Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

He doesn’t even bother to greet me. He never does. He is fifteen years younger than I am, at least, and he has absolutely no respect for me whatsoever.

“I’ve just been to the day-care center,” he barks. “And all I can say is that I am appalled by your lack of professionalism. I hired you because you had a good reputation and some people seemed impressed by your work.”

I let him ramble on. This is not new. It happens nearly every time we speak to each other. I had often tried reminding him, as calmly as possible, that in France during the month of August it is impossible to get work done fast and equally difficult to expect speedy deliveries.

“I don’t think the mayor is going to like the fact that the day-care center won’t be ready to open at the beginning of September, as planned. Have you given any thought to this? I know you’ve been having family problems, but I sometimes wonder if you have not been using these problems as an excuse.”

Without turning it off, I slip the phone into my shirt pocket and walk faster, gathering speed as I near the Seine. There has been a series of unfortunate mishaps concerning the day-care center: the wrong woodwork and a painter (not on my team) who didn’t get the colors right. None of these events had anything to do with me. But Rabagny was impervious to that. He was out to get me. From the start he had never liked me. No matter what I did or said. I could tell just by the way he looked at me. Sometimes he stared at my shoes in a pointed manner. I wonder how much longer I am going to put up with his behavior. The job was well paid, above the usual standard. I know I have to stick it out. The question is, how?

After the place de l’Alma and hordes of tearful tourists peering down into the tunnel where Lady Di died, I begin the slow ascent on the avenue du Président-Wilson. The cars are scarcer here; it is a more residential area. My neighborhood, as a child. The quiet, placid, wealthy, uptight, gloomy sixteenth arrondissement. If you admit to a Parisian that you live in the sixteenth arrondissement, he or she at once thinks, Money. This is where the wealthy live, and this is where they flaunt it. There is old money here, and there is nouveau riche. Both cohabit with more or less grace. I don’t miss the sixteenth arrondissement. I’m glad I live on the Left Bank of the Seine, in noisy, colorful, trendy Montparnasse, even if my apartment gives onto a cemetery. In the summer this district empties alarmingly. Everyone is away, in Normandy, in Brittany, on the Riviera.

As I head toward the avenue Kléber, cutting across to it via the rue de Longchamp, my childhood comes back to me, and it does not feel good. I see the quiet, earnest little boy I used to be, with my gray flannel shorts and navy blue sweater. Why, I wonder, is there something sad and sinister about these empty streets lined with regal, Haussmanian buildings? Why do I find it hard to breathe as I walk along them?

When I get to the avenue Kléber, I check my watch and find that I’m early. I pursue my walk farther, down the rue des Belles-Feuilles. I haven’t been here for years. I remember a bustling, lively place. I came here often as a child. It was the shopping street. You got the freshest fish here, the juiciest meat, crisp baguettes straight from the oven. This is where my mother did her shopping every morning, wicker basket over her arm, Mel and me in tow, breathing in mouthwatering whiffs of roasting chicken and hot croissants. Today the street is deserted. A triumphant McDonald’s reigns where a fine restaurant used to be, and a frozen-food store now replaces a movie theater. Most of the food stalls have been traded for chic clothing and shoe shops. The enticing smells have gone.

I get to the end of the street. If I turn left, down the rue de la Pompe, it would lead me straight to my grandmother’s place on the avenue Henri-Martin. I toy with the idea of going to visit her now. Slow, gentle Gaspard would let me in, beaming, so happy to see “Monsieur Antoine.” I put it off for another day and head back toward my father’s.

In the mid-seventies, I remember, after our mother died, the Galerie Saint-Didier was built just beyond, an unsightly, gigantic triangle that ate up part of the exquisite hôtels particuliers of the area and sprouted malls and supermarkets in their wake. As I walk past, I notice that the huge construction has not aged well, its surface marred by rust and stains. I hurry along. Somebody has left two messages on my voice mail. I don’t listen to them, because I know it has to be Rabagny.

My stepmother opens the door and pecks me on the cheek. Régine sports a dark, toasty tan that makes her look older and more withered than she actually is. As usual, she is wearing one of her Courrèges revival outfits and exudes Chanel No. 5. She asks me how Mel is. I answer, following her into the living room. I have never liked coming back here. It is like going back in time, back to a place where I was unhappy. My body remembers it, and I can feel every part of me clenching up in self-defense. The apartment, like the Galerie Saint-Didier, has not aged well either. Its daring modernity has faded and now looks impossibly unfashionable. The maroon and gray decor, the fluffy wall-to-wall carpet have lost both brightness and texture. Everything seems scruffy, spotted.

My father comes shuffling in. I am taken aback by his wizened appearance, although I saw him barely a week ago. He looks exhausted. His lips are colorless. His skin has an odd, yellowish hue. I can hardly believe this is the formidable lawyer who had his opponents quaking as soon as he marched into the courtroom.

The infamous Vallombreux affair, in the early seventies, launched my father’s career as an eminent lawyer. Edgar Vallombreux, an influential political counselor, had been found half dead in his country house near Bordeaux after a presumed suicide following a disastrous result for his party in recent elections. Paralyzed, unable to speak, depressed, he was confined to a hospital bed for the rest of his life. His wife, Marguerite, never bought the suicide story. It was clear to her that her husband had been assaulted because he was aware of fiscal indiscretions concerning a couple of highly placed ministers.

I remember when Le Figaro printed an entire page about François Rey, the young, impudent lawyer who dared take on the Ministry of Finance without a qualm, and who, after weeks of a palpitating trial that had the entire country holding its breath, proved that Vallombreux had indeed been the victim of a substantial financial scandal that left several heads tumbling in its aftermath. In my adolescence I was often asked if I had anything to do with “the legendary lawyer.” Sometimes, embarrassed or annoyed, I used to say I didn’t. Mélanie and I were kept out of our father’s professional life. We had seldom seen him in action in the courtroom. We simply knew that he was respected and feared.

My father pats me on the shoulder, makes his way to the bar, and hands me a whiskey poured out with a shaking hand. I dislike whiskey, but I don’t have the heart to remind him. I pretend to sip at it. He sits down with a groan and rubs his kneecaps. He is retired now and not happy about it. Younger lawyers have stepped into his shoes, and he is no longer part of the legal scene. What does he do all day long? I wonder. Does he read, see friends? Talk to his wife? I know nothing about my father’s life. He knows nothing about mine. And what he thinks he knows, he disapproves of.

Joséphine appears, mumbling into the mobile phone caught between her cheek and shoulder. She smiles at me and hands me something. I glance down to see a folded five-hundred-euro bill. She winks at me and makes a sort of gesture explaining that the rest will come later.