Mend the Living by Maylis de Kerangal Page A

capsize, she, too, perceives the abyss between them, between herself and the rest of them, this chasm that separates them now, thank you, I have to go, we’ll be in touch.
    She suddenly realizes that she doesn’t want to go home, it’s not time yet to see Lou, to call her mother, to tell Simon’s grandparents, his friends, it’s not time to hear them panic and suffer, some of them will scream into the receiver, no, oh God, oh shit, fuck I can’t believe it, some of them will burst into sobs while others will barrage her with questions, say the names of medical tests she won’t know, tell her about the case of an acquaintance who woke up from a coma when they thought he was lost, and they’ll round up all the spectacular remissions in their circle and beyond, voice suspicions about the hospital, the diagnosis, and the treatment, will even ask the name of the doctor who received him, hmm, I don’t recognize that name, hmm, I don’t know him, oh he’s probably very good, and will insist that she write down the number of that amazing hospital practitioner who has a two-year waiting list, may even offer to call him themselves, since they know him or have a friend who, and maybe there will even be someone stupid enough – someone completely out to lunch – to tell her that it’s possible, it happens, to get an irreversible coma mixed up with other states that resemble it – the alcoholic coma, for example, an overdose of sedatives, hypoglycemia, or even hypothermia – and then, remembering the surf session in cold water that very morning, she’ll feel like vomiting but will get hold of herself to remind the person tormenting her that there was an extremely violent accident, and although she will resist, repeating to everyone that Simon is in good hands, that we just have to wait, they’ll still want to shower her with affection and cover her with words; no, it’s not that time yet, what she wants is someplace to wait, a place to exhaust time, she wants some shelter, reaches the parking lot and suddenly begins to run toward her car, dives inside, and then it’s fists pounding the steering wheel and her hair flying over the dashboard, actions that are so disordered she has trouble putting the key in the ignition, and when she finally starts the car, it jolts forward, tires screeching in the parking lot, then she drives straight out, toward the west, toward the west wind, as the sky clears over this city, while back in his office Revol doesn’t sit down but does what the law requires him to do when an encephalic death is announced in ICU: he picks up his phone, dials the number for the organ and tissue donation unit, and it’s Thomas Remige who picks up.

B ut he almost missed the call, he nearly didn’t hear it, and it was only when he paused to catch his breath at the end of a long lively phrase – a vocal polyphony, a flight of birds, Benjamin Britten, A Ceremony of Carols , op. 28 – that he caught the chirp-chirp of the phone that was echoed, brilliantly and delicately, by a goldfinch in its cage.
    That Sunday morning, in a garden studio on rue Commandant-Charcot, Thomas Remige makes the slats of a venetian blind quiver; he is alone, naked, and he’s singing. He stands in the centre of the room – always in the same spot – his body weight spread equally over both feet, back straight, shoulders held lightly back, rib cage open to free the chest and neck; and once he’s steady, makes a few slow circular movements with his head to loosen his cervical spine, repeats these same rotations with each shoulder, then begins to visualize the column of air that armatures him, from the pit of his belly to his throat, this internal conduit that powers the breath and will make his vocal cords vibrate; he refines his posture. Finally he opens his mouth, an oven – a little odd at the moment, vaguely ridiculous – fills his lungs with air, contracts his abdominal wall, then exhales, an action like opening