too bad.
Going to school for the first time was such a treat. I couldn’t wait. People opened books and looked entranced: I wanted to know what that was all about. Mother often boasts that I learned to read in three weeks, as soon as I got to Sainte-Blandine, when I was two years old. Probably another exaggeration.
The atmosphere is quite different now, with mademoiselle Pélican, but I was happy in the nursery class downstairs. Right away. Relaxed, and utterly comfortable. Learning to tell time with the big clock on the blackboard, listening to stories of saints. Writing. Away from food. We all brought a goûter for the afternoon break, but nobody cared what we did with it. So I ate it, easily. Two slices of bread, a bar of chocolate. Safe.
But before I started school, before I came here, I lived in Lyon. I have clear memories of being in a walker, and moving from the front door, through a passage, into a room with a lot of light. I remember enjoying the movement, to and fro, from the door, through the passage, into the room, around the room, back to the passage. The large windows, their square metal frames. Hiding behind the front door, waiting. My mother opening the door, and not seeing me behind it.
Poppies
Today is Mother’s birthday, and I’m expecting trouble. For weeks she’s been obsessed with crocodile handbags, stopping entranced when she sees one in a shop window, fondling them in stores, asking everybody around (especially her husband) which ones they like best, indicating her own preferences. Last Christmas it was mouton. She didn’t see or talk about anything but mouton coats, and Father finally caught her drift. Not quickly, though: two weeks at least after it had become obvious even to Coralie.
This time, I’m pretty sure Father hasn’t been paying attention. He’s distracted. Even when reading a Série Noire thriller in his study, he stops every other minute, holds his cheeks in his hands and looks into the distance as if afraid of what’s coming. Yesterday, over apéritifs in the garden, while Estelle Vié admired Mother’s tulips, her husband Bertrand was telling Father about a storm off Cap de Creus last week, when he was sailing back from Spain with Laurent, his older son. Usually Father likes to hear every last detail of his friends’ adventures, but he wasn’t listening. Bertrand noticed, after a while. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“No, no,” Father said. “Just the usual. You know. The business.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Bertrand said. “Tell me if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thanks,” Father said, “but it’s all right. I’ll just have to find a way.”
I was sitting in Bertrand’s lap. I’m getting a bit old for this, but I can’t resist: it’s so comfortable up there. Bertrand’s skin, his hair, smell of lavender and wood smoke. His voice is deep and light at the same time, his ruddy face always looks contented. I’d have liked Father to tell him more about his troubles, and I thought he might, since they’ve been friends for ever. Maybe Father felt Bertrand wouldn’t understand. The Viés are so rich, they have so many propriétés with olive groves and apricots and cherries, that it doesn’t matter if their wine doesn’t sell. Or maybe they couldn’t talk because the women were near, and you don’t discuss business in front of your wives.
This morning, with breakfast, Loli brought three cards for Mother, two of them in the same envelope from my brothers who attend the same boarding school, Saint-Ignace-de-Montreuil, and one from Justine. Mother read Justine’s aloud: “To my beloved beautiful Dette who, unlike most inhabitants of this planet, becomes younger with each birthday.” We didn’t get to hear my brothers’ prose, but Mother pored over their cards with a wide smile. “Isn’t it incredible how much your children love me?” she said to Father. “What stepmother gets this kind of tribute, I wonder. I’m so
Going to school for the first time was such a treat. I couldn’t wait. People opened books and looked entranced: I wanted to know what that was all about. Mother often boasts that I learned to read in three weeks, as soon as I got to Sainte-Blandine, when I was two years old. Probably another exaggeration.
The atmosphere is quite different now, with mademoiselle Pélican, but I was happy in the nursery class downstairs. Right away. Relaxed, and utterly comfortable. Learning to tell time with the big clock on the blackboard, listening to stories of saints. Writing. Away from food. We all brought a goûter for the afternoon break, but nobody cared what we did with it. So I ate it, easily. Two slices of bread, a bar of chocolate. Safe.
But before I started school, before I came here, I lived in Lyon. I have clear memories of being in a walker, and moving from the front door, through a passage, into a room with a lot of light. I remember enjoying the movement, to and fro, from the door, through the passage, into the room, around the room, back to the passage. The large windows, their square metal frames. Hiding behind the front door, waiting. My mother opening the door, and not seeing me behind it.
Poppies
Today is Mother’s birthday, and I’m expecting trouble. For weeks she’s been obsessed with crocodile handbags, stopping entranced when she sees one in a shop window, fondling them in stores, asking everybody around (especially her husband) which ones they like best, indicating her own preferences. Last Christmas it was mouton. She didn’t see or talk about anything but mouton coats, and Father finally caught her drift. Not quickly, though: two weeks at least after it had become obvious even to Coralie.
This time, I’m pretty sure Father hasn’t been paying attention. He’s distracted. Even when reading a Série Noire thriller in his study, he stops every other minute, holds his cheeks in his hands and looks into the distance as if afraid of what’s coming. Yesterday, over apéritifs in the garden, while Estelle Vié admired Mother’s tulips, her husband Bertrand was telling Father about a storm off Cap de Creus last week, when he was sailing back from Spain with Laurent, his older son. Usually Father likes to hear every last detail of his friends’ adventures, but he wasn’t listening. Bertrand noticed, after a while. “Is anything wrong?” he asked.
“No, no,” Father said. “Just the usual. You know. The business.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Bertrand said. “Tell me if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thanks,” Father said, “but it’s all right. I’ll just have to find a way.”
I was sitting in Bertrand’s lap. I’m getting a bit old for this, but I can’t resist: it’s so comfortable up there. Bertrand’s skin, his hair, smell of lavender and wood smoke. His voice is deep and light at the same time, his ruddy face always looks contented. I’d have liked Father to tell him more about his troubles, and I thought he might, since they’ve been friends for ever. Maybe Father felt Bertrand wouldn’t understand. The Viés are so rich, they have so many propriétés with olive groves and apricots and cherries, that it doesn’t matter if their wine doesn’t sell. Or maybe they couldn’t talk because the women were near, and you don’t discuss business in front of your wives.
This morning, with breakfast, Loli brought three cards for Mother, two of them in the same envelope from my brothers who attend the same boarding school, Saint-Ignace-de-Montreuil, and one from Justine. Mother read Justine’s aloud: “To my beloved beautiful Dette who, unlike most inhabitants of this planet, becomes younger with each birthday.” We didn’t get to hear my brothers’ prose, but Mother pored over their cards with a wide smile. “Isn’t it incredible how much your children love me?” she said to Father. “What stepmother gets this kind of tribute, I wonder. I’m so
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