45- Memories

"He was a dull and boring guy who spent his days boning pieces of meat in the back of his father's shop. What a blow for us, imagine. She had rejected our Paul for that idiot. And he was there, on the other side of the world, probably thinking about her, writing her poems, the fool, and she only thought about going out on Saturday nights with that crude guy who had permission to borrow his father's car. A light blue Frégate, I remember... Of course, she was free not to reciprocate his feelings, of course, but Paul was too passionate, he couldn't do anything without bravery, without... without vigor. What a waste...

- And then?

- And then, nothing. My brother came back and my mother changed butchers. Paul spent a lot of time in this house, hardly leaving. He drew, he read, he complained that he couldn't sleep anymore. He had a lot of pain, coughing all the time, and then he died. At twenty-one years old.

- You never talk about him...

- No.

- Why?

- I liked talking about him with those who had known him, it was easier... I moved my chair away from the table.

- I'll set the table. Where do you want to eat?

- Right here, the kitchen is fine.

She turned off the main light and we sat across from each other.

- It's delicious.

- Do you really think so? I overcooked it a bit, didn't I?

- No, no, really, it's perfect.

- You're too kind.

- His wine is good though. Tell me about Rome.

- About the city?

- No, about that pilgrimage... What were you like at fifteen?

- Oh... what was I like? I was the most silly boy in the world. I tried to imitate Frendall's long strides. I teased him, talked about Paris, the Moulin Rouge, said whatever, lied shamelessly. He laughed, answered things that I didn't understand and made me laugh in return. We spent our time stealing coins from fountains and laughing like idiots every time we crossed paths with the opposite sex. We were truly pathetic, looking back... I don't remember the reason for the pilgrimage. It was probably for a good cause, an intention of prayer, as they say... I don't remember... It was like a breath of fresh air for me. Those few days changed my life. I discovered the taste of freedom. It was like... Do you want seconds?

- Yes, please.

- You had to see the context too... We had just pretended that we had won a war. There was a lot of bitterness in the air. We couldn't mention anyone, whether it was a neighbor, a shopkeeper, or a classmate's parents, without my father immediately putting them in a box: informant or informant, coward or useless. It was horrible. You can't imagine, but believe me, it's horrible for a child... In fact, we didn't even speak to him... or hardly at all... The minimum filial interaction, probably... But still, one day I asked him, 'If your humanity was so pathetic, then why did you fight for it?'

- And what did he say?

- Nothing... contempt.

- Okay, okay, thanks, don't serve me so much!

- I lived on the first floor of a very gray building, in a corner of district sixteen. It was so depressing... My parents couldn't afford to live there, but there was the prestige of the neighborhood, you know. District sixteen! We lived in a sinister apartment where we barely fit, where the sun never entered, and my mother didn't let us open the windows because there were garages right below. She was afraid her curtains would turn black... Goodness, this Bordeaux wine is loosening my tongue and memory! I was so bored. I was too young for my father to take an interest in me and my mother fluttered around.

- She went out a lot. "Time devoted to the parish," she used to say, raising her eyes to the sky. She overacted, she was bothered by the foolishness of some bourgeois ladies that she completely made up, took off her gloves, threw them on the hallway console with the gesture of someone who is tired of serving others, sighed, flitted around, chattered, lied, sometimes contradicted herself. We let her talk. Paul called her Sarah Bernhardt, and my father resumed reading Le Figaro without commenting when she left the room... Do you want potatoes?

- No, thank you.

- I went to Janson-de-Sailly school. I was as gray as my building. I read Brave Hearts and the adventures of Flash Gordon. Every Thursday, I played tennis with the Mortellier's kids. I was... I was a very good and graceless child. I dreamed of taking the elevator and going up to the sixth floor to see... You see, what an adventure... Going up to the sixth floor! I was such a fool...

- I was waiting for Patrick Frendall.

- I was waiting for the Pope!

She got up to stir the fire.

- Well... It wasn't a revolution... At most, a recess. I always thought that one day... how can I put it?... I would free myself. But no. Never. I never stopped being that very good and graceless child. Well, why am I telling you all this? Why am I suddenly being so talkative?

- I asked you...

- Yes, well... that's not a reason! Am I boring you with my little burst of nostalgia?

- No, no, not at all, on the contrary, I like it...

The next morning, I found a note on the kitchen table: "I'm going to the office and I'll be back."

There was coffee and a large log on the hearth.

Why didn't he warn me that he was leaving?

What a strange man... Like a fish... slipping and eluding your fingers...

I poured myself a large cup of coffee and drank it while standing, leaning on the kitchen window. I watched the robins flocking to the piece of lard that the children had left on the bench yesterday.

The sun was just above the hedge.

I waited for them to wake up. The house was too quiet.