Juan Gabriel Vásquez - Lovers on All Saints' Day

“And now what are we going to do?” I said.

“I don’t know,” said Michelle. “We’re going to be fine, I imagine.”

—

THAT AFTERNOON, after I dropped Michelle off at the station in Aywaille, after waiting with her for the orange train that would take her to Liège and seeing her get into the car and put the yellow knapsack I once brought her from Paris in the luggage rack, after asking her to call me when she arrived and hearing her say I promise, I’ll call as soon as I get in, after saying good-bye and walking out of the station along with the rest of the relatives and friends who’d been saying good-bye to their relatives and friends, after all that, I decided to pass through Saint-Roch before going home. But the trailer was closed, and I peered in the window and the kitchen was not working and the oil was not boiling. It seemed strange to me that a place like that would close on Saturdays. I looked at it from the outside: things are bigger in daylight. I waited awhile, then went to look for Zoé at her house. I didn’t find her there, either, but I found something better: there was a note hanging on the gray mailbox, stuck with insulation tape, that Zoé had left for someone. I read: I won’t be long, attendez-moi . And trying to imagine who would be waiting for Zoé, trying to investigate the plural request and the circumstances of the day, I thought that Zoé wasn’t so alone after all, if she had people willing to wait for her on a Saturday at five o’clock in the afternoon. I realized then that the note was written on an English postcard, and I thought Graham would have brought it back from some trip, and from the caption under the image I found out it was a bronze plaque in Liverpool, perhaps near the port, and that those English words, courage and compassion joined , were an homage to the musicians who’d died in the shipwreck of the Titanic . I put the postcard back in its place and made sure it was well stuck, pressed the insulation tape firmly, because it would be terrible if the wind blew it away and Zoé’s friends left without waiting for her due to the breezes that usually blow in the Ardennes. I drove out of the neighborhood before Zoé returned, and on my way I imagined her going out to get the wine she hadn’t been able to offer me the night before, or buying some pastry at L’Épi d’Or for her guests. Of course, it was also possible the note was not directed at any friend, but at strangers who were coming to fix her hot-water heater or dishwasher or maybe leave her a bundle of firewood in anticipation of winter. That was also possible and I knew it. But I preferred to hold on to the other idea.

THE NIGHT BEFORE, at around nine, Xavier Moré had arrived on foot at the Lemoines’ house. He suddenly appeared in the kitchen, filling the doorway, looking like an old scrounger. His skin was as dry and rough as blotting paper, and the wisps of white hair across the top of his head looked like paint peeling off a clay wall.

“I’ve come to get my car,” he said.

Georges and Charlotte looked at each other.

“Why don’t you come in and have a hot drink?” she said. “We’re just finishing dinner.”

“I don’t want anything. I just want my car.”

Several months earlier, Jean Moré, Xavier’s only son, had asked Georges if he’d keep his father’s old Porsche in the barn. “He’s still drinking a lot,” he’d said. “I’d rather chauffeur him around than see something happen to him on the highway.” The strategy worked out well: Xavier began to get used to being a passenger, even seeming to forget he’d ever sat behind a steering wheel. Meanwhile, the Porsche slept in Georges’s barn, surrounded by bags of manure and rusty shovels.

“The car’s here, but we don’t have the keys,” said Georges. “Your son has them.”

“That’s a lie,” said Xavier. “The keys are here, too. I want it. It’s mine and I want to drive it.”

Georges listened closely: there were no traces of alcohol in Xavier’s voice. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had arrived on foot. It hadn’t happened since wartime, when they were young enough to walk the five kilometers between their houses without breathing any heavier. More than once they’d gone as far as the border by bicycle, unconcerned about the risk of running into German soldiers, to buy potatoes at lower prices. But now they were old men, and old men don’t walk alone, at night, braving the autumn cold of the Ardennes. Georges took Xavier by the arm, led him to the table like a blind man, and Xavier accepted a glass of port: no matter that he’d suffered an attack of gout a couple of weeks earlier that had forced Jean to hire a nurse from the Rocourt hospital. Georges wanted to say: Don’t worry, think of tomorrow. Tomorrow everything will have changed, one goes hunting and forgets the bad things.

“I don’t really know why I came,” said Xavier.

“You wanted to see us,” said Charlotte.

“Well, yes. But it wasn’t urgent.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t you stay overnight? You can’t go back at this hour.”

“We could call a taxi,” said Georges. “There’s a car service in Aywaille—”

Charlotte cut him off. Her blue eyes reproached him for something.

“We don’t need any taxis. The guest room is made up.”

“This is stupid,” said Xavier. “My Porsche is sitting in your barn and I want to take it. What has my son told you, might I ask? I’m fine. Do you think I’m drunk?”

“We’ll call Jean,” said Georges.

Xavier lifted his arm and the wine in his glass was illuminated with a yellow light. He threw the glass down on the wooden floor, hard. But the glass didn’t smash: its stem snapped off with a quiet sound, and the port spilled out, forming a long puddle.

“Merde,” said Xavier.

He fell back in his chair, his head in his hands. “Just as well. The doctor said I wasn’t allowed any.” He didn’t look at Charlotte, but said:

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well, talk to her,” said Georges.

“It was nothing. I was feeling lonely, it happens to us all.”

“All of us,” said Charlotte. “But that’s why there’s—”

“Not to you two, of course. You’re the happy family, the little house on the prairie.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Georges.

“Nothing, nothing. Don’t get paranoid.”

Then there was a knock at the door. Xavier smiled, and in his smile there was a bitterness Georges had never seen.

“There’s my son, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. It’s touching. Everyone worries so much, they notice I’m not home and go out looking for me.”

—

BUT ALL THAT had been the night before. Today, Georges didn’t want to worry about bitter thoughts. Charlotte took his hand and he felt the roughness of her skin. He adored that roughness, and hearing his wife’s smoker’s voice, and stroking her gray hair, calmed him. Xavier chose his life without anyone forcing him to do anything. The past was far behind them, everyone made their own selves. That was terrible, but it was true.

He poured himself some coffee and thought he could add a few drops of cognac without harming his aim. The mountain cold had stayed in his hands, and as he lifted the warm coffeepot his fingers thawed out. It was almost eight in the morning and the room was beginning to fill up with people and voices. Hunters crossed the paved courtyard with long strides; through the window Georges watched them arrive. The rubber soles of their waterproof boots barely dented the silence. Some of them left the back doors of their four-by-fours open, and the dogs barked from inside their cages when a tortoiseshell cat ran past toward the lake.