Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

I grab a pencil on his desk and meticulously print out “Clarisse Elzyère, 1938-1974” in the little box next to “François Rey, 1937.”

There are photographs of every single parent on that tree except for my mother. A strange frustration works through me.

The doorbell announces Emmanuel’s arrival. I am suddenly glad to see him, very glad not to be alone, and I eagerly wrap my arms around his stocky, burly body. He pats me on the back in a comforting, fatherly fashion.

I’ve known Emmanuel for more than ten years. We met when I refurbished his advertising company’s offices with my team. He is my age, but looks older, I guess, because of his entirely bald pate. He makes up for his lack of hair with a bushy ginger beard he likes to finger. Emmanuel wears bright, outlandish colors I would never dare try, and he carries them off with a certain panache. Tonight his Ralph Lauren shirt is a tropical orange. His eyes sparkle at me, baby blue from behind his rimless glasses.

I want to tell him how happy I am that he is here, how thankful I am for his presence, but as usual, in true Rey fashion, the words fizzle out on my tongue and I keep them bottled up within me.

I grab the plastic bag he is carrying, and he follows me to the kitchen. He gets to work at once, and I watch him, offering to help although I know this is perfectly useless. He takes over the place as if it were his, and I let him.

“You still don’t have a proper apron, do you?” he grumbles.

I point to Margaux’s pink Mickey Mouse one hanging on a peg near the door. She’s had it since she was ten. He sighs and manages to tie it around his fleshy loins. I try not to laugh.

Emmanuel’s personal life is a mystery to me. He is more or less involved with a woebegone, complicated creature called Monique who has two teenage children by a previous marriage. I’m not sure what he sees in her. And I’m pretty sure he has affairs whenever she’s not around, like now, as she is still on vacation in Normandy with her kids. I can tell he’s up to something, because he’s whistling as he chops up the avocados and he flaunts that naughty boy expression I usually see on his face at this time of year.

Despite his extra padding, Emmanuel never seems to suffer from the heat. As I sit there sipping my wine, I feel sweat glistening at my temples and on my upper lip while he remains as cool as a cucumber. The kitchen window is open and gives onto a typically Parisian courtyard, as dark as a cave even at noon, facing the neighbor’s grimy windowpane and damp kitchen cloths hanging over the ledge. Not a breath of air sneaks into the room. I hate Paris in this heat. I miss Malakoff and the small, fresh garden, the rickety table and chair under the old poplar tree. Emmanuel bustles about, complaining about my lack of good knives and a pepper grinder.

I have never been a cook. Astrid was the cook in our couple. She rustled up the most delicious, original stuff that never ceased to impress our friends. I wonder suddenly if my mother was a good cook. I have no recollection of appetizing kitchen smells at the avenue Kléber. Before our father married Régine, a governess was hired to look after the household and us. Madame Tulard. A thin, hairychinned woman. Watery soup. Halfhearted brussels sprouts. Leathery veal. Soggy riz-au-lait. Suddenly I remember piping-hot goat cheese on whole wheat bread. That came from our mother. The acrid tang of the melted cheese, the wheatlike, floury sensation of the bread, the sweet hint of fresh thyme and basil, the drop of olive oil. I remember her telling me she used to eat goat cheese as a child in the Cévennes.

They had a name, those little round cheeses… Pélardons… Picadons…

Emmanuel asks me how Mel is doing. I tell him Valérie turned up to take over for a couple of days. I tell him I don’t really know how my sister is, but I like and trust her surgeon, Bénédicte Besson, how earnest and kind she is, how she comforted me the night of the accident, how she put up with our father. He then asks how the children are, neatly producing two plates of finely chopped fresh vegetables, sliced Gouda, tangy yogurt sauce, and Italian ham. This is merely our hors d’oeuvre, as I know his robust appetite well. As we both start to eat, I tell him that my children will be turning up this weekend. I glance at him as he wolfs down his food. Like Mélanie, what does Emmanuel know about raising children? What does he know about teenagers? Nothing. Lucky man. I hide a wry smile. Try as I might, I can’t imagine Emmanuel as a father.

I wait till he has finished his plate and is up again cooking our salmon. This is fast and deft. I watch him, marveling at his skill. He sprinkles dill over the fish and hands me my share and a half lemon. I then say, “Mélanie drove off the highway because something about our mother came back to her.”

He looks up at me, startled. A small piece of dill is caught between his teeth. He picks at it.

“She doesn’t remember anything now,” I go on, eating the salmon steadily.

He eats too, his eyes on me. “But she will,” he says. “You know that.”

“Yes,” I say. “She will. For the moment she hasn’t, and I just can’t stop thinking about it. It’s driving me crazy.”

I wait till he has finished his salmon. Then I light up a cigarette. I know he hates it, but I am, after all, in my own house.

“What do you think it was?”

“Something that upset her tremendously. Enough to lose control of the car.”

I smoke in silence as he has another go at trying to dislodge the piece of dill.

“And then, I met this woman,” I say.

His face perks up. He raises an eyebrow.

“She’s a mortician.”

He guffaws. “You’re kidding.”

I smile. “She’s the sexiest thing.”

He rubs his chin, eyes beaming.

“And?” he eggs me on. Emmanuel loves this sort of conversation.

“Well, she made a beeline for me. She’s amazing. Magnificent.”

“Blond?”

“No. Brunette. Yellowy green eyes. Great body. Great sense of humor.”

“Where does she live?”

“Clisson.”

“Where’s that?”

“Somewhere near Nantes.”

He chuckles.

“Well, you should see her again because she’s done you good, my boy. You haven’t looked this full of beans since-”

“Since Astrid took off.”

“No, since before that. You haven’t looked this good for years.”

I raise my glass of Chardonnay. “Here’s to Angèle Rouvatier.”

Our glasses tinkle.

I think about her in that provincial hospital. I think about her slow smile and her smooth skin and the taste of her. And I want her so badly I almost burst. Emmanuel is right. I haven’t felt this way in years.

On Friday afternoon I leave my office to see my father. The heat has not faded. Paris is ablaze. Tourists troop here and there, drained. Trees hang limp; dust and dirt gather in gray, billowing clouds. I decide to walk the distance from the avenue du Maine to the avenue Kléber, which should take me roughly forty-five minutes. It’s too hot to cycle, and I feel like some sort of exercise.

The latest news from the hospital is good. Dr. Besson and Valérie have both called to say that Mélanie is gaining strength. (There have also been several text messages from Angèle Rouvatier, but they were of a more erotic nature, which naturally thrilled me. I have stored each and every one of them on my phone.)

As I turn left after passing the Invalides, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at the number flashing up on the screen. Rabagny. I pick up, although I instantly wish I hadn’t.