and in any case I toss it furtively. The flower floats away on the water. And I feel, for ten minutes, a sense of fulfillment. My father was afraid of being shut up like his brother. A brother who was the opposite of himself. A big-time gambler. A kind of Great Gatsby. When he went into a restaurant, the staff would grovel before him. He was cremated too. His last wife wanted to put him with her family, in the pharaonic tomb they have. An underling from the funeral home cracked open the engraved bronze door, set the urn on the first of the twelve marble shelves, and then closed the door again. As we were driving back from the cemetery, my father said, all your life you brag about your free access to high places, and then in the end they slip you inside through a crack in the door and plop you down at random. Me too, I’d like to merge with a flowing stream. But ever since I sold Plou-Gouzan L’Ic, I no longer have a river. And as for the river of my childhood, it’s not very pleasant anymore. It used to be wild and unspoiled, grass grew between its rocks, a wall of honeysuckle ran its whole length. Now its banks have been paved over, and next to it there’s a parking lot. In the sea, then. But it’s too vast (and I’m afraid of sharks). I say to Jeannette, I’d like you to throw my ashes into a stream or a river, but I haven’t chosen one yet. Jeannette stops the toaster. She wipes her hands on the dishcloth that’s lying within reach and sits down in front of me. —Your ashes? Ernest, youwant to be cremated? Too much consternation in her face. Too much pathos. I laugh, baring all my mean teeth, and say yes. —And you say it just like that, like you’re talking about the weather? —It’s not a significant topic of conversation. She remains silent. She smoothes the tablecloth and says, you know I’m against it. —I know, but I don’t want to be stacked up in a vault, Jeannette. —You aren’t bound to do everything just like your father, you’re seventy-three. —That’s the right age to act like one’s father. I put my glasses back on. I say, would you be so kind as to let me read? You stick a dagger in me and then you go back to your newspaper, she answers. I’d be happy to see a newspaper appear on my screen, but I’m missing a password or some kind of identifier or something, how should I know? Our daughter Odile’s taken it into her head to retrain me. She’s afraid my brain will crumble away and I’ll become isolated. When I was in business, nobody suggested I fall into step with modernity. Sinuous bodies flutter across the screen. They remind me of the flies that used to float before my eyes when I was a child. I talked about them to a little girl I knew. I asked her if they were angels. Yes, she said, they were. I felt a certain pride in them. I don’t believe in anything. Certainly not in any kind of religious nonsense. But in angels, just a little. In the constellations. In my role, however minute, in the book of causes and effects. It’s not forbidden to imagine that you’re part of a whole. I don’t know what Jeannette’s doing, fooling around with that dishcloth instead of finishing the toast. She’s twisting the corners of the cloth and wrapping them around her index finger. This distracts my attention completely. I can’t have a serious discussion with my wife. Making myself understoodis impossible. Particularly within the marital framework, where everything turns into a criminal case. Jeannette abruptly snaps the cloth off her finger and says lugubriously, you don’t want to be with me. With you where? I ask. —With me in general. —But I do, Jeannette, I want to be with you. —No you don’t. —Everyone’s alone in death. And stop with that dishcloth, what are you doing? —I’ve always thought it was sad that your parents aren’t buried together. Your sister thinks so too. Papa’s very happy in the Braive, I say. And your mother is sad, says Jeannette. —My mother’s
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