Victor and the women

a novel by

Pierre Delerive

155 Hudson Street – Apt 2N New York, NY 10013

(212) 689 0619
pierredelerive@earthlink.net
Delerive

CHAPTER ONE

When I think of my early teens, I see naked women. Their breasts, thighs and

sexes filled my dreams and left me breathless. Enhanced by a powerful sense of sin,

these images engraved themselves in my young memory during exhilarating, stolen

moments or in the round-the-clock movie theater of my imagination. I also shake with

terror and this is linked to the memory of my mother. There is no logical link between

these two poles of my youth and yet I know they are united.

I was terrified of my mother. The years haven't been able to erase the memory

of her descents into abysses of depression. I cannot forget her sarcasmsshe laughed

so hard when she called me Dumbo, a not-too-subtle hint at my oversized earsher

cruelty or fits of rage. Even her occasional proclamations of maternal love scared me

by their excess.

Tall and beautiful, long-legged and shapely, my mother could also be ugly.

Sometimes her beauty disappeared in dark shadows as suddenly as the sun can vanish

behind a cloud. I watched then, fascinated and terrified, as she put on what I called

"the mask": a thin white line drew itself where her smiling full pink lips had been a

minute before and her periwinkle blue eyes lost their brightness. Suddenly, she looked

at me from far away, a muscle in her jaw started twitching and her pinched nostrils

turned white. She also seemed to be cold and rubbed her arms furiously. Being near

her wasn't a good idea at those moments, but I was seldom able to escape.

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Nothing, no one, resisted my mother. I'll never forget the Sunday when, angry

at having been "had"one of her favorite expressionsby her butcher, she rose in the

middle of our family lunch, grabbed the dish on which the roast beef sat surrounded

by potatoes and green beans and ordered me to follow her. I wasn't even ten then and

the expedition was labeled as formative: "Remember Victor, you must never allow

yourself to be had. Never!"

I remember running behind her as she strode down the Avenue Mozart,

oblivious to the bewildered stares following this tall and beautiful woman, her roast

beef and her son. At the Boucherie Jasmin, my mother stormed in as the butcher, a big,

ruddy redhead with a handlebar mustache was helping his last customers of the day.

Too shy to follow her, I stood at the door, shuffling my feet in the sawdust. Ignoring

the line, my mother planted herself in front of the butcher and laid her dish of roast

beef, potatoes and green beans on the marble counter. "Have some!" she ordered.

I wasn't too young to be embarrassed and would have given anything to be

allowed to run away, but was afraid of the reprisals.

"I said, have some. Eat!" my mother thundered. The big man seemed frozen.

At a total loss, he looked around and saw nothing but laughing or horrified faces.

"Do I have to help you?" she insisted. "Give me your knife."

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Defeated, the butcher handed my mother his knife. She carved a slice of beef

and shoved it under his nose; "Eat this now! Eat it and tell me if this is the tender meat

you promised me. I should take it to the cobbler; he'd make soles out of it."

As we were walking home, I remember being both ashamed and deeply in awe

of my mother. I didn't know anyoneand some thirty years later, still haven't met any

man or womancapable of such heroics. I forgot what we ended up eating for lunch

that Sunday.

Very much aware of the men leering at her in the street, or so she maintained,

my mother was on a crusade against all sins of the flesh. And if I must choose an

example of her relentless war, I have to recount her discovery of a copy of Playboy

under my bed.

As I came back from the École St. Jean Baptiste, one late afternoon, I found

my mother waiting for me on the landing outside the apartment. Her blouse and the

carpet around her feet were covered with white ash from the cigarettes she had been

chain-smoking. As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, she dragged me by the ear to

my room and confronted me with the corpus delicti open at the centerfold page. A

voluptuous creature was shown lying down on a crimson sofa, her long white thighs

dressed in dark stockings. She held a pearl necklace between her gleaming white teeth

and her smiling eyes told me that she knew how the round, large breasts she cupped in

her hands would make my blood boil. "Can you tell me where you got this piece of

filth?" my mother asked between clenched teeth.

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Shaking as I did each time she held me under her stare and more terrified of

her devastating words than of the slaps in the face that only burned my cheeks, I

remained silent.

"You'll have to tell me one way or the other, little pig."

She was right. In fourteen years, I had not learned to fight back. Unconditional

surrender was the only conceivable outcome. "I ... I bought it."

"With the allowance your parents give you as a reward for being lazy and

filthy?"

I stared at my feet and nodded.

"And may I know who sold you this piece of garbage?"

"Monsieur Jean down the street."

I expected to be punishedI would have to pay, I knew itbut never could I

have envisioned the consequences of my confession. A few minutes later, I was

dragged to the little store where every week I bought France-Football magazine from

Monsieur Jean. Seeing me slip Playboy between the covers of France-Football, the old

man had only smiled. Storming into the store, my mother elbowed her way through

the waiting line and threw the magazine on the counter. "You're the one who sold this

filth to my son, aren't you?" she screamed.

Old Jean scratched his head through his beret. Around us everybody was silent.

As for me, I was dying, pilloried and exposed to the glare of the crowd, burning with

shame, beyond tears.

"I'm waiting!" my mother barked.

"So?" Jean finally answered, "It's not a crime, is it?"

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"We'll see about that," my mother said before dragging me out of the store

behind her. "My husband has connections."

She was alluding to Superintendent Ferrandi with whom my father entertained

business relations that only became clear to me several years later. The following

morning, instead of going to school, I was taken to a precinct near the Opera where

the formidable Ferrandi interrogated me and issued his verdict: my police record

would forever include the crime of pornography.

I had no reason to suspect that the whole charade had been staged by my

mother, and wouldn't have been in the least surprised had I been handcuffed, shackled,

and sent off to a far-away penitentiary. The official notices and pictures of wanted

criminals on the walls, the uniformed cops, the steel furniture, the smell of cold

tobacco, all the details of this horrible moment are forever engraved in my memory. I

can still feel the commissioner's hand pressing my fingers down to register my little

prints.

From that day on, I took a longer route to school in order to avoid walking by

the bookstore where I had been branded by shame. When my mother happened to

accompany me however, she pretended to ignore the terror that had me turn right upon

leaving our apartment building.

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"Victor! What are you doing? You know very well that this is the shorter way."

I died as I walked at her side, staring down at the sidewalk, knowing full well that she

would soon slow down and pretend to develop an interest in the books and magazines

in Monsieur Jean's window. Sometimes she would suggest, "Let's go in. Maybe they

still have last week's Paris-Match." I shriveled and fought to free my hand. Always in

vain.

Years later, a middle-aged man now, conjuring up these memories still make

me shake. Only a few weeks ago, I walked down the street of my childhood. From

afar I saw the bookstore illuminated by a new neon sign. A new management, to be

sure. My whole being refused to go another step further, and I turned around.

Why do my thoughts keep returning to those years as I start a day of which I

expected so much, a day I even sometimes looked forward to and which, I'm

beginning to realize, will disappoint?

I finish shaving; I reach for the bottle of lotion. My most ordinary gestures are

solemn. In the mirror, I see the charcoal-gray suit, the white shirt, and the black tie.

For years I convinced myself that this day would set me free. I would be sad, I

thought, full of remorse no doubt, but liberated. It is not happening and the past is

stubborn. I might as well make peace with it, extend my hand and smile, hoping that it

will return the gesture.

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I am fond of the little boy I was and cherish those years of exquisite sexual

torment in spite of the misery that came with them. Adulthood allowed me to satisfy

my cravings, but never again did I feel the juice of the forbidden fruit moisten my lips

and run down my chin. Never again did I savor its sweetness, a taste I owed as much

to the priests of the École Saint Jean-Baptiste as to my parents who, I always believed,

had conceived me in darkness during a brief and dull encounter.

Sex was never discussed at home and when my sister indulged in her med

student humor, she was quickly silenced. "Lucie, please! Not that! Your brother!" Did

it never occur to my parents that the brother in question had nothing but THAT on his

mind? One evening, having found a Larousse dictionary open at the letter "V" under

my bed, my mother grilled me as she knew so well how to do: "What are you looking

for this time? What word?"

Not missing a beat and surprised by my own quickness, I replied: "Vagabond.

Yes, I'd like to be a vagabond when I grow up." My mother sat down on the edge of

my bed. "A vagabond! My poor Victor! Is that what you want to be? A drifter? Won't

you ever have any kind of ambition in you? A vagabond, an object of contempt!

Wouldn't you rather be a great lawyer or a great scientist?" Why did she always

entertain dreams of greatness for a son she despised and tormented so relentlessly?

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As soon as my mother left the room, I aimed my torch lamp at the dictionary.

A few entries below vagabond was vagina. The words I was discovering overwhelmed

me. I could stare for hours at the little black signs on the page. They set my

imagination afire and pointed toward other mysteries: passage leading to the uterus

from the vulvatheir mere presence under my eyes quickened my heartbeat. Those

printed letters had a hypnotic power. I cannot feel it anymore, but I remember how

they carried me away then.

On the fringe of such a sinful universe, a princess reigned over my heart. Her

name was Sophie. De Marennes de Lucet, if you please. She lived two floors below us

and was in every way out of my reach, but there was no place for realism in my life.

Sophie was at least five years older than me, a generation at that age, and her beauty

left me breathless. With her swan-like neck and almond-shaped eyes, she reminded me

of Audrey Hepburn whose "Roman Holiday" I had seen three times. Like her, Sophie

was a princess running free among the hoi polloi before returning to her palace.

Whenever we found ourselves together in the elevator, I knew I didn't exist for her.

Her nod in answer to my stuttered hello was nothing more than the mechanical

acknowledgment of the humblest of her subjects. During a few brief moments, I was

allowed to breathe the same air as her. From her point of view, all I did was pollute it.

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After those encounters, I would run straight to my room, excited and

humiliated, hoping that no one would inquire about my red face. Later, seated at my

little desk, some school manual open before me, I would relive those precious seconds

during which exhilaration and frustration had inhabited me. I could see Sophie's

delicate profile as she looked up at the floor numbers and the nape of her neck when

she had turned her back to me. If I had been tempted to extend my hand toward her

then, it would have been pure and unmitigated veneration, the gesture of a pilgrim

touching the prelate's robe.

My head between my hands, looking very much like the studious pupil, I

staged in my mind our next encounter. Having arrived first, I would stand facing the

elevator and pretend to take notice of Sophie de Marennes de Lucet only at the very

last minute. Stepping back, I would then sweep the ground with an imaginary

musketeer's feathered hat. Or I could be somewhat aloof and just say, "Hi, there!" My

finger on the button panel, I'd say, "Fourth floor, I believe?" as if there had been a

doubt in my mind. Leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, I would toss a few coins

in my hand, all coolness. Accustomed as she certainly was to suitors down on their

knees before her, Her Highness would no doubt be quite impressed.

Never, not once in the five years during which we shared the same address,

was I able to utter two intelligible words in the presence of Sophie de Marennes de

Lucet. I was ten when we moved into the Avenue Mozart apartment and fifteen when

the de Marennes de Lucets moved out, headed, no doubt, for a residence more suited

to their rank, and she never even knew my name.

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Such was the purity of my feelings toward my princess that I took to exploiting

her presence in my life during my Saturday morning confessions. The Fathers had

scheduled the purification ritual on the last day of the week to guarantee us a spotless

soul for the Sunday morning communion. At first, I sincerely attempted to keep away

the lustful thoughts that haunted me; it was only twenty-four hours, surely it could be

done. Never did I succeed. Therefore, if I summoned Sophie's image in the oppressive

darkness of the confession booth while wiggling uncomfortably, it was in order to lie

with more conviction.

Father Minot bombarded me with questions, which, in retrospect, betrayed

more than just a holy concern for my soul. Full of understanding for the sloth and

many lapses which constituted my weekly account, he showed far more concern for

what he called the "impure thoughts." When such dreams began to visit me, I

confessed to them. At the time, my resolve to fight Satan was such that I honestly

believed I could win the battle. Soon enough the enemy's power overwhelmed my

weak defenses however, and I surrendered. Convinced of the inanity of my resolutions

and embarrassed by the frequency of my defeats, I decided to ignore the matter, pure

and simple. If God loved me as much as they said He did, then He would have to take

me as I was. It was He, after all, who had created me.

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Week after week, Father Minot attempted to catch me out and bombarded me

with questions. Did I think about girls sometimes; did I ever try to imagine their

bodies (was he serious?) was I tempted to touch myself where...you know...where one

shouldn't? No, Father. Never! This tone of absolute sincerity I owed to Sophie whose

image accompanied me in the confession booth. With Father Minot's each question, I

focused intensely on our most recent encounter in the elevator. All I had to do was

evoke her hair flowing down her swan-like neck or her delicate fingers when she had

pushed the door, and my soul instantly became immaculate. If there was a body under

her blouse and skirt, it could not conceivably generate the depraved thoughts that

other women did. Thinking only of Sophie at confession, I wasn't even guilty of lying,

since, for a few brief moments, my soul was without stain.

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CHAPTER TWO

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Were my schoolmates as seriously affected as I was by the raging epidemic of

puberty in our 9th grade class? Most probably, but I felt different. While many

invented a love life for themselves and recounted their imaginary exploits, I was

happy exploring alone the wild forest of my obsessions. They would talk of this or that

girl at the neighboring high school who had gone all the way. ALL THE WAY! Oh, the

mystery of those words! Another girl was easy; she "wanted it." One had only to see

how she looked in our direction. A whore, a slut! I can still see their lips move as they

spewed the dirty words.

Those tales fascinated me and I envied their assurance, but we didn't live in the

same world. Besides, something else set us apart: while my schoolmates were unruly

and bursting with energy, I dozed through the classes. Father Vincent, the vice-

principal, even urged my parents to consult a doctora great specialist of course, my

mother wouldn't have trusted a regular doctorand I was forced to swallow daily

spoonfuls of a lemon-flavored syrup. I wasn't at all ill; all I needed was sleep. How

could I have told the great specialist that I was leading the life of a night watchman,

the most vigilant of all?

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The nocturnal visions for which I lived conflicted sharply with school hours.

Having left my curtains half-open, I'd lie in darkness waiting for a window to light up

or a ray of light to appear under a door. Lucie worked hard into the night in the

neighboring room. I could hear the chalk run on the blackboard across the wall as she

lined up her cabalistic formulas. When the noise of drawers being shut and the rattling

of her chair announced the much-awaited moment, I'd rush to the door and put my eye

to the keyhole. Sometimes, I thought that my sister was looking in my direction. She

even seemed to smile at me as she took off her blouse, unhooked her braher breasts

were tiny, with flat nipples so pale I could hardly see themstepped out of her

corduroy pants and finally, at long last, took off her panties. What a beautiful sight!

She tousled her red bush with the tip of her fingers and ran a nail along her perfectly

shaven triangle. She then paraded in the nude for a moment, offering herself to me,

disappearing for a few seconds, coming back as if for an encore, then stepping away

again to finally appear wearing a knee-long shirt. She then went to our bathroom. For

a simple exercise of tooth brushing, I didn't bother.

Janine, the maid, was less predictable. Blonde and twenty, twenty-five years

old at the most, she had eyes the color of porcelain and her skin was as rosy and bright

as that of a piglet. She put on airs as if she was innocence incarnate, but often returned

to her room at dawn. The following day was hard for both of us. She never suspected

how much damage her escapades inflicted on my school records.

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Janine's room across the street was one floor below mine. All I could see of her

was a headless body and that was perfectly fine by me. All night long, I struggled to

stay awake, waiting for the rectangle of yellow light to come on. I would then jump to

my feet and aim the telescope that was supposed to foster my interest in astrology. I

remember being torn between resentment and anticipation. I was angry with Janine for

the sleepless night, but I also knew that she wouldn't worry about privacy at this early

hour. Surrounded by blind windows, certain to be alone in the world, she didn't bother

to pull her curtains. I could roam her room freely.

When Janine walked around, I could see her from her feet up to the middle of

her breasts. Her thighs were thick and her belly fat, but my eyes were glued to the pale

bush, light as a chick's down. Sometimes, she would sit on the edge of her bed, facing

me, and rub her tired feet. When I first caught a glimpse of the darker pink flesh deep

between her thighs, I almost fainted.

And, of course, there was the fear, the terror. Any moment, the door could

burst open and my mother would surprise me. She would scream, hurl insults, and

remind me of how vile a creature I was. She would turn to God and ask Him what she

had done to deserve such a despicable son. And deep down, I would agree. I was bad,

hopelessly bad.

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I often wished I could hate my mother, for life would have been easier, or so I

fantasized. And yet, as corrupt and misguided as it was, some kind of love against

which I was utterly powerless united us, I knew it. Whenever I was choked with tears

of pain or rage and a wave of anger swept me, each time I longed for revenge, some

cunning demon reminded me of a moment of joy or tenderness. It left me more

perturbed than the horror against which I was slowly learning to defend myself.

No memory can better illustrate this confusion than that of the New Year's Eve

that my mother and I spent by ourselves. "Like two lovers," as she said in a moment of

furor or affection, I don't really know which. Bonne Maman, my maternal

grandmother, was also there, but, as she was first to admit, she counted for nothing. I

was twelve that year and my father, who had been sent to Canada by his company, was

snowbound by a storm. On the telephone, he had described the wild New Year's Eve

he was getting ready for, munching snacks in front of the TV in his airport hotel room.

As for Lucie, she was skiing down the slopes somewhere in the Alps. Janine had gone

back to her native Brittany for the holidays.

Depressed by her husband's absence, my mother first retreated behind a wall of

silence, smoking cigarette after cigarette, furiously brushing the ashes off her robe,

prostrate for a while on the couch and then jumping up the next minute to walk from

room to room as if looking for something of utmost import. Around noon, she opened

a bottle of Johnny Walker. My grandmother was biting her lower lip and rolling her

eyes. She, too, could see the storm coming.

As soon as I finished my yogurt at the lunch table, I pushed back my chair, but

was ordered to remain seated.

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"We have to make a decision," my mother announced in a rare display of

democratic spirit. "Would you like to go to a restaurant tonight or would you rather

have the New Year's Eve dinner here? I could buy some oysters or foie gras and, of

course, your favorite chocolate cake."

It was exciting: "I'd like to go to a restaurant, Maman. There's one near the

subway station; they have a special menu for tonight. I see it every morning."

"No! That isn't good enough. What I had in mind was a three-star restaurant."

I jumped with joy: "I'd like that even better!" Without a precise knowledge of

what three stars really entailed, I was already thrilled.

During the few moments it took my mother to crumple her empty pack of Pall

Mall into a ball, take a new one out of a carton, tear it open and finally burn her

fingers with a match, I observed how her face changed. In only seconds, and for some

mysterious reason, her chin became heavy, the edges of her mouth dropped, wrinkles

appeared on her brow, and her eyes became dull, almost dead.

The mask.

"No," she finally said in a toneless voice. "We'll stay here."

I couldn't hide my disappointment, but was still determined to salvage some

festive spirit. "We'll have the chocolate cake, right?" I asked.

"Don't be silly. We'll pretend it's a day like any other day. There's some ham in

the fridge and pasta from yesterday. We'll have cookies and jam for dessert. This way,

I won't even have to go out."

"But, Maman, it's New Year's Eve!"

"No, Victor! It's Wednesday."

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At that precise moment, the telephone rang, allowing me to blow my nose and

wipe my tears without being called a capricious wimp. From my mother's words, I

understood that Mrs. Wilson, our new downstairs neighbor, who had learned from the

concierge about my father being trapped in Canada "by the storm they showed on

TV", was inviting us to share their New Year's Eve dinner. My parents didn't socialize

with this recently relocated American family, but I knew that the father worked at the

American embassy, Place de la Concorde, and that the two sons, broad-shouldered

seventeen-year-old twins, attended the International Lycée in St. Germain

After an exchange, which allowed me to believe in a happy ending, I was

mystified to hear my mother answer, "This is very kind of you, Madame Wilson, but

we're having a big party tonight and I'm not about to call it off just because my

husband isn't around." Then, after a silence, she concluded, "Very well. Why don't we

do this one of these days? Me too. And thank you again. Happy New Year to you too,

Madame Wilson."

My mother hung up and exclaimed, "I don't believe these people! We hardly

know each other and she'd like us to spend the evening with them. What was she

thinking?"

I don't have precise memories of the afternoon that followed. I do know that I

was given permission to go and see a movie, a forgettable western. And yet, I can still

see myself, staring at the New Year's Eve windows filled with delicacies, foie gras,

smoked salmon, caviar and, of course, the incredibly mouth-watering cakes. I kept

hearing what my mother had said"To morrow morning, it will be Thursday, whether

we celebrate or not, so why bother?" but wasn't really convinced.

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When I returned home, late afternoon, I was shocked to discover the apartment

illuminated like the store windows. Lamps, chandeliers, candelabra, everything my

parents owned as lighting devices had been plugged in and switched on. My mother

was down on her knees in front of the stereo. "Ah! There you are at last!" she

exclaimed, "I need your help. We must have some music, something to dance to. Why

don't you look into these records? Make yourself useful for once."

"What's the matter, Maman?"

She rose, took my hand, and led me to the sofa, where we both sat down. Her

voice was joyous. Her eyes, so dull and dark when I had left, were now sparkling like

the sky on a summer night. "Don't tell me you have forgotten," she said. "We're having

a big party tonight with dozens of guests. That's what I told Madame Wilson. We need

to stage it."

"Stage it?"

"You don't want your mother to be called a liar, do you? Look, I already took

care of the lighting. This candelabrum, here, I don't know if you noticed, I found it in

the basement. You're in charge of the music. And there are thousands of other things

we must take care of."

"Like what?"

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Full of excitement as I had seldom seen her, my mother laid out her plan. She

had thought of everything, from the up and down rides I would have to take in the

elevator"Don't forget to slam the door as hard as you can!" to the carpets that had

to be rolled up to let our heels make more noise and the cries with which we were

going to welcome the New Year at midnight. "But Maman...there's only the two of

us."

"Three. Bonne Maman will do her part."

"Still!"

"It's like everything in life, my darling. All it takes is some determination."

I vividly remember that "my darling," for it was followed by a hug, during

which my mother pressed my face against her bosom and stroked the back of my

neck. I can still feel her fingers. Then she jumped to her feet and ordered, "Now go

and get dressed up."

"But nobody will see me!"

"First, you might very well meet somebody in the elevator. Second, and much,

much more importantly, never forget that there's no theater without costumes and

props. How do you want me to dress?"

I was game. "Like it's going to be the most beautiful New Year's Eve party in

the whole world."

"Good! Now you understand everything, my little Victor. But first, we have to

take care of the packages."

"What packages?"

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"Victor! Please use your brain. The guests will bring presents. We have to

prepare the wrappings, the ribbons, all the stuff we'll throw out in the trash later on.

And by the way, why don't you go to the basement where your father keeps the empty

Champagne bottles? We'll throw them out, too."

"But Dad always says he wants to return the empties to his friend in Rheims."

For one moment, my mother looked at me sternly, but I wasn't scared, for I

saw no intention to hurt me in her eyes.

"There are times in life where you have to make exceptions and break the

rules, Victor." Then she started unrolling a spool of bright silver ribbon, saying, "Get

moving now, we don't have much time."

All these years I have kept in my mind a collection of vignettes from that

evening which none of the disappointments, tears, or punishments that were my daily

fare can ever erase. I still see my mother laughing loudly between forkfuls of spaghetti

and ham, waving her hand at me to orchestrate my cries and laughter while Bonne

Maman stubbornly refused to play along and kept rolling her eyes, muttering to

herself.

I can feel the floor shake while my mother drew me into a dance around the

living room to the sounds of the blaring stereo. She looked gorgeous in her midnight-

blue taffeta evening gown. I remember how we dragged the chairs on the floor and

jumped up and down. I can still taste the sweet orange flavor of the mixture of mineral

water and Cointreau that made my head spin and had me giggle. I can hear the dozens

of voices with which we saluted the New Year.

“Bonne Année, Bonne Santé. Happy New Year! Merci Monsieur et Madame!"

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But the most vivid memory, the one that always stopped me from hating my

mother, was the way she looked at me while we were laughing. She loved me that

night as much as I adored her, and nothing will make me believe otherwise. In fact,

after I had traveled up and down in the elevator well after midnight while my mother

kept calling, "Thank you for coming and drive safely and Bonne Année again!" she

took my hand and led me to the couch, where she sat me on her lap and whispered,

"We had a good time, didn't we, my lambkin?"

"What did you call me?" I asked.

Without leaving me time to repeat my question, she said, "I called you my

lambkin, because that's what you are. Mine and no one else's." And then she added -

word for word, I swear - "I only have one lambkin. Lucie's not even my daughter, but

you, you're mine. My darling lambkin."

I cuddled against her, saying: "You smell so good!"

"You must understand one thing," she added. "You're the only real love of my

life. Nobody, you hear me, nobody, will ever love you the way I do. You must believe

me."

"I do."

"And that's why I must watch out for you, make sure you don't fall into the

wrong hands. Girls, you know, women!"

Her voice was shrill all of a sudden, and I heard the intonations I had learned

to fear.

"You're weak, Victor. It's my job to protect you. I know their kind. Sluts."

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Between these words of love and the wild imprecations, I was utterly lost. The

world wasn't making any sense.

A couple of hours later, my mother shook me awake and led me to my room.

She had been sleeping, too, and her mascara circled her eyes, making her look like an

owl. I kissed her hand and went back to sleep.

The following morning, the first day of the year, Bonne Maman and I had

breakfast by ourselves. My mother wasn't feeling well, I was told. I wanted to bring

her a cup of coffee, but she wouldn't let me in. When she finally did come out, late

afternoon, disheveled in her robe, and I ran toward her, she froze me dead in my tracks

with her glare. The lambkin had lived only a few hours.

A woman smiles at me amidst the memories of those years. Her name was

Mireille, and she was some thirty years older than me. Sometimes, I think that she

may be dead now, or worse, an invalid in a wheel chair. I hate to think of her that way.

In my memory, she's very much alive. I recently found a photograph she gave me. On

it she's seated on a stone wall by a river and wears a light cotton dress. Her smile is

quizzical and she waves at the camera. I must not lie to myself: with her bland

features, her fat nose and frizzy hair, Mireille was not pretty, I can see it now, but I

was blinded by the sun that shone for me under that dress. At the back of the picture,

she had written: To Victor, my lovely sex maniac. Enjoy it, for it won't last. Soon, you'll

be a grown up.

Mireille was wrong. I grew up and even reached middle age, but I didn't really

change. Well...maybe I'm not so lovely anymore.

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CHAPTER THREE

My father had two faces. One, cheerful, all smiles, always with a friendly word

and a joke at the ready, was reserved for his clients. I met some of those when he

called on hotel managers on the way to our family vacations, to "stoke the fire," as he

liked to say. The other, distant and stern, he saved for his family. When I summon my

father's memory, I see him sitting ramrod-straight in his leather armchair, eerily still,

like a wax museum exhibit, his Figaro open on his lap at the page of domestic

politicsthe Algerian war, most likely. He's chewing on the tip of his spectacles and

stares at the ice cubes in his glass. The glass in question is made of finely-chiseled

crystal and engraved with the coat of arms of the Ritz hotel, a memento from his first

professional success. It's the only one from which he drinks his daily scotch on the

rocks. Nobody else is allowed to use it, and it must be hand-washed by his wife. Such

is the law.

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My mother never confided in me, but I spent enough hours watching her to

know that she cried frequently. I remember her one day having criticized one of

Lucie's friends for leaving the parental nest to live with a jazz pianist who "couldn't

even offer her a decent lifestyle." I heard my sister snap back, "A decent lifestyle!

That's what you married Dad for, isn't it? So why don't you let other people take a shot

at happiness instead?" From the shadow of the corridor where I was standing, I

expected another of my mother's angry outbursts, but when I saw her bow her head

silently and bury her face in her hands, I wanted to run and hold her in my arms. I was

too afraid of her, though.

My father was commercial director of a company that leased television sets to

hotels and hospitals. When my mother complained about his silence, he'd answer that

he had just been smiling for a living on the roads of France. He expected the family he

was working so hard to feed, to show some degree of understanding. Was peace at

home too much to ask?

Powerless against her husband's lack of interest and utterly frustrated, my

mother sometimes fought back. I had the misfortune of being a witness one evening

when she went on the attack and insisted on knowing what my father could possibly

see in his glass. "I'm lost in my thoughts," he answered without looking up.

"One wonders how you can get lost," my mother snickered. I couldn't refrain

from laughing and was sent to bed without dinner.

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When it came to Lucie, his daughter from a first marriage, my father was ready

to forgive anything. In his eyes she was nothing short of perfect and he shared the

credit with his saintly late wife. "You only find a woman like her once in your life,"

he'd say. Such statements were the matrimonial equivalent of billiards; they allowed

him to hit my mother while turning his back to her.

For his son, he showed nothing but contempt. When he wasn't ignoring me

altogether, he was calling me a no-gooder, telling me that I would never amount to

anything. To him I was a wanker, an epithet I admittedly deserved to the fullest extent.

What my father meant, though, was that I was a totally worthless individual.

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And yet, there must have been happy times. In an attempt to convince myself

of it, I spent hours poring through the photos in our family albums. Pictures can lie, I

know, but those images sometimes bring back memories of laughter and even

tenderness. There were few such moments, to be sure, but I want to believe they

existed. They remind me of a time when my mother allowed me to sleep in her bed

when I had nightmares and my father was away on business. I was eleven, twelve

perhaps, thirteen maybethose years are somehow lumped together in my memory.

We didn't cuddle, that wasn't my mother's style, but I'd inch toward her as soon as she

started to snore softly and I felt loved. Those romantic interludes came to an abrupt

end when, one night, I undertook to explore the warm body lying next to me. With

infinite caution, I lifted my mother's nightgown, millimeter by millimeter, until I

finally reached the top of her thighs. My heart was pounding; I was in a state of apnea.

When I finally put my fingers on the soft and curly tuft, several thousand volts went

through me and I jumped so violently that my mother woke up and switched on the

lamp at her side. She never suspected my misdeed, but after wondering why I was

feverish and damp with sweat, she noticed the wet stain on my pajamas and started

screaming, "It's disgusting! You had one of those filthy dreams again. That's really all

you have on your dirty mind, isn't it? I don't want you in my bed ever again."

There's also a picture showing me on my father's lap. Since computerized

trickery wasn't available at the time, I must accept this aberration. In another photo I

stand next to Lucie. My sister who usually ignored me and referred to me as "him"

when she really had to include me has her hand on my shoulder. Go figure!

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Page after page, I was struck by the fact that those mementos of family

happiness have all vacation locations as backgrounds. And, in fact, it was in St. Briac

one summer that I met Mireille. As the expression goes, she could easily have been

my mother and in a way she was, for she too brought me into the world.

Mireille was spending a gloomy month of August at the Hôtel du Promontoire

where we were vacationing like every other summer. Her husband was a massive bear

of a man whose back was covered with a fur so thick that when he went into the

ocean, he looked like he had forgotten to undress. An officer at the Caen air base, he

spent every weekend with his wife.

Mireille always sat on the same spot in an aluminum folding chair just above

the few square feet of sand my parents claimed as their own. Covered with sunscreen,

my mother waited for an unlikely ray of sun while my father read detective stories.

Lucie was somewhere with her friends. As for me, I was bored to death.

The water was gray and cold, the weather dull, distractions were few. I had a

companion in my misery, a boy from Lyons named Jeannot with whom I sometimes

played ping-pong and swapped comic books, but he wasn't around much because his

parents liked to take him for drives around the countryside. He didn't seem to have

much fun either.

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Sometimes I went alone for long walks along the beach, jumping from rock to

rock. My favorite pastime consisted of imagining myself changing the world through

extraordinary discoveries. Among them, a powder that, sprayed over the clouds, would

dissolve them. Brittany would have been my first customer. I also thought of a remote-

controlled device which, aimed at my Saint Jean-Baptiste schoolmates, would erase

their memories; I would immediately jump to the top of the class. My favorite

invention was a special kind of sunglasses allowing one to see through women's

bathing suits. For some complicated technical reason, this optical breakthrough had no

effect on men's trunks which are made of a completely different fabriceverybody

knows that.

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I was lying on my stomach, one gray Monday afternoon, on a towel

representing a Paris métro ticket when, raising my eyes, I saw Mireille looking at me.

She was seated in her usual chair, her hands flat on her knees, wearing a yellow

cardigan and a white skirt with a flowery design. She was drawing circles in the sand

with the tip of her toe. Did she see lust in my eyes? Did she notice how they were

trying to make their way under her skirt, or was it my imagination? Did I read an

invitation in her smile, I don't remember. Be that as it may, we allowed our eyes to

meet, disengage, and then meet again, not unlike fencers in their initial exchanges.

Finally our eyes locked. My heart pounded, I was short of breath. Nothing in the

world mattered, except for the narrow corridor of space between us. Then, after an

unbearably long moment, her smile changed in a very subtle way, becoming

deliciously mischievous. A strange light came on in her eyes. Without moving her

hands, she put her fingers to workthey moved like the legs of a spiderpulling her

skirt up a few millimeters at a time until its hem finally reached her knees. I was

petrified. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she then opened her legs, revealing first the

inner side of her knees, then her thighs, until she finally let me see her panties. I don't

know if she was still smiling, for my eyes were glued to this narrow white strip at the

end of an enchanted tunnel. My sex ached under my stomach; it was as if each

heartbeat reverberated through it. Common sense tells me today that this episode

cannot have lasted more than one or two minutes. Patrons of the hotel, heroic bathers

coming out of the ocean, must have walked by, and she certainly did not remain with

her legs wide apart in front of a crimson-faced boy for long, but that moment of total

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fascination burned itself so deeply into my memory that I don't recall it having ended.

In a way it never did.

From that day on, and until the end of the week, Mireille and I became

inseparable. I still didn't know her name, and we hadn't exchanged a word, but each

time I raised my eyes from my plate in the dining room, I could see her smile in the

mirrors covering the kitchen doors. We were then the actors of a psychedelic show for

our reflections kept swinging to the kicks of the tray-carrying waiters. I would catch a

glimpse of her smiling lips, then hear a foot kick the door and was immediately

confronted with my own burning face.

Our ocular flirtation went on at the beach as well. When it became too much to

bear, I would sigh heavily and rise, yawn loudly, stretch my arms, hamming it up,

before going on a walk, looking as cool as I possibly could. My hands in my shorts

pockets, I whistled a tune and kicked shells by the water's edge. I hoped she would

follow me and that we would meet behind a rock or somewhere in the dunes, but she

never did. When I came back, she would be there in her chair with the same

maddening smile on her lips. I felt humiliated.

On the following Friday afternoon, the airman's arrival gave me my pride

back. When Mireille walked by me, her hand in her husband's without so much as a

glance in my direction, I decided to expel her from my thoughts. By the following

Monday, I had almost succeeded until a ridiculous incident reunited us.

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We were finishing our breakfast on the hotel deck. My father had rented a

fishing boat complete with equipment and captain for the day and was waiting for the

lunch basket he had ordered when I ventured a question, which had been on my mind

since the previous evening.

"Tell me, Papa, what's a premature ejaculator?"

First, there was a moment of silence, then my sister burst into laughter before

being interrupted by the sound of my father's fist on the table. Cups and saucers flew

crashing to the floor.

"Where did you learn those disgusting words?"

"Lucie left a book open on her bed. It was in capital letters."

"And you, Yvonne, don't you have anything to say?" my father barked at my

mother.

"I don't know what to do about him," she sighed, "Boarding school, that's the

only solution."

They had been discussing my deportation lately.

"Well, I'll tell you what," the head of the family declared. "These two won't

come with us to day. Lucie, how many times have I told you not to let your brother

read your medical books? And you, little swine, that'll teach you to keep your mouth

clean."

Having spoken, my father stood up, signaled for my mother to take the basket

that had just arrived, and headed for the harbor, unconcerned by the fact that they were

taking our lunches with them.

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"I really don't care," my sister said as she pushed back her chair. "I don't like

sailing anyway and besides, I'd rather spend the day with my friends. Tell you one

thing though, this is the last summer I spend in this shithole."

I watched Lucie walk away and went down the stairs leading to the beach

where, seated on the sand, I contemplated the rest of the day. I wasn't any more

frustrated than my sister about the loss of the maritime expedition, but still, it was

going to be a long day. Not that my parents provided much distraction, but their

presence and routines marked the passage of time like a Swiss cuckoo clock. My

boredom had taken a new dimension. I was pondering my situation when a voice

behind me made me start.

"What are you going to do?"

I turned around. Mireille wore, I'll never forget it, a purple and yellow dress

and brown espadrilles. I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Dunno!"

"I heard everything, you know. I was having breakfast just behind you.

Personally, I think it's normal to want to understand things. A young man your age is

curious. That's the way it should be."

I nodded in appreciation of her support.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Victor."

"That's a nice name. And how old are you?"

"Seventeen."

Never had a lie been told with more spontaneity. I cannot imagine for one

second that Mireille believed me, but she was kind enough to pretend.

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"My name's Mireille," she said. "I, too, am alone. Would you like us to spend

the day together?"

I looked down. Suddenly I had lost my voice. My cheeks and forehead were

afire.

"We could go for a walk."

I kept my eyes glued to the sand and nodded.

"Or if you prefer, I could show you the books I brought here for the holidays.

We might find one that you'd like to read."

I felt like I was trapped in one of those amusement park huge drums that spin

at a zillion rotations per minute. We were gaining speed and the centrifugal force was

pushing me against the wall.

"Would you like to come and have a look at them in my room this afternoon?

Shall we say just after lunch? I am in room 38 on the third floor."

I was stuck against the wall of the infernal machine. My temples were

throbbing, my head was about to explode any moment and my eardrums were going to

burst. I didn't have the strength to raise my eyes or utter a single word. When I finally

came to, I was alone.

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It was exactly two o'clock when I knocked at Mireille's door. I had spent the

lunch hour walking along the water's edge, struggling to control the surge of emotions

that overcame me. I knew that I was getting perilously close to the abyss. I was torn

between panic and the call of the unknown, an indescribable exaltation. When the first

cosmonauts neared the moon and looked at the planet earth, a far-away blue ball,

when they realized that mankind's dream was about to come true and that the world

would forever be different, they cannot have been, I am not afraid to say, more

overwhelmed that I was that day.

Mireille had changed into a pink skirt with large tropical flowers and a flimsy

eggshell blouse, under which I could see her breasts sway and their dark brown

nipples jut out. She had made herself up: her eyelids were dark and her mouth red. A

fist squeezed my throat. As I stood paralyzed at the door, she extended her hand,

which I shook feebly, muttering a hardly audible bonjour, and she pulled me inside her

room.

"Don't stand there." she said, "We don't need to share our little secret with the

entire hotel population, do we?"

My memory of the ensuing minutes is both vivid and confused. I remember

standing in front of the shelf, on which a number of paperbacks were stacked,

pretending to be interested in their titlesthey were just a blur of colors and

letterswhile, from the corner of my eye, I could see Mireille, seated on the corner of

the bed.

"Can you find something interesting?"

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Before even looking toward Sodom, I had turned into a statue of salt. I shook

my head.

"How about sitting here then? Isn't it time for us to get to know each other?"

I sat down where her red-nailed hand was patting the bed cover.

"Your room is larger than mine," I said, staring ahead. My words sounded like

the caw of a crow. Mireille didn't answer and let the silence hang in the room for what

seemed like an eternity. Then I felt her hand take mine and pull it gently toward one of

her breasts where she let it rest. Never had I imagined such sweetness. The warmth of

this breast, its weight, its soft firmness took me totally by surprise. To feel its hard

nipple in the center of my palm made me feel sick with bliss. Slowly but firmly,

Mireille slid my hand under her blouse. Skin against skin. I was close to fainting. And

when her hand left mine to rest on my penis, which was stretching the front of my

shorts, I started shaking like a leaf in the wind. Never before, in my most torrid

dreams, had I imagined such a whirlwind of sensations.

"Why don't you take off your shirt?" Mireille suggested. "You'll be more

comfortable."

I nodded, mute as well as paralyzed. She was standing in front of me now. Her

smile was the same as the first day on the beach. A few buttons later, she brought her

naked breasts a couple of inches from my face. They were heavy, somewhat sagging,

today I know it, but so wonderfully magnificent. Then she let her skirt drop at her feet

and I saw that she was nude. I had seen pubic mounds during hundreds of night

watches, but this one was being offered to me. I only had to raise my hand to touch its

shiny curls, but wasn't sure I had enough strength in me.

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"So? What are you waiting for? Won't you undress?"

As I struggled to free my head from my polo shirt, I felt Mireille's nails run on

my chest. When I finally emerged, she unzipped my shorts and pulled my briefs down.

Then she lay down and, spreading her legs, opened her arms. I felt terribly clumsy as I

let her guide me like a dancer on his first night on the ballroom floor. Incapable of any

conscious thought, I shook with a violent spasm as soon as our bellies touched and

collapsed, shaking, on her. I could feel her stomach under mine, wet and sticky. When

the last aftershock waves had finally subsided, I attempted to get up, sad and

embarrassed, aware as I was that I had in some way failed, but Mireille held me down

and stroked the back of my neck with the tip of her fingers. Then she said softly,

"Well, at least that's a question you won't have to ask your dad anymore!"

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CHAPTER FOUR

My transformation didn't escape my mother's keen eye. Upon returning from the

maritime expedition, she bombarded me with questions. "What have you been doing

today? You look sick ... And how come you're not hungry? Finish your potatoes! And

show me your hands. Are you sure you washed them before dinner?"

I remained mute and kept my eyes down. I wanted to keep Mireille's scent on

my fingers. They had touched a female body! To wash them? Never.

After dinner I left the dining room and went for a solitary walk. Mireille's seat at

her usual table was empty; she hadn't come down for dinner. As I reached the door

Jeannot ran after me, wanting to swap comic books. I ignored him. Couldn't this

dweeb see that we no longer had anything in common?

Mireille had warned me that our afternoon in heaven wouldn't be repeated - "I'll

be going back home soon," she had said. "It's just as well."

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Still, I hoped against hope that another miracle would reunite us. Awake at night

in bed, hands crossed under my head, I imagined my parents being summoned back to

Paris to take care of some crisis - a fire at home maybe or my father's business

suddenly bankrupt, I wasn't shy about the cause of their departure. Lucie and I would

then be left alone for several days at the Hôtel du Promontoire. I saw myself sneaking

out of my room and running into Mireille's arms. The words "night of passion"

fascinated me; they evoked a new dimension in sensual discovery. I couldn't really see

why or how nocturnal ecstasy could be that different, but so many songs had been

written about it that there had to be some truth to it.

Unfortunately Mireille had been right. Coming down to the lobby one morning

to buy my father's Figaro, I saw her on the sidewalk, dressed for travel, overseeing the

loading of two suitcases into the trunk of a taxi. As the driver held the rear door open

for her, she turned around and saw me. After glancing toward the upstairs windows,

she brought two fingers to her lips and blew a kiss in my direction. Several minutes

after the white taxi had turned the corner, I remained at the top of the stairs, unable to

take my eyes away from the spot where the first woman of my life had waved good-

bye. "You will know many women and forget most of them," she had said, "but I can

assure you that you'll always remember me. When you're a very old man, you'll still

know who Mireille was."

Of course, she was right.

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Back home in Paris, I realized how deeply my life had changed. As I stood,

suitcase in hand, at the door of my room, I surveyed the striped wall paper, the beige

curtain with its ink stain in the shape of Cyrano's nose, the bed, the cluttered desk, the

boxes of Monopoly and Scrabble, the pile of France-Football magazines in a corner,

the map of Europe on one wall, that of the Americas on another, the telescope. I saw

the familiar environment as a sort of measuring bar, like the one against which the

doctor at École Saint Jean-Baptiste had me stand twice a year. I had undoubtedly

grown up.

Later, when I heard Lucie close her drawers and prepare for the night, I rushed

to my observation post. But as I watched her move about through the keyhole at which

I had spent so many hours, I realized that the magic was gone. I had certainly not

grown tired of the flaming red triangle, but it no longer represented the sum of my

obsessions. The veil had been lifted off the mystery; my appetite was different: more

precise, more voracious.

At Saint Jean-Baptiste, the first recesses were devoted to the exchange of

vacation memories. As always the boundary between reality and fable was thin. Not

once was I tempted to mention Mireille. I still hadn't reached my fourteenth birthday,

but part of me felt out of place among this group. I found those boasts tedious.

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As for my mother, she was watching me more closely than ever. Her antennae,

whose accuracy she often praised, warned her of the imminent peril of losing her son.

I was the object of her passion, as well as the target of her persecutions. She needed

me, I can see it now. She would circle me like a tiger does her prey, watching my body

language, my reactions. Across the dinner table, her lips pinched, her eyes narrow

slits, she kept casting glances at my father as if to say, “Watch your son. Don't you see,

didn't you notice?”

My father however, either ignored her or simply shrugged his shoulders. His

newspaper folded next to his plate, the head of the family, as he liked to call himself,

was only interested in "the situation". General Massu was getting Algiers under

control; the Fellaghas would have to run for their lives. There were rumors that de

Gaulle could be the savior.

Although disappointed by her husband's lack of support, my mother wasn't

ready to give up; she was smelling blood. Sometimes she would enter my room and

aim her glare at me. "Don't you think you can hide anything from me," she would hiss

before leaving. I knew that she was standing behind the door, her ear glued to the

panel. Minutes later, the floor creaked under her feet.

***

Returning from the St. Jean-Baptiste chapel, one Saturday morning, with a

partly purified soul, I found my mother seated at my little desk. The carpet under her

feet was white with cigarette ash. The mess in my room wasn't mine, she had searched

the premises; I saw it immediately. Her eyes were ablaze. I wanted to turn heels and

run.

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"Sit down," she said, pointing her chin at my bed, above which a crucifix

watched over my improbable salvation. "We have to talk. Did you confess?"

"Yes, Maman."

"You've changed a lot lately and not for the better, I'm sorry to say. Your father

and I worry. There's something you're not telling us."

"No Maman, I swear."

"Don't you dare lying to me, Victor! You're just back from confession. You are

still very young and need our advice. We are your parents and we have a duty."

What was she getting at? I had been lying low since our return from Brittany,

but I couldn't help growing up, could I?

"It's all good and well that you confess your sins at St. Jean-Baptiste, but the

truth is, your parents are the ones who need to know of your misdeeds. It’s the only

way we can keep you on the right path, do you understand?"

I nodded silently. I saw only too clearly what she had in mind.

"Very good! From now on, each and every week, you will tell me what you

confessed to Father Minot. Then we'll be able to talk about it and draw conclusions.

For your own good, you understand. Actually, we're going to start today. I remind you

that you cannot lie to me, even by omission, since you will take communion

tomorrow. It would be a mortal sin, I hope you're aware of this."

Quite satisfied with her plan, she lit up a cigarette with the stub of the previous

one.

"Well? I'm listening."

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There was turmoil in my head. I was trapped. God, the church, my mother, the

communion, mortal sins, Baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary; it was all too much. I felt

utterly helpless.

"So?"

Never before had I resisted my mother. Where the strength to hold my ground

came from, I don't know, possibly from the vague understanding that the dice were

loaded.

"I'm waiting."

I shook my head. "No, Maman. Confession is special."

My mother was shocked! Her jaw slacked, she leaned forward and drilled her

stare into me, as if wanting to make sure she had heard correctly. Soon however, her

eyes lit up with excitement, for she was back on familiar ground, that of repression.

"Repeat what you just said. Did you say, ‘No Maman?’"

As I remained silent, she rose, leaning forward, her hands flat on my desk.

"Very well, you leave me no choice. You still don't understand that your father

and I only want to raise you as well as we possibly can. Since you won't allow us to do

that, I will cancel your weekly allowance. And I won't buy you those new soccer

shoes."

"But Maman, the old ones are too small now. We must change them."

"We must! Don't you tell me what we must do. A son must tell his mother

everything. That's a must."

And with those words, she slammed the door shut behind her.

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In the past, I had had more than my share of punishment and had suffered worse

injustices. This incident however, pushed me into passive resistance and I decided not

to speak to my mother anymore.

***

Spring came late that year. Low clouds and icy rain formed an appropriate

background to the state of prostration in which I buried myself. Neither sermons, nor

threats, nor inducements had any impact on me. My silence drove my mother crazy,

but her outbursts of rage only reinforced my resolve what other weapon did I have?

At school, I was only physically present and slid down deep into an abyss of

mediocrity.

The cold war had its climax on my fourteenth birthday. Seeing an opportunity,

my mother opted for a sharp change of strategy. Having declared a day of festivities,

she put on airs that, according to Lucie, made for the worst piece of acting ever

performed. Suddenly she was a doting mother.

"My son is fourteen," she kept repeating. "Twice the age of reason, no longer a

child. We have to celebrate." Urged to join in, my father groaned behind his Figaro,

while sipping whisky from his precious Ritz hotel glass.

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The best table linen and china were taken out for the occasion. My mother

desperately wanted to win me over. I, unfortunately, had become used to my state of

isolation. I felt like one of those World War I poilus Bonne Maman had told me

abouther older brother had been killed at VerdunI too was spending a long and

cold winter in the trenches. The more advances my mother made, the deeper I

retreated behind my wall of silence, watching coldly as her smile became more

strained, at times becoming an ugly grimace.

Over foie gras, my mother suggested spending the Easter holidays in the Alps,

but her glowing description of the snowy slopes only triggered a polite nod. Stealing a

glance at her from time to time, I watched how her face carved itself deeply while her

cheekbones reddened with each glass of the Bordeaux in which she sought a boost of

energy. My sister was tense, looking up each time our mother's voice rose to the

higher octaves and became staccato. As for the head of the family, he was somewhere

else, far away, lost in his thoughts again.

Then came dessert time. My favorite chocolate cake and a beautifully wrapped

package were presented to me. As I blew out the fourteen candles and untied the

golden ribbon, my mother pushed her chair next to mine, her face close, much too

close. Her stare was vibrating like hot air on a summer day, filled with rage or despair,

I didn't know which.

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I opened the box. A beautiful stopwatch lay on a cushion of white satin. It was

shiny and had numerous dials and buttons. Almost every day for the past two years, I

had stopped on my way to or from school and admired it in the jeweler's window and I

was overjoyed. Sadly, however, I was unable to express my pleasure. A part of me

wanted to jump up and hug my parents, assure them that I had never seen anything

more magnificent, that I loved them and would try to be a better son, but the wall I

had erected during these long winter weeks had grown too high. All I could muster

was a thin smile.

"Thank you very much. It's very nice."

During endless moments of a frightening silence, it seemed that time had

stopped. My father gazed at me over his spectacles. His raised eyebrow and thin smile

seemed to indicate that I fully deserved what was bound to follow. Lucie had pushed

her chair back and looked like she wanted to flee. My mother emptied her glass of

wine in one quick gulp.

"That's all?" she said, putting the glass down, her voice toneless.

"I said thank you."

"I heard you. Thanks for nothing! That's all you have to say?"

"Thank you very much."

"You're damn right you should thank me. I'm the one who convinced your father

not to say anything tonight about sending you to boarding school, I'll have you know."

"Why tell him now, then?" Lucie asked under her breath.

"We’ve decided to send you away next year. That'll teach you."

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"That is, if you don't pass your exams at the end of the school year," my father

said.

My mother's laughter sounded like a bark.

"As if he had the slightest chance!"

So, they had decided and the threat was finally going to be carried out. I didn't

know whether I was afraid of exile, frightened of the unknown, scared of the harsh

disciplinary treatments my mother had gleefully described, or if I actually welcomed

the escape.

"You'll spend your next birthday in reform school."

"Boarding school," my father corrected.

"Did you hear me?" my mother insisted.

Suddenly, I felt tired of the aggression. Strangely, it didn't matter anymore. "I

don't care," I said calmly.

My mother's eyes narrowed, then she slapped me in the face with such strength

that I almost fell off my chair. And since I wasn't reacting, just wiping the tears that

had sprung from my eyes with the back of my hand, she grabbed my arm and ripped

the shiny watch from my wrist. She then ran to the window and opened it in a grand

theatrical gesture. For a moment, she dangled the watch in front of my eyes. "You

won't need this in reform school," she hissed before sending my birthday present out

the window where it crashed to the ground, six stories below.

"You asked for it!" my father said before rising.

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Lucie had buried her face in her hands. I was petrified. When my mother

grabbed my hair and pushed my face down into the chocolate cake, I didn't even fight

back. I thought I heard Lucie burst into tears, and the noise of her chair falling echoed

in my head. Then I raised my head in time to see through my chocolate-smeared

eyelashes my mother walk out and slam the door shut behind her.

It was nerves, of course, which triggered my burst of laughter. The convulsions

that shook me had the same soothing effect as sobs. I went to the mirror on top of the

fireplace and saw a clown's face in my reflection. As I wiped away the brown

chocolate make-up, I uncovered the livid marks that my mother's fingers had left on

my cheek. The face I saw in the mirror was grotesque. I laughed and laughed, stopping

only when I became short of breath.

That fireplace brought back a memory. In a way, we had already lived this

evening's drama. Maybe that was the reason why I hadn't reacted more. It was on a

Christmas day. How old was I then? Seven, eight, perhaps. In the morning I had found

giant tin soldiers under the decorated tree, six commandos equipped with futuristic

weaponry. Four inches tall, they were splendid. I had spent the whole morning

deploying them in my room.

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My crime that day had been to insist on bringing my soldiers to the lunch table.

Deaf to my mother's orders, I had laid them in front of me for review, three on each

side of my glass of milk. Suddenly, my mother had gone into a rage. I had watched,

incredulous, as she grabbed the tin soldiers and threw them into the fire. For several

minutes while I watched them twist and melt in the flames, I had refused to believe

that the disaster was really happening and it had taken me some time to finally burst

into sobs. The following night, I had awoken from a tears-induced sleep and sneaked

into the dining room. There I had fished the pieces of melted metal from the ashes.

They were still sitting in a sand-filled ashtray on my desk.

I finished wiping my face with a napkin and sat in front of the fireplace. Oddly

enough, the loss of the beautiful stopwatch didn't really hurt. The memories of the tin

soldiers, however, made me cry.

***

Remembering my fourteenth birthday makes me realize that my maternal

grandmother has hardly been included in my memories so far, in spite of the fact that

she lived with us. Bonne Maman was there on that horrible day, I know that, no doubt

muttering and shaking her white-haired head while the fracas was happening, but I

don't see her, and I wonder why. Does it have to do with the quasi-permanent silence

imposed on her by my father as a condition for her lodging? I have another theory: it

is easier for me to talk about my parents whom I associate with so few happy

moments, than to summon up the vision of my grandmother, whose ever-forgiving

smile I miss and who left a gaping void in me when she passed away.

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Bonne Maman Morel's house near Lille had burned down several years before.

One of the candles surrounding the coffin in which her dead husband lay had set fire

to the curtains while she was keeping a dozing vigil. Awakened by the smoke, she had

found herself surrounded by flames and had had to make a dash for the door, without

having the time to bid farewell to "Monsieur Morel," as she called her departed

husband. She was also deeply remorseful for having accidentally incinerated him

against his oft-stated wish to be buried in the family plot.

Homeless and deeply perturbed, Bonne Maman had found a temporary refuge

with my parents. The arrival of a check from the insurance company had prompted my

father to make an offer he too often qualified as honest to be trusted: he would invest

and manage his mother-in-law's money in exchange for permanent housing in the

quickly-renamed servant's room above our apartment. It officially became a guest

room. For this lavish accommodation and food he would only charge a modest

contribution. Alone in the world and aimless, Bonne Maman had agreed, a decision

she often bitterly regretted. She didn't have the energy to reopen the debate, though.

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Through some genetic mystery, Bonne Maman Morel whose squat figureshe

was nearly as wide as she was tallevoked a barrel, had given birth to a slim woman

who grew up to be at least a foot and a half taller than her mother. My father's subtle

explanation had to do with a local mailman. I loved it when Bonne Maman hugged me

and held me tight. There was no fault line between her voluminous stomach and her

bosom and I liked to kiss the top of her head where the pale pink skin showed under

her thin white hair. I can still see her wink at me when a storm was brewing, and I

remember the pearls of wisdom she dispensed as a commentary on life's events when

my father wasn't home to silence her.

She had a way with the French language, and served its words with little regard

for their official meaning. "I know what I mean," she would say whenever her

daughter corrected her.

Yes, of course, she was there that day. I see her now, her chin shaking as it

always did in times of great emotion. I can hear her mutter, "Eh bah, eh bah!" an

expression of hers, used in relation to all kinds of unsettling facts in her life, chief

among them the minimal amount of her civil servant's pension.

I remember now: I sneaked out of the apartment through the kitchen door and

climbed up the service staircase. Its wooden steps were carved in the center and

polished like the pebbles of the beaches in Brittany. Bonne Maman cleaned my

chocolate-filled ears and washed my hair in a tin basin. She asked me if my parents

were aware that I was visiting her, but shrugged before I had time to answer.

"Don't worry Victor. What else can they do to us?"

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Later, she pulled a metal suitcase from under her bed. In it was an old-fashioned

iron biscuit can, which in turn contained a steel deed box. Triple protection.

"When fire has struck once, it can strike again," she explained. "Just like the

Germans!" The deed box contained various personal papers and artifacts rescued from

the fire. Among them was my grandfather's old steel fob watch.

"It stopped when Monsieur Morel had his accident at the factory," Bonne

Maman explained. "It was in my apron pocket when the fire happened."

On the back of the watch, Leon Morel's name was engraved above solemn

words recognizing twenty-five years of diligent service with the Filatures Réunies.

"I want you to have it," my grandmother said. "It doesn't work anymore, but it's

dead accurate twice a day. That's more than you can say about those expensive

watches."

All these years, I have kept the precious present. Today, it lies on the table in the

living room, next to the pen, wallet, and money clip that I will soon put into my

pockets.

CHAPTER FIVE

Household expenses always provided my parents with a fighting ground. To

my mother, her husband was a tightwad, a cheapskate. He called himself

"responsible.” As stormy as these confrontations were, I suspect my mother to have

actually taken pleasure in them; they gave her a sense of identity that "the head of the

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family" denied her. Whenever such conflicts eruptedan acid remark, a sarcasm, a

bill thrown across the dinner tablea morbid fascination inhabited me, in spite of the

high danger of a stray bullet.

These exchanges followed a three-act structure. After the opening salvo, the

casus belli was quickly forgotten and old, bitter resentments were voiced, the if-only-

I-had-known, the to-think-I married-you, and some allusions to a nut house which I

didn't understand at the time, before moving on to the final act. Then my father would

proclaim himself the voice of reason, call the situation to order, urge everyone to cool

down and, above all, insist on having the last word.

Having once been the unexpected beneficiary of one of these bouts, I still have

a precise recollection of it. The mid-winter school break had come to an end. After a

few days of boredom, I had gone back to St. Jean-Baptiste, where my position at the

bottom of the class remained unchallenged. At home, silence had become my second

nature and my mother's attacks had lost their virulence. Her son, the disappointment of

her life, would soon be sent away, and only the memory of a failure would remain.

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One evening however, a game-changing incident occurred, without warning.

"Did you see this?" my father asked, pushing a telephone bill across the table.

The falsely bland tone immediately put my mother on the defensive. "Of

course not. You know very well that I don't look at these things."

"I can see why. If you did, you'd see how much your mindless chatter is

costing us."

"My mindless chatter? As if I was the only one here who uses the phone."

"If you're talking about Lucie, please leave my daughter out of this. When she

calls her friends, it's for her studies; I call it an investment. Besides, she tells me she

rarely uses the phone."

My mother's voice became strident.

"So, it's my word against your daughter's; is that what it is?"

"I know how she was raised. Her poor mother had principles, spending wisely

was one of them."

"Whereas I throw money out the window; is that it?"

"Your words, not mine. I'll let you be responsible for them."

"That's what you do best, letting me be responsible. Monsieur is an important

man, Monsieur doesn't have time for details. And who ends up doing the chores, huh?"

"What chores? Last time I checked you had help. Do you know how much

Janine costs me every week? Do you have the slightest idea? And I'm not even

counting the room I must rent for her across the street because your mother occupies

the guest room."

"Eh bah, eh bah!" my grandmother muttered on my left.

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My mother went back on the attack.

"And who has to deal with Victor's education? You think raising him is easy?

He makes my life hell, anyone can see that, but you don't care, do you? I can't wait for

him to leave for boarding school."

I was shrinking in my chair, but it was time for my father to open the final act.

"Can we have a reasonable discussion?" he asked in the deep tone he favored

for that role, "Between adults?"

"I'd like nothing better."

"This boarding school thing; I jotted down some numbers. Sure, if his marks

remain so poor, he'll leave us no choice, but it might be wise to try a new avenue."

"Such as?"

"Private tutoring. Micheline, my secretary, knows someone, her aunt actually.

She is a retired math teacher, but could also deal with the other disciplines. And she

lives less than fifteen minutes from here. Very convenient. But, of course, she wants to

meet Victor before agreeing to anything."

"Hadn't we made a decision?"

"I haven't changed my mind. If he fails his year-end exam …"

"I thought you were concerned about expenses. Would this woman tutor Victor

for free?"

My father folded his newspaper and rose.

"Sometimes it is wise to spend some money in order to avoid larger

expenditures down the road. I will have my coffee in my study."

My mother's cheeks were bright red. She drilled her glare into me.

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"I wouldn't rejoice now if I were you, Victor. It's much too early, trust me."

***

The Residence Ranelagh, where Madame Laquaire lived, was different from

all the other buildings in our neighborhood, the 16th arrondissement. It was a tall,

block-like modern structure composed of four buildings, each facing one side of a

rectangular basin. To reach the central patio, one had to go down a long corridor

where a door marked "Concierge" faced a battery of mailboxes and an interphone. A

lace curtain hung over the window occupying the center of the door.

Having spotted Madame Laquaire's name, I rang several times. No answer. I

then knocked at the concierge's door. A finger lifted a corner of the curtain, then the

door opened a few inches and I saw a woman's face, an ebony-black face with huge

dark eyes.

"I'm looking for Madame Laquaire," I said.

The woman examined me for a moment without answering. I watched her in

fascination, detailing her full lips and wide nostrils, her dark skin shiny like satin, her

high forehead.

"Are you the boy she expected at 6?" the woman finally asked.

I found her stare intimidating, but I liked her warm voice and her accent, the

way she flattened her R's.

"Yes, Ma’am," I said.

"She had to leave. She went to the dentist. Last time she went, she didn't feel

too well afterwards, so my son went with her. She shouldn't be long."

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I hesitated, looking around, somewhat lost in this foreign universe, but she

opened the door wide.

"Come in," she said. "There's a cold draft in this corridor."

I then saw that she was wearing a flamingo-pink robe, which she kept firmly

closed in front of her. She had on a pair of red slippers.

"Nora was about to dress," she said. "Nora doesn't like keeping her work

clothes on after the cleaning's done." It took me a while to realize that she was talking

about herself.

A dresser, a dining table and four chairsa set obviously, same faux-

Scandinavian styleoccupied much of the space in the small room. A wide window

opened onto the street. A black sofa, made of some sort of shiny-looking material, was

covered with heaps of women's magazines. It sat in front of a TV set, on top of which

framed photographs were lined up: a smiling black kidmy own age, it seemed to

mea mustachioed police officer holding his képi against his chest, and a group of

black women of all ages in front of a Christmas tree.

"You sit down here," the woman said. "Nora only needs a minute."

I watched her as she pushed the magazines aside. She was Mireille's age, I

decided. Tall, at least my father's height, she exuded a voluptuous nonchalance. Her

gestures were controlled and she seemed to be moving in slow motion. She looked

like the African women in my geography manual, women who walked miles and miles

across arid plains with a basket balanced on their heads, huge rings hanging from their

ears, bare-breasted and regal.

"What's your name?" she asked.

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"Victor."

"That's a nice name. Me, I'm Nora." It sounded like Noha to me.

She was about to leave the room when she noticed a gift-wrapped package on

the dresser.

"Good Lord," she said, "We don't want my Roland to see this. It's the present

my Jacky bought for his dad's birthday." The package quickly disappeared in a drawer.

My eyes followed Nora as she walked down a narrow corridor and walked into

what I assumed was the bathroom. She didn't close the door properly, however, and it

swung open slowly. A mirror covered the inside of the door, and I saw Nora as she

took off her robe. It was just a glimpse, and the vision of the black body dressed only

in tiny white panties lasted only a couple of seconds before she turned around and saw

me. I thought I saw her amused smile as she closed the door, leaving me gasping with

emotion. I was going to relive that moment over and over; I already knew it.

The tip of a golden ribbon was visible from the drawer where Nora had hidden

the gift-wrapped package. My mother had told me a story oncehow old was I then,

eight, nine?It was the sad story of a little boy. His name was Petit Louis and his was

a poor family. He had no toys; he wasn't spoiled like a certain Victor. But Petit Louis

loved his father and mother, and unlike Victor, acknowledged the sacrifices that

parents make for their children. So much so that one day he decided to buy a present

for his father's next birthday, even though he was so very poor. The birthday was still

months away and he had no money, so how was he going to do it?

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Well, Petit Louis offered his services around the neighborhood. Up before

sunrise, he performed all sorts of chores. And when he came back from the local

public schoolunlike Victor, Petit Louis wasn't lucky enough to attend a good

Catholic schoolhe ate a piece of stale bread without jam or butter and ran errands

for the neighbors. Finally, one day, Petit Louis had enough money to buy his father a

present. For months, he had seen a beautiful razor, with a chromed handle and a

shaving brush in the pharmacy window. So, one evening, he proudly brought home the

gift-wrapped package, which he hid under his bed until the big day.

Petit Louis' mother had made sacrifices, too, but isn't that what mothers do

even if no one ever shows them the least gratitude? She prepared a special meal for

the celebration, thanks to the money she had saved by not buying anything for herself

for months. She needed a new dress, but no, mothers don't think about themselves.

The birthday dinner was a success, and the time came for Petit Louis to go and

fetch his present. Needless to say, his father was surprised. Petit Louis watched his dad

with his big blue eyes as he untied the ribbon, opened the box and took out the

beautiful razor. And do you know what he said, Victor? What did the father say to

Petit Louis?"

"I don't know Maman."

"He said, “You're so stupid, Louis. Don't you know I decided to grow a

beard?"

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This story had broken my heart when I heard it and I had burst into tears.

Finding my reaction amusing, my mother told the family at the dinner table. To her

surprise, as she once again recounted the father's ugly response, I cried again. I could

see the scene and shared the little boy's heartbreak. I was Petit Louis.

Delighted to have found a new weapon, a dagger she could plunge into my

heart, my mother soon learned to use it. Whenever she had guests for tea in the

afternoon and I would come home from school, she would stop me from tiptoeing to

my room and call me: "Victor! Victor come and say hello, please."

I had to pay my respects and flash a bland smile as the ladies marveled at how

quickly I was growing up. I would then try to sneak out, but my mother always

ordered me to take a seat: "Don't tell me you don't have five minutes to spare from

your studies, Victor. Learn to be polite, will you? Sit down and have a cookie.

Madame Leonard baked them especially for us."

I was trapped, and the stage was set for my mother's new game. "Oh! I have to

tell you a story I just heard," she would say. "A sad story."

Unable to escape, I had to endure once again Petit Louis' disappointment.

Since I knew the tale by heart, I tried to think of other things, anything at all, or make

my heart deaf, but I never succeeded. As the father opened the box and discovered the

razor, I wanted to protect Petit Louis. Even better, I wanted to make a smile appear on

his dad's face. I wanted the father to open his arms, hug his son and smother him with

kisses, exclaiming, "How did you guess, Petit Louis, that I wanted this beautiful

razor? Never in my life has anyone given me a more beautiful present."

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But, of course, there were no kisses and Petit Louis left the room in tears. As

for me, I was furious to have once again been caught in my mother's snare. I hated her

as I tried to hide my face and stared at the floor.

Yes, I hated her as she faked concern and asked, "What's the matter, Victor?

Don't tell me you're crying. You are not a little girl, are you? Look at me. Look at me,

I said."

And then she would turn to her friends and say, "I don't believe this. He's really

crying. Isn't this ridiculous? Go to your room Victor, you're embarrassing me."

I would gladly have seen her dead then.

More than forty years later, I still feel sorry for Petit Louis. I stopped crying a

long time ago, but I'd like to have a word with his asshole of a father.

***

Madame Laquaire appeared at the arm of a boy I easily recognized. A rather

stocky fourteen-year old, Jacky didn't possess his mother's regal elegance; he didn't

have her long legs. But his face was delicate and his ears, little and perfectly shaped,

were at once the object of my envy. He had the same mischievous smile as in his

picture. His skin was markedly less dark than his mother's.

For some reason, I had created an imposing and terrifying image of Madame

Laquaire, and wasn't expecting a tiny white mouse of a woman. Barely taller than

Bonne Maman, but with one third of my grandmother's weight, one could easily

imagine her being blown away by a gust of wind. Her gray hair was tied in a bun, and

her pale complexion set off her piercing black eyes. She kept a small hand on her

swollen cheek.

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"Don't stare at me like this," she told me. "I look like a sick rabbit. A wisdom

tooth at my age, can you believe it?"

Thanks to Madame Laquaire's misfortune, I avoided the dreaded preliminary

test, and she only confirmed that she would see me every Monday, Wednesday, and

Friday after school. She promised to contact St. Jean-Baptiste to make sure I wasn't

kept in on these days, since, for the last few months, I had been a regular in detention.

"Then you have time to come with me," said Jacky, waving the shopping list

his mother had just handed to him. We had met only a few minutes ago and yet he

spoke as if we were long-time pals. I knew at once that I would be more comfortable

with him than with any of my St. Jean-Baptiste companions.

As we walked to the local Felix Potin mini-market, I was impressed by Jacky's

maturity. He had a fascinating personality. In retrospect, I think the combination of

child and adult in that fourteen-year-old boy appealed to me enormously. I wanted to

be his friend. When he laughed about a joke, a prank, or just a ray of sunlight, his face

was all lines, and his otherwise big, wide eyes, became just slits, but he could be

serious, too, and his view of the world was that of a mature man.

We were walking by a taxi that had just stopped at the curb when a man

stepped out. He was elegantly dressed and his dark hair had streaks of gray around the

temples. He was also crimson-red with rage. A young woman inside the taxi was

trying to hold him back, but he pushed her away violently.

Having finally set himself free of her hand, he prepared to slam the door, but

paused to scream, "And you're nothing but a whore!"

Then he quickly walked away.

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"Did you see that?" I exclaimed. "Did you hear?"

Jacky nodded. "What's a mystery to me," he said, "is how a woman would

want to stay with such a prick."

I wasn't used to asking myself such questions

I was following Jacky from aisle to aisle in the mini-market, when I saw him

stop in front of a display of small sample-size bottles of liquorGrand Marnier,

Cointreau, Chartreuse, Bénédictineand look around, obviously making sure that

nobody was looking, then grab a small bottle and slip it swiftly into his pocket. He

acted with confidence and determination, as if it was a well-rehearsed routine.

"You do that often?" I asked, once we had returned to the safety of the street.

He shrugged his shoulders and winked. "My stepfather would kill me if he

knew, but I figure it's all right, because it's not for me."

"For your mother?"

"For Madame Laquaire. I tell her they're free. Advertising, you know. She

likes the stuff, believe me."

Apart from our ages, Jacky and I had little in common. The color of our skin,

our tastesmine for the movies and soccer, his for automobilesour place on the

map of society, our natureshe was as self-assured as I was shyour ambitionshe

wanted to be the first black man to win the Twenty-Four Hours of Le Mans, while I

had no idea of what life had in store for me. Almost everything made us different, but

we became fast friends in a matter of minutes.

I soon granted him precedence over me, for I was aware that he already had a

foot in adulthood. I also envied his assurance when it came to women. He was neither

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crude nor spiteful, nor even hateful of girls like some of my comrades. Neither was he

feverishly obsessed like me. He just liked women, wanted their company in the

healthiest of ways, and they felt it, so they smiled at him. Just as I had skipped a grade

four years ago, Jacky seemed to have skipped puberty. Me, I felt like I would be

staying down.

From that first day on, I never had any problems confiding in Jacky. In less

than one hour, he knew more about me than any of my schoolmates, or even Father

Minot.

"Isn't it hard to be a mute at home?" he asked. "Don't you ever want to talk to

your mom?"

"Sure, I do, but it's war."

He stopped and handed me the shopping bag.

"Carry this a while; it's your turn," he said, and then added: "If you ask me,

you're not playing it right."

"Why?"

"As long as you act like this, your mother knows you're hurting. That way she

wins, don't you see? Me, I'd play it differently."

"Tell me."

"Smile. Laugh. Even if you don't feel like it. Be normal again. Yes, Maman,

no, Maman, thanks Maman. Just like I do when Roland's after me. In my mind, I say

to myself, ‘let it pass, it doesn't matter one shit. After all, he's not even my real dad.’

And so, I give him a big smile. It really drives him nuts. You should give it a try."

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When my mother opened the door that evening, I surprised her with a

resounding "Bonsoir Maman!" She looked bewildered. Jacky had been right.

CHAPTER SIX

Madame Laquaire's small apartment was a mess; books, folders and boxes of

various sizes and colors were piled high in every available space. One of the first rules

she laid out for me was to never, repeat, never, under any circumstances, touch any of

what she called her archives, lest she never be able to find anything again. To free up a

chair for me, she moved a couple of atlases to the top of an already dangerously high

pile.

The old woman was a serious smoker. She carefully cut her sweet-smelling

Turkish cigarettes in two before inserting one half into a cigarette holder. It was gold-

plated and had belonged to her late husband. She often broke into fits of coughing,

which she used as a cautionary message on the danger of bad habits.

"You don't want to become like me, so stay away from those things."

As tiny, sweet and seemingly defenseless as she was, Madame Laquaire was

capable of anger. Whenever her neighbor played his record player too loudly, she

would bang against the wall with the handle of a broken broom, which she apparently

kept for that purpose. She would shout, "Show some respect to those who work, you

lazy worm!" and then come back to the table as if nothing had happened.

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Madame Laquaire quickly found her way into my life. As I laid out manuals

and copybooks on the purple felt that covered her dining room table, she chatted about

this and that, evoking her years as a high-school math teacher in Aix en Provence, and

gently gained a place in my heart.

She had just told me how her mother, an uneducated farm worker, had taken

courses by mail in order to help her with her homework, when she asked in the sing

song accent of her native south, "And what about your mother, Victor? I'm told she

has a strong personality."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Yeah. Sort of."

She smiled and tapped the back of my hand.

"You'll think me a nosy old woman, but I have to understand you in order to

help you. When one plummets suddenly to the bottom of the class, there's always a

reason."

Later, as I was glumly staring at an allegedly simple equation, while she boiled

water on her stove in the tiny kitchen, she asked, "Do you at least know why you don't

want to work in school?"

I didn't know what to say. I watched her stand on the tip of her toes as she

reached for a can of tea. Her profile was visible to me in the part of a mirror that

wasn't covered with postcards and I saw her take a quick sip from a bottle. I wondered

if that was one of Jacky's.

"One doesn't become stupid overnight, I know that much," she added, turning

around. "You've built thick high walls and a moat around your castle. You'll have to

lower the drawbridge for me, you know."

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I watched in wonder as she poured tea from a kettle high in the air. "Chinese

style," she joked. Her hand shook badlyonly years later would I learn the real

reasonand yet not one drop fell outside of the cups. It almost looked like a circus

act.

She offered me a cookie and chuckled: "In fact, it's just as well that your

marks are so bad."

"Just as well?"

Her mischievous smile, and the way she wrinkled her nose, made her look like

Jerry, the mouse of the cartoons.

"Sure! Nobody expects you to make a come back. Wait until you see their

faces after the exams."

She really seemed to believe. Something was telling me that this mouse could

move mountains. When she offered me her cheek on her doorstep, I took in the sweet

scent that I came to recognize as a combination of powder, Turkish tobacco, and liquor

and went home with the vague intuition that she might indeed, in some way, change

my life.

Madame Laquaire scored again a few days later.

"I hear you get along well with Jacky," she said.

"Yes, Madame, he's great."

"He's not doing too well in school, either. What would you say if we worked

together, the three of us? Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes, Madame!"

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"The thing is, his parents cannot afford my services. So we would have to keep

it a secret, and not tell your parents, if you see what I mean. Could you keep your

mouth shut?"

It didn't take any more than that for me to lower the drawbridge.

***

I was playing a game of ball in the courtyard during recess one morning when

I slipped in a pool of water and fell, head-first, onto the hard concrete ground and

nearly passed out. An assistant teacher helped me back on my feet. Stars were dancing

in front of my eyes and blood was dripping on my shirt. "Can you walk?" asked a

voice. "I'm taking you to the infirmary."

An hour later, a bespectacled young man took me home in a taxi. He kept

asking me how I felt. Poor thing, he had no idea of the reception awaiting him.

When she opened the door, my mother took a step back, her eyes wild, and put

a hand over her mouth. With the deep moan of a wounded beast, she groped for the

wall and leaned against it for a brief moment. I was almost as surprised by this

dramatic display as my companion. Sure there were bandages on my nose and brow,

my right eye was swollen shut, and my cheek was scraped, but my life wasn't in

danger. I even had the cocky smile of the warrior returning from battle.

My mother's face went in an instant from chalk white to crimson red. "My

God," she exclaimed, "What have you done to my son this time?"

The young mana kid, I realize this todaywas too taken aback to analyze

the strange accusation. All he could do was to retreat while stuttering, "It was an

accident, Madame. Nothing serious."

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"Nothing serious! Nothing serious! How irresponsible of you! Look at the

condition he's in. Who did this to him? I demand a name."

"Nobody Madame. He just fell."

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"If you expect this case to be closed like this, you're deluding yourself, young

man. I never expected a religious institution to treat my son in such an appalling

manner. Get the hell out of my home now. The principal will hear from me."

And on that note, she pushed the bewildered young man out and slammed the

door shut before taking me in her arms.

"You are hurt, my lambkin. Maman will take care of you."

The following hours registered in my memory as the happiest of my entire

childhood. Suddenly, my mother was all sweetness. I was the center of her universe.

She lavished kisses, cuddles and caresses on me, all the while issuing orders: "Janine,

drop whatever you're doing and go to the butcher's shop right away. No, not in five

minutes, I said immediately. I want a big juicy steak. Very thick. With all the blood he

lost … And you, Mother, take some chocolate from my cupboard, here's the key, and

make a mousse … Janine, before you leave, bring me a couple of pillows over here,

my little boy will rest on the sofa, next to his maman."

Summoned by my mother, Dr. Lorillard made a grave mistake. When he

smiled and had the audacity to declare that "this little thing" was "nothing serious," it

was clear that he was no longer our family doctor.

And there was the situation with my father. When his secretary failed to reach

him on the road, he was accused of never being present when needed.

"You could have died, my darling lambkin, but your father is driving around.

One wonders if he'd come back for the funeral."

I laughed and was surprised to see my mother join me.

"I know, I know," she said, giggling like a little girl.

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Feeling emboldened by such an outpour of motherly love, I attempted to

defuse the drama, saying, "You know, Maman, it's nobody's fault. I slipped.

She drilled a suspicious stare into me.

"Are you sure it's not one of those thugs again? I'm ready to pay a visit to their

parents, you know."

As I was shaking my head with conviction, she added, "You can't understand,

lambkin; a mother is like a lioness. You'd better not touch a single hair of her cub."

I was much too busy savoring this orgy of love to wonder about the

incongruity of it all. As if by miracle, our dark history no longer mattered. It was all

forgotten, erased from my memory.

"I'm all right, you know Maman."

"I still want a word with the Principal."

"Let it pass, Maman, it doesn't matter one shit!”

She looked at me with utter stupefaction.

“And where did you learn that one?"

Caution prevented me from mentioning Jacky.

That evening, after dinner in bed, I got up and joined my mother in the kitchen.

She had been following a new diet lately on the advice of one of her

magazinesMarie-France, I supposeand prepared her breakfast every evening for

the following morning, a mixture of Bulgarian yogurt and some miracle powder in a

silver packet. "Why are you up?" she asked.

"I just wanted to be with you, Maman."

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As she raised her hand I prepared to step back, but saw in her eyes that I had

nothing to fear, she just wanted to touch my forehead.

"At least you don't have fever," she said.

I felt the moment was right and said, "I'd like to ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"I'd like to invite a friend to dinner one day."

"Of course, my lambkin. Who's he?"

"My best friend. His name's Jacky."

"As soon as you get better."

I went to bed with a smile on my face. The following morning however,

everything was back to normal.

"Did you see the time?" my mother barked, in lieu of a good morning. "Don't

you think that you can lounge here another day."

***

My mother had said yes, and I wasn't going to let her forget. I had this

irrational desire to introduce my best friend, the only real friend I had ever had, to my

parents. Had I thought one minute about it, I would have seen that I was courting

disaster, but I had this need deep inside me. So one evening, I invited Jacky to dinner

after our joint algebra lesson with Madame Laquaire.

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As soon as my mother opened the door, I realized how misguided I had been.

Even though Jacky was dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a crisply ironed short-

sleeve shirt, he didn't look like any of my St. Jean-Baptiste schoolmates. The shocked

expression on my mother's face said it all, but she thought it justified to add a

commentary.

"Speak of a surprise!" she muttered.

I had forgotten to mention my friend's skin color.

"Would you like a glass of milk, some juice? Or something else maybe. I don't

know what you … I mean you people … drink," was the opening salvo delivered in

the guise of hospitality.

After my mother had brought two glasses of lemonade and helped herself to a

glass of "iced tea" which owed more to Johnny Walker than Lipton, she launched

herself into a series of questions. Her smile could be misleading, but I recognized the

lines around her mouth, the flashes in her eyes; she was sharpening her claws.

"Where are you from, young man? I mean, in what country were you born?"

"Right here in Paris, Madame. Near La Bastille, in the 11th arrondissement."

"How interesting. Where did your parents come from, then?"

"From Bordeaux, Madame."

Jacky was the epitome of poise. He looked my mother right in the eyes, but

without a trace of arrogance. From her rising voice and the increasingly staccato

delivery, I knew too well how Jacky's calm was driving my mother crazy.

"And what does your father do?"

"He's a police officer, Madame."

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"And your mother?"

"She's our building caretaker, Madame."

My mother rose, the smile on her lips contrasting with her mean stare. A

cigarette in hand, she walked around Jacky's armchair. She acted as the friendly

hostess, but I could see a beast of prey.

"I presume you are good at sports," she said. "Aren't you all?"

"Not really Madame. I'm sure Victor is much better than me."

"Really! And what do you intend to do after school? Assuming you intend to

finish school, of course."

Her tone of voice, her smile and choice of words were making a clear

statement: Jacky and I weren't destined to the same future. Although she despised and

berated me all the time, she seemed to entertain dreams of greatness for her son, a

never explained paradox.

My father's arrival marked the end of that round. Personally, I awarded Jacky

the victory. When my mother went to open the door, my friend winked at me. Don't

you worry, his smile was saying, I expected this. I'm cool.

I rose. Not to kiss my father, for he disliked that sort of sappy behaviorhis

wordsin front of strangers, but to take Jacky to my room, when I saw my mother

offer him her hand. Her smile was wider than ever. "Well, young man," she said,

"thank you for coming. It was … interesting meeting you."

Voiceless for a moment, I finally stammered, "But … but … Maman."

"What is it this time?"

"But … we just came in. You had said …"

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"Said what? You know very well that your father had a long and hard day at

work and it's time to have dinner. I'm sure your … friend doesn't want to be late."

"But his mother isn't expecting him. You had promised … the dinner …"

"Oh! Please, Victor. You're a fine one to talk promises. How many times did

you promise not to disappoint us anymore?"

"But I … I told Jacky …"

"Told him what? That you had to do your homework, I hope."

All the while, she had her hand on Jacky's back and pushed him toward the

door. I turned to my father who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.

"But Papa … Maman had said …"

In a tone of voice that allowed no challenge, the verdict was issued:

"It's not what your mother might have said, or what you think she said that

counts, it's what she's saying now."

It was over. I had to witness Jacky's departure. Through the fog that covered

my eyes, I could see that the insult had finally gotten to him. His chin was quivering.

Overwhelmed by rage, I rushed toward the door, determined to push my mother aside,

but a violent slap in the face stopped me. "What are you trying to do now? Hit your

mother? That would be just like you."

I didn't have dinner that night. Instead I went straight to my room, ignoring my

mother's pleas to "sit down and talk about it." Still, giving up wasn't in her nature. She

entered my room a couple of hours later as I was lying in bed, trying to ignore my

starved stomach. My face against the wall, I pretended to be asleep. She switched on

the bedside lamp.

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"Are you awake?" she asked, sitting down on the edge of my bed.

I remained silent, but she shook my shoulder. "I know you're up. We have to

talk." In a deceitfully soft tone of voice, she went on.

"I know that you don't recognize our effortsyour father's and mine. You

don't understand that we only have your well-being and future at heart. One day, you'll

regret not having loved us back while we were still alive, and it will be too late. But

that's all right, it's just your ungrateful nature; there's nothing we can do about it. Are

you listening to me, at least, Victor?"

I turned around: "You had promised that Jacky would have dinner with us."

"That's true. I did promise, but I had no way of knowing."

"Not knowing what?"

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"Must I explain? I'm not even alluding to the fact that his mother is a caretaker.

We are above such considerations. No, it's more serious than that. Your father and I

know too well what's going to happen. We invite this boy, and then his mother will

feel obligated to invite you back. He'll introduce you to other … like him. Don't get

me wrong Victor, I have nothing against these people, but we're not alike. Everybody

can see that. We have nothing to gain by socializing. It wouldn't be good for them

either, let's face it. And you, weak as you are, you'll get involved with them. Who

knows, they might even throw one of their girls at you. Very likely in fact. And then?

You want to find yourself one day married to a black woman? Do you think your

father and I are making all these sacrifices to have grand children looking like Aunt

Jemima's kids? You are not to see this boy again. That's an order. We're not alike, I'm

telling you. Look at yourself, you're sleeping in sheets, not on the ground under

banana trees."

I don't know what mechanism of survival made me sit up and burst out

laughing. I'm not even sure that I realized the full ludicrous obscenity of my mother's

tirade, but what could I do? Cry again? A first slap in the face didn't make me stop.

Nor did the next one or the one that followed. The more my mother hit me, the more I

was shaken by laughter. I knew I was going to collapse at any moment, cry uncle, or,

at the very least, raise an arm to shield my face, but I had reached a quasi-hypnotic

state, and it was finally my mother who threw in the towel.

"Little bastard," she screamed before running out of my room and slamming

the door shut. I could hear her burst into sobs and bang the walls of the corridor with

her fists.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

I only remember one moment of intimacy with my half-sister, but it did leave a

mark on me. How often since that day have I heard our dialogue again, carefully

weighing every word? The years haven't altered the recording.

I had left my pen and pencil wallet at St. Jean-Baptiste that day. I tiptoed into

Lucie's roomI could hear her voice on the telephone in the living roomand

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climbed onto a stool to reach for the box in which she kept a stock of pencils, erasers,

markers and the like. It was perched on top of the book-laden shelves.

Clumsy as I was, I lost my balance. A heavy dictionary crashed on the bowl in

which Séraphin and Amélie, Lucie's beloved goldfish, were leading a hitherto quiet

life. The poor souls were sent flying onto the carpet, the notebooks and sheets of paper

spread on my sister's desk were drenched and the bowl itself exploded on the floor.

Lucie appeared immediately. For a brief second, she remained at the door, her

eyes wide, a hand over her mouth. Then she recovered enough to slap me across the

face.

"Little moron. Look at what you've done!"

Never before had Lucie laid a hand on me. To her, I simply didn't exist. My

cheek burnt like hell and I could feel tears swell in my eyes.

"You can't hit me," I protested. "I will tell Maman."

"Go ahead. Go and rat on me. She'll give you another one of these and say I was

right."

"You cannot hit me. She's the only one who can."

Lucie was on all fours, picking up Séraphin and Amélie, which she slid into the

carafe of water on her bedside table. Then she threw a towel on her notebooks.

"I don't believe this. You're really an asshole."

But I wasn't finished.

"You're not even her daughter," I insisted, "while me, I'm her only son, so …"

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Her back turned to me, Lucie shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't see what it has to do with this mess. And it's only half true anyway."

"Oh! I'm not her son, maybe?"

"Yes, but you're not the only one."

"What did you say? You're just making that up."

Lucie, turned around slowly, suddenly embarrassed.

"Yeah, you're right. I am mad at you, so I just made it up. Forget what I said."

But it was too late. Suddenly, I didn't care about the disaster or my sister's anger.

She was hiding something from me, I knew it in my guts.

"Please tell me," I begged.

"It's history now. I shouldn't have said that."

She hesitated a moment, moved by my imploring eyes, then sighed.

"After all, you're old enough to know. Secrets are like poison. Besides, the fact

that she had another son is not a crime, is it?"

"Another son? Where is he?"

"It's history I told you. He died one week after he was born."

And that was how, seated on the wet carpet amid shards of glass, I learned that

my mother had almost married a painter, the father of the child in question. Suddenly,

mysterious words exchanged between my parents were beginning to take a meaning.

"A painter. You mean an artist?"

Lucie smiled.

"Not a house painter, that's for sure. You know Maman."

I wasn't so sure anymore.

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"His name, the painter, I mean, was Gabriel, and he was as handsome as a Greek

god. Maman showed me a picture. She was crazy about him. He was married, but had

filed for divorce. Maman was seven and a half months pregnant when …

"Not with me?"

"Of course not, why aren't you listening? With another baby boy. She was six

weeks away from her due date when Gabriel finally got his divorce, but instead of

marrying Maman, he took off with another woman, an Italian model."

"What about Maman?"

"Well, you can imagine … or maybe not, you're too young. It was a tragedy,

believe me. She tried to kill herself, but failed. The baby was born prematurely and

didn't live long. Drama again. She spent weeks in a psychiatric hospital. Now you

know everything. You see, it has nothing to do with you. No big deal."

Well yes, it was a big deal. In a troubling manner, my already uncertain identity

and ill-defined place in our universe were once again under question.

"Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Because it was before you were born. And anyway, Papa fixed everything."

"How?"

Act three. My father was an army buddy of the painter in question. He had lost

his wife two years before, was raising his little girl by himself and was secretly in love

with my mother. So when his pal Gabriel took off with the Italian model, he wasted no

time and offered his services. It was Papa who found Maman with her head in the

oven and took her to the hospital. Several months after the baby's death, the failed

suicide, and the hospital, he married her.

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"She loved Papa, then," I said, seeking reassurance. For some reason it was

important to me. I wanted my parents to love each other.

"Not really, if you want to know. She liked him, and she was grateful, but that's

not the same thing. Besides, she wasn't over Gabriel. But she needed someone and

owed him, big time. So when he proposed …"

"How do you know all this?"

"She told me. Between women, you know. Maybe the fact that I'm not really her

daughter, she feels more free to … What's the matter with you now? You're not going

to cry, are you?"

Why was I suddenly so sad? Because my mother had been so miserable that she

had wanted to die? Because I was only number two now, a replacement in a way? God

knows, I had few reasons to cling to a status which had brought me so little happiness,

but still … Suddenly, in a very confused and vague manner, the faint hope that

everything one day would be fine between us had vanished like a flickering flame in a

draft.

Lucie must have understood, for she helped me get up and sat me down on her

bed next to her teddy bear. For the first and last time, she took me in her arms.

"I'm sorry for the slap," she said. "You're a moron and a nuisance, but I shouldn't

have done it."

"Is that why she drinks too much sometimes?" I asked.

"Maybe. How would I know? It's in her genes, too. Her father was an alcoholic,

and a serious one, believe me."

"Her father! You mean Bon Papa?"

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"Of course. Who else?"

"I don't remember him."

"You were two when he died."

"He drank a lot?"

"I'm telling you. That's how he had his accident at the factory. He was so drunk,

he left his hand in the machine."

Bonne Maman had showed me the picture of their wedding. A tall, wiry man,

Bon Papa was imposing, with his handlebar mustache and bushy eyebrows. They

looked funny on the steps of the church. The groom was more than one foot taller than

his bride.

"I wish I had known him," I said.

"You didn't miss much, believe me. When he was loaded, he'd beat his wife with

his belt. And his daughter, too."

"Maman?"

"Of course, Maman."

It was a lot for a single day. My world had been destroyed, and I was feeling lost

in the midst of the rubble. I made a feeble attempt at salvaging some of the

foundations.

"But Bonne Maman always says they were so happy."

"I know. She's reinvented her past. I'm sure she believes it now. The truth is, the

man was a mean bastard."

"So he really beat Maman up when she was little?

"I'm telling you. He did even worse."

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"Like what?"

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Lucie hesitated, then shook her head.

"No, that I can't tell you. You're really too young. If Maman knew that I had told

you all that, she'd rip my head off."

"Tell me. I swear she'll never know."

But Lucie didn't budge.

"One day, you'll understand everything," was all she would say.

Yes of course, years later, I learned and understood everything. I can't say it

made me feel better, though.

***

Once a month, I was called to God's service. Up at five thirty in the morning, I

rang the bell of St. Jean-Baptiste at six fifteen. Once Jules, the hunchback janitor, had

opened the heavy front door, I crossed the deserted courtyard, reached the little ivy-

covered chapel and entered the vestry. Father Minot would welcome me with a nod.

There was total silence at this hour. I would put on the red vestment and the white

surplice that hung in the closet next to the piles of missals, then make sure that the

cruets were filled and the wafers ready on the golden paten. I moved about noiselessly

and watched Father Minot as he put on his chasuble and kissed his ornaments, all the

while reading the big book of gospel that lay on a lectern made of carved oak.

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Father Minot's lips moved silently. A pungent smell filled the little room, a

sugary combination of incense and mould. Together with the silence, this odor created

a sacred space isolated from the rest of the world. I was transported. Neither the bad

mood of the early morning rise, nor the interdiction to eat breakfast before

communion, or the cold, the wind and winter rain mattered anymore. I was a

privileged participant in a mysterious and intimidating rite. I was part of God's secret

society. I could feel how He was watching me.

"Did you sin since your last confession?" Father Minot would ask, and I'd shake

my head with total conviction. The obscene tsunami that broke loose day after day in

my imagination, the images and fantasies that set my mind, my sex afire, the pleasure

that I was too weak to deny myself, the whole subject was simply too vast, and defied

description. Since God had his eye on me, He had to know. On this issue, He and I

dealt without intermediaries.

"Are you sure?" he insisted. "No impure thoughts?"

I didn't budge and left him deal with his frustration.

"No mortal sin?"

The catechism classes had made quite an impression on me as a young child.

Father Mesnardin believed in the virtues of terror on our tender souls. The eternal

suffering, the unimaginable pain "far worse than the most horrible torture or death",

the charred bodies of the sinners thrown into the flames, the screams, all that was too

much for me and I had spent many a sleepless night.

"Why are these sins called mortal, Father?"

"Did you forget your catechism?"

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"No, I didn't, but …"

"They offend God so much that they cause the death of the soul, the sinner's

eternal damnation. Therefore, they’re called mortal sins."

"But God always forgives, right?"

"Yes Victor, because He's all kindness. Having said that, I'm personally

convinced that some sins cause Him more pain than others."

"Some sins? Such as?"

"I don't know for sure, Victor. Terrible things."

"But He forgives anyway, doesn't He?"

"Yes, he does, I told you so, Victor. But only if you confess them, if you truly

repent and are firmly determined not to sin again."

That of course was the snag, and usually ended my questioning.

One morning however, I pushed the issue, asking, "What is the worst sin,

Father? I mean, which one would God find it the most difficult to forgive?"

"I don't know Victor. Why do you ask?"

"I'd just like to know. What would make God really angry?"

"In my opinion Victor, if you ever commit such a sin, you'll know for sure. Now,

let's go, time is up. Open the door and bow your head."

***

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Three afternoons a week, I would leave St. Jean-Baptiste at five, run up the rue

des Vignes, catch my breath at the red light before crossing the rue de Boulainvilliers,

and then race down the Avenue Mozart. I was saving precious minutes that I wanted to

spend with Nora before my lesson with Madame Laquaire. Jacky would come home

half an hour later. I wanted Nora all to myself.

Unbeknownst to her, Nora had invaded my daydreams. I kept revisiting the brief

vision of her body, and built torrid scenarios around that vision. My favorite was a

chance meeting on the street.

"Victor! What a pleasant surprise!"

She would be on her way to a movie and suggest that I accompany her. It just so

happened that some epidemic had struck all the teachers of St. Jean-Baptiste, so I had

the day off. In the darkness of the theater, I was supremely bold and I took Nora's

hand. She turned to me. The light from the screen bathed her face; she smiled and

offered me her lips. They were warm and the tip of the tongue caressed mine as

Mireille's had done. I unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra. Her breast was

heavy in my hand, its nipple hard. Her skin was soft as silk. I lay my hand on her knee

and pushed her skirt up. She took my hand and guided it between her thighs. I pushed

her panties aside, felt her bush, which I imagined to be as coarse and fuzzy as her hair,

and finally reached her sex. It was warm and moist. She moaned as my finger found

its way inside her …

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Or … or I would arrive at Nora's just as she was about to go and water the plants

of some tenants who were away on vacation. She asked if I could help her carry a pile

of linen she had washed and ironed for those people. Bed sheets as it turned out. Yes,

it was important for us to find ourselves in a bedroom. Together we were making the

bed and our eyes met across it. Nora then declared herself tired; it had been a long day.

She lay herself down and didn't object when I took a place next to her. She turned to

me, smiled and offered me her lips. They were warm and the tip of the tongue

caressed mine as Mireille's had done. I unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra.

Her breast was heavy in my hand, its nipple hard. Her skin was soft as silk. I lay my

hand on her knee and pushed her skirt up. She took my hand and guided it between

her thighs. I pushed her panties aside, felt her coarse and fuzzy bush and finally

reached her sex. It was warm and moist. She moaned as my finger found its way

inside her.

There were many other scenarios, all similarly credible: a leak in her bathroom

that I helped fix, a splinter in her foot that she begged me to have a look at … As clear

and precise as my directions were for the opening sequencesNora's dress when I

met her on the street, the title of the movie or the furniture of the deserted

apartmentI always lost control over them as soon as Nora allowed me to touch her

body. Sometimes I considered briefly a never-solved mystery: what color was her sex

when she invited me inside her? Then the question quickly lost all relevance, the

images rushed in an erotic stampede, their kaleidoscope left me gasping. Later, in my

evening prayer, I begged God for his forgiveness and promised to never do it again. I

knew He wouldn't believe me anymore than I did.

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Strangely, my thoughts were chastewell, almostwhen I actually found

myself with Nora. My heart swelled with joy when she opened the door and offered

me her cheek. I watched her with delight as she prepared a cup of cocoa. She almost

always wore a robe at that time and didn't bother to hold it tight around her anymore.

My eyes savored her sight with relish.

In my memory, those moments are connected to those I spent staring at the fruit

pies and chocolate cakes in the windows of the Coquelin patisserie. Speaking of

chocolate, I was entranced by the sight of her long dark legs. My eyes also followed

the curve of her neck, the slow movements of her hands. Her hair intrigued me and I

wanted to touch it, let my finger follow the line it formed at the nape of her neck, and I

could never get enough of her smile, her full lips, or her dazzlingly white teeth.

"Careful, Victor, it's hot. Enough sugar for you?"

"Yes, Nora.

"Everything OK at home?"

She knew everything of my predicament, but never, not once, did she allude at

the humiliation Jacky had suffered.

"Yes, Nora, it's fine."

From Nora, the lover, the mistress of my dreams, I only wanted sweetness when

we were together. All I wanted was to cuddle in her arms and purr. "My mother likes

you a lot," Jacky said one day.

"I'd like to be in your place," I said.

He burst into one of his big fits of laughter, his face suddenly crisscrossed by

dozens of lines.

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"What's so funny?"

"I just saw you. You'd look pretty funny with a black face."

***

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Glob supervised most of the detentions. And so, without ever exchanging a

word, Glob and I spent many hours together. His real name was Joël de Précigout and

nobody knew where his nickname had come from. He was a tall, gangly, bespectacled

young man with the head of an arrogant bird, and reigned over the detainees, armed

with a ruler which he used to whack our desks and a booklet of pre-stamped pink slips

of paper, the currency for additional hours of detention. The hatred that we lavished on

him didn't trouble Glob a bit. Deep in his manuals, this future professor of physics had

nothing but contempt for our crowd.

I was paying for a series of dismal marks in history and geography that evening

when Josselin, a feared bully seated at the desk in front of me, turned around, picked

up my satchel and grabbed my copy of France-Football magazine. I was about to

protest when he winked at me and put a finger to his lips. I was shocked because

Josselin, a rugby player at least two years my senior, and I had precious little in

common. I watched as he slipped a photograph between the pages of the magazine

before laying it in full view on my desk.

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I had to put the magazine back in my satchel before Glob could see it, but

couldn't resist and lifted the cover. France-Football opened on a black-and-white

photograph, and my heart stopped: a masked woman offered me a close-up of her

clean-shaven sex. She was lying on a sofa, clad in a black garter belt, a pair of long

lacy gloves and fishnet stockings. Her left thigh rested on one of the arm rests, the

other was wide open to the camera and she presented me with a tiny, shiny button of

flesh, round and polished like a pearl, which she held between two fingers. With her

other hand, she was pulling one of the rings serving as ornaments to her labia, thus,

inviting my eyes to penetrate her. I was in a state of apnea. Even more than the

woman's gaping vagina, it was her eyes looking at me from behind the mask that made

me unable to breathe. How could she?

"Delorme!"

I froze. After a whack of his ruler, Glob repeated my name. "Delorme! Bring me

that at once!"

I rose and slowly made my way toward the big desk, behind which the hated

tormentor was watching me over his glasses. I had visions of shameful punishments.

The silence in the room foreshadowed a capital execution.

Glob held his hand out across his desk. Without even attempting an explanation,

I gave him the magazine. I died slowly as Glob's contemptuous eyes scanned the

cover. I watched in agony as his finger started to lift it. Some divine intervention

however, stopped him. Shaking his head, he opened a drawer and slipped the

magazine and its sulfurous content into it.

"You really are hopeless, Delorme," he said. "You'll do another two hours."

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And with these words, he handed me one of his pink slips.

"You're a lucky bastard," whispered Josselin when I returned to my seat. Then

the moron added, "Pity! I wanted to see his face."

***

The following two days were the longest of my life. I couldn't live with the

threat. Sooner or later, the photograph would be discovered and I would be humiliated,

pilloried, expelled. Worse, I would also have to face again the terrible police

commissioner. With my previous criminal record for pornography, there would be no

hope of leniency this time. What then? Prison? Exile?

And so, out of despair, the idea of a commando expedition was born and, with it,

the courage to carry it out. One Friday morning at five, I rose noiselessly and arrived

at St. Jean-Baptiste ahead of my usual altar-boy schedule.

"You fell off your bed?" remarked Jules as he opened the door.

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The school was still asleep. Two isolated windows cut out yellow rectangles in

the grey walls. Instead of heading for the vestry, I went to the main building and

opened the door. I was tiptoeing but it seemed as if my footsteps were shaking the

walls as I went up the stairs and followed the dark corridors. A few bluish night-lights

in the classrooms made it all even scarier. When I finally reached the detention room, I

entered it and went to the infamous desk. The drawer wasn't locked, but what if my

magazine was no longer in it?

The young men who took turns supervising detention had amassed a vast

collection of seized objects of all kinds. There were two sacks of marbles, a whistle, a

Swiss army knife, a collection of comic books, a ping-pong ball that I remembered

having seen bouncing from desk to desk a week before as we all collapsed with

laughter and even a lipstick, a surprising item in this context. Most importantly, my

France-Football was there, waiting for me. Perspiration dripped from my forehead as I

opened the magazine. There it was, the most overwhelmingly outrageous picture I had

ever seen. I was immediately relieved, but I was also hypnotized, unable to take my

eyes away from that sex being so brazenly offered. Common sense tells me that I

cannot have stayed there more than a couple of minutes, for I was also very conscious

of the danger, but time really came to a halt for me.

I was sick with arousal. At last, I was able to close my eyes and pocket the

photograph. I had to run.

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Before leaving, I also grabbed a bunch of the infamous pink slips, as well as

several form cards the text of which I knew only too well. The same message in italic

letters was printed on each card: We regret to inform you that your son … was

detained tonight for the following reason …. Please have … return this card signed by

you before tomorrow's class.”

There was an official stamp. My parents had signed dozens of those.

With a serene heart, I headed for the vestry. I would have to add breaking,

entering, and stealing to the list of my secret sins.

CHAPTER EIGHT

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The Easter holidays were upon us. While at St. Jean-Baptiste my schoolmates

were sharing their vacation plansskiing in the Alps for manyat home it was a

morose time. For Lucie and me, there was nothing to look forward to. She would

prepare for her exams at her friend Suzanne's in Versailles and I would stay in Paris to

work on the program that Madame Laquaire had designed at my father's request, a

project dubbed by my mother "operation desperation."

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Against such a background, my parent's surprise trip to the Riviera was

welcomed as an event of exceptional import. The Miramar hotel, one of my father's

most prestigious clients, was about to reopen after a year of renovation and he had

been invited to the festivities planned for the long Easter weekend. "With your better

half of course," the hotel manager had said.

"Three days isn't much," the half in question commented, "but it will take me

out of here."

I agreed wholeheartedly.

The next two weeks introduced me to a new mother. A permanent smile on her

face, she hummed popular tunes from morning to night, patted my head whenever we

crossed paths and even offered me one of her pralines.

She obsessed about what "women wore in Cannes these days." Dresses, bags,

shoes, it had been such a long time since she had bought anything for herself, she

reminded everyone. One evening, she paraded and whirled in front of me, elegant in a

long, light green taffeta dress, lifting it slightly to show off her new shoes.

"If you were a man, Victor, and you saw me dressed like this, would you ask

me for a dance?"

As I nodded enthusiastically, I was also filled with pity, a rather disturbing

feeling I couldn't understand.

"You are so beautiful, Maman!"

She giggled like a little girl, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Your father is angry with me because I spent too much, but we only live once,

don't we?"

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Bonne Maman was both in awe of her glamorous daughter and in shock, for

she had been named guardian of the castle. Her chin quivered frantically, a sign of

deep agitation. As for me, I was making plans with Jacky. He and I were going to

spend those three days together.

Alas! Shortly before leaving, my father laid down the rules: no guests, no

outings. He would call at unscheduled times, he warned, to verify that his orders were

being heeded.

From the balcony I waved at my parents as they stepped into a taxi. Then, as

soon as they had disappeared around the corner, I led Bonne Maman in a dance around

the living room. Short of breath, she soon collapsed on the sofa.

"Now tell me what you have in mind, Mr. Up-to-no-good," she said, a plump

hand on her voluminous bosom.

"How do you know I’m up to something?"

"Because I know my grandson. I can see it in your eyes."

She was an easy sale. Besides, she had been horrified by Jacky's expulsion.

"Of course you can invite him over," she said.

And so it was that my friend arrived two hours later with a box of pralines, the

same brand that had Bonne Maman drool as she watched her daughter open the locked

drawer and help herself without offering one.

The first evening was peaceful. After dinner, Jacky and I invited Bonne

Maman to a game of Monopoly. I discovered then that she was a very sore loser.

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"I win all the time; how come you have all the money?" she protested, angrily

sweeping the green miniature houses with the back of her hand. Then she added, "It's

just like the department stores."

"Like the department stores?"

"Of course. I know how they make money. They lose on each article, but they

make a profit by selling large quantities of them."

Dear Bonne Maman!

Later, I made a mattress of blankets and pillows next to my bed, which Jacky

had won in a coin flip. We chatted late into the night and didn't sleep much.

We were watching a movie the following afternoon when Bonne Maman

complained of a headache. She gave me the key to my mother's medicine closet.

"Go and get me some aspirin, my little Victor, will you?"

Jacky let out a cry of amazement when I opened the closet.

"Holy smoke! Does she plan to open a pharmacy?" he asked.

The shelves were loaded from floor to ceiling with boxes, tubes, jars and

bottles of all sorts. Having grown up in this environment, I didn't share his surprise. I

was used to seeing my mother come back from her weekly trip to the pharmacy with a

bagful of drugs. "Maman suffers from everything in the medical encyclopedia except a

broken ankle," Lucie used to joke.

"And this?" Jacky asked, retrieving a half-full bottle of Gordon's gin from

behind a stack of boxes. "I suppose that's what they call over-the-counter, right?"

I was flabbergasted. "What is it doing there?" I asked.

"You need an explanation?"

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"But … why hide it?"

"Tell you what," Jacky offered, "I'll make my world-famous gin-fizz. I've seen

lemons in the kitchen. Trust me, you'll like it."

"She'll find out."

"Not a chance. I'll fill up with water."

Without further ado, Jacky ran to the kitchen to prepare what he called his

"special lemonade" for my grandmother's benefit. "My mother's secret recipe," he told

Bonne Maman while offering her the first glass. "It'll cure your headache."

Indeed, it didn't take long for my grandmother to feel a lot better. "The

Germans can come back, they won't have this one," she declared, smacking her lips.

She had grown up with horrific tales of World War I.

A second glass triggered girlish laughter I had never heard from Bonne

Maman. Her eyeglasses kept getting all fogged up, and she wiped them with the

handkerchief she kept in her sleeve. The mood grew more festive by the minute. A

third glass of "lemonade" followed. Bonne Maman, Jacky and I intoned the

Marseillaise and marched around the apartment.

All caution forgotten, I went to my father's barI knew where he kept the

keyand fetched a bottle of vodka. A wind of madness was blowing. The last

memory I registered was the sight of Bonne Maman waltzing with Jacky and the two

of them stumbling and collapsing on the sofa, howling with laughter. What a strange

couple they formed! Around me, the walls were spinning dangerously.

***

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None of us heard the elevator, nor the opening and closing of the front door. I

was sound asleep in the toilets, my face buried in my arms over the toilet bowl, the

bottle of vodka next to me on the tiled floor, when cries of horror roused me. Next, my

father's beet-red face appeared above me. Nothing seemed real. What had happened?

What day were we? They weren't supposed to be back so soon, or were they? My

father yanked me to my feet and helped me come to with a hard slap across my face,

but I still couldn't make sense of anything.

Haggard and stumbling, trying to protect myself with my raised elbow, I was

pushed, slapped, and shoved into the living room. From the hallway where my parents

had left their luggage, I could see Bonne Maman snoring on the sofa. Her bun was

undone, her grey hair half-covering her face, and her black dress raised up on her

thighs, revealing a pink garter at the edge of a gray woolen stocking. When my father

rudely shook her shoulder, she responded with a groan.

"For fuck's sake," my father yelled, "will someone tell me what happened

here?"

He sent me flying toward his bar, whose doors were wide open. "Will you tell

me or do I have to beat the shit out of you?"

At that moment, a piercing scream was heard from my bedroom. My father

froze, his hand in the air above my head. Seconds later, my mother appeared dragging

Jacky by his ear. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, and just as

bewildered as I was, but he wasn't resisting. I felt my stomach churn and thought I was

going to throw up.

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"On my new carpet, just what I need," my mother exclaimed. She needed not

worry; my stomach had been empty for hours.

My father then decided to take charge.

"You take care of … that," he told his wife, pointing his chin toward Bonne

Maman, "She's your mother after all."

Then he marched toward Jacky.

"And you … you get the hell out of here. Go back to your jungle for all I care."

More powerless than ever, unable to think straight, I could only witness the

disaster. I didn't even worry about the impending punishment. The world was falling

apart; I was in a kind of coma.

The door had just been slammed shut behind Jacky when I heard a deep moan

behind me, like the cry of a wounded beast. I turned around. Crimson no more, white

as a ghost now, my father was pointing a finger toward the carpet near the sofa. He

wanted to talk, his lips were moving, but no words were coming out.

Then I saw the object of the commotion: my father's glass, the one nobody was

allowed to use, the crystal glass from the Ritz hotel was sitting on the floor. In it

Bonne Maman's dentures were soaking in Jacky's lemonade.

My mother's laughter gave my father back the use of his vocal cords.

"Sorry, it's nervous," she said. "You'll have to wash it."

I didn't have time to reflect on the new division of tasks. My father had already

done the ultimate damage. With a kick, he had sent his precious glass crashing against

the wall.

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"You don't think that I will drink my … in my … after this disgusting shit," he

screamed.

My mother was still laughing. Lying on the carpet in the middle of the room,

Bonne Maman's teeth seemed to share her hilarity.

***

It took me a while to understand the early return of my parents. Having been

sent to bed without dinner, I was intrigued by the angry voices coming from their

bedroom and tiptoed through the darkness of the corridor. My ear glued to their door, I

listened to the screaming match. My mother was on the attack, while my father

claimed his innocence.

"I saw you. I saw you with my own eyes," my mother yelled. "You had your

hand on her thigh, you son of a bitch."

"You're mistaken, I'm telling you. She had dropped her napkin and I picked it

up for her. Any gentleman would have done the same."

"Any gentleman. Any sex maniac, you mean. I had been watching the two of

you."

"You're crazy. She's the wife of the …

"What did you say? I dare you to repeat."

"She's the wife of the President of …"

"No, not that. I don't care whose wife that slut is. You called me crazy, didn't

you? And if I am crazy, who made me that way, I'm asking you? You know what

Professeur Marchais says? You know what he says?"

"How would I know? And who's that one? Another shrink of yours?"

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"He says that if I was happy at home, I wouldn't have to take all these drugs."

My father laughed dryly. "But of course. How didn't I guess? It's my fault now

if you're losing it. As if this was new. You're forgetting where I had to go to get you."

"A hospital."

"A nut house, that's what it was, so please don't blame me. And what am I

going to tell Monsieur Renardier now? You don't give a shit, I know. You seem to be

forgetting who's putting food on the table and a roof over your head. Does a contract

for 320 TVs. mean anything to you? Everything was going smoothly, Renardier was

telling me about another 150 TVs for Marseilles, but you had to fuck it all up, throw a

glass of wine, and force us to leave in the middle of the dinner. Fuck, fuck, fuck, do

you realize what you've done?"

"I realize that you had your hand on her thigh."

It went on and on. I didn't want to take sides and didn't care who was right or

wrong. I should have gone back to bed and buried my head under the blanket, but

some force was keeping me there, compelling me to listen to words I didn't want to

hear.

There were moments of silence during which I wondered, what are they doing

now? Is it all over? Have they made peace? And then the angry voices again. My

mother's was strident, my father's deep, hardly audible at times, with tones alternating

between indignation and conciliation.

"What do you think you're doing? You don't think you're going to sleep in my

bed, do you?" my mother shouted after one of these silences.

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Soon after I saw my father, in his pajamas, throwing a sheet and a pillow on

the sofa where his mother-in-law had enjoyed such a good sleep. I was afraid he

would see me, but the corridor was dark, and he didn't even look in my direction.

Instead, he turned around and marched back to their bedroom.

"And why should I sleep on the sofa?" he screamed. "Why don't you? You're

the one who fucked up, remember?"

"I'm not the one who had a hand on that whore's thigh."

"You're really crazy. Oh, and don't give me that look. You want to know what I

think? What I really think? I believe that I married a nutcase. You can tell your

Professor what's his name that I said that. And I'm not speaking out of anger. I've

known for years that you're crazy. Reminds me of poker: I paid to see. Lucky me!"

"If I'm crazy, who's to blame?"

"Not me, that's for sure."

"Who else? How long has it been since we've had sex?"

"What? What has sex got to do with this?"

"Professeur Marchais says it's important for the balance of …"

"Why doesn't he screw you then, if that's what you need?"

The noise of a slap followed.

"Bastard!"

Then, "Don't touch me Roland. Let me go, you're hurting me."

I was petrified. Focused on my own problems, overwhelmed by my

obsessions, busy with the enormous task of growing up, I had never measured the

violence of the conflict at the edge of which I lived. It felt as if a heavy hand was on

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me. I slid down to the floor, relieved that I was being ignored for a moment, but

deeply troubled.

There was a long silence punctuated only by the muffled sound of my mother's

sobbing, after which my father spoke, his voice deeper and softer now.

"Calm down," he said. "Take a deep breath. Let me give you your pills. We

both need a good night’s sleep. It's stupid. We get angry and say things. I didn't mean

what I said. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow you'll still have fondled that woman."

"But it's not true. Will you listen to me for Christ's sake? I didn't do it, I swear."

"You swear?"

"On Victor's head!"

My mother's laughter froze my heart.

"On Victor's head! That's a good one. What a bet! My husband is gambling big

tonight!"

Having thought so often over the years about that moment, I still wonder how

words I did not really understand, whose exact meaning and implications went far

beyond my ability to analyze at the time, had hurt so much.

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CHAPTER NINE

I only saw Jacky three afternoons a week at Madame Laquaire's. The other

days, I would stop at a phone booth on rue de Passy and call him before going home.

We always had so much to talk about! My friend was passionate about cars. He spent

hours in a garage of our neighborhood, where they paid him a pittance for chores like

inflating tires or emptying oil basins. From that world, he brought back anecdotes,

grown men stories.

One day, a Wednesdayyears later, all the details of that afternoon are still

vividI was walking away from the telephone booth when I heard a voice.

"You forgot your pen!"

I turned around. A girl with smiling blue eyes and braids as golden as a field of

wheat was holding out a Bic. For a moment I remained paralyzed, dazzled by that

divine apparition. Then I gradually discovered the charming button of a nose, the

perfect white teeth, the skin that seemed to glow. Under her half-open gray overcoat,

she wore a blue uniform sweater with a crest over a white blouse and a gray pleated

skirt.

"Isn't it your pen?" she insisted.

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It wasn't mine, but I wasn't thinking, my brain was frozen. I stepped forward,

took the Bic, muttered a barely audible thank you and walked away ... only to stop at

the next street corner, struck by the realization that I had just met the most beautiful

girl in the whole world. Sure, Sophie de Marennes de Lucet had once been the object

of my adoration, but my former princess was aloof, haughty even, while this sublime

apparition was all simplicity.

I cannot say that I actually decided to walk back; my feet just seemed to carry

me. As I approached the telephone booth, I saw the girl hang up and slowed down,

pretending to be buried deep in my thoughts, measuring my steps in order to reach her

just as she pushed the glass door open and stepped out.

Raising a surprised eyebrow in the worst ever piece of acting, I said, "Hey!

Hello again!" and froze, my face burning, at a total loss for further words.

She smiled and replied, "Hello again!" then added, "Is there something

wrong?"

"N... no. It's just that ..."

Her head slightly tilted, her smiling eyes curious as she waited, she finally

asked, "Have we met?"

I don't know where I found the nerve to say, "No, we haven't, but it sure would

be nice if we did. I mean …"

There must have been something comical in the way the words came out,

because she burst out laughing and said, "You're funny."

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Then, with those words, she walked away, leaving me in a state of total

paralysis. Fifty feet or so later, she turned around and called out, "So! What are you

waiting for? Don't you want to walk with me?"

Her name was Colette and she was older than me by a few weeks. Although

her name was somewhat old-fashioned and associated in my mind with a mustachioed

aunt, I decided that it was deliciously romantic, and had no doubt that it would be part

of my life for the rest of my days. She made a lovely little shrug when she introduced

herself as if to say, I know, I know, I didn't choose this name.

Colette was in ninth grade at the Lycée Molière. Her parents were divorced,

and she lived with her mother, a stomatologist. She took drawing lessons, but didn't

think she was particularly gifted and played tennis at the Racing Club de France. She

loved movies, especially comediesbut there weren't many good onesand romantic

stories with a happy ending.

"How about you?" she asked.

Today, it is clear that the honest answer should have been, "Me, I'm growing

up!" but everything seemed so complicated at the time. "My father is a businessman

and I have a sister," I said. "She's studying to be a doctor."

"It's you I asked about."

Me! That was the problem. I didn't know who I was and the main, if not sole,

focus of my interest hardly lent itself to social small talk.

"Do you play sports?" she asked.

"Yes, soccer. I play defense. I'd rather play offense, but I'm not fast enough. I'm

not playing anymore, anyway."

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"Why?"

I shrugged." The fun's gone." I wasn't about to tell her that my feet hurt like

hell in my old soccer shoes.

"What about tennis?"

"Some. I like doubles because they're more like a team sport."

"Do you like movies?"

I loved American adventure movies. "They're a bit stupid," I said, wanting to

sound sophisticated, "but they're well done; they're almost believable."

Whenever the conversation slowed down and silence threatened, I panicked. I

was terrified that this wonderful creature would realize how unworthy of her attention

I was. The more I searched for a topic with the potential to hide my deficiencies, the

more the gelatinous mass of my brain solidified. I needed a joke, a witty remark about

a store window or a passer-by, quick, any subject that might interest her, anything to

break the silence, which threatened to last forever. Any moment now, she would see

through me. She would walk away and I would die. "Do you believe in God?" I asked.

Colette stopped and faced me.

"What a strange question. Why do you ask?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Dunno. Just a thought."

I had no idea where those words had come from. Today I suspect that doubt

had started to visit me; on an unconscious level it was bothering me.

"We're atheists," she said simply.

"Ah! I see."

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"Mother says there's probably something up there, but certainly not what

religion, any religion, wants us to believe. Me, I don't know really. What about you?"

"Me, I go to mass. I even serve mass."

When we reached the bottom of the Avenue Paul Doumer, near the Trocadero,

Colette stopped in front of a modern building with a huge glass door and lots of

marble. She pointed at a plaque which read: Docteur France Knudsen, Stomatologiste,

and said, "See! I'm home."

"Knudsen. That's an unusual name," I remarked.

"It's Danish. My mother kept my dad's name."

"Ah!"

She extended her hand and said, "Thanks for walking me home."

Then she pressed the buzzer and pushed the heavy door. A fraction of a second

before it fell shut, I regained my breath and called out, “Hey!"

Colette turned around and came back, smiling.

"You’ve already forgotten my name?"

"No. Of course, I haven't. It's just that ... I was wondering ... I was thinking

maybe ... well, I don't know how you'd feel about it but ... do you think I could see you

again?"

A pretty girl like Colette could have been forgiven for being choosy, but her

smile was sweet and direct.

"Sure," she said, before adding, "But you'd have to meet my mom, it’s a house

rule. Come on up, if you want."

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The Knudsen apartment was sumptuous. Tapestries hung from the walls,

Chinese urns sat on Louis-the-something furniture. I was awed. Colette put a finger on

her lips when we passed a room where four or five people were reading magazines. A

long carpeted corridor led to her room; its walls were covered with a sky-blue paper,

on which Walt Disney cartoon characters danced. Two teddy bears sat on a bed among

multicolored cushions. On her balcony, geraniums were waiting for the first warm

days.

"It's the most beautiful room I've ever seen," I said.

We were seated at Colette's white deskthe door was left open, it went

without sayingdrinking Orangina and munching on chocolate-filled cookies while

poring over her sketch-book, when France Knudsen walked in to greet her daughter.

She was a beautiful woman, in her forties, with a stern, almost brusque

manner. Her blonde hair was done up in a strict bun, her eyes were an icy blue, and the

almond-green blouse under the white coat was buttoned up to her neck. She looked me

up and down and her thin smile told me that I had just been given a C-minus. With one

eyebrow slightly raised as she turned to Colette, she seemed to be asking, "And where

did you find this one?"

I couldn't blame her. My jeans were worn out and the sleeves of my blazer had

become too short a long time ago. I must have looked utterly out of place in their

universe where the antiques, tapestries and paintings on the wall seemed to have come

straight out of a museum.

Colette came to my rescue. "Victor agreed to help me with my homework," she

said and her mother's skeptical smile didn't escape me.

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"Is that so? And what would your area of expertise be, young man?"

I put on a modest face.

"I'm pretty good at English," I said, summoning the memory of a brief brush

with success. "The irregular verbs, you know ..."

Colette quickly jumped in, saying, "And that's precisely where I have a

problem. The vocabulary I can manage, but the verbs ..."

Dr. Knudsen gave her daughter a long, thoughtful look before returning to her

cavities. Colette was so adorable as she giggled, with her face half-buried in her

hands, that I wanted to fall down on my knees.

"Are you really any good at English?" she asked. We both burst out laughing.

As I walked back home, I felt as if my heart was ready to explode. I was

totally, desperately in love. Colette's laughter was still in my ears; my lips could still

feel her warm and deliciously soft cheeks when I had kissed her goodbye. The way

she had to stroke her forehead with the tip of her fingers when searching for a word

played again and again in my mind. Never before had I felt such rapture, never again

would I experience such bliss; I was certain of it.

At the dinner table, I hardly touched Janine's papery chicken, prompting a

bombardment of questions from my mother. As soon as I was allowed to leave, I ran

to my room, where I set out to write the first in a series of passionate letters.

***

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Nothing escaped the attention of the women who surrounded me. My mother,

for one, wasted no time before going on the warpath. She bombarded me with

questions. Evenings, at the dinner table, I could feel her stare as I kept my nose down

and pushed my food away. "Are you on a hunger strike?" she asked.

Nora, too, sensed something important had happened. "Either you won the

Lotto jackpot or you're in love," she said.

"How do you know?"

"You won the jackpot?"

"No. Not the jackpot, the other thing you said.”

"What's her name?"

I shook my head. "I can't talk about her." I was torn between the urge to share

my elation and the need to keep Colette secret in my heart.

"Nora doesn't need to know her name. You're going to marry her, Nora is sure

of it," she said, showing her white teeth in a teasing grin.

"I'd like that!" I said.

And then Madame Laquaire.

"My dear Victor, I don't know where your mind is today, but we're both

wasting our time. Want to talk about it?"

"I have nothing to say."

"You're daydreaming."

"It's not true. I promise."

"Tsk, tsk! You should say ‘I assure you.’ You can only promise about the

future. I explained that already."

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Moments later, as I was watching the frail figure on the tip of her toes,

reaching for the can of cookies she always put in front of me, next to a cup of tea, I

decided to trust the old lady. My secret had become too heavy to bear, my heart could

no longer contain it.

"I'm in love," I said.

Madame Laquaire sat down and offered both hands across the table, as she

liked to do.

"I'm happy for you,” she said. “What's her name?"

"Colette."

"A pretty name. Does your mother know?"

"Oh no!"

"That's what I thought. In any event, this is good news for both of us."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm sure you won't want to go to boarding school now. You don't want to

be separated, do you? So we do have to pass those exams."

Once more, she had found the perfect words, and I decided to deal in earnest

with those two racers bicycling toward each other, one starting from town A at 10

miles an hour, the other from town B at 20 miles an hour. Having successfully

determined where they would meet, I helped myself to a second cookie.

As for Madame Laquaire, she poured herself a small glass of green liquor, and

said, "To celebrate!"

***

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It had to happen. As I was leaving St. Jean-Baptiste one afternoon, carrying a

bag heavy with books, I saw her waiting for me on the opposite side of the street.

Elegant in her beige coat with the fur collar and a cigarette in hand, my mother!

Instantly, my mood turned glum.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Is this the way a son is supposed to welcome his mother?"

"Hello, Maman."

"I thought it was about time for me to meet this Madame, what's her name

again, Lemaire? Maizière?"

"Laquaire. What for?"

"You've been quite cheerful lately, something isn't right. You're hiding

something from me, I know it. Let's go now. You don't want to be late for your lesson,

do you?"

My mother grabbed my elbow and set the pace. I prayed that she wouldn’t

meet Jacky. I would have wanted to warn Madame Laquaire; she was only a tiny white

mouse after all, and was in great danger.

I needed not have worried. Madame Laquaire showed no surprise when she

saw my mother at my side. "Madame Delorme," she only said. "I've heard a lot about

you."

She ignored my mother's burning starewhat horrible lies did Victor tell about

me? she seemed to askand offered a chair.

"What can I do for you?" she asked calmly.

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The tone in Madame Laquaire’s voice was unknown to me. Her eyes, too, were

different. The old lady knew who she was dealing with, but wasn't intimidated.

I was afraid to breathe and watched my mother as she inspected the small

room. The lacy curtain, the napkins, a picture of a young Madame Laquaire in a white

dress, at the arm of a handsome officer, the canaries in their cage, the pile of papers on

the tired armchair, the books on the floor; nothing went unnoticed. I braced myself for

a stinging remark, a sarcasm.

When my mother finally returned her attention to Madame Laquaire, she saw

in her eyes a calm and vaguely amused determination that took her aback. This sweet

old woman, who encouraged and cajoled me into working harder, could also project

an icy strength. It was amazing to see my mother losing her aggressive assurance.

"I'm listening," Madame Laquaire insisted.

"Well … I just wanted to make sure that … I mean, to meet the person who …

I think it's natural, don't you?"

"Absolutely. I'm very satisfied with Victor's progress. We've come a long way,

but we're headed in the right direction."

"He's so lazy."

"A matter of motivation."

"Victor has disappointed his father so much, you have no idea."

"Soon your husband will be proud of his son."

"And he's so difficult."

"That's what education is about, Madame Delorme."

"You can't imagine what I'm going through."

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"You seem strong enough to me."

"Don't be too sure. I could tell you stories."

"That won't be necessary."

It was like a game of tennis. My mother's services were weaker and weaker,

while Madame Laquaire's volleys never missed.

Then the bell rang. Twice. Jacky! I shrank down in my chair.

"One moment, please," Madame Laquaire said, while rising. From the corner

of my eye, I saw my friend's smile vanish as he instantly recognized my mother who,

fortunately, had her back to the door.

"You have the wrong apartment, Sir, " Madame Laquaire said. "You must be

looking for Monsieur Martinet. It's one floor below."

Back to the tennis match. My mother wasn't accustomed to being behind on

the scoreboard. She had to go back on the attack.

"I find it hard to believe that you could be pleased with Victor. You must be

pretty lenient. I guess it's not easy to find students to tutor these days. Especially at

these rates."

Madame Laquaire responded with a smile.

"Do you have any more questions, Madame?"

"Well, I wanted to see for myself how you conduct your lessons."

"Absolutely. Victor, would you please tell me what you know about the Thalés

theorem? Only a few minutes, then we'll be able to work seriously. I'm listening

Victor."

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I didn't think it necessary to point out that we had spent the last lesson on the

theorem in question.

"Would you like me to draw the ABC triangle and the MN line?" I asked.

"We will do that, of course, but for now I'd simply like you to enunciate it for

me."

"Well, angles at the base of a triangle having two sides of equal length are

equal. And, of course, opposite angles of intersecting straight lines are equal."

"Not bad Victor, and to think that all this was like Chinese to you only a month

ago."

I smiled modestly, while Madame Laquaire rose and said, "I'm going to walk

your mother to the elevator. When I come back I want you to tell me about Molière.

Whose real name was? His real name?"

That, too, we had studied only two days before.

"Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, Madame," I said.

"Correct. You'll also tell me what you know about The Imaginary Invalid."

While speaking, Madame Laquaire had walked to the door, which she held

open. Vanquished, my mother rose too.

I never learned what they discussed in the corridor. When she returned,

Madame Laquaire went straight to a cabinet and took out a bottle of Cointreau. She

poured herself a small glass and lit up one of her Turkish half cigarettes. Then she sat

down in front of me and grinned.

"I shouldn't smoke and I certainly shouldn't drink, at least not in the middle of

the day, but I believe I've earned it," she said with a smile.

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I couldn't have agreed more.

An hour later, as I was closing my books, she held her hands out to me across

the table. They were cold, but they warmed my heart. "You mustn't be sad," she said.

"I'm not."

"Not now, maybe, but often. I know you quite well already, you know."

"I'll be fine."

"I know you will, but it hurts you the way your mother is, doesn't it? You think

she doesn't love you, don't you?"

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't have a clue.

"I'm sure she does love you. She'd show it to you if she could, but she is, how

should I put it … she's not well."

"She's not sick. She's always been like this."

"She's probably been always sick, as you say. But I saw her eyes, and I heard

her voice. Believe me, Victor, I'm pretty good at reading people. The truth is, she's

deeply unhappy. The meanness in her … it's not her fault. It’s like a demon, you know,

and it has nothing to do with you."

Later that evening, at the dinner table, my mother barked at me, "What's your

problem, Victor? Why are you staring at me like that? You want to take my picture?"

I shook my head and lowered my eyes. I had only tried to see the demon.

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CHAPTER TEN

To see Colette, and spend precious moments with her, required a permanent

exercise in creativity. My catalogue of excuses and bogus reasons for being late

coming home was quickly exhausted. How many times can one witness an autobus

accident or be summoned to a medical exam? Fortunately, I was visited by inspiration,

a stroke of genius, no less.

The solution was two-pronged: first, I would avoid punishment at St. Jean-

Baptiste at all costs, and then use the stolen pink slips to convince my mother that I

had been detained. At school I turned into a model of assiduity and obedience and

during a few heavenly weeks, I came to believe that I had escaped my mother's

scrutiny.

Time went by like a dream when Colette and I were together. A few moments,

or so it seemed, after having met her at her Lycée Molière, it was already time to say

goodbye. Later, as I ran back home or lay on my bed, I replayed in my mind the vision

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of Colette's smile and the adorable sparkle in her eyes. I relived every moment spent

with her, our giggles and laughter, as well as the serious time going over the grammar

exercises she loathed. I heard myself pronounce innocent-sounding words that in

reality were cries of passion. I thought about our next encounter, counted the hours

and convinced myself that soon, the following week perhaps, I would summon up the

courage to say "I love you, Colette", four little words that sent my imagination

spinning. Maybe I would even take her in my arms for our first kiss. Wasn't it the way

they did it in the movies?

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Madame Knudsen never saw in me the shining knight to whom she would one

day give her daughter's hand, but she slowly seemed to accept me. "I have to admit

he's a good boy," she once said to her daughter.

"It's the, ‘I have to admit,’ that I like best," Colette told me the following day.

"That's so Maman."

One afternoon, when there had been an epidemic of patient no-shows, I was

even invited to accompany mother and daughter to the movies.

"We'll have pizza for dinner," suggested Madame Knudsen.

When I called home, I was so embarrassed by my mother's barrage of

questionsKnudsen, what kind of a name is that? that I hung up the telephone and

said that I had to finish my homework. Colette, who knew about my mother's reign of

terror, gave me a sad smile, but Madame Knudsen approved warmly.

"Your mother is right, Victor,” she said. "I should be more like her and I'm sure

my daughter would be grateful one day."

"I'm sorry you can't stay," Colette said at the door. "I would've liked it."

Running home, I repeated those words, which, I wanted to believe, had been a

declaration of love.

Night after night, I wrote about my passion in letters I never sent. I pledged

eternal love and described our many years of bliss. These torrid letters were addressed

to Mademoiselle Knudsen, and when I placed them under my pillow, I was determined

to drop them in the mailbox on my way to school. But everything looked different the

following morning. Suddenly, Colette seemed utterly out of reach and my love letters

ended up in a tin box in my closet behind my old jerseys.

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In the last letter I wrote, I reminded Colette how I had taken her hand hours

earlier to protect her from a taxi running a red light: I kept your hand in mine

afterwards and you didn't take it back. My mouth was as dry as sandpaper. I wasn't

aware that I squeezed your hand so hard, and I'm sorry that I hurt you. It was only

because I love you so much, you understand."

***

Catechism classes were optional, but my mother made sure I attended. It had

more to do with her vision of the church as the moral police than it did with her shaky

belief in a Supreme Being.

So, every Friday after lunch, I had to sit with other unhappy souls in a dimly

lit, musty classroom and endure dreadfully boring lectures. Outside, in the courtyard,

our more fortunate classmates played ball.

It was after one of those classes that a vision changed my faith forever. Unlike

St. Paul about whom we had just heard, what I saw marked the beginning of its

disintegration.

We were lined up in the second floor corridor before the beginning of the first

regular class of the afternoon. My head full of Colette, I was paying no attention to the

chatter around me when, without thinking, I turned to the window and looked down to

the courtyard. Suddenly I froze, overwhelmed by a sensation of impending threat. My

mother!

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Yes, I had to believe my eyes. She wore her grey coat with the fur collar, and

was engaged in a conversation with Father Minot. What was she doing there? What

was she up to? Had she discovered the stratagem of my detention slips? Was she

discussing retaliatory measures? Or did she want to know if my chances of success at

the end of the year were really as good as Madame Laquaire had claimed. Of course

not, this was not Father Minot's domain. One thing was clear, this visit could only be

bad news.

I watched as Father Minot, his white hair covered by a beret, nodded, all

smiles as usual, and how he kept my mother's hand in his as they said goodbye. The

words they were exchanging sealed an alliance, it was all too obvious.

Later that day, at the dinner table, I felt my mother's stare. A feeling of

impending doom kept me from writing to Colette that night.

Anxiety still haunted me the following morning when I knelt down in the

confessional on the narrow board covered with worn-out red velvet. After a while, the

panel slid aside, allowing a ray of dusty light to make its way through the darkness.

On the other side of the latticed window I could make out Father Minot.

I bowed my head, but instead of making the sign of the cross and muttering the

first words of the Latin ritual, the priest addressed me, saying, "Good morning,

Victor!"

His tone was conversational.

"Good morning, Father."

"Before your confess, child, is there not something you want to talk about?"

"Like what, Father?"

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"Whatever. My task goes beyond forgiving you for your sins in the name of the

Lord. It is also to help you. Is there anything new in your life? Something important?

Or somebody, maybe?"

Slowly I began to see the light. I asked Colette for her forgiveness and replied,

"No, Father."

"Thinking about a sin is almost as bad as committing it, you know …

especially the sins of the flesh. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, Father."

"Your age is a difficult one, my child. We all want to help you, but you must

talk to us."

"Everything's fine, Father."

"There are things a child might find difficult to discuss with his parents, but

with me it's different, it would be just between the two of us."

So that was what it was all about.

There was a silence before the final attack.

"You are about to confess, Victor. I can only absolve you if I am certain that

you're not hiding anything from the Lord."

From the Lord or from my mother? If those two had formed an alliance, who

could I possibly trust?

***

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Day after day, Madame Laquaire performed miracles, making me climb down

from the rosy cloud on which I had established residence. After offering me her cheek,

she would ask about Colette. Granting legitimacy to my passion was the mark of a

genius. Being allowed to talk about my beloved, her latest bon mot or the paper cut on

her finger on which I had put a band-aid, made me pliable. Once admitted in my secret

universe, it was easy for the old lady to remind me of our goals and lead me into a

world inhabited by Prussian generals, farmers maximizing yields by rotating crops,

bicyclers pursuing each other at variable speeds, and long-dead poets.

"We're not about to allow them to separate you, trust me," she would say as she

opened a manual.

My mother, on the other hand, never gave up. The more she felt she was losing

her grip on me, the more aggressively she pursued me. Her imagination was fertile.

I remember one Sunday lunch at the end of which Janine brought a chocolate

charlotte, my favorite dessert, instead of the usual fruit salad.

"What's the occasion?" Lucie asked.

Fishing a wad of St. Jean-Baptiste pink slips from the pocket of her skirt, my

mother lay it down next to her plate.

"The occasion? We are celebrating Victor's twelfth detention since the Easter

break," she announced as she took a knife to the charlotte.

Flashing an icy smile, reminiscent of a cartoon witch, she invited first my

father, then Lucie, to hold out their plates before pushing the dish toward Bonne

Maman. Turning to my father she added: "I don't care what the old goat you're wasting

your money on says, Victor is setting new records for his last year with us."

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"What about Victor?" asked Bonne Maman, ignoring my father's rule of

silence, "He's not having charlotte? He loves chocolate."

"Dessert for Victor?" my mother exclaimed, feigning surprise, "Certainly not.

Not with all these detentions."

Lucie then intervened, exclaiming, "You mean you went all the way to

Coquelin to buy a charlotte, just so Victor couldn't have it?"

"Lucie!" my father said feebly.

"I can't believe this," my sister said, pushing her plate away.

Ignoring the glares from my parents, she rose, and left the room. Her gesture of

solidarity carved itself more deeply into my memory than the torment invented by my

mother.

***

When I arrived home one Tuesday evening, my heart was singing, my mind

replaying the bliss shared with Colette. Nothing could have prepared me for the horror

that awaited me. I didn't even have time to take my keys out of my pocket; my mother

had heard the elevator and opened the door wide. Her broad smile was the first sign

that she was up to something.

In fact, such a cheery atmosphere reigned in the apartment that alarms quickly

started to sound in me. Far from making me relax, the sound of my mother humming

in the kitchen filled me with panic. I had no clue as to the source of such joy, but I

could smell trouble.

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Janine had just served one of her specialtiesovercooked veal with a gooey

and tasteless sauce, accompanied by the hated spinachwhen the first salvo was

fired.

"Did you read this article in Le Figaro about Proust?" my mother asked in her

most innocent tone. "I like Proust, of course; Remembrance of Things Past is a

masterpiece, but he’s not my favorite author."

My father and Lucie exchanged puzzled looks and didn't bother to answer,

while Bonne Maman muttered silently to herself, as usual. But my mother didn't mind

their lack of cooperation. It was me she was staring at, and her eyes belied the

cheerfulness of her smile. I started to shiver.

"I like Colette better," she went on, "She's one of our best authors. Most of all,

the Claudine series and of course Gigi. What do you think, Victor? Don't you agree?"

I could hardly breathe. With a circular glance, my mother made sure she had

everybody’s attention.

"He loves Colette. You might even say, he’s in love with Colette. Aren't you,

Victor?"

My blood went cold, my palms were damp with icy sweat, my heart was

dying. I wanted to get up, leave, and run away, but my legs wouldn't have carried me.

My stomach churned; I felt like vomiting.

I often thought about how perplexed my father had looked that day, and came

to the conclusion that his wife hadn't let him in the ploy. Quite satisfied with her first

act, she fished a sheet of lined paper from the pocket of her skirt and, taking her time

for effect, unfolded it. I recognized it, of course.

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"Colette my love," she read aloud, managing to make every word sound dirty,

"I waited whole day - all, a-l-l, Victor, not whole - for the moment when I could see

you at the Lycée Molière, but when I had to leave, you still had not come out. Or

maybe you came out early, I don't know. But it's all right. When I waited, I was close

to you and that was almost enough. I love you so much, my Colette, that I'm not sure

I'll ever be able to tell you face to face."

My mother looked around the table. "Well, well! Seems to me we have a Don

Juan in the family," she concluded with glee. "And there's more. There's a whole

collection. You're all going to get a big laugh out of it."

"Maman!" Lucie protested, "This isn't right!"

But no truce was possible. I could see in my mother's eyes, in the mad fire that

burned behind them, and in the hard lines around her mouth that she would have no

mercy; she was going for the kill. This realization gave my legs the strength they had

lost for a moment. I pushed back my chair and ran to my room.

"Colette, my love," my mother declaimed behind me.

My closet had been searched from top to bottom, and all my letters were gone.

I locked my door and wept for hours on my bed. Several times, my mother ordered me

to open the door, saying, we had to talk, she only had my best interest in mind, one

day I would see what she meant, but I didn't move. I also ignored her threats of

punishment. What else could she do to me? Finally, I fell asleep in my clothes, my

face buried in a tear-soaked pillow.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

The following afternoon I left Saint Jean-Baptiste as soon as the bell rang and

ran all the way to the Lycée Molière. I just had to see Colette. Not that I had any

intention to tell her about what had happenedthe shame was still burning, and

besides I couldn't tell her about the lettersI just needed to be near her, to make sure

she was still in my life.

When I arrived, out of breath, at the corner of the rue du Ranelagh, the little

girls of first and second grade were just coming out, under the supervision of a head

mistress. I stood at my usual spot, near a fire hydrant, where Colette had learned to

look for me. When I saw her, my heart swelled with joy and relief. Suddenly, all the

pain was forgotten.

Colette smiled broadly when she saw me. God, she was beautiful! Nothing,

nobody, mattered anymore. I leaned forward to kiss the cheek she was offering me,

but a voice I knew all too well made me freeze.

"I presume this is Mademoiselle Colette."

I turned around, petrified. My mother was all decked out in a navy-blue dress

and perched on stiletto heels. I would have found her beautiful if I hadn't read so much

cruelty in her smile. Colette looked at me, puzzled.

"Colette Knudsen ... my mother," I said in a barely audible voice.

"Colette how?"

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"Knudsen," Colette repeated.

"What a funny name!" my mother exclaimed.

I stepped forward as if I had the power to protect Colette. "It's Danish," I said,

desperately trying to sound assertive.

"That's what I said, it doesn't sound like it belongs here."

"Her mother is a dentist. A stomatologist actually."

I was going for some legitimacy.

"Well that's most interesting," my mother sneered. "We'll keep her in mind

when we have a cavity".

She then grabbed my arm and lashed out, saying, "Why don't you go home,

Mademoiselle, the sidewalk is no place for a young woman. Oh! And please don't

bother my son anymore."

As we walked up the Avenue Mozart, my mother didn't let go of my arm. I

guess I could have fought back and set myself free, but the thought didn't even occur

to me. All I could think about was the hurt on Colette's face as she held her hand over

her cheek as if she had been slapped.

Suddenly, my mother stopped and pushed me toward a bench where we sat

down. For a few minutes she didn't speak, but I could feel a storm coming. People

walked by, anonymous, faceless silhouettes; they were just a blur.

"You'll never see this little slut again," my mother finally hissed between

clenched teeth.

"Colette is not a slut."

Her laughter was dry, and full of contempt.

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"How would you know? I do, believe me. I know her kind. Those little whores

are cunning. They pick a boy who will then spend all his life regretting it. The only

thing I can't understand is what she could possibly see in you."

I had spent enough time trying to answer that question myself to know not to

argue.

"Let's face it. It's not as if you were smart or even good-looking with those ears

of yours. Anyway ... it's my duty as a mother to protect you, even if you don't deserve

it and don't seem to be grateful for my efforts. Consider yourself lucky that I was able

to intervene."

"We weren't doing anything wrong."

"What about the filth you wrote?"

"What filth?"

From the corner of my eye I recognized "the mask". My mother was rubbing

her arms, and shivering. Her voice went up in its highest octaves as she recited, "'My

love, I would like so much to hold you in my arms, to feel your body against mine' ...

It wouldn't be too bad if it was only ridiculousafter all you don't know what you're

talking aboutbut it's disgusting which doesn't surprise me in the least, coming from

you."

I remained silent, crushed, painfully aware of my powerlessness in front of a

woman I loved and hated so much. She scared me so!

"Anyway," my mother concluded, "this is all over. In the future I'll watch out

more closely for you. You're never to see that little slut ever again, do you hear me?"

At last a current of rebellion went through me.

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"And what if I want to see her again? It's my life after all!" I said, sounding

almost resolute.

The answer came swiftly, merciless as usual.

"Must I remind you that you have a criminal record? Will you force me to call

her parents and reveal that you were once convicted for pornography?"

Game, set and match. I was beaten and never saw Colette again.

***

I didn't cry that night, didn't shed a tear. Something had snapped, allowing a

newly discovered rage to overwhelm me, so powerful that I hardly felt the pain. Never

before had I known this urge to hit, destroy, eradicate. I could only think of

vengeance. Gone was the helpless, meek little boy, I was an angry warrior. I had lost

Colette. I knew I would never see her again. Sooner or later I would feel the pain, the

loss, and I would cry, but for now, I was thirsty for revenge. All I could think about

was getting back at my mother. She had to pay.

Locked in my room I had declined to sit at the dinner table. Several times, my

mother had knocked, and then finally banged at my door, shouting, "Victor, open up!

We have to talk. I need to explain."

What could she possibly explain? What did we have to talk about?

It was now past two in the morning. Lying on my bed in my pajamas, my

hands crossed behind my head, I had watched the windows go dark, one after the

other, on the other side of the street. My jaws were so tight they hurt; I only relaxed

them to whisper, "Bitch, fucking witch, I hate you."

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Never before had I felt such anger. I was shaking with a rage I didn't know I

had in me. I saw myself shredding my mother's most beautiful dresses or, even better,

pouring rat poison, strychnine or cyanide into her bottle of gin.

I must have fallen asleep a few moments, because it was almost four when I

opened my eyes. Perhaps my inspiration came from the erection that accompanied my

coming to. Be that as it may, I knew at that very moment how I was going to exact

vengeance. At last, I had a plan. "Yes, that's it. That's it!" I heard myself say.

I got up, noiselessly opened the door, and tiptoed to the kitchen. My uneaten

dinner was in a Tupperware container in the refrigerator, but I had no interest in it. I

took the bowl containing my mother's famous vitamin-loaded yogurt and carried it to

my room. There, I climbed on a chair and found the photograph rescued several weeks

earlier from Glob's desk. Hidden under the cloth lining the upper shelf of my closet, it

had evaded all searches. For a brief moment, I imagined my mother's reaction had she

found this photograph. After all, she had dragged me to the police for a far more

innocent picture. She would have had a seizure, no doubt. She would have dropped

dead. Too bad, I thought, I would have liked to see her go that way. It would have

been appropriate.

Thighs spread open, her mound clean-shaven, her sex agape, the woman stared

at me from behind her mask. She was about to be my partner in crime.

Since meeting Colette, I had had no desire to look at that picture, for my soul

had been pure, in spite of the torrid dreams dampening my pajamas. After seeing

myself penetrating females in my sleepNora was a frequent guest star I had been

filled with shame for having been in some way unfaithful to Colette.

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Tonight, however, everything was different. Rage and lust fed off each other.

The sight of this woman made my blood boil. I was so hard it hurt. I could hardly

breathe. My hand shook as I untied my pants.

My penis throbbed in my hand. I knew I was going to come any second now,

but would have liked to delay the moment of vengeance. She had had me convicted of

pornography, hadn't she? She had called Colette a slut, hadn't she? She had sullied my

love, hadn't she? Well, this is what I had for her. When I ejaculated in a hot spurt and

felt myself shaking from head to toe, I struggled to keep my eyes open for I didn't

want to miss my target. I watched intently as gush after gush of sperm landed on the

yogurt, white on white. And when the eruption slowed down, when I had finally

regained some sort of composure, I squeezed carefully the head of my penis. We didn't

want to waste even a drop, did we? Satisfied, I took a pencil on my desk and used it to

stir carefully my mother's breakfast. Return to sender in a way, I thought.

Back from the kitchen, I went to bed, set my alarm clock, and fell asleep with a

smile on my face.

***

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Sleeping in was a sacred weekend ritual for my father. The telephone would be

off the hook, and noises of all kinds were no-no’s; Janine who had dropped a pile of

plates in the kitchen, one Saturday morning, never forgot her ensuing dressing down.

As soon as my mother woke up, she had to leave the bed because feeling that his wife

was awake "spoiled" the master's well-deserved rest. That didn't mean she was

allowed to shower, however, lest the noise of running water disturb him. Neither could

she have breakfast before her husband. "We are a family, we do everything together,"

he would often say. Even then I recognized those words as a monument of hypocrisy.

I got up at 7 that Saturday and ran all the way to school, in order to be the first

for confession. I recited the usual litany of sins: sloth, anger, lack of respect to my

parents, which I might or might not have committed; I had stopped bothering about

that. The list was well received; it was worth a few Holy Fathers and Hail Marys.

I didn't waste time on my way back home, either, didn't stop at the baker's

window, didn't even call Jacky. As I arrived my father was just stepping out of his

bedroom, tying up the belt of his crested purple robe.

"Breakfast in 20 minutes," I heard him announce while heading for the

bathroom.

The first signs of activity could be heard from the kitchen.

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I sat down at the table as Janine entered, carrying a tray loaded with baguette,

toasted brioche, strawberry jam, a smoking pot of coffee, a jar of milk and my

mother's bowl of yogurt. Lucie had her bad mood face on, Bonne Maman was

struggling with her napkin, which she liked to tuck into her blouse, my father was

checking the morning headlines, and my mother was pointedly ignoring me. She

hadn't answered my resounding "Good morning, Maman!" and turned away as I

moved to kiss her. I was being punished for having denied her the pleasure of a last

act.

My father helped himself first and kept the basket with the toasted brioche in

front of him.

"Would you mind very much sharing with us?" Lucie asked.

Bonne Maman looked as if she desperately wanted to stay out of trouble and

my mother dipped her spoon into her Bulgarian yogurt.

I stopped breathing. A piece of toast suspended midair, I watched intently as

my mother brought the spoon to her mouth. An icy rivulet of perspiration ran down

my spine. Never had I experienced such suspense.

When my mother looked at her spoon, frowning, appearing to do a double

take, my heart stopped. With her lips pushed forward, she wore the same expression as

when she questioned the expiration date of one of her medications. But my

imagination was probably playing tricks on me, because she soon swallowed a second

spoonful, and then a third.

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Suddenly I was struck by the banality of the moment. My subconscious had

prepared me for lightning to strike in our dining room, or the floor to open under our

feet, but nothing was happening. Nothing. There was only the clatter of plates and

cups, the crisp noise of knifes buttering toasts, and the silence of my parents, who had

nothing to say to each other.

When my father pushed his chair back and rose without a word, I still hadn't

started to eat.

"What's your problem?" my mother snapped. "You want my picture?"

"Nothing, Maman. I'm just wondering how your yogurt tastes."

"What is it to you?"

"It's good for her complexion," Lucie commented.

I smiled. Bon appétit, Maman.

***

Incredibly, it was only on my way to St. Jean-Baptiste the following morning

that it dawned on me: I was about to be tested, as I never had been. The somewhat

bogus confession of the previous day hadn't mattered much. I had been there before

and God had shown no sign of displeasure.

But everything was different now. I had stepped over a line, there was no

denying it. God had seen me the other night. He had witnessed my mother's breakfast.

He had to be beside Himself. I was overwhelmed with sacred fear when I sat down on

a sixth row bench, next to the aisle. All the doubts that had developed in me lately had

to do with the Church and it's officers, not with God himself, and certainly not His

existence. Questions of such magnitude were beyond my realm.

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I went through the service in a quasi-hypnotic state. The prayers and orisons,

Father Moisnard's sermon, the hymns; to me they were all part of an indistinct

background rumble. I stood up, knelt down, and sat down with my comrades at the

command of the bells in the same state of resigned numbness as a prisoner living his

last minutes before execution. For one brief moment, I tried to convince myself that

sincere remorse could buy me His forgiveness, but I had to accept reality; not only did

I not feel one bit sorry for what I had done, I was determined to repeat my deed as

long as anger and rage still inhabited me.

Finally it was communion time. My knees were shaking as I took my place in

line and moved toward the altar, while watching my comrades walk back to their seats

with their head bowed. They were at peace. God wasn't angry at them even when He

saw the smiles and winks they exchanged, for they hadn't committed the unforgivable.

Like every Sunday I knelt down in front of the golden rail. From the corner of

my eye, I saw the priest's embroidered chasuble as he came nearer and nearer. The

holy murmur became more and more distinct. I opened my mouth when the black

shoes and the hem of the alb stopped in front of me and held my breath. Each muscle

of my neck and shoulders was on a state of high alert. I didn't know what to expect.

The worst, the most severe punishment, it went without saying. And yet, the dull

contact of the wafer on my tongue was the same as ever. It stuck on my dry tongue.

Gathering what was left of my strength, I swallowed. If God was going to strike, now

was the moment. I wasn't ready - how can you be? - but I was resigned.

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I was almost surprised to find a cool breeze and a ray of sun welcoming me

when I came out of the church. Something Father Minot had said came back to my

memory.

"If you ever commit the ultimate sin, I think you'll know."

To my utmost surprise, I found this burden remarkably light.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I don't have much memory of the weeks leading to the year-end exams. My

heart was in a coma. The rage-induced anesthesia had subsided, quickly replaced by

cruel and merciless pain, and I was in a state of deep mourning. I cannot possibly

imagine what I would have done without Madame Laquaire. Maybe I wouldn't have

thrown myself under a train, as I first contemplated, but I would certainly have

returned to the abyss of ignorance from which she had worked so hard to rescue me.

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My old tutor always welcomed me with a smile. Almond cookies were waiting

in a plate with a gold rim.

"These are calissons, from Aix-en-Provence, my hometown," she would say,

forcing the accent she had once struggled to get rid of, for effect.

"When my husband was transferred here, I had to learn how to speak Parisian,"

she recalled. "You can't be a half-decent teacher if the kids burst out laughing every

time you open your mouth."

She would tell me stories about her first classes and her too brief marriage to a

man who could only see the sunny side of life until the very last days of his fight with

cancer.

"His real illness was optimism," she would say whenever we visited her photo

albums and their faded pictures. She would then heave a long, deep sigh and pour

herself a little glass of sweet liquor. It was good for her "condition," she always said

without ever bothering to elaborate.

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The old lady also knew how to listen. She never wasted her time assuring me

that I had my whole life ahead of me or that I would meet other girls and fall in love

again. No, she used all her talent to channel my emotions and reorient them. Moments

later, I would find myself, pencil in hand, trying to solve an equation, totally unaware

of the transition she had engineered. I could feel how eager she was then to

congratulate me. Only when the neighbor played his trumpet records did she lose her

patience. She would bang the wall with the broom handle and call him names that she

later begged me to forget.

Jacky no longer shared my lessons.

"Books aren't for me," he had declared one day, to Madame Laquaire's dismay,

"Me, I only care about engines."

I still saw Nora three times a week, though. She prepared my bowl of Ovaltine

as soon as she saw me through her window. She kept repeating that a little bit of sun

would do me good.

"I'm not saying that you must be as tanned as Nora," she would say with her

deep throaty laugh, "but you're as white as a ghost. Such a pretty boy, what a shame!"

I let her cuddle me and purred when she stroked my hair with her long red-

nailed fingers.

And so I traveled from one universe to the other, from my parent'sI no

longer called it my hometo St. Jean-Baptiste, where I kept my nose to the ground, to

Nora's oasis of sensuality, and to Madame Laquaire's little apartment.

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Finally, the first day of the dreaded exams arrived. Up long before the alarm

rang, I jumped out of bed. My mother and Lucie were arguing in the kitchen when I

ran out of my room, ignoring the cup of cocoa that Janine had prepared. They raised

surprised eyebrows, and returned to their discussion, having forgotten, or determined

to ignore how crucial the day was for me. I slammed the door behind me and ran

down the stairs without waiting for the elevator.

Out on the street, I walked quickly up the Avenue Mozart to the Vrai Saumur

café, near the subway station. There, seated at a table by the window, Madame

Laquaire and Jacky were waving at me. Suddenly, I felt strong.

“The croissants are just out of the oven," Jacky said, pushing a basket toward

me while, on a signal from Madame Laquaire, a waiter hurried over with a cup of hot

and foamy chocolate.

"So?" the old woman asked, "were you able to sleep a little?"

"Not much."

"Nothing to worry about," said Jacky. "What can they do to you? They can't be

worse than your bitch of a mother."

"Jacky, please!" Madame Laquaire protested, and I laughed at my friend's lame

attempt to look contrite. "I know, I know," he said. "There are things you shouldn't say

… even if they're true."

When we arrived at St. Jean-Baptiste, Madame Laquaire planted kisses on my

cheeks and Jacky punched me in the ribs.

"Show them what you can do, champ," he said.

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Around us, my schoolmates were all saying farewell to their parents. I wasn't

jealous of them, because their families couldn't have been better than my new one.

***

The publication of the results was cause for neither triumph nor despair. My

mother had been right and I wasn't admitted to the next grade. My score was high

enough, however, to qualify for a second chance in September, and this took my

parents by surprise.

"What are we going to do now?" my mother lamented, as if she had just

learned of a disaster.

A few days later, I was told of my fate. I would spend the summer in Paris as a

guest of St. Jean-Baptiste's boarding school program.

"It's costing me an arm and a leg," my father commented, but another year in

the same grade would be an even worse deal."

"And he'll be in good company," my mother snorted. "The bottom of the

barrel."

The holidays were upon us, and my father laid out the plans. In exchange for

the free rental of 40 TV's to a small hotel in Brittany, my mother would get to spend

two months by the sea as a non-paying guest. My father would join her for long

weekends in August and a full week in September. As for Lucie, she was headed for

the Alps. Her friends had rented a chalet close to the Mer de Glace.

"Be careful out there, it's slippery!" warned Bonne Maman.

My grandmother was in a good mood, for she had been granted permission to

move into my room while I was away.

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I didn't know what to expect from the boarding school program, but didn't

really care. I was slowly learning not to think of Colette, which made life both easier

and emptier. I watched without much attention as the family prepared for the big

departure. They talked of boots, and sweaters for the mountain, and bathing costumes

for the beach.

The day before I left, an incident occurred. Alerted by my mother's suddenly

raised voice, I tiptoed toward the living room. My parents were facing each other, only

separated by two open suitcases at their feet. My father was shaking his head and

rolling his eyes. In an effort to stop the accusations hurled at him by his wife, he kept

holding up his hand, trying to interrupt, but to no avail.

My mother's voice was shrill.

"I know why you're sending me away for two months," she yelled. "To get rid

of me, so you can have a good time in Paris. That's what you really want."

"But ..."

"Oh, yes! And don't you make faces at me. I might be crazy, as you say, but I'm

not stupid. I'm not one of your hussies."

"But what …"

"I can see you, only minutes after my train has left the station. ‘Good

riddance,’ isn't that what you'll think? You'll be free to party with your whores."

"But will you, at last …"

"You'll never change. You like them easy, don't you? Willing to do all the

disgusting tricks, you …"

"What disgusting tr__"

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"And I'll be alone with other wives just like me, bored stiff in a miserable hotel

while, back in Paris, our husbands do in broad day-light what they do in secret the rest

of the year."

My father had to kick one of the suitcases so hard that its contents flew across

the carpet to get his wife's attention.

"Shut up!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Shut the fuck up! I can't take

any more of your divagations."

From my observation post in the shadow of the corridor, I watched, utterly

fascinated. Now my mother had changed her act. No longer on the attack, she choked

up and let herself fall onto the sofa.

"At least these other women," she moaned, "will have their children with

them. I won't even have that comfort. You can't understand."

"I understand that you're talking nonsense. That much I do understand."

"Lucie is going away with her friends. But she's a grown up now, and she's not

truly my daughter, as you remind me all the time. But my Victor … it will be the first

time we won’t be spending the summer together."

My father's eyes went wide with stupefaction. "Are you saying you'll miss

him?"

"How dare you? Let me ask you a simple question. Do you have a picture of

your children when you travel? Of course you don't. I'll show you what I mean."

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The head of the family was at a total loss for words. My mother knelt down

and started to remove blouses, cardigans, dresses from her suitcase, finally exposing a

framed picture, wrapped in a sweater. I couldn't believe my eyes. She had, indeed,

packed a picture of me that had been taken the previous summer. In it, I was standing

on the steps of the Hotel du Promontoire.

"This way, I'm taking him with me," she said.

My father shook his head, raised his arms in a sign of defeat, and left the room.

"I don't believe my ears," he muttered as he walked by me. Raising her head,

my mother saw me.

"Come and see maman, my lambkin," she called.

I hesitated a second or two before going to sit down next to her. Smiling, she

pulled my head on her bosom. I don't know how long we stayed like that. The moment

was both brief and eternal. Suddenly my mother intoned Le p'tit quinquin, a nursery

rhyme from the patois of her native north, and then laughed softly.

"Do you remember lambkin? That was what I used to sing for you when you

were a tiny baby. And years before, my father used to sing it for me. Ah, well …"

Those minutes, that song, her laughter, and her words never left my memory. I

wasn't sure what to believeand still don't know reallybut she had packed my

picture, hadn't she? For a brief moment nothing else mattered.

Each time I think about that day, I hear a voice inside me. "If only you had

known then!"

***

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Behind the walls of St. Jean-Baptiste, days went by under a cloud of boredom.

Up at 6:30, we were marched from the dorm to the bathroom, then to the dining hall

and the classrooms, a dull and obedient flock. We had all been denied the sunny

beaches, mountain peaks and idyllic landscapes pictured on the postcards taped inside

our lockers. The mood was one of glum resignation. Neither the walks in the Bois de

Boulogne nor even the Sunday afternoon movie at the nearby theater were able to

shake up our torpor. It felt like hibernation in August.

Fortunately, twice a week, I was allowed to escape. As my companions in

misery headed for the library, I ran as fast as my legs would allow toward Nora and

Madame Laquaire. Jacky was spending the summer with his uncle, the owner of a bar

in Toulon.

Madame Laquaire was waiting for me, but she knew how much I loved

spending a moment with Nora.

"Take your time. Have your lemonade or whatever she prepares for you," she

said. "You work better when you've spent time downstairs."

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Yes, it was a hot summer and cold lemonade had replaced the cup of cocoa. An

electric fan stirred the air and Nora walked about in a nylon slip through which I could

make out her tiny panties. When somebody knocked at the door, she put on a white

robe. Nora was perfectly comfortable with her own body and didn't seem to notice the

emotion it stirred up in me. After my first heartbreak, my senses had come alive again.

Nora's long brown thighs, her curved behind, her heavy breasts, naked under the slip

lit a fire in me. I stared at these beautiful breasts, whose nipples pointed through the

fabric and wanted so much to touch them. Later, in my bed I revisited these moments

of delicious frustration and often, oblivious to the snores and whispers around me, I

made love to Nora's memory.

Mid-August brought the first test exams, designed to make hardened veterans

out of us and with them came a momentous surprise: a contingent of girls from Notre

Dame of SomethingI forget what. They arrived early one morning at breakfast time;

some twenty of them, prim and proper in their neat pearl-gray uniforms and white

blouses. They waited a while in the courtyard, stealing furtive glances at the

surroundings, under the watchful supervision of four nuns with their winged coifs. We

fought for the best observation points at the dining hall windows. Behind the back of

the nuns, the girls whispered and giggled.

It was then that I realized that Colette had been the exception; I wasn't into

girls my own age. Only women, true women, interested me. They were neither

awkward nor unfinished like the new arrivals; they were elegant. The assurance of

mature women excited me. At times, on the bus or in local shops, I gazed at them with

fascination.

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"Don't you stare at people like that, young man. Didn't your parents teach you

manners?" one elegantly dressed woman had once scolded me.

Of course I was curious and hungry for their sexes, their skin, their breasts, all

those treasures the priests of St. Jean-Baptiste wanted to keep my mind off of, but it

was their femininity as a whole that kept me in awe. I was discovering their hair

flowing down to their shoulders, the minuscule wrinkles around their eyes when they

laughed, the feet swinging at the end of their legs as they crossed them over their

round knees, the silkiness of their skin, their made-up eyes, their long eyelashes. I

could have spent my days and nights learning about women. They were the keepers of

the mystery.

I was consumed with desire, but there was more. Of course, the sight of Nora's

half-naked body set fire to my imagination, but her mere presence, the sound of her

voice, the way she glided rather than walked like the rest of us, the most insignificant

of her gestures enthralled me. I marveled at the way she touched the tip of her nose

when searching for a word or how she marked the beat of her sentences with her

handsone time black, the next pink. All these marks of femininity made up a

kingdom into which I was proud to be admitted. When Nora hummed while filing her

nails or applied lipstick on her wide, full lips, nothing else existed for me.

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Similarly, my heart came to a stop whenever a woman let me catch a glimpse

of the inside of her thighs while getting out of her car. The brief vision of white flesh

beyond the border of the stockings made me shake. Often I would dream that the

woman had invited me to sit down next to her. I wanted so to smell her fragrance or

admire her long, red fingernails as she smoothed her skirt. She would take a filtered

cigarette from a silver case and hand me her lighter. Oh! The line of her neck as she

leaned over toward the flame! And what about her long hair, falling like a theater

curtain down her lovely face? I didn't see what the young girls of Notre Dame of

Something had to offer. I found their airs as pointless as the raunchy boasts of my

comrades. Yes, I was passionate about women. Everything about them fascinated me,

including the way they had of ignoring me and walking away on their high heels,

unaware of the boy they had just left, overwhelmed, in their wake.

***

Finally, the big day arrived. In spite of Madame Laquaire's repeated claims of

confidence, I was nearly dying.

There were some thirty of us, one per desk, in a large room. It had been

painted over during the summer recess in a dull yellowish green that still managed to

look old and dirty. As we sat down, we exchanged forced smiles and fatalistic shrugs.

Some of those who had escaped imprisonment sported a vacation tan and made fun of

our pale faces. Among us, and not a bit more comfortable, were a few girls from Notre

Dame. One of them was sitting across the aisle from me.

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The first thing I noticed about her was the way she played with the blonde hair

on the nape of her slender neck. The memory of Colette stung. I thought I had

forgotten her, but this gesture brought her to life again in my heart. The girl must have

felt my gaze, for she turned to me and smiled. I blushed.

"Hey, Delorme," whispered a redhead by the name of Vacher, whose snoring

had often kept me awake, "this is no day to play the ladies man."

At last, the exam forms were distributed. Dead silence reigned. I quickly went

over the questions and immediately felt a wave of relief. Two trains were running in

opposite directions, nothing new there … a series of equations, which only two

months before would have made my mind numb, now seemed simple enough. A

problem of interest ratios seemed to spread consternation around me, but Madame

Laquaire had taught me to see through the apparent complexity.

"Step back," she had said, "and learn to recognize one of the simple structures

you already know."

Father Marcoux rose frequently from behind his desk and walked up and down

the aisles, stopping behind such or such student, glancing over the poor soul's

shoulder. He then resumed his inspection, poker-faced, with just a vaguely amused

smile on his thin lips.

"Square of a minus b?" whispered the girl across the aisle.

I dropped my pencil and leaned down to pick it up. "a2 minus 2ab plus b2"

"Delorme!"

"I dropped my pencil, Father!"

"Try that one more time and you'll be expelled."

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Later, as I was crossing the courtyard on my way to the dining hall, the blonde

girl caught up with me. "Thanks for the algebra," she said. "My name's Marine."

"I know. I heard. I'm Victor."

"I knew the answer, you know, but I drew a blank. I wasn't sure whether it was

plus or minus 2ab. I panicked."

"I know the feeling. Are you ready for this afternoon?"

Her horrified look made me laugh.

"They say it's going to be on the causes of World War I," she said. "If it's true,

it's a disaster for me."

"Rumors," I said. "Nothing more. But if you want, I can tell you a few things

after lunch."

Marine smiled and I realized that she was pretty. I liked her wide, green eyes

and the dimple on her chin. She ran to catch up with her friends, her skirt swirling

around her slender legs.

"So, Delorme, at least the day won't be a total waste of time for you," sneered

Vacher.

I didn't answer.

Later, under the shade of an elm, I told Marine about Sarajevo, the

assassination of the Archduke, the alliances and domino effect across Europe.

"I'm sure there's a lot more," I concluded when the bell rang, "but that's

basically it."

"We could be friends," she said, before answering the call of one of the nuns.

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Friends, she had said. Was it at all possible? For some reason, mere friendship

with girls seemed to be an extremely complicated adventure.

Surprise! Marine's information was correct. Since I had refreshed my memory

with her, it didn't take me long to complete the test. The second subject, the rivers of

France, were more of a problem, but I still managed to leave twenty minutes early. As

I crossed the courtyard, it occurred to me that I could wait for Marine whose savior I

was after all, even her hero possibly. No urge, however, was stronger than that of

being with Nora and Madame Laquaire.

I started running.

***

I woke up at three on the morning of the publication of the results, and was

unable to go back to sleep. Eyes wide open, I stared at the narrow window in front of

me, waiting for the first rays of light. In the bed on my left, Vacher was snoring away.

On my right, Dujardin was grinding his teeth.

At ten o'clock sharp, Louis, the hunchback caretaker, came out, clad in his

usual gray overalls, and opened the heavy door. A crowd of anxious parents was

admitted into the courtyard. The previous evening, I had begged Madame Laquaire not

to come. I knew how devastated the likely failure was going to leave me, and wanted

to be alone at the moment of humiliation.

"I don't like this kind of talk, Victor," she had said. "But we'll do as you wish."

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On a nod from the Father Superior, Louis opened the gymnasium door and the

crowd gathered in front of the boards where the ominous lists were posted. I

desperately tried to act cool, but I certainly bore the same expression of anguish as

everyone else around me. As in a dream, I heard the cries of joy, the moans of

disappointment while I elbowed my way through the crowd, feeling a tight hand

around my throat. Suddenly, my blood started to boil and I felt the heat on my face.

Delorme, Victor! With the crowd pushing and shoving around me, I kept staring at

these two words as if expecting the mirage to disappear any moment. But it didn't, it

did look like it was true. Delorme, Victor; for once, my name was among the

victorious. How wrong I had been to want to be alone! I couldn't wait to see the smile

on Madame Laquaire's face. And what about Nora? She, too, would be proud. I looked

around. There were many somber faces. I saw Vacher walk slowly toward the door, his

head bowed.

A white-haired man with a limp turned around and barked at him: "Are you

coming or what?"

I had never been fond of Vacher; for one brief moment however, I felt sorry for

him.

“Delorme!”

I turned around. Father Minot was beckoning to me. "Congratulations," the

priest said. He was smiling and looking away at the same time, as if embarrassed, then

he put his hands on my shoulders.

"Your father called. They came back earlier than planned."

Now he was looking past me.

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"Go home," he finally said. "Go now."

"Do my parents know about the exam?"

He shook his head.

"You'll tell them yourself. Go now, I'm telling you."

"What about my…"

"Go now, Victor. Now!"

I turned around and ran.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Deep down I had never really believed in my chances and wasn't ready for my

moment of triumph. As I walked briskly past buildings that had seen me so often

dragging my feet, dejected, I reviewed the possible lines that could accompany my

return home.

"Good morning, Papa, good morning, Maman. Did you hear the news on TV?

Your son passed his exam."

No, not funny.

How about something cool, and detached like. "Did you have a nice time? You

look rested. Me? Nothing special. Ah yes, I almost forgot. I passed my exam."

No, I couldn't possibly keep a straight face.

Why not go all the way then, mime a herald at the court of Charlemagne,

reading from an imaginary parchment. "Ta-Da.! Oyez, oyez, good people. Victor

passed his exam."

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With each of these scenarios, I tried to picture my audience's reaction. To no

avail; in spite of my efforts I just couldn't see my parents. My father would probably

be satisfied, even if he wouldn’t show it, but what about my mother, what mood would

she be in? I considered climbing the eight flights of the service stairs up to Bonne

Maman's room and ask her what to expect. But no, I couldn't wait, I was dying to tell

them. A simple "Good morning, Papa and Maman. I want you to know that I passed"

would do. They would be surprised, no doubt. They might even be proud of their son.

When I rang, I heard no noise in the apartment. No TV, no voices, no clatter of

utensils from the kitchen. I was fishing my key out of my pocket when my father

opened the door, looking exhausted, haggard with his tie undone and his hair

uncombed. Behind him stood a nurse in a white uniform, a stocky, unsmiling woman

in her fifties with a strong jaw conveying a sense of authority and whose grey hair was

tied in a bun under a starched white hat.

"Ah! It's you," my father said in a tired, barely audible voice. Suddenly, none

of my plans made sense, and gone was my enthusiasm. I was voiceless.

"The bell. I thought it was Dr. Raillard," the nurse said.

"What's going on?" I asked my father.

"Your mother attempted suicide."

"What?"

"You heard me. They pumped her stomach at the hospital. Now she's here and

we have to make a decision."

"What sort of decision?"

"What to do with her. They say she shouldn't stay by herself."

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"She's not alone here."

"I travel all the time and I cannot rely on your grandmother."

"Is she in her room? I want to see her."

My father grabbed my elbow and said, "Certainly not! They gave her a

sedative. Let her rest."

He then led me to his study, where he let himself fall into his favorite armchair.

"I guess I was dozing," he sighed. "I didn't sleep all night."

Bit by bit, I learned what had happened. Often my father repeated himself and

there were times when he made no sense at all, but I was able to put the pieces

together. Their vacation had not gone well, he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

Never before had he spoken to me like this. He didn't seem to realize how incongruous

it was for him to treat me as an adult.

"She accused me of looking at the other women in the hotel. Making passes at

them. She even claimed that I had slipped a message to the woman at the next table.

You should've seen the woman in question! As if I was going to do something like that

in full view of everybody, anyway."

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He stopped and remained silent for a while, then sighed. "I wasn't even

allowed to take a walk alone on the beach. She thought I was meeting somebody. And

then, one evening, she turned hysterical. She had gone up early to our room, one of

her migraines. When she felt better and came downstairs, I was helping the barmaid

with a case of bottles; the gentlemanly thing to do, you know, the case was too heavy

for that poor girl. Your mother started to scream. She hurled insults at the poor kid; she

wanted to hit her and the owner had to intervene. There were people in the TV room,

and they all came in to see what was happening. I was so embarrassed, it was

horrible!"

My mother had remained prostrate during the ride back.

"Not a single fucking word in seven hours," my father said.

When they arrived in Paris, she was wearing "her bad days face."

"And then, last night … it was about two in the morning, I woke up. She was

groaning. First, I thought she was having a bad dream, so I shook her shoulder, but she

kept on moaning so I turned the light on. Her eyes were wide open, but I could see the

whites. She was drooling, it was awful. And there was this stench too, like alcohol and

vomit. I jumped off the bed and that's when I saw the bottle of gin and the two tubes

of Valium she had swallowed."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Bonne Maman. I wanted to run to her and

give her a kiss, but she put a finger on her lips and shook her head before disappearing

into the dining room. My father rolled his eyes.

"Your mother is indeed that old fool's daughter."

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I was too shocked to care about the double insult. At that moment, the nurse

entered the room.

"Madame wishes to see her son," she said.

My father rose to accompany me, but the nurse stopped him with a raised

hand, like a traffic cop at a street intersection:

"Alone. She said she wants to see him alone."

***

The curtains were drawn. A purple scarf, draped around the lamp on the

bedside table, added to the sinister ambience. My mother's head rested on two pillows.

Slowly, step by cautious step, I approached the bed. Her eyes had sunk deep into her

skull, and her dyed hair was matted on her temples by perspiration, the dark roots

forming like a crown. The summer tan contrasted with her gaunt features. With a

feeble gesture of the hand, she beckoned me. Unsure that she wanted me to hug her, I

took her hand and kissed her fingers.

"How are you feeling, Maman?"

Instead of answering, she pulled back her hand and turned her head toward the

wall. I sat down on the edge of the bed. Minutes elapsed without a word. I was going

to remind her that she had called for me when she spoke her first words, still staring at

the wall.

"Your father is a monster."

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In an oddly hoarse voice, she recounted the most horrible vacations of her life,

her words. My father had been chasing women in the very hotel where she was

staying. He had preyed on those women left alone for the summer by their

philandering husbands.

"I was an object of ridicule. He was prancing, smiling left and right. A woman

even came to complain to me. If I better controlled my husband, she said, he would

stop bothering other women"

I was lost. I didn't want to choose between the two versions. It wasn't up to me

to decide where the truth lay. One of them was lying. Maybe they were both lying. Or

perhaps they were both telling the truth. I didn't want to know, I was terrified of

having to judge. I also wondered how and why I had become their confidant of choice.

"One night, I was very sick, one of those ophthalmic migraines, the worst, but

he chose to stay downstairs. I mean, I was in bed in such pain, any husband would

have stayed at his wife's side, but no, not that man, he wanted to have a good time. In

fact, he was quite happy that I was stuck in my room. And when I felt better and went

looking for him downstairs, I found him behind the bar, with that slut."

"He was helping her with a case."

I hadn't meant to take sides. I just wanted to calm my mother down, because

she was becoming so agitated. She briefly glanced at me, her eyes suddenly so alive,

so full of anger that I had to pull back.

"Ah, he told you his side of the story, didn't he? Why don't you ask him why he

was rubbing himself against that whore like an ape in heat?"

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I nodded, unable to think. The air in the room was suffocating. A few weeks

without them and I had almost forgotten. I wasn't sure I could go back. Besides, I had

a new card, a game-changing one, in my hand.

"Maman, I passed my exam."

She was staring at the wall again.

"He's always been like that. How many times did he return from one of his so-

called business trips with lipstick or perfume all over his dirty shirts? He always had

an explanation. The only woman he had no time for was his wife. Mind you, I wasn't

even his first wife."

"I passed my exam," I repeated in a firmer voice. "I haven't seen my scores,

but I must have made a killing in math. I'm sure I got all the right answers."

She closed her eyes.

"So you reach a point when you say, I can't take it anymore. God didn't put me

on this earth to be so miserable. He won't blame me if I go back to Him. I might as

well end it all now."

It seemed to me that my mother was offering me her hand and I wanted to take

it, but she pulled back. "Promise me not to take those drugs again," I said.

"Who would miss me, I'm asking you?"

I couldn't answer. Everything was so confusing.

"And now they want to lock me up."

"Maman, I'm sure it's not true."

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Again she turned toward me, her eyes burning with anger. I thought she was

going to yell, "and now you're calling me a liar", but she just sighed and shrugged her

shoulders, saying in a barely audible voice, "How can you know? You're just a child."

"A child who passed his exam, Maman."

"You'll all be pleased when I'm locked up. Good riddance, you'll all say. You'll

invite all the friends you want … including that black boy … and your father will be

free to fool around."

I didn't know what to say. With a movement of her hand, my mother dismissed

me. Something in me, however, refused to concede defeat.

"If I become really good in math," I said, "maybe I'll be a great financier."

But she had already turned off the light.

***

"I can't eat this pasta," my father groaned, looking disgusted at the spaghetti

Bonne Maman had made for dinner. "Janine wasn't a world-class chef, but she never

served goo like this."

It was only the climax of a rant that had started as soon as he sat down at the

dinner table. He had been relentlessly going after Bonne Maman.

"No napkins tonight? Maybe it's my job to set the table! And how long has this

wine been in the sun? And why don't you bring the dish to the table instead of serving

us in the kitchen?"

I stole glances at my grandmother. She seemed to be taking it all in stride.

Nothing seemed to perturb her legendary appetite. Personally, I found nothing wrong

with her spaghetti.

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"When does Janine come back?" I asked.

"She won't be back. Your mother fired her the day before we left. Apparently, I

was making passes at her, too."

He sighed and pushed his plate away.

"In any event, as bad a cook as she was, she never put so much salt in our

food."

Not getting any reaction from Bonne Maman, he turned to me and said, "I

don't know how you can eat this."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Cheese?" my father asked.

Bonne Maman shook her head.

"They were closed," she said, calmly.

"I'm not surprised, given how late you went. What about dessert? Don't tell me

the bakery was closed, too."

I thought I saw a glimmer of a smile on Bonne Maman's lips.

"No they weren't, but they were out of pastries," she said. "All they had was

bread. So I bought some apples from the Algerian."

My father rose, sending his chair to the floor, and threw his napkin on the

table.

"You know damn well that I don't eat fruit. Thanks for a shitty meal!"

I was certain now that sparkles were dancing behind Bonne Maman's thick

glasses.

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"I hope you like the spaghetti, my little Victor," she whispered as soon as my

father had left. "I cooked yours just right."

I couldn't believe my ears. I buried my face into my napkin to muffle my

laughter.

"And I didn't add too much salt either," Bonne Maman went on.

I got up and knelt down next to my grandmother, who pulled my face against

her. I liked the smell of soap on her skin.

"You know, Bonne Maman, I passed my exam."

"Is that a fact? You're not kidding me, are you?"

"I swear. French, math, mostly and history and geography, as well. I passed,

I'm telling you."

"Did you tell your father? He must be happy."

"He didn't even ask."

Bonne Maman's chin was trembling more than ever.

"I'm proud of my Victor," she said. "In that case, the surprise you'll find in your

room is well deserved."

"I didn't see anything."

"Behind your pajamas, on the bottom shelf. There is a little tart. Pear and

almond, your favorite."

"But, I thought you said, they only had bread left."

"Did I say that?"

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One day, when whisky had made my father philosophical and he had noticed

my presence, he had said, "Remember what I'm going to say, Victor. You cannot win

with women. They'll always have the last word."

Bonne Maman had just proven him right.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

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I spent the next few days at home, wandering from room to room, feeling

empty and lost, lying on my bed with Le dernier des Mohicans, a present from

Madame Laquaire. I would have liked to be such a hero and imagined myself resisting

torture, all the while remaining stoic. Why wasn't I more like Hawkeye and his valiant

warriors?

I was living in limbo. My father was at work, Madame Robillard, the nurse,

had informed me that my mother wasn't seeing anyone and Bonne Maman was busy

with what had been Janine's work, running errands, cleaning, cooking. I would have

liked to go out and spend time with Jacky, but was afraid to leave even for a moment.

What if my mother wanted to see me?

Bonne Maman and I were finishing lunch that TuesdayMadame Robillard

insisted on taking her meals in the kitchenwhen my father arrived unexpectedly.

"Pack a suitcase for your daughter," he ordered my grandmother. "They're on

their way to pick her up."

"Who's they, Papa?"

"An ambulance. I found her a place in Le Vésinet."

Bonne Maman left the table as fast as her corpulence allowed her, while I

followed my father to the sitting room. "Can I speak to you, Papa?"

He raised his eyes from the day's mail.

"What now?"

"You said I wouldn't have to go to boarding school if I passed my exams, didn't

you?"

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He sighed, "It doesn't matter anymore. We have a new situation."

I felt my blood leaving my face. Suddenly I had a taste of chalk in my mouth.

"How's that, Papa?"

"Everything's going to be different. I don't know how long your mother will

stay in that place. Months, years, who knows? She might never come back. For the

moment, they all agree, she cannot live alone. They even fear she might get worse."

"What's wrong with her?"

"You're too young to understand. The fact is, I'm always on the road and you're

not going to stay here by yourself. I can't even trust …" With a jerk of his chin he

pointed at the object of his scorn, who was busy with a suitcase. "So, you're going to

boarding school."

A crater opened under my feet.

All I could do was stutter, "But … but I wanted to tell you … I couldn't with

… with everything happening with Maman and … and you didn't ask, but I passed my

exams. I'll be in the next grade next year."

"Really?"

During one brief moment, with one eyebrow raised, my father looked

genuinely startled. Happy, satisfied, I couldn't tell. At least I had succeeded in

surprising him.

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"Well, that's good, but it doesn't change a thing," he said at last. "There's no

other solution. You're going to Ambroise Paré in Tours. I sent your application off this

morning. With a check, I might add."

"You didn't even talk to me!"

"Why should I? Do I need your permission to spend a small fortune on your

education?"

Suddenly, being a boarder at St. Jean-Baptiste sounded attractive. Anything to

remain close to Madame Laquaire, Nora, and Jacky.

"Why not St. Jean-Baptiste then?"

"They're even more expensive. It's Paris, after all."

He gave me a long, grave look above his reading glasses, and then added, "I

will reorganize my life, move maybe. I've been offered a position in Strasbourg. I

haven't decided yet."

"What when Maman comes back?"

"If she comes back. And then, whether we live in Paris or Timbuktu, what

difference does it make?"

"Maman always said she could only live in Paris."

"Your mother said many things."

"And what about Lucie?"

"Your sister has her own life now. She only comes here for her laundry."

"There's Bonne Maman."

A shrug and a roll of the eyes were his only response.

"You're leaving by train next Wednesday."

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From a pile of paper he fished out a green-covered booklet.

"Here! This is a list of the things you must take along. Ask me if you need to

buy anything."

I was speechless. In just a few seconds, my world had crumbled. My dreams

had been just that, mere illusions, and I had fought so hard for nothing. I was

struggling to decide if I should run away or go back on the attack when the doorbell

rang. Twice.

I watched from afar as Madame Robillard led two white-clad ambulance men

to my parents’ bedroom. They were carrying a chromed stretcher on wheels, on top of

which a gray blanket was folded. When they appeared again minutes later, my first

impulse was to run toward my mother, but when she turned her face, the look in her

eyes stopped me cold. Such anger! "Eh bah, eh bah!" my grandmother muttered

behind me. I threw myself into her arms, my knees bent to be at her level. "She'll get

better, won't she, Bonne Maman?"

"With God's help!"

She patted my cheek. I sniffled, but then I thought of Hawkeye. No, I wasn't

going to cry.

***

Nora was wearing an apron over her pink robe.

"I didn't expect you so early," she said.

It was my last day in Paris. Bonne Maman had been retreating to her room

after her daughter's departure, and my father didn't pay attention to my comings and

goings. I had never been so free.

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"We said dinner," Nora insisted. "It's only half past five."

"I know, I know, but I was with Madame Laquaire. Look at what she gave

me."

Nora untied her apron. I opened a box with a worn-out red leather cover.

Inside, a beautiful Waterman pen rested on a satin cushion.

"The nib is real gold," I said proudly. "Her mother bought it for her when she

became a teacher. Now she wants me to have it."

"Well, well. Seems to me she likes you."

"She said the pen is to make sure that I never forget her. As if there was ever a

risk of that."

"I invited her tonight. She'll join us for dinner."

"I know. That's why she asked me to leave. She wants to rest and make herself

pretty. Where's Jacky?"

"At work. He'll be back at 7."

Jacky had finally been hired at his favorite garage. It was the first step on his

road to the Grand Prix races.

A whiff of spices came from the tiny kitchen. "Smells good!"

"Nora made you her famous couscous."

"And for dessert?"

"That's a surprise."

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Nora went to check her oven and then came back. When she sat next to me, a

ray of sun through the curtains gave her brown thighs a coppery hue. Her robe opened

and I caught a glimpse of a breast. How I would have liked to hold it in my hand! I

could almost feel its weight, its warmth.

"Nora prepared you a nice dinner," she said, "but she didn't have time to buy

you a present. No, that's not true. She forgot."

The words came out of my mouth before I had time to think. "I know what

would really make me happy."

She looked at me, intrigued. My face was burning, all of a sudden. I couldn't

take my eyes off her breast. She quickly closed her robe, maintaining it into place with

her hand over her heart.

"Victor," she finally said, after a silence that seemed to last an eternity, "did

Nora understand what you mean?"

I couldn't believe my own temerity. Rendered mute by the enormity of my

confession, I was unable to utter another word, but my silence was all the more

eloquent.

Nora stared at me, her eyes half shut, slowly shaking her head. Then she

finally said, "Victor! Victor, you're really impossible."

I had crossed a line. There was no time or room for reserve any longer.

Common sense or education didn't apply anymore. "You're so beautiful," I whispered.

"But, Victor, I could be your mother."

"That would've been nice."

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"That's sweet of you to say, and Nora would've liked it too, but that's not what

she means. There are things that aren't … and what exactly did you want?"

My mouth was dry and I could almost hear my heartbeats. "To touch you …

there," I said, my eyes still glued to her breast. "I'd like that so much!"

"Victor! You've got all your life ahead of you. Plenty of time."

"Just a little kiss. A memory for me to take to boarding school. Please, Nora!"

She combed my hair slowly with her long fingers, then smiled.

"After all," she murmured to herself before opening her robe.

I thought I would faint. These breasts were even more magnificent now that

they were offered to me. They were heavy, slightly sagging maybe, and splendidly

round. Their dark skin looked like the most delicate silk. The areolas in their center

were grainy and their nipples ink black.

Slowly at first, overwhelmed by awe, I held my fingers out, then put the palm

of my hand under Nora's right breast. It felt as if a dove had just landed in my hand.

Nora smiled at me. She was intrigued, amused, but also full of sweetness. I leaned

over and lay my cheek on her left breast. Her skin smelled of pepper. I wanted to keep

my eyes open, but how could I withstand so much delight? I don't know how long I

stayed like that, with my eyes closed and my heart beating hard. A fraction of eternity.

Then, as Nora was gently stroking the nape of my neck, I took a nipple between my

lips.

"We said just a little kiss," Nora protested as I felt her nipple harden. I raised

my head briefly and lay my lips on her other breast. "It's heaven," I said.

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Nora closed her robe and drew me into her arms. She looked down at my lap

and sighed: "Look at you! You're in a state. What are you going to do now?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't care," I said, and I was almost sincere.

***

My father stopped the car and double-parked behind a van unloading a group

of kids. "Your train leaves in thirty-five minutes," he said. "You didn't forget anything,

did you? Your ticket? The address?"

"I have everything, Papa."

He was staring ahead, seemingly carrying on some inner debate.

"One day you'll understand," he finally said in a low tone of voice. "Life isn't

that simple. You do what you can with the cards you've been dealt. It's easy to blame

your parents, to criticize, but..."

"I didn't say anything, Papa."

"I know, I know, but all the same. Hopefully, you'll tally it all up one day and

you'll see how much I spent for your education. I've got all the numbers, in case you're

ever interested."

What was I supposed to say or do?

He sighed and said, "I'm not expecting a thank you, mind you. Children don't

know how to be grateful."

Then he stepped out of the Citroën and walked back to the trunk. He handed

me my suitcase and backpack, then shrugged his shoulders and attempted a smile.

"Well, there's nothing more to be said, is there? Good luck, I guess. I'll call you tonight

to make sure everything's all right. And I'll see you in November, won't I?"

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"Yes, Papa. For two weeks. Let me know how Maman's doing."

"Yeah, right!

A taxi driver honked several times.

"I've got to go now," my father said. For one brief moment, I thought he was

going to give me a kiss, but he held his hand out.

"My son is no longer a baby," he said, as if answering some voice in his head.

I was climbing the first steps toward the station when my father's voice

stopped me.

"Victor!"

I turned around. My father was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking

more uncomfortable than I had ever seen him. In his hand was a wad of folded

banknotes.

"After all," he said, with an apologetic shrug, avoiding my eyes, "Why don't

you take this? It's for having passed your exams."

Then he turned around, waving at the angry taxi driver. I stayed motionless,

banknotes in my hand, waiting for my father to turn around, but he just sat down

behind the wheel and drove away without looking back.

The hall of the Gare St. Lazare was teeming with travelers. I looked for my

train on the departure board and then headed for Platform 7. I wasn't as sad as I had

imagined I would be, I wasn't even afraid of the unknown. Instead, I felt anesthetized.

Perhaps Nora's rum punch still had something to do with my numbness, but I felt as if

I was in an invisible deep-diving suit, while shapes and faces floated all around me,

swimming like algae. Everything felt unreal.

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As I was approaching the platform, I stopped. Suddenly, I had a powerful urge

for light and fresh air. I wanted a moment of respite and freedom without having to

account to anyone. At the information desk I learned that several trains would be

leaving for Tours before the end of the day. The man also told me where to find and

how to use the automated lockers for my luggage. A few minutes later, I was running

down the stairs, and crossing the parking area to finally find myself on a busy street in

a neighborhood I didn't know. I didn't have anything specific in mind. I just wanted to

feel alive.

A light breeze was blowing in my face. I let my feet lead me among the crowds

of shoppers scurrying around the neighboring department stores. At first, I was filled

with the joy of freedom, but gradually, I began to feel vulnerable, finding the

unsmiling faces threatening. Instead of the exhilaration I had expected, I was losing

the sense of identity for which I had fought so hard over the last months. I had hoped

for some excitement, a sense of adventure, a last bright memory before boarding

school, but it had been an illusion. The walk had been a bad idea. I turned right onto

the next street, then right again, figuring I was heading back to the station.

Moments later, I realized that I was lost. A blue enameled sign told me that I

was at the corner of the rue de Provence, but that wasn't enough and I looked for a

friendly face, someone who would point me in the right direction. It was then, as I was

turning around and around, that I noticed the women on the other sidewalk.

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They were heavily made-up, and they wore short skirts, with blouses that

showed a lot of cleavage. Many of them were smoking and they all smiled and waved

at the cars that were slowly driving by. I realized that I had found myself at the frontier

of a forbidden world. Suddenly, finding the station was the least of my worries, I had

just found the adventure I had been seeking.

Not daring to stare at those women for whom I barely existed, I walked slowly,

my hands in my pockets, keeping my head down, discovering the shiny legs in their

nylons up to the hems of the short skirts, before raising my eyes at the last second to

steal a brief glance at their half-naked breasts and red lips. My feet were heavy, my

forehead afire, my blood was beating in my temples. I watched furtively as, at times,

after a brief exchange, one of the women disappeared, a man on her heels, into the

narrow entrance of one of the many small hotels that lined the street.

I stopped in front of a patisserie, pretending to look at the pastries and pralines.

In one of the mirrors that bordered the window I watched two women chatting on the

sidewalk across the street. The taller one, not-so-young-anymore, with a bleached

mane and a mask of rouge and eyeliner, wore a yellow dress at least two sizes too

small. I couldn't see her face very well, but she seemed vulgar to me.

The smaller and younger woman, on the other hand, was a slim brunette and

wore far less make-up. If the slit of her red skirt hadn't revealed an inch of white skin

above a stocking and if her blouse had been more modestly buttoned, she could have

been any of the pretty young women who used to turn my head on my way to St. Jean-

Baptiste. I liked the way her short, black hair framed her kitten-like face.

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A black Mercedes came to a halt. The tall blonde leaned into the window on

the driver's side, then ran around the car as quickly as her stiletto heels allowed.

Slowly, I turned around. The young brunette saw me and smiled. There was nothing

provocative in her smile, but I felt myself blushing and walked away.

Several minutes later, I realized that the woman's smile wasn't going to leave

me. I was going to take it with me to boarding school. I would see it every night like

an unkept promise and be filled with hunger, just like I was now. How sorry I was

going to be!

I turned around and crossed the street. I was no longer thinking, pondering, or

weighing the good and bad.

"What can I do for you, sweetie?" the woman asked when I stopped in front of

her.

Her eyes were laughing while mine were glued to her blouse.

"I have money," I stammered, showing her the banknotes in my fist.

"Let me see."

I opened my fingers.

She hesitated.

"That's not much. Don't forget you have to pay for the room, too. Is that all you

have?"

I lowered my head.

She sighed, then said, "What can I say? You sure are cute and you look like a

nice boy. By the way, how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

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"She laughed.

"Sure. Me too. Follow me."

My mouth was dry when we stopped at the front desk, where a fat man with a

glass eye handed the woman a key. I followed her up the stairs registering vaguely the

dirty wallpaper, the worn-out carpet. My eyes were glued to the calves, thighs and

buttocks that were leading me to paradise, or hell, I wasn't too sure which, but didn't

really care.

An acrid odor of disinfectant floated in the air of the little room. The curtains

were drawn and the light came from three lamps, one on each side of the bed and one

over the washbasin. One wall was covered entirely with a mirror. The woman threw

her bag on an armchair. "What's your name?"

"Victor."

"I'm Violette. We're two V's."

She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor, then took off her black panties

and sat down on the bidet next to the washbasin. As she let the water run, tested the

temperature with the back of her hand, then splashed herself, I watched, enthralled, the

naked white buttocks, the thighs, the black stockings and garter belt, the red shoes

with the high heels. Time had stopped.

She grabbed a towel, then got up and turned around. "What are you waiting

for? I don't have all day, you know."

Feverishly, I undressed, all the while staring at Violette's black triangle. "Now

let me wash you," she said, indicating the washbasin.

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Minutes later, Violette spread a towel on the bed cover and lay down. I was

standing at the foot of the bed with my hands crossed in front of me. She opened her

arms. "What are you trying to hide?" she asked laughing. "Isn't it what we're here

for?"

I approached. Violette unbuttoned her blouse and unhooked her bra, releasing

two pale breasts with nipples like raspberries. "Come here now," she said.

I let Violette guide me. It was burning hot inside her. When she saw me close

my eyes and shudder, she gave me a little tap on the head and let me rest a few

moments before pushing me back gently. Without a word, she went back to the bidet. I

lay on the bed, unable to believe that such a bottomless void could follow the burning

desire I could hardly remember.

A few minutes later, Violette was all dressed and ready to go. She checked her

make-up in the mirror and opened the door.

"Take your time," she said, "but not too long. They turn the rooms over here."

Then, with a little wave of her hand, she disappeared.

I lay there with my hands crossed behind my head and stared at the ceiling.

The thought that my father's money had been put to good use brought a smile to my

face. Then I realized that I had turned a page and was now a castaway, thrown by a

powerful wave onto a foreign shore. Far behind me now was a house that I had once

called home, and ahead of me was the great unknown, but I was not afraid. Never

before had I known such peace of mind. There was total silence in me. I had come

here in search of pleasure, and had found serenity. I felt as if I had finally reached the

end of my childhood.

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EPILOGUE

I'm wearing the same black tie I had on at Marthe Laquaire's funeral. Her heart

had stopped a few hours after I had driven her home and her doctor assured me she

went quietly from sleep to death. Twice a month I used to take my former tutor to one

of the restaurants she liked, warm, casual bistros where she enjoyed being welcomed

as a regular. That night we had dined at Le Clocher du Village in Auteuil, one of her

favorites. "It's like home cooking here," she had remarked, "except it's much better

than mine."

We had our ritual, honed over the years. I would go up to her apartment for a

drinkgin and tonic for me, port for herand we would then take my car to Les

Copains, Chez Marcel et Janine, or Le Clocher du Village. After dinner, we would

linger over a cup of herbal tea and then take a walk, weather permitting, before driving

back. Those walks had become somewhat symbolic toward the end. A few steps and

back to the car, rarely more. Parkinson’s disease made her cold hand shake in mine.

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"My hand may be cold, but you keep my heart warm," she would comment,

her voice weak, but still singing with the music of her native south. She claimed the

illness had made her accent come back.

It's been fourteen years already, but I remember our last dinner, in all its

details. The past has become an eternal present.

She had taken a terrine of salmon and a trout with almonds that evening.

"Isn't it amazing that I was never able to swim, with all the fish I've eaten all

my life?" she had remarked.

Our conversations followed a strictly established pattern. She would always

start by asking about my parents, but didn't really seem to listen to my answers.

"Still no news from your father?"

"None! My last letter was returned with an unknown at this address stamp.

"And your mother?"

"Still the same."

She didn't insist and that was just fine with me. I didn't feel like describing my

latest visit, didn't care to relive those moments.

Next, Marthe inquired about my love life.

"And what about the last one - what's her name again? Claudia? Clara? Is she

the right one this time?"

Sometimes, I took a moment to ponder, weighing my verdict, but my answer

was always the same.

"So, you don't want to get married again? Is that it?"

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Probably. My failed marriage and subsequent relationships have convinced me

that living with a woman is not for me. It's all too difficult, too painful.

"Don't take it too hard, no marriage is perfect," Marthe often remarked when I

was considering a divorce. "Misunderstandings, scenes, arguments, they're all part of

the deal."

Yes, I know, and I understand, but as soon as I hear a voice rise in anger, I am

propelled into the past. Then I start shaking, and running away is my only salvation.

In a way Marthe Laquaire was the woman of my life. No other woman ever

offered me such peace. I tried, though, I did. I wanted so much to believe that marital

bliss was in my future, but after the exaltation of the first date, the delight of the first

embrace, once the mating dance was over, there always came a moment when I would

get burned.

My marriage to Céline did produce a daughter whom I love very much,

though. I see Nathalie over lunch every Wednesday. She's a ballerina and currently

lives with a Norwegian boyfriend of the bohemian kind. I'm proud of her and help and

encourage her as much as I can. Our lunches together are often fun, although

sometimes contentious. We should avoid discussing politics.

I can smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen. Outside, the sun is making an

appearance between the heavy clouds and its rays strike the dome of the Pantheon

across the square. Why is my heart so cold? This question has been with me for the

last three days.

When Bonne Maman passed away, I was still a young man. I remember how

horribly sad I felt, but her death was somehow part of the greater scheme of things. A

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part of me was ready for that loss, and the pain was bearable. Lately however, I started

missing her badly, as if she had, after all those years, re-entered my life, and I've been

catching myself recently, thinking of her more than I did when she was alive.

I see her bewildered look, I hear her muttering "Eh bah, eh bah!"

Only last month, as I was coming home after having bought my yearly supply

of shirts on sale at the Galeries Lafayette, I heard myself thinking, "You were right,

Bonne Maman, they lose on each article, but …"

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Then, Marthe Laquaire was taken from me and I suffered my first real

heartbreak, naked and brutal. I screamed in anger. Against all reason, in spite of the

advance of Parkinson's, I wasn’t ready. I even broke my thumb while banging my fist

on the wall. It was too unfair. We hadn't really said goodbye!

And then, Jacky was badly wounded in an accident in Monte Carlo. He was in

the mechanics pit, when the wheel of a racing car literally flew toward him. We hadn't

written or spoken in a long, long time, but I received a telegram from Nora who now

lives in Toulon with her brother.

I immediately flew down to be with her. Nora has gained weight, lots of it, and

her bearing is no longer regal, but when she took me in her arms and squeezed me

against her voluminous bosom, her peppery fragrance took me many years back. The

memory of a certain brief moment of ecstasy will never die.

Jacky lost an arm from the accident. Several times, I wanted to visit him, but

he wouldn't see me.

"Give me time," he would only say on the phone. "I'll call you when I'm

ready."

He never did.

My point is, pain is no stranger to me. Why is it then that I feel like a cold

stone sits in my chest where my heart is supposed to be? If I don't shed a tear today,

then when?

I finish my cup of coffee and glance at my watch. Time is up. I put on my dark

gray jacket and navy-blue overcoat. Just as I walk to the door, the telephone rings.

"Allo, Victor?"

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"Good morning Lucie. I was just leaving. Two more seconds and I would have

been out."

"I know, I know. After five years, you'd think I wouldn't screw up the time

difference, but I was never good at math. I'm not like you."

"Subtracting two hours is not that complicated."

My sister is a gynecologist at St. Denis de la Réunion, somewhere in the

Indian Ocean, where her husband heads the rheumatology department of a hospital.

"When I realized, I was afraid I'd miss you," she says.

"I really don't have much time. What did you want to say?"

A silence. I can see her, eyebrows raised, with the look of a surprised bird.

"What do you mean, what do I want to say? It's a difficult day for both of us. If

I hadn't broken my hip, I'd be with you this morning."

"Really? You'd have made the trip?"

"Victor!"

I have nothing against Lucie. I envy her family life, the two boys she insists on

calling "your nephews," even though our only communication is one yearly Christmas

card. I respect her sense of duty, her commitment to the community, and that sort of

thing, but the fact is, we never were on the same wavelength. Whenever one of us

extended a hand, the other found a way to bite it.

"Are you serious?" she says. "You really don't believe I'd have come?"

"It's not that I don't believe. I just don't know. She wasn't even your mother,

after all. I didn't go to your mother's funerals."

"Very funny. You weren't even born then. Did you write to Papa?"

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"Where? At what address?"

"I don't know. The last one, maybe. It might have been forwarded."

"And you think he would've made the trip?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I do. Last time we talked was two years ago when Maman was admitted

to St.Vincent. He said to me, 'sorry Victor, you'll have to deal with your mother,

because me, I gave at the office."

I hear Lucie's sigh.

"I know, you told me."

"I'm running late, Lucie. I really have to go."

After a moment of silence, I force a laugh.

"She might come to, just to yell at me."

"I see. Victor is protecting himself. He doesn't want to feel the pain. You go

now, little brother, and be strong."

I hang up, suddenly puzzled. Never before has she called me little brother.

I drive the Renault up the garage ramp. It's a company car. On the passenger's

seat I see the Export Division's budget and five-year plan that I forgot last night.

Confidential documents; I guess I wasn't thinking straight.

When I come back from the cemetery this afternoon, I really must take a hard

look at next year's budget. The sales forecasts are always too optimistic. I am

Managing Director of Syncom France, the leading producer of data processing

systems for small and mid-size companies.

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I only became a "great" director, as the woman I'm about to bid farewell to

would have said, after Marthe Laquaire's death. As her health began to wane, I turned

down all offers of transfers to foreign subsidiaries of the group, the only path to

promotion in the Syncom universe. When she passed away however, I caught up with

my career, spending time in Belgium and Germany. I even lived one year in Brazil.

While in Sao Paolo, I almost got married, but no, I had once again confused sex and

love.

In the hospital parking lot I remain a few minutes in my seat, with my hands

flat on the steering wheel, a habit developed over years of weekly visits. Getting ready

to see my mother, hear her tirades, accusations, stories about the past, from which she

always knew how to dig out some painful detail, I could feel my heart racing with

anguish. I would lay my hands on the wheel and watch them, waiting patiently for

them to stop shaking. I would try to make fun of myself then, saying aloud, "Look at

you, a man well in his forties, a nice car, a corner office, they call you Monsieur le

Directeur, and here you are, shaking like a leaf."

Well, this is my last visit and I have nothing to fear anymore.

Following the old routine, I cross the hospital lobby and take the B elevator.

Only as I walk up the icy corridor on the eleventh floor do I realize: of course, she's

not here anymore. The chapel is in the other building. The last time I was here, only a

few days ago, she was in a coma.

"I think this is the end," Doctor Franchet whispered to me, after beckoning me

out into the corridor.

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"Is she in pain, Doctor? The way she moves her head, she looks like she's

fighting something."

"Reflexes. No, I don't believe she's in pain."

I stayed at her bedside, aware that my presence served no purpose, but unable

to think of a better use of my time. It was too late to go to the office and I didn't feel

like going back home. A movie, maybe? No, I finally realized that I wanted to enjoy a

moment of peace with my mother. Finally!

Yes, I thought, this could be a first, better later than never. She wouldn't accuse

me of various misdeeds, wouldn't start a tirade against those who had ruined her

lifeher husband and her son, her son and her husband wouldn't make fun of my

divorce, wouldn't throw her tray at me. I could spend, without fear, a moment with the

woman who had carried me in her womb.

Sitting at her bedside in soft lighting and silence, I remembered our last cuddle

so many years ago when she was packing before going away on vacation. She had my

framed photograph with her. If only I had known that day.

And then I caught myself, thinking, "What? What if you had known? What

would you have done?"

I also evoked my mother's last words, from a few days before, as she was

traveling back and forth through that mysterious space between what remained of her

life and … and what? She had opened her eyes, and with a gesture of her withered

hand, invited me to move close to her mouth.

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"You were the love of my life, Victor," she whispered. "Your father, that was

different, but you, you were my passion. Why did you make me so miserable? You

were horrible to me, Victor. A monster."

It had been a mother's farewell to her son, words so outrageous that just patting

her hand and smiling had been my only response, a matter of survival really.

The chapel looks like a bunker, with only two narrow stained-glass windows to

let in weak rays of light. It is a concrete cubic structure, its only decoration a crucifix

and, next to the simplest of altars, an urn, filled with artificial flowers.

Funeral masses are usually held in real churches. The benches here could seat

twenty people, I guess, but I am alone.

Véronique offered to come along, but I said no. We've only been together for a

few weeks and she really doesn't know me yet.

"It must be terrible to lose a mother," she said. I just nodded and changed the

subject.

A young man with a bad case of acne welcomes me, and points at the open

coffin.

"Father Charles thought you might want a moment with her by yourself. He'll

be back in ten minutes."

Then he disappears.

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I walk up the aisle. My mother's snow-white hair has been pulled back. Her

skin is the color of the candles on the altar. Lately the drugs had made her puffy, but

her features are precise again, and the waxy skin is taut on her bones. It is possible to

remember that she once was beautiful. I take her wedding band out my pocket. She

threw it at me one day, during one of her fits of rage.

I don't really know why I'm doing it, but I put the band between her crossed

fingers. That's where it belongs, after all. I stand frozen in front of this body that my

mother used to inhabit. Where is she now? I don't know what or whom to believe.

I lean over to kiss her forehead. It is cold and hard as a stone.

I whisper, "I hope that you're finally happy, Maman, wherever your are."

And then I feel a cleft running along the dam, behind which I have taken

refuge for so many years. Is it the fact that I heard myself say the word Maman? I

don't know, but a wave is about to roll over me, and there's no resisting.

Tears swell from deep inside me, as brutal as nausea. I can barely make out my

mother's face. A yawning chasm opens up in my chest. I am sobbing now, sobbing like

I don't remember doing since I became an adult.

Suddenly, I am filled with rage. I don't even know why. It's destroying me. I

scream in silence. With a violent kick, I knock a bench over, sending it crashing with a

loud thud.

Like a blind man I feel my mother's lips under my fingers.

Maman, Maman, Damn!

Pierre Delerive 2011

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