The Elegance Of The Hedgehog Part 16

"Do you have anything special planned for tomorrow evening?"

"Well, no, but that's not why ... "

"Then may I ask why, exactly?"

"I don't think it would be a good thing."

"And why not?" asks my police commissioner.

Why not?

Do I really know, to be honest?

Just then, without warning, the rain starts to fall.

12. Sisters.

All that rain ...

Where I grew up, in winter, it used to rain. I have no memories of sunny days: only rain, a weight of mud and cold, dampness sticking to our clothes and hair; even when you sat by the fire it never really went away. How often since then have I thought back on that rainy evening, how many recollections, over more than forty years, of an event that reemerges today, beneath that pouring rain?

All that rain ...

My sister was named for an older child who'd been stillborn, who, in turn, had been named for a deceased aunt. Lisette was lovely, and even as a child I was aware of the fact, although my eyes had not yet learned to determine the shape of beauty, but only to divine its rough outline. As no one spoke in my home, nothing was ever even said; but in the neighborhood people gossiped and when my sister went by they would comment upon her beauty. "So pretty and so poor, fate is a brutish thing," the seamstress would mumble as we pa.s.sed on our way to school. As for me, ugly and ungainly in mind and body, I would hold my sister's hand and Lisette would walk, her head held high, and as she pa.s.sed she let them voice all the dire destinies predicted for her, for each of them had their own version.

At the age of sixteen she left for the town to look after some rich people's children. For a whole year we did not see her. She came back to spend Christmas with us, bringing strange gifts (gingerbread, brightly colored ribbons, little pouches of lavender); she had the bearing of a queen. Could a rosier, livelier, more perfect face than hers exist? For the first time, someone was telling us a story, and we hung on her every word: we were avid for the mysterious awakening, and were eager to hear more from the lips of this farm girl who had become the maid of powerful people. She would tell us about a strange and richly colored and shining world, where women drove cars and went home at night to households filled with appliances that did the work of human beings, or gave them the news of the world, all you had to do was turn the k.n.o.b ...

When I think back on all that, I take the measure of how dest.i.tute we really were. We were only thirty-five miles or so from town, and there was a market town scarcely ten miles away, but we lived as people did during feudal times, without amenities or hope, so entrenched was our belief that we would always be backward peasants. No doubt even today in some remote rural backwater there are still some old people who have been cut off and have no idea of modern life, but in our case we were all relatively young and when Lisette began to describe the city streets all lit up for Christmas, we were discovering that there was a whole world out there whose existence we had never even imagined.

Lisette went off again. For a few days, as if through some sort of automatic inertia, we continued to talk a little bit. For a few evenings, at table, the father commented on his daughter's stories. "Them's some hard, strange stories." Then silence and shouts rained down on us again, like a plague upon the unfortunate.

When I think back ... All that rain, all those deaths ... Lisette bore the name of two women who had died; I had been given the name of only one, my maternal grandmother, who died shortly before my birth. My brothers all had first names of cousins who had been killed in the war and my mother too had inherited her name from a cousin who had died in childbirth and whom she had never known. This was the wordless existence we were living, in a world of the dead, when one November evening Lisette came back from the city.

I remember all that rain ... The sound of it drumming on the roof, the paths running with water, the sea of mud at the gate to the farm, the black sky, the wind, the horrible feeling of endless damp weighing upon us as our life weighed upon us: neither consciousness nor revolt. We were sitting huddled together by the fire when suddenly my mother got to her feet, throwing the rest of us off balance; we watched in surprise as, driven by some obscure impulse, she headed to the door and flung it open.

All that rain, oh, all that rain ... Framed in the door, motionless, her hair clinging to her face, her dress soaked through, her shoes caked with mud, staring lifelessly, stood Lisette. How did my mother know? How did this woman who, while never mistreating us, never showed us that she loved us, either by deed or word-how did this coa.r.s.e woman who brought her children into the world in the same way she turned over the soil or fed the hens, this illiterate woman, so exhausted by life that she never even called us by the names she had given us-to the point where I at times wondered if she even remembered them-how had she known that her daughter, half-dead, neither moving nor speaking but merely staring at the door without even thinking of knocking, was just waiting in a relentless downpour for someone to open and bring her into the warm room?

Is this a mother's love, this intuition of disaster in one's heart, this spark of empathy that resists even when human beings have been reduced to living like animals? That is what Lucien said: a mother who loves her children always knows when they are in trouble. Personally, I do not much care for this interpretation. Nor do I feel any resentment toward that mother who was not a mother. Poverty is a reaper: it harvests everything inside us that might have made us capable of social intercourse with others, and leaves us empty, purged of feeling, so that we may endure all the darkness of the present day. Nor do I nurture any st.u.r.dy illusions: there was nothing of a mother's love in my mother's intuition, merely the translation into gesture of her certainty of misfortune. A sort of native consciousness, rooted deep in the heart, which serves to remind poor wretches like us that, on a rainy night, there will always be a daughter who has lost her honor and who will come home to die.

Lisette lived just long enough to give birth to her child. The infant did what was expected of it: it died within three hours. From this tragedy, which to my parents seemed to be part of the natural order of things, so that they were no more-and no less-moved by it than if they had lost a goat, I derived two certainties: the strong live and the weak die, and their pleasure and suffering are proportionate to their position in the hierarchy. Lisette had been beautiful and poor, I was intelligent and indigent, but like her I was doomed to a similar punishment if I ever sought to make good use of my mind in defiance of my cla.s.s. Finally, as I could not cease to be who I was, either, it became clear to me that my path would be one of secrecy: I had to keep silent about who I was, and never mix with that other world.

From being silent, I then became clandestine.

Quite abruptly I realize I am sitting in my kitchen, in Paris, in this other world where I have made my invisible little niche, a world with which I have been careful never to mix, and I am weeping great warm tears while a little girl with an incredibly warm gaze is holding my hand, gently caressing my knuckles. And I also realize that I have said it all, told her everything: Lisette, my mother, the rain, beauty profaned, and, at the end of it all, the iron hand of destiny giving stillborn infants to mothers who die from wanting to be reborn. I am weeping plump, hot, long, good tears, sobbing tears, and while I am troubled, I am also incomprehensibly happy to see the transfiguration of Paloma's sad, severe gaze into a well of warmth where I can soften my sobs.

"My G.o.d," I say, regaining my composure somewhat, "my G.o.d, Paloma, how silly I am!"

"Madame Michel," she replies, "you know, you are giving me hope again."

"Hope?" I say, snuffling pathetically.

"Yes," she says, "it seems it might be possible to change one's fate after all."

We sit there for countless minutes holding hands, not speaking. I have become friends with a lovely twelve-year-old soul to whom I feel very grateful, and however incongruous this connection may be-asymmetrical in age, condition and circ.u.mstances-nothing can taint my emotion. When Solange Josse comes to the loge to fetch her daughter, Paloma and I look at each other with the complicity of indestructible friendship, and say goodbye with the certainty we shall meet again soon. I close the door behind them, and sit down in the armchair by the television, with my hand on my chest. And I find myself speaking out loud: maybe this, then, is what life is all about.

Profound Thought No. 15.

If you want to heal Heal others And smile or weep At this happy reversal of fate.

You know what? I wonder if I haven't missed something. A bit like someone who's been hanging out with a bad crowd and then discovers another path through meeting a good person. My own personal bad crowd: Maman, Colombe, Papa and their entire clique. But today I was with a really good person. Madame Michel told me about this traumatizing event in her life: she has been avoiding Kakuro because she was traumatized by the death of her sister Lisette, who was seduced and abandoned by some rich man's son. Don't fraternize with rich people if you don't want to die: since then this has become her survival technique.

Listening to Madame Michel, I asked myself something: which is more traumatizing? A sister who dies because she's been abandoned, or the lasting effects of the event-the fear that you will die if you don't stay where you belong? Madame Michel could have gotten over her sister's death; but can you get over the staging of your own punishment?

Above all, there was something else I felt, something new, and as I write it I am very moved-proof is I had to put my pen down for two minutes, so I could cry. This is what I felt: listening to Madame Michel and seeing her cry, but above all seeing how it made her feel better to be able to tell her story to me, I understood something. I understood that I was suffering because I couldn't make anyone else around me feel better. I understood that I have a grudge against Papa, Maman and above all Colombe because I'm incapable of being useful to them, because there's nothing I can do for them. They are already too far gone in their sickness, and I am too weak. I can see their symptoms clearly but I'm not skilled to treat them and so as a result that makes me as sick as they are, only I don't see it. Whereas when I was holding Madame Michel's hand I could feel how I was sick, too. And one thing is sure, no matter what: I won't get any better by punishing the people I can't heal. I might have to rethink this business about fire and suicide. Besides, I may as well admit it: I don't really feel like dying, I want to be able to see Madame Michel and Kakuro again, and his unpredictable little great-niece Yoko, and ask them for help. Of course I'm not going to show up saying, please, help me, I'm a little girl who is suicidal. But I feel like letting other people be good for me-after all, I'm just an unhappy little girl and even if I'm extremely intelligent, that doesn't change anything, does it? An unhappy little girl who, just when things are at their worst, has been lucky enough to meet some good people. Morally, do I have the right to let this chance go by?

Sigh. I don't know. This story is a tragedy, after all. "There are some worthy people out there, be glad!" is what I felt like telling myself, but in the end, so much sadness! They end up in the rain. I really don't know what to think. Briefly, I thought I had found my calling, I thought I'd understood that in order to heal, I could heal others, or at least the other "healable" people, the ones who can be saved-instead of moping because I can't save other people. So what does this mean-I'm supposed to become a doctor? Or a writer? It's a bit the same thing, no?

And for every Madame Michel, how many Colombes are out there, how many dreary Tiberes?

13. In the Pathways of h.e.l.l.

After Paloma left I didn't know which way to turn, and sat in my armchair for a long time.

Then, taking my courage in both hands, I dialed Kakuro Ozu's telephone number.

Paul Nguyen picked up on the second ring.

"Yes, h.e.l.lo, Madame Michel. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I would like to speak with Kakuro."

"He's not in, would you like him to call you when he gets back?"

"No, no," I said, relieved to be able to go through an intermediary. "Could you tell him that, if he hasn't changed his mind, I would be happy to have dinner with him tomorrow evening?"

"With pleasure," said Paul Nguyen.

I put the phone down and flopped back into the armchair, and for the past hour have let myself be carried away by confused but pleasant thoughts.

"It doesn't smell too good in your place, now does it?" says a soft male voice at my back. "Isn't there anyone who can come to fix it?"

He opened the door so quietly that I didn't hear him. A nice-looking young man with rather disheveled brown hair and a brand new jean jacket and the large eyes of an amiable c.o.c.ker spaniel.

"Jean? Jean Arthens?" I ask, scarcely believing my eyes.

"Yup," he replies, leaning his head to one side, the way he used to.

But that is all that lingers of the human wreck, that ravaged young soul in the emaciated body he used to be: Jean Arthens, once so very close to the abyss, has visibly opted for rebirth.

"You look great!" I say, with my broadest smile.

Which he returns in kind.

"Well good morning, Madame Michel, it is a pleasure to see you. It suits you," he adds, pointing to my hairstyle.

"Thank you. What brings you here? Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Ah ... " he begins, with a hint of his old hesitancy, "yup, I'd love one."

I prepare the tea and he sits down on a chair and looks at Leo, eyes wide in astonishment.

"Was this cat of yours always so fat?" he inquires, not meaning it in a nasty way.

"Yes. He's not terribly athletic."

"It's not him that smells so bad is it?" With an apologetic expression, he sniffs the cat.

"No, no, there's something wrong with the plumbing."

"You must find it strange that I've just shown up here like this, especially as we never really talked much, uh, I wasn't very talkative in those days ... well, in my father's days."

"I'm happy to see you and above all to see that you seem to be doing well," I say with sincerity.

"Yup ... I had a close shave."

We take little sips of scorching tea, simultaneously.

"I'm cured now-well, I'd like to think I'm cured, if you ever can be cured. But I'm keeping off drugs, I've met a nice girl-well, a fantastic girl, rather, I must say"-his eyes open wide and he sniffles slightly as he looks at me-"and I've found a little job I like."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm working at a ship's chandler's."

"Parts for boats?"

"Yup, and it's a fun job. It's kind of like being on vacation, there. Guys come in and tell me about their boat, the seas they're about to sail, the seas where they've been, I like that, and then I'm happy to have a job, you know."

"What do you actually do at your job?"

"I'm sort of the factotum, stock man and messenger boy, but I'm learning as I go along, so now from time to time they give me more interesting things to do like repair sails or shrouds, or put together the provision inventory."

Just listen to the poetry of the language: provisioning a sailboat provisioning a sailboat ... providing what is needed, with a vision of the future. To those who have not understood that the enchantment of language comes from such nuances, I shall address the following prayer: beware of commas. ... providing what is needed, with a vision of the future. To those who have not understood that the enchantment of language comes from such nuances, I shall address the following prayer: beware of commas.

"And you too look like you're doing well," he says, with a kindly gaze.

"Really? Well, there have been a few changes that have been good for me."

"You know, I didn't come back here to see the apartment or the people, here. I'm not even sure they'd recognize me; I even brought my ID card, just in case you yourself didn't recognize me. No, I came because there's something I can't remember, something that helped me a lot, already when I was sick and then afterwards, when I was getting better."

"And you think I can help?"

"Yes, because you were the one who told me the name of those flowers one day. In the flower bed, over there"-he points toward the far side of the courtyard-"there are some pretty little red and white flowers, you planted them there, didn't you? And one day I asked you what they were but I wasn't able to remember the name. And yet I used to think about those flowers all the time, I don't know why. They're nice to look at, and when I was so bad off I would think about those flowers, and it did me good. So I was in the neighborhood just now and I thought, I am going to ask Madame Michel, maybe she can tell me."

Slightly embarra.s.sed, he waits for my reaction.

"It must seem weird, no? I hope I'm not scaring you, with this flower business."

"No, not at all. If only I'd known the good they were doing you ... I'd have planted them all over the place!"

He laughs, like a delighted child.

"Ah, Madame Michel, you know, it practically saved my life. That in itself is a miracle! So, can you tell me what they're called?"

Yes my angel, I can. Along the pathways of h.e.l.l, breathless, one's heart in one's mouth, a faint glow: they are camellias.

"Yes," I say. "They are camellias."

He stares at me, wide-eyed. A tear slips across his waiflike cheek.

"Camellias ... " he says, lost in a memory that is his alone. "Camellias, yes." He repeats the word, looking at me again. "That's it. Camellias."

I feel a tear on my own cheek.

I take his hand.

"Jean, you cannot imagine how happy I am that you came by here today."

"Really?" He looks astonished. "But why?"

Why?

Because a camellia can change fate.

14. From Pa.s.sageway to Pathway.