Nancy Huston - Infrared

‘What about Aziz?’

‘That’s part of it. I haven’t heard from him for two days.’

‘The magazine’s probably making him work around the clock, don’t you think? Because of the events?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t worry, dear one. It’s just a bad patch, you’ll see. You’ll pull through. Everything will turn out all right.’

L’amore

Car tyres crunch on gravel — Gaia is back.

Rena comes out of her room. ‘So what do you guys feel like doing?’

As traumatised by her outburst as if he were a little boy and she his mother, Simon answers in a low voice that he plans to spend the day here. She and Ingrid are welcome to go sightseeing wherever they want.

‘No problem,’ says Rena.

‘No, Dad,’ Ingrid protests. ‘I’ll stay here with you. It’s a good idea to rest up a bit. We’ve been running around so much these past few days.’

‘No problem,’ says Rena.

Fine. So they’ll see neither Volterra nor San Gimignano; they’ll go nowhere. What difference does it make?

Gaia’s cheerful voice wafts up to them from downstairs: ‘Tutto bene?’

‘Si, si. Molto bene!’ Rena replies.

And the day goes by.

Rena settles down with a book beneath the open dormer windows of her bedroom. As the afternoon sun crosses the sky, snatches of the couple’s gentle madness come floating up to her ears.

‘We haven’t had the time to write a single postcard. If we don’t do it now, we’ll get to Montreal before they do.’

‘Good idea. Where did you put them?’

‘I thought you had them. Wait a minute, I’ll check…Our bags need repacking anyway…’

‘Where should we sit? Cold in the shade, hot in the sun…’

‘Forgot my hat.’

‘Shall I fetch it?’

‘No, no, let’s sit in the shade.’

‘Which ones do you want?…Okay, I’ll take the others.’

‘So where should we start?’

‘Let’s make a list.’

‘The children, of course…and the grandchildren.’

‘But it’s the same address. No point in wasting stamps.’

‘Just as you like…’

‘Deborah…No, I’ll do hers later.’

‘My stomach’s growling.’

‘Hey, I’m getting hungry, too.’

‘Maybe we could ask Gaia to make us a snack and bring it out here.’

‘Sure. She could set up another table, it shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Wait, I’ll ask…What a talker that woman is! She’s coming, though.’

‘So you write to David, okay?’

‘No, go ahead, you do it. Here, take Michelangelo’s David. The complete view, eh? Not the close-up of his thingamajig. Ha ha!’

‘Know his address?’

‘Not off the top of my head.’

‘Too bad. We’ll have to give him the card when we get back.’

‘And Whosit’s Campanile — should we send that to Freda?’

‘Sure thing. I wonder how she’s doing…Hope her medicine has kicked in by now.’

‘Speaking of which…what about Marcy’s operation?’

‘You’re right, it was scheduled for last week. We should have given her a call.’

‘Oh, she knows it’s not easy to telephone from overseas…’

‘Aren’t those hills just beautiful?’

‘Mm-hmm! The foliage back home must be looking great, too.’

‘Should I take a picture?’

‘Why not?’

‘Where’s the camera?’

‘Upstairs in the red bag.’

‘I’ll get it — tell the sun not to move!’

‘Could you bring a sweater down for me, too?’

‘Are you cold?’

‘Just a little.’

‘Maybe we should go inside.’

‘Okay. I’ll bring the tray.’

‘Careful of that step!’

‘Oops! Just in time!’

…They love each other.

Where is Aziz?

Grabbing her Canon, Rena joins Gaia outside in the garden and starts taking photos. She photographs everything she likes, and she likes everything. One photo after another: Gaia herself — a marvellous woman, radiant despite mourning and solitude. Her hazel trees and fig trees, her vegetable garden, her autumn flowers. All in black in white. An orgy of greys.

Gaia talks and talks, smiling, seeming to understand her.

She’d understand, Rena says inwardly to Subra, if I could tell her, if I could make it clear to her, if my Italian were better than it is, I’m sure Gaia would understand that the words escaped me. I didn’t mean to say them. The word, rather, a single word, the word Sylvie, the name Sylvie, such a lovely name, meaning forest or glade… ‘What?’ my mother said. ‘What are you talking about? Sylvie wasn’t with you in London!’ And my silence then my silence then my silence then…I’m sure Gaia would believe me if I told her I didn’t do it on purpose; the word came out all by itself. Three months after the trip to London, I was chattering about flea markets with my mother who adored flea markets, I was telling her about the Portobello Market and how much fun Sylvie and I had had trying on vintage dresses there…’What?’ Silence. ‘Sorry, no, of course she wasn’t there…’ Cringing, blushing, stammering…I saw the dawning of catastrophe in Ms Lisa Heyward’s eyes. I didn’t mean to, I swear. I didn’t do it on purpose, it was a simple mistake, not a Freudian slip, just a mistake, people do make plain ordinary mistakes sometimes, don’t they, Gaia? I’m the one who…it’s my fault that…no way of unsaying it, taking it back…undoing the damage…The word Sylvie irreparably destroyed…

Caos

It’s six o’clock. Sweetly, with a sharp, burning sweetness, dusk arrives. Rena has taken a hundred photos. Simon and Ingrid get up from their nap. All they need to do now is invent an evening for this day…

‘I don’t want you to cook for us again,’ Rena tells Gaia. ‘We’ll find ourselves a restaurant in town.’

‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to make dinner for you tonight, I’m having friends over.’

‘Ah. Benissimo.’

She’s having friends over, thinks Rena. Maybe that’s how the whole thing all started: waking up this morning, Simon must have sensed this was a house in which it was possible to entertain.

As Rena heads for the staircase, Gaia turns on the TV to catch the evening news. ‘Dio mio, look!’ she exclaims suddenly. ‘It’s about your country. La Francia.’

Rena covers the six yards between the staircase and the TV set in zero seconds.

Scenes of chaos. A doorway, with choking men and billows of smoke pouring out of it. Thunderstruck, Rena recognises the little mosque — part of the same building as the Turkish baths she visited with Aicha. From inside the baths, she recalls, the women could hear the men praying; other days of the week it was no doubt the other way around. She recognises the men, too. Not the individuals but the type. Modest, humble. Not young. Not proud. Bruised and battered by life. All-enduring. ‘What’s going on?’ she asks Gaia, because the Italian anchorman is speaking much too fast for her to understand.

Even when Gaia repeats what he’s saying at a slower speed she doesn’t understand it, and even if Gaia were to translate it into French or English she wouldn’t understand it, because what he is saying is incomprehensible. The police, it would seem, tossed, it would seem, a tear bomb, it would seem, into the mosque, it would seem, during the evening prayer service. The two women sit there and watch the coughing, weeping, spitting men pour out of the building. Then the camera jumps to another scene — crowds of young men shouting and throwing stones—’It looks like the Intifada!’ says Gaia (and Rena is reminded of an elderly Jewish couple she met in Haifa, Argentine-born but living in Israel since the 1950s, shocked to hear she planned to visit the Palestinian Territories as well, asking her if she took her Canadian friends to visit Sarcelles when they came to Paris; Rena had been disconcerted by the comparison — quite an admission, when you thought about it)…Violent clashes between the young men and the riot police, cars burning, women’s faces convulsed with rage, more cars burning, and she realises Aziz must be on the spot. Of course he’s there, either in the middle of the crowd or right next to it, covering the event for On the Fringe, maybe if she looks at the TV screen hard enough she’ll catch sight of him and be able to say to Gaia, Look, that’s my husband — the one over there, see? Do you see the one I mean? The tall thin young Arab with the high cheekbones. Yes, him, him! Isn’t he just so beautiful you could weep? That’s him, I swear! We’ve been working together for two years and living together since last summer. He’s a real hero…He learned early on how to turn sadness into energy and bitterness into creativity. A poor student in grade school, he got turned around by a wonderful teacher in eighth grade and made it through to his baccalaureate, and it didn’t take long after that for the fast-talker to turn into a reporter. Today he’s one of France’s few bicultural journalists, capable of bridging the gap between the nervous, touchy, overcautious old-stock population of France’s city centres and the boiling cauldron of the suburbs with their hundred nationalities, seventy languages, fifteen religions and two million problems…True, he’s younger than I am, indeed closer to my sons’ ages than to mine (it wasn’t easy for them to accept this new stepfather), but all is well now, Gaia, I can hardly believe my luck…