the surface of a lake again. She thought I looked pretty, I thought she looked happy. Her lover Fergus is the only Irishman in England who doesn’t drink beer, and that made me a happy mother. One morning he took us to Bristol and showed me round the studio where he was working; he lent my face to a florist whom Gromit was passing as a tiny dog pursued him. It was a lovely day, like going back to childhood.
When we said goodbye at St Pancras, we didn’t shed any tears. Nadine told me that her father had been to see her some time ago; he looked lost, she said, but I wasn’t listening. Then she whispered maternal words in my ear: You deserve a good life, Maman. Try to be happy with him.
Him. My Vittorio Gassman; I’ve been living at his side for over a year and a half now. He’s as good-looking as he was on the day when we kissed in the Hôtel Negresco, his lips still taste of orange pekoe tea, but when they kiss mine now my heart doesn’t race, my skin doesn’t shiver.
He was the only island in my sorrow.
I had called him just after Jo’s foreman confirmed that he was taking a week’s holiday. On the day when I knew I had been deceived. I had phoned, not for a moment believing that he would remember me; perhaps he was only a predator who duped faithful wives with a cup of tea at the bar of the Hôtel Negresco, with its delicious temptation of dozens of empty rooms. He knew who I was at once. I was hoping to hear from you, he said. His voice was grave and calm. He listened to me. He understood my anger and the mutilation I had suffered. And he said those four respectful words: Let me help you .
They were an open sesame. They lanced the boil. Made me the ethereal Belle , Ariane Deume on the edge of the void in Geneva, one Friday afternoon in September 1937.
I let him help me. I gave myself up to him.
We go down to the beach every day, and every day we sit on the uncomfortable pebbles. I didn’t want little canvas chairs or cushions. I want everything to be the way it was on our first day, the day when I dreamed of perhaps becoming his lover; the day when I decided that neither Jo’s harsh words nor my loneliness was a good enough reason for that. I don’t regret any of it. I gave myself to Jo. I loved him without reservation or afterthought. I have ended up treasuring the memory of his moist hand on mine during our first date at the newsagent’s in the Arcades; I could still weep for joy when I close my eyes and hear those first words of his: You’re the miracle. I’d accustomed myself to his acrid, animal body odour. I had forgiven him a great deal, because love calls for a great deal of forgiveness. I had been prepared to grow old with him although he never said pretty things to me, no flowery phrases – oh, you know, those silly things that win girls’ hearts and make them remain faithful for ever.
I tried to lose weight, not so that he would think me more beautiful but so that he could be proud of me.
You’re beautiful, says the man who is now reaping the benefit of it, although I wanted to be beautiful for someone else. But I would like to see you smile sometimes, Jo. He’s a good man; he has never known betrayal. His love is patient.
I sometimes do smile in the evenings, when we go home to the huge, beautiful villa in Villefranche-sur-Mer that I bought, signing the sales agreement casually and the cheque without a moment’s thought ; when I see Papa sitting on the terrace with his nurse beside him, while Papa looks at the sea and, with his child’s eyes, searches the clouds for images: bears, maps of a Promised Land, Maman’s drawings.
I smile for six minutes as I invent a new life for him in the cool of the evening.
You’re a famous doctor, Papa, you’ve done outstanding research; you were made Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur at the prompting of Hubert Curien when he was Minister of Research. You perfected a treatment to counteract ruptured aneurisms. It’s based on the enzyme
When we said goodbye at St Pancras, we didn’t shed any tears. Nadine told me that her father had been to see her some time ago; he looked lost, she said, but I wasn’t listening. Then she whispered maternal words in my ear: You deserve a good life, Maman. Try to be happy with him.
Him. My Vittorio Gassman; I’ve been living at his side for over a year and a half now. He’s as good-looking as he was on the day when we kissed in the Hôtel Negresco, his lips still taste of orange pekoe tea, but when they kiss mine now my heart doesn’t race, my skin doesn’t shiver.
He was the only island in my sorrow.
I had called him just after Jo’s foreman confirmed that he was taking a week’s holiday. On the day when I knew I had been deceived. I had phoned, not for a moment believing that he would remember me; perhaps he was only a predator who duped faithful wives with a cup of tea at the bar of the Hôtel Negresco, with its delicious temptation of dozens of empty rooms. He knew who I was at once. I was hoping to hear from you, he said. His voice was grave and calm. He listened to me. He understood my anger and the mutilation I had suffered. And he said those four respectful words: Let me help you .
They were an open sesame. They lanced the boil. Made me the ethereal Belle , Ariane Deume on the edge of the void in Geneva, one Friday afternoon in September 1937.
I let him help me. I gave myself up to him.
We go down to the beach every day, and every day we sit on the uncomfortable pebbles. I didn’t want little canvas chairs or cushions. I want everything to be the way it was on our first day, the day when I dreamed of perhaps becoming his lover; the day when I decided that neither Jo’s harsh words nor my loneliness was a good enough reason for that. I don’t regret any of it. I gave myself to Jo. I loved him without reservation or afterthought. I have ended up treasuring the memory of his moist hand on mine during our first date at the newsagent’s in the Arcades; I could still weep for joy when I close my eyes and hear those first words of his: You’re the miracle. I’d accustomed myself to his acrid, animal body odour. I had forgiven him a great deal, because love calls for a great deal of forgiveness. I had been prepared to grow old with him although he never said pretty things to me, no flowery phrases – oh, you know, those silly things that win girls’ hearts and make them remain faithful for ever.
I tried to lose weight, not so that he would think me more beautiful but so that he could be proud of me.
You’re beautiful, says the man who is now reaping the benefit of it, although I wanted to be beautiful for someone else. But I would like to see you smile sometimes, Jo. He’s a good man; he has never known betrayal. His love is patient.
I sometimes do smile in the evenings, when we go home to the huge, beautiful villa in Villefranche-sur-Mer that I bought, signing the sales agreement casually and the cheque without a moment’s thought ; when I see Papa sitting on the terrace with his nurse beside him, while Papa looks at the sea and, with his child’s eyes, searches the clouds for images: bears, maps of a Promised Land, Maman’s drawings.
I smile for six minutes as I invent a new life for him in the cool of the evening.
You’re a famous doctor, Papa, you’ve done outstanding research; you were made Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur at the prompting of Hubert Curien when he was Minister of Research. You perfected a treatment to counteract ruptured aneurisms. It’s based on the enzyme
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