had reserved two rooms.

It was there that she would have to summon the courage to open a package wrapped in brown paper that had been sent to her by someone called George N'Dour, along with two letters.

 

Françoise took a deep breath and ripped open the paper to find an old wooden box with a faded picture of the
Pieds Nickelés
comic book characters on the lid. She had a vague memory of it belonging to her when she was a child. Her throat tightened and her heart was pounding as she worked up the courage to open it. She pulled it open as quickly as possible, as though ripping off a plaster. The box was empty.

She examined the inside for a hidden compartment but found nothing. Then, bit by bit, the real story behind the box came back to her. The box hadn't been hers; it had belonged to her cousin. How had her father got hold of it? Perhaps the letters would explain.

Her name had been written carefully in ink on one of the envelopes, with a note beneath it scrawled in pencil: ‘Read this one first.' She opened the envelope and pulled out an elegant sheet of writing paper.

Chanteloup, 16 September

Dear Françoise,

I'm
setting off with Charles on the Tour de France because I can't bear the thought of wasting away in my armchair. I hope with all my heart that you can forgive me for leaving you. I wasn't brave enough to talk to you about this. One word from you would have been enough to make me stay; I miss you.

When you were a little girl, you always said that this box was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, but at the time your mother and I weren't able to buy you one. I found this one on the internet (eBay) and I thought it would make you smile.

I couldn't have asked for a better daughter. Take good care of
yourself.

Papa

Françoise sat on the bed holding the letter for a long time, her heart heavy. She reread it, smiling at the word ‘eBay', but she soon felt tears running down her face again. The second letter had been written hastily in pencil on several sheets of squared paper that looked as though they had been torn out of a notebook.

14/10/2008

Dear Françoise,

Since I wrote the letter you have just read, a lot has happened in my life, much of it unexpected. I have discovered a new favourite region: Brittany! Adèle has told me she will try to go there on holiday, I hope you'll be able to go with her. I have recently seen Ginette again (Charles's sister, who remembers you). She is a wonderful woman and someone I care for very much. She'd be very happy if you visited
her
one day; her address is 14 Passage des Pêcheurs, 85690 Notre-Dame-de-Monts, where she has a very lovely house. George N'Dour, who sent you this letter, is one of the many friends I have made along the way on this trip. Please keep in touch with Charles and Thérèse as well, who are going to sell their house and go travelling. The Tour has also shown me how much I have underestimated my neighbour Charles for the last thirty years. He is a brave and generous friend, who knows a lot more about the world than he lets on. This goes for Thérèse too. I am leaving them the Renault (you must remind the notary). Promise me to keep an eye on them, and to lend them a hand if they ever get in a tight spot money-wise.

Lastly, this has been a chance to get to know my granddaughter again. Adèle is a remarkable young woman. She has made me a very proud grandfather. She will be able to tell you about all of our adventures in detail, because we wrote to each other a lot during the trip, and she knows all there is to know. I made her promise to tell her grandchildren about our journey! I hope that you will take good care of yourself. You have given me so much over the last few years, and I will never be able to thank you enough. All my affairs are in order (thanks to you!), so don't worry about that. As for me, I'm going out on a high note. Because it's like with family reunions; better to leave while you're still having fun, so you keep the best memories.

All my love,

Your father.

All was silent in Françoise's room, in the hotel, in the street, in the town. There was nothing left to say.

It did not take long to organise the funeral. Françoise and her father had had it all planned for a long time, and her father had been very precise about what he wanted. Later, Adèle would remember certain details about the ceremony: the grey marble that perfectly matched the sky, the plastic flowers, the wicker chairs in the church, her shoes crunching in the gravel in the cemetery, the unfamiliar faces gathering around his grave. Just like at any other funeral. She had not felt at ease.

It was the morning before the funeral that she would remember the best. She and her mother were at her grandfather's house getting changed. In the house next door, Charles and Thérèse were also getting ready. Adèle had barely had time to walk around the village she had not seen for ten years. All of her attention was focused on her mother, who was trying to hold back tears. Even now, Françoise was as elegant and well turned out as ever. Adèle went downstairs to make coffee in the kitchen.
The house still felt lived in. Her grandparents' house, that she thought she had forgotten. How wrong she was.

Everything came back to her in a powerful wave of memory. She was amazed to find that she still remembered where they kept the coffee cups, the tea towels, and the instant coffee. And the porcelain pot where her grandmother had hidden her secret supply of marshmallows. The soup tureen on the sideboard where her grandfather had kept his receipts. The pencil drawer. She remembered the garden, which could be seen from the window above the sink – it was much smaller than she remembered, of course, but she recognised all the trees, the rocks, the lilacs, the pond at the end of the garden, and the blue ropes that formed a barrier around it. As she looked around the room, happy, colourful memories appeared from every corner. All the little trinkets in the house suddenly became precious; she would have liked to keep every last one of them, like rare flowers or butterflies on a pinboard. But could she preserve the familiar smell of the cupboard where they kept the board games or the taste of the toffees that came back to her when she saw the blue sweet box? Or her grandfather's careful handwriting on the cheques she received from him on her birthday? She knew it would have made her grandfather smile to see her reminiscing like this. She had to repress the urge to send him a text message. Before she had time to be sad that this was no longer possible, she caught sight of something that caused yet more childhood memories to come rushing back like an incoming tide. It was a photo of her mother as a little girl in a pretty handmade frame that reminded Adèle of being pushed around outside in a wheelbarrow overflowing with hay. A reproduction of Van Gogh's
Sunflowers
in the hall
brought back the taste of orange blossom that her grandmother used to give her in a glass of water before bedtime. Colourful stacks of paperback books reminded her of endless rounds of Pope Joan where she was always allowed to win. The Duralex glasses in the kitchen represented the bunches of primroses she would bring to her grandmother from the neighbours' field. And there were countless others, memories returned to her in a never-ending flow of images, words, smells, arguments and peals of laughter, every Christmas and Easter, children's games, scraped knees and her grandparents' smiling faces. Before she knew it, hot tears were streaming down her face as they had done when she was a little girl staying in this same house.

It was in the little kitchen that Adèle mourned for her grandfather; not in the cemetery, and not before the marble plaque that would later be put up in his memory. Adèle paid her respects to him in his own house, and bestowed upon him an honour that would have meant more to him than any medal: pride of place in her memories of a very happy childhood.