so much alike you forgot it wasn’t that other one. Not to mention that your father gave it the same name.”
She began to sob, dry eyed, her broad face contorted and creased.
“I never wanted a dog, myself,” she whimpered, “and neither did your father, but he was convinced he didn’t have a choice.”
When the mother got home from her cure, two weeks later, she found the father lying in the back room of the shop, his neck and part of his face ripped away. The dog was standing close by, and it growled viciously on catching sight of her.
“They told me your father probably died of a heart attack, and then the dog went after him because it was starving. But I know that’s not it. What I think is that your father, who was in perfect health, was just doing his work, minding his own business, and that dog lunged at his throat and killed him on purpose.”
Richard Rivière shrugged brusquely, disgusted and angry. He banged his glass of
vin cuit
down on the coffee table. A few drops jumped out and spattered on the varnished wood.
“Why would you think a thing like that?” he shouted. “Have you ever heard of a dog ripping its master’s throat out for no reason?”
“I never said for no reason,” the mother spat back. “You hear me, Son? I never said for no reason. It wanted vengeance for something, that’s what I think.”
She leaned forward until her face almost touched Richard Rivière’s, so he couldn’t turn away.
“Do you have nothing to feel guilty about? Are you absolutely certain your life is in order?” she whispered, with such fury in her face that Clarisse saw him close his eyes in anguish.
“My life isn’t hurting anyone,” he murmured stoutly.
“I hope so, for your sake,” the mother hissed, “because your father ended up paying for something or someone, and he was the most virtuous man there ever was. So, yes, I dearly hope you’ll take care to live a life no one will ever curse you for.”
Surprised, almost insulted, Clarisse Rivière caught him glancing uncomfortably in her direction, not so much suspicious as wary and fearful.
She gave him the nonanswer of an opaque, amiable gaze, but her slighted heart began to bleed again, protesting. Tears stung her eyes.
Can you really not understand, she silently murmured, that I will never call down the slightest hardship on you, nor anyone’s wrath, because above all else I love you and will always see you as my husband, and you never once hurt me before the irreparable catastrophe that your leaving was for me, and even about that I’ve never felt any malice, only a grief that will never fade, which I don’t hold you responsible for, because it was me you wanted to be free of, not the house that hears everything, which means it’s my fault, can you really not see that, and believe that if anyone ever wishes sorrow on you it will never, ever be me?
“What happened to the dog?” she hurried to say.
“They put it to sleep, of course,” said the mother, whose fat face suddenly seemed to melt with exhaustion and sadness.
In a disgusted voice, but as if she thought it her duty, she added:
“But it will come back, I know it will, that one or another, exactly the same, with the same name, and it will attack anyone who deserves it.”
—
Only a few longtime customers and two or three neighbors came to the funeral, for the Rivière parents had never sought to make friends in their life, wholly occupied with each other and their shop.
Clarisse held Richard’s arm, her fingers lightly caressing the fine wool of his elegant overcoat, which he’d picked out without her in a city she knew nothing of.
The bell of despair was tolling in the distance, nonetheless. She could just make out its muffled ringing from a future in which Richard Rivière’s return to absence, once he’d driven her home and gone on his way, did not yet seem a certainty.
After all, it was she, Clarisse Rivière, who was standing close by his side at the
She began to sob, dry eyed, her broad face contorted and creased.
“I never wanted a dog, myself,” she whimpered, “and neither did your father, but he was convinced he didn’t have a choice.”
When the mother got home from her cure, two weeks later, she found the father lying in the back room of the shop, his neck and part of his face ripped away. The dog was standing close by, and it growled viciously on catching sight of her.
“They told me your father probably died of a heart attack, and then the dog went after him because it was starving. But I know that’s not it. What I think is that your father, who was in perfect health, was just doing his work, minding his own business, and that dog lunged at his throat and killed him on purpose.”
Richard Rivière shrugged brusquely, disgusted and angry. He banged his glass of
vin cuit
down on the coffee table. A few drops jumped out and spattered on the varnished wood.
“Why would you think a thing like that?” he shouted. “Have you ever heard of a dog ripping its master’s throat out for no reason?”
“I never said for no reason,” the mother spat back. “You hear me, Son? I never said for no reason. It wanted vengeance for something, that’s what I think.”
She leaned forward until her face almost touched Richard Rivière’s, so he couldn’t turn away.
“Do you have nothing to feel guilty about? Are you absolutely certain your life is in order?” she whispered, with such fury in her face that Clarisse saw him close his eyes in anguish.
“My life isn’t hurting anyone,” he murmured stoutly.
“I hope so, for your sake,” the mother hissed, “because your father ended up paying for something or someone, and he was the most virtuous man there ever was. So, yes, I dearly hope you’ll take care to live a life no one will ever curse you for.”
Surprised, almost insulted, Clarisse Rivière caught him glancing uncomfortably in her direction, not so much suspicious as wary and fearful.
She gave him the nonanswer of an opaque, amiable gaze, but her slighted heart began to bleed again, protesting. Tears stung her eyes.
Can you really not understand, she silently murmured, that I will never call down the slightest hardship on you, nor anyone’s wrath, because above all else I love you and will always see you as my husband, and you never once hurt me before the irreparable catastrophe that your leaving was for me, and even about that I’ve never felt any malice, only a grief that will never fade, which I don’t hold you responsible for, because it was me you wanted to be free of, not the house that hears everything, which means it’s my fault, can you really not see that, and believe that if anyone ever wishes sorrow on you it will never, ever be me?
“What happened to the dog?” she hurried to say.
“They put it to sleep, of course,” said the mother, whose fat face suddenly seemed to melt with exhaustion and sadness.
In a disgusted voice, but as if she thought it her duty, she added:
“But it will come back, I know it will, that one or another, exactly the same, with the same name, and it will attack anyone who deserves it.”
—
Only a few longtime customers and two or three neighbors came to the funeral, for the Rivière parents had never sought to make friends in their life, wholly occupied with each other and their shop.
Clarisse held Richard’s arm, her fingers lightly caressing the fine wool of his elegant overcoat, which he’d picked out without her in a city she knew nothing of.
The bell of despair was tolling in the distance, nonetheless. She could just make out its muffled ringing from a future in which Richard Rivière’s return to absence, once he’d driven her home and gone on his way, did not yet seem a certainty.
After all, it was she, Clarisse Rivière, who was standing close by his side at the
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