the living room, her eye catches on his high-backed brown leather chair, the one he sat in every evening to read Proust (it stubbornly having refused to move at all). For the last decade or so François had been trying to make it through À La Recherche du Temps Perdu but would always fall asleep before finishing two pages. In the kitchen she’s stopped short by the last of his coffee cups. In the bathroom, his shaving brush. In every room, his words dance in the air.
Je t’aime. Je vous aimerai toujours. I love you. Ne me laisse pas partir. Don’t let me go. Please…
Having the house full of François has given Héloïse much-needed comfort over the last two years, enabling her to pretend that he’s still living, that he’s just left a room as she’s entered it, that he’s always around a corner or down the hall. And yet, for the past few days, ever since her turn in the park, Héloïse hasn’t felt just comforted but also claustrophobic.
Today their little house feels too small for one woman and one dead man. She finds that François’s presence has suddenly somehow expanded, that he’s sucking out all the air and squeezing her into the edges of the rooms. Something is changing.
For the past week, Héloïse has left the house at least once a day. And, with each day that passes and each step she takes outside, Héloïse finds that she’s returning to herself. When she’s not in the house, she doesn’t hear François’s voice. It’s only at night now that he talks to her. Sometimes he tells stories, re-creating tales from the favorite books they shared, putting his own twists into plots he’s forgotten. Although Héloïse is getting better at not talking to him, she can’t stop at night. The lights go out and the darkness presses against her chest and her hands, perfectly fine by themselves during the day, want nothing more than to reach out and hold his.
When milky morning light fills the little bedroom, Héloïse is brave once again and ready to venture out into the world alone. This morning she decides to walk to the market for breakfast. When François was alive they’d gone to the market every Sunday, buying fresh buttered baguettes for breakfast, sitting out in the sunshine when the weather was warm, scurrying back to the house if it was cold or wet. On sunny days, after eating, they toured their favorite stalls, hand in hand, lingering over French cheeses, Spanish chorizo, and bags of salted almonds that never seemed to last until lunchtime.
Héloïse’s favorite stall in the market has always been the secondhand-book stall, owned by a man called Ben, who inherited it from his father, Theo. Héloïse has been visiting the bookstall since she was a PhD student at Newnham, when Theo was in charge and Ben was a baby, occasionally brought to the bookstall to visit his father. As an eager student, Héloïse had shared many wonderful discussions about literature with Theo, learning a great deal from the man who, though only a few years older, seemed to have read every book ever published, many that hadn’t been. A subtle flirtation had always skimmed the surface of their conversations, but it had never gone anywhere since they’d both been married then.
The years passed and Héloïse stayed on to teach and Ben grew up among the market stalls, learning the book trade and getting to know the desires and delights of the regular customers. By the time she was a professor of French literature and he was working full-time on the bookstall, Ben knew Héloïse’s literary tastes almost as well as she did, offering her new books on every visit and telling her what she would and wouldn’t like before she even picked it up.
Héloïse hasn’t been to the market or the secondhand-book stall since François died. After drinking a double espresso, she leaves the house and, twenty minutes later, arrives first at the fresh bread stall to buy a croissant. Cambridge croissants aren’t the same thing as
Je t’aime. Je vous aimerai toujours. I love you. Ne me laisse pas partir. Don’t let me go. Please…
Having the house full of François has given Héloïse much-needed comfort over the last two years, enabling her to pretend that he’s still living, that he’s just left a room as she’s entered it, that he’s always around a corner or down the hall. And yet, for the past few days, ever since her turn in the park, Héloïse hasn’t felt just comforted but also claustrophobic.
Today their little house feels too small for one woman and one dead man. She finds that François’s presence has suddenly somehow expanded, that he’s sucking out all the air and squeezing her into the edges of the rooms. Something is changing.
For the past week, Héloïse has left the house at least once a day. And, with each day that passes and each step she takes outside, Héloïse finds that she’s returning to herself. When she’s not in the house, she doesn’t hear François’s voice. It’s only at night now that he talks to her. Sometimes he tells stories, re-creating tales from the favorite books they shared, putting his own twists into plots he’s forgotten. Although Héloïse is getting better at not talking to him, she can’t stop at night. The lights go out and the darkness presses against her chest and her hands, perfectly fine by themselves during the day, want nothing more than to reach out and hold his.
When milky morning light fills the little bedroom, Héloïse is brave once again and ready to venture out into the world alone. This morning she decides to walk to the market for breakfast. When François was alive they’d gone to the market every Sunday, buying fresh buttered baguettes for breakfast, sitting out in the sunshine when the weather was warm, scurrying back to the house if it was cold or wet. On sunny days, after eating, they toured their favorite stalls, hand in hand, lingering over French cheeses, Spanish chorizo, and bags of salted almonds that never seemed to last until lunchtime.
Héloïse’s favorite stall in the market has always been the secondhand-book stall, owned by a man called Ben, who inherited it from his father, Theo. Héloïse has been visiting the bookstall since she was a PhD student at Newnham, when Theo was in charge and Ben was a baby, occasionally brought to the bookstall to visit his father. As an eager student, Héloïse had shared many wonderful discussions about literature with Theo, learning a great deal from the man who, though only a few years older, seemed to have read every book ever published, many that hadn’t been. A subtle flirtation had always skimmed the surface of their conversations, but it had never gone anywhere since they’d both been married then.
The years passed and Héloïse stayed on to teach and Ben grew up among the market stalls, learning the book trade and getting to know the desires and delights of the regular customers. By the time she was a professor of French literature and he was working full-time on the bookstall, Ben knew Héloïse’s literary tastes almost as well as she did, offering her new books on every visit and telling her what she would and wouldn’t like before she even picked it up.
Héloïse hasn’t been to the market or the secondhand-book stall since François died. After drinking a double espresso, she leaves the house and, twenty minutes later, arrives first at the fresh bread stall to buy a croissant. Cambridge croissants aren’t the same thing as
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