Christiensen tomorrow or tonight after they’ve made love, why indeed, but in the picture her mouth let not a single word escape its lips, not a cry, not a shout of victory for her art or for the children she’d borne, reticent in all it sulking perplexity somewhere between criticism and protest, no, no retouching this, otherwise she’d ruin it, she looked back at the portrait bitterly, still brooding about Christiensen and his breakfasts with Valérie, then later on Saturday, as independent as ever, he’d be visiting Mélanie’s mother with the same serene affability, just the sort of thing she herself was incapable of, he would not see death encroaching on Mère’s face as it nestled among the pillows, just a woman and mother still wanting to see those near her reconciled and reconciling, Augustino had written that he wouldn’t be back since Adrien had scorched his first book, though his grandmother urged him to come back, to soften up, Adrien just couldn’t keep from striking down young poets, novelists, and writers in general, even running on and repeating himself, perhaps he was jealous, frightened of Augustino’s lucidity Nora thought, that must be the reason for her reticent mouth, her moody confusion, her hatred of Christiensen and Valérie’s complicity, of Bernard, Esther, and anyone she could not control and command, even with his children Christiensen acted independently of her, each one elicited a different way of listening, of teaching, he was a mentor to Valérie, to all of them, recommending, guiding, inspiring, and it irritated Nora to be set aside like that, Christiensen said Nora was like one of his children, almost like Ibsen’s Nora in
A Doll House
, how insulting to live this way, oh there’d be an occasional compliment on her youthfulness of course, but worse still some invisible conspiracy had brought him to resemble her father, and now she suffered to the point of confusing them, her husband and her arrogant father, two mentors who did her violence, wait, no not that, no this was her dismay talking, when she painted she was always subject to this senseless agitation, maybe akin to Van Gogh’s painting himself in scratches and scrapes, ah of course that had to be it, and as for the tête-à-têtes over breakfast between Christiensen and Valérie, well there was nothing she could do about that, Christiensen would go on advising and guiding and she’d just go on worrying about his female writer friends, why one of them was so narcissistic she even mistreated her youngest children, what could Valérie possibly do to save these teens caught up in drugs and abandoned by parents so very much in love with themselves and their own success, who stayed out all night at the casino, how could the younger ones be saved Valérie asked Christiensen, so he reminded her about his own daughter Marianne, a social worker in the Washington ghettos confronted with similar delinquents, still these weren’t ghetto kids Valérie said, they live like us in middle-class houses, Christiensen, it seemed, just couldn’t understand his daughter’s social vocation, not having delinquent children himself, far from it, they’d lived sheltered lives and gone to the best colleges and universities like hers in Europe, no this conversation could go on and on, searching for a way to deal with the rebellious children of a self-centred writer, better if Nora were spared this sort of discussion, she couldn’t bear the subject, anything approaching violence unsettled her and she began to apprehend it everywhere around her, threatening, even in her home, no when it came to violent people, especially children, she lost it, there was a complete loss of bearings, at least her own children hadn’t turned out that way even if Hans butted heads with her, quite often in fact, saying his grandparents and their parents had colonized Africa and all the continent’s woes came down to that, this shocked Nora when she thought about all her father and grandfather had done, devotedly caring for lepers, operating on gangrene, and all she’d seen growing up with them, what did Hans know about the suffering of Africans anyway, it was an evil past and it was on white consciences, yes he said, all their wars and misfortunes still stem from this, oh how hurt Nora felt and she’d have liked to guide, shape, and control the things that came out of his mouth, she had no idea where this came from, what did he have to revolt against, he had everything, but he’d remind her of the little slave-girl who slept at the foot of his grandmother’s bed right on the ground just like that with no covers or anything, the
boys
, as his grandparents called them, waited on both older generations far out in the bush, a nice, quiet European life that would shame them for generations to come said Hans, yet Nora had no idea why he spoke like that, her only son, it was so hard to bear, words coming out of his mouth she could neither suppress nor control, accusing her indirectly, and yet how alike they really were, mother and son, such a striking physical resemblance, so why treat her like this, why, better to forget about it now, she had to get dressed to go and meet Christiensen at the airport, think about him and nothing else, so handsome and so able in everything he did, what on earth would he think of her self-portrait though, especially leaning against the wall like that, would he stand in judgement on the straw hat, the billowy white dress, the African necklaces, better not think about it, just him, Christiensen, her husband, her own, tonight he would possess her, tonight and tomorrow she’d be by his side at last, at last she could sleep and rest, knowing that he once again ruled over the house, she too would rule over what was hers with no one to disturb them, no one. As Mai opened the gate her father had left unlocked, she saw lights go on all the way up the garden path perfumed with oleander, to her grandmother’s one-room cottage, past a stone pool where the birds came to drink in the daytime, chirping and chattering while Mai’s cats circled, though too well-fed to pounce, all of it so deliciously languid to her, then of course there was her swing beneath the trees, forever waiting as though she were a little girl again, gently rocked by warm sleepiness on summer afternoons, the breath of music and traces of fog that still hung over the island, her grandmother’s shutters open to the night so the familiar music still filtered through, the same Schubert sonata for piano and violin she’d listened to so many times with Grandmother, leaving her skates on the swing Mai carefully stepped toward the little cabin while the red light signalling Tammy’s message continually blinked on her cellphone, finally she couldn’t put it off anymore and took the message, then another one, what was it she wanted to say, a pact, my brother and I have a pact, listen your name is borrowed from a girl who disappeared when she was eleven and they never found her, this second one set her heart to racing, then suddenly she felt breathless, we do too want to disappear, my brother and me, that’s our pact, like the prince with the flames suddenly climbing up our hair, then nothing, we melt like wax, no sign of regret or surprise, just a white glove, reading these words Mai quickly replied no, don’t do it Tammy, forget the pact, no I’ll see you tomorrow, then she thought tomorrow’s too late, her fingers trembled on the phone, you’ve got to wait Tammy, my grandmother, she’s, no Tammy don’t do it, your friend, your friend Mai, how strange it sounded to her, your friend, your friend, words she hardly ever used, no pact, you get that, no pact at least until I see you, my grandmother, my grand . . . I can’t leave her tonight, she’s, but the words weren’t there any more, flown from beneath her fingers, what should she do first, go to her grandmother or to Tammy, then the sonata from her grandmother’s room began again, she’d have to go via the veranda where, leaning against the living-room door, she’d bump into Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint out for a smoke and looking bitter, Mai would have to get by her somehow because she’d be leaning hard on the door like some deranged vestal, priestess of evil, but Mai was as big as her brother Vincent now, no longer the slight young thing that Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint could slap around when she didn’t listen, those days as a victim of her sadism were gone and Mai was as athletic as ever her fragile brother was, in fact one would say he was the girl and she the boy, firm thighs and square shoulders, oh there you are said Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint, emerging as though hidden behind a cloud of cigarette smoke, your parents are out in the car looking for you, there was the priestess of evil squarely before her in the middle of the veranda, then Mai felt the slap on her cheek, yes Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint had done it, and why, what had Mai done exactly, it wasn’t midnight yet but this sadist had slapped her anyway, Mai, as big as Vincent and bearing the name of a girl who had disappeared when she was eleven, Mai, this Mai knew that her friend Tammy, friend, what a strange word but that’s how it had to be, her friend Tammy had sworn she’d go up in flames with her brother, no, that she could not let happen, but who to run to, her grandmother or Tammy, yet over all of it she resented the slap, slapped on the cheek the day her grandmother was, the night when she might be . . . then her mind switched back to Tammy and wondered what really struck her deepest, all this as she heard the sonata still playing through the open shutters out into the foggy night, a blessing, a blessing that her grandmother still lived and was listening to her music, whereas Tammy, who could possibly know, who could foresee, whatever few words she’d texted, your friend Mai, wait, forget the pact, no wait, your friend Mai, there was no way to know what was really happening to them. Each of them giving a tug in the direction of the party, the white papier-mâché horse slowly advanced, Robbie on one side and Herman in his fringed dress and beige boots on the other, the echo of the boots clicked loudly inside and out and Petites Cendres thought Robbie looked ecstatic and totally untrammelled, though it was really too bad Fatalité couldn’t experience this night, right about now the Captain must have just left her to rest in the sand at the bottom of the sea with the wild fishes, the bag of ashes ripped open and the last grains of her existence pouring out, perhaps he’d hesitated awhile before doing that and sat through the sunset on the deck of his boat with the bag still on his knees, pretty foggy, not enough wind, he’d been waiting quite a while already in his white cap with gold trim before finally getting into his wetsuit and diving in, quite a while, Yinn was thinking about the same thing and about the Captain’s mutinous decision to take some of the ashes and do it his way, to pay homage by planting them on the bottom, or maybe he was more worried about My Captain putting himself in danger on the slopes of a coral reef where currents were the strongest, Yinn’s gaze settled on Herman’s wheelchair ready to take him home later on, the operation had worked so he was stuck with his stroller as he laughingly called it for a few days longer, and now he was already up dancing and singing the night away, still his hollow and slightly livid cheeks were puzzling, so was his thinning neck, still Herman always demanded a lot of himself thought Yinn, maybe I should have told him to go home to rest, then go see someone, but you couldn’t tell Herman anything could you, he’d just blow up, he didn’t even admit to being treated, he just denied the whole thing, anticipating the concern in Yinn’s expression, he yelled come and join us, why you looking so melancholy just now when the limo’s gonna take us across town so the girls can get a round of applause and some admiration, looking serious, Yinn turned toward the door and took in the stairway, already crowded with customers waiting for the late show, she was the natural pole of attraction though she’d rather be out in the street sharing fun and regally greeting all the girls driving by on their way to zigzag the main streets in slow procession, lightly draped in winter fog and tinged with the smell of salt water, Yinn opened the door when they got back to the bar, bent down, and bestowed a glittering necklace on one of the girls, the same as they gave to prospective customers outside before the show, they seemed to her a bit like business cards, the ones she’d had made in a risqué pose that showed her long legs peeking out from under her flounced skirt, nevertheless chaste-looking, as the other necklaces and cards got trampled underfoot by those out walking into the dawn after the show was done and before the purple lights were turned off over the stairway and Petites Cendres headed for his spot on the red sofa, the beauty of Yinn and the mystery of her impenetrable languor in the poster were not yet crumpled in the street, the cards not yet pulverized by feet or scattered by the wind with the words
COME SEE THE SPECTACULAR ARTIST YINN
become just paper balled up and turned to garbage by indifferent crowds now feeling nothing in particular anymore, their thirst slaked for the moment, never knowing who she was under that libidinous pose, not even her face under the blue mascara and slanted eyes with lashes galore or even, thought Petites Cendres, lingering a little over this fleeting image held only for the night, Yinn’s black hair falling over her shoulders, slenderness in skin-tight jeans or loose shorts like Jason’s, he must be so very happy in the steady glow of a love that encouraged his art to grow and the sewing room where marvels were born every day and there was no crowd to be weaned of his poses, Petites Cendres mused, couples seeking the fruits of unconditional freedom through him, everywhere, they came from everywhere to see him, hear him, be near him, that pair of Muslim boys for instance walking straight toward him hand in hand and watching the show, seeking out Yinn’s gaze as if to say at least with you we know we won’t be persecuted, stand up for us Yinn, you know if we go home we’ll be stoned to death or hanged or jailed and tortured to death, you know what they do in Iran, defend us Yinn, you are our only hope in this massacre of youth, often they need only do that, hold hands, a fraternal kiss, and they’re dead, stoned, help us against this barbarism Yinn, don’t forget about us, and every night Yinn’s soul overflowed from this flood of laments, nothing he could do though, just seek consolation in the arms of Jason, the only one to carry this burden thought Petites Cendres, Jason was there for him, constant and reliable, that was certain, the hollow cheeks and neck of Herman, his denial, Petites Cendres’ cough, all of these scatterings too much of a burden, too human, and in his extravagance Yinn bore all of it alone. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize him, it’s Lazaro, the one who killed a student during a demonstration in Chicago, I know it, I saw him on TV and in the paper Olivier said, waking up his wife Chuan, you and Jermaine even heard the gun go off when it happened, hey it’s after midnight and Jermaine’s still out with his friends, so go back to sleep will you Chuan said, tenderly placing her hand on Olivier’s forehead, she knew she wasn’t reassuring him at all, so tormented was he by now that nothing would do, a dull, relentless feeling she couldn’t put her finger on, he didn’t seem like the man she had fallen in love with anymore than Jermaine saw a father in him, of course he dropped by on occasion quoting something from an article he had written long ago when he was a young black civil rights campaigner, the time of heroics in the streets, that must be what he was thinking about when he woke up like this in the middle of the night talking about those who still did what he no longer had the strength for, don’t you remember Caridad’s son Lazaro, he asked his wife, what a fanatical kid he was even before he grew up, of course you do, Chuan looked at this man, hers, so old and white-haired all of a sudden while she herself still felt so young and even closer to their son, he was touching but no longer reachable, crushed by the weight of a lifetime’s inner and social pressures, first a young militant, then a rebellious journalist, then a senator, what repression and pressure he must have gone through and never saying anything to his family, just holding it in all those years, were it not for such extreme swings in his memory he surely would have been content in the house she’d designed ’specially for them right by the sea, Cuban architecture with ochre and yellow walls, red tiles cooked by the sun, their own house, their own shiny-coated dogs, how happy they should have been, their beloved and only son Jermaine, who had told his mother he wouldn’t be going back to work on his film in California till his father was better, but his mother wondered when that would be, will he, will we ever find peace and happiness again, they tell me it’s irreversible, maybe Olivier was right this time, could Lazaro, have committed the Chicago crime or was her husband simply confusing his face with one of many in the media after the protest against the punishment of a Muslim girl by her father and brothers, then there it was, the sudden intrusion of Lazaro all dressed in black, just as Chuan used to see him on his motorbike as he noisily circled their house and aggressively spied on them, and his mother complaining and worrying about him, he was evil she said, he’d inherited the violent behaviour from his father and uncles back in Egypt, his eruption amid the students, the explosion of a handgun, the girl crumpling into the arms of her friends, who knows, maybe this time Olivier wasn’t having night delusions, if he was wrong about Lazaro she’d go out on the patio, wait for Jermaine and talk to him, and why was the sea fog lingering and surrounding the house, the garden, and the patio this way, yes she’d wait and talk to him, who knows, maybe this time he was right. Mère thought how sweet it would be if she could hear Franz talking to Yehudi and Wolfgang outside her window, sitting on the bench among the frangipanis, talking about his past and their future, Wolfgang may be gifted for the piano but he still lunges joyfully at Mai’s swing, he’d still rather play than bend to Franz’s discipline, stretching his finger over the keyboard, yes they’d both be virtuoso pianists as well as orchestra leaders he said, you see Papa Franz one day will be very old and not right now but later, no matter where he is, will be there to see you both doing your exercises in the conservatory, yes he’d see it all, and the same papa or grandpapa would see it all through a window carved in the clouds, yes all of it, the same Papa Franz or scarcely balding Grandpapa with a black and grey mane just the way you see it now or when I’m conducting the orchestra, you must grow with the musicians in suppleness and grace, that’s how it will be, Yehudi and Wolfgang were still small of course but growing up they’d acquire a huge musical memory and would conduct complex works from that memory, just the way Franz did, but they still needed to work extremely hard regardless, and other musicians will do the work for me, but for now sol-fa lessons, my friends, sol-fa, and I know you hate it now both of you, oh how sweet it would be to overhear thought Mère, under the yellow frangipani blossoms as Wolfgang played on the swing and the cord squeaked in time to his delighted cries, where was this eccentric Franz anyway, and the boys where were they, his beauties and prodigies as he called them, had they all gone off in that rattletrap convertible of his in the rain and dense fog wondered Mère, how come she didn’t see them anymore, such a charming group and so entertaining, or perhaps Franz had been busy with some new creation while she was sleeping, something by a new composer that the world simply had to hear, Japan it was, who could remain unmoved by that face ringed with a mane and never more alert than when bounding out onto the stage, whether it be in Japan or Brazil, oh they weren’t out on the swing or beneath the yellow frangipanis anymore, Franz and the children, well his latest ones anyway, there were quite few after all, now all she could hear was the sound of voices outside on the veranda, it must be Mélanie and Daniel back with Mai, who knows what kids get up to, had Mère ever known for sure, there is nothing so sealed off as lives that no longer depend on us, that was Mai for you, despite her parents’ watchful eye and the tight rules she was subjected to and why, from her bed Mère could see the shadow of Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint projected onto the mosquito screen, hovering there, taunting her with its dissimulations and thefts and hostility, now she could hear Mai’s voice, then Mélanie’s and Daniel’s on the doorstep confronting and arguing with her, Marie-Sylvie saying she forbade me to smoke in the house, though weakly, your mother orders me about, your grandmother too piles it all on me, do this and do that, you’d think she was the lady of the manor, do you really think I can put up with it, me Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint, maybe she’d like to remind me how I herded goats with my brother on the hillside, always humiliating me, humiliating both of us, but Daniel and Mélanie would say no, just calm yourself Marie-Sylvie, none of that, our mother has the greatest respect for you and your brother, Esther showed that when she took you in, though whatever Mélanie or Daniel said it would never be enough for the ever insatiable Marie-Sylvie and the fathomless sense of humiliation that appeared to be a class trait, and she said as much, Jenny for instance had studied with the priests and was already a notch above her, now a member of Doctors Without Borders, she at least, she was able to go out on her own and grow while Marie-Sylvie could never be more than a lowly servant, not as humbled as my brother though, a reject, a larva, incessant and bottomless were her complaints Mère reflected, bile chewed over and over for their privations and abjectness, Marie-Sylvie and He-Who-Never-Sleeps, a shadow charged with murderous aggression just lying in wait, yes right there on that veranda while the toads croaked and the silhouette of Marie-Sylvie de la Toussaint rustled in the foliage around her, as they awoke on the nearby island Rosie and Lou were about to see the dolphins as Ari promised, and the white sands of the uninhabited beach would also show off its egrets and blue herons Lou’s father told her, so can’t we please make up now while we’re in this lovely paradise, can we, have you thought at all about what I mentioned, you know, living part-time with me and Noémie in New York, or are you going to stay jealous just so you can hold it against me, you’re not going to be my enemy are you Lou, are you still my sweet child, hmmm, while he’d thought she was sleeping below-decks he’d told Noémie on the cellphone he just couldn’t understand how the child managed to be so headstrong with him, and regardless of Lou’s hurt feelings Noémie had answered maybe it’s just time to stop worrying so much about her and her mother, let’s just think about us, I think that’s the way to go, we have our own lives to live after all, don’t we, and she’s just a child, you know they get over disappointments like this pretty quickly, you’re a grown man she went on, ever the seductress who disliked children or at least had little enough regard for Lou to understand her properly, Ari what on earth are you waiting for to live your life to the fullest like everyone else, you know you’re going to live to regret always worrying about what Ingrid thinks, or Lou, it’s really pretty dumb, I mean with me you’re going to have everything you’ve always wanted or dreamed of, how many women are still going to want to be your lover eh, not many, with time they’d be indifferent to him even on this beach, what a charming liar she thought, then taking Rosie’s hand she said let’s go over on that rock in the shade of the palm tree, look I’ve got a DVD player in my backpack, we could watch a movie, just you and me, and little Rosie, almost an infant, would surely say no I don’t want to, I want to be on the beach with you and your dad and see the dolphins and play with them, and the egrets and the blue herons, that’s why we got off the boat, so Lou was going to have to pinch her just enough to hurt and whip her into line, nope you’re coming with me, she’d punish Rosie and Rosie would cry, but that was the plan, then she’d dig in against her father tomorrow, not knowing that while they were playing with the dolphins he’d go right on phoning Noémie, she’d have to make a point of never leaving him in peace with her, she launched into the details, it was a film about alligators and I brought it ’specially for you she’d say charmingly to Rosie, a cartoon actually ’cause you’re just a baby, but Rosie said, like Ari, she’d much rather see the real thing, live alligators and blue herons, that was Lou’s plan though she wasn’t yet sure if it would work, and despite the fact that her father was smooth and persuasive, Lou was determined to do this and mercilessly stonewall everything he said. Boy I’m really not much of a grandson am I Samuel thought as his plane came in for a night landing on the island, he’d been way too wrapped up in his choreography for