Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

We pass the Saint-Vincent de Paul Hospital. This is where my children were born. And Pauline too. Pauline was born here fourteen years ago. That was how we met Patrick and Suzanne, as the girls were born two days apart. Astrid and Suzanne were in the same ward. When I first laid eyes on Pauline, it was in this very hospital, in the small plastic crib next to my daughter’s.

Pauline is dead. I cannot take it in. The words make no sense. I want to make sure, I want to bombard Margaux with questions, but her haggard face puts me off. We walk on. It’s getting darker. It is freezing. The way back seems endless. I finally glimpse the enormous bronze rump of the Denfert-Rochereau lion. Only a few minutes now.

As soon as we walk into the apartment, I make tea. Margaux sits on the sofa, her face in her hands, Pauline’s bag on her lap. When she glances up at me as I come in with the tray, she has the hard, closed face of an adult. I place the tray down on the coffee table, pour out a mug for her, add milk and sugar, hand it to her. She takes it in silence. I fight the strong need for a cigarette. I could do with one, but it seems wrong to smoke now.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

She sips slowly. Then she says in a low, tense voice, “No.”

Suddenly the cup clatters to the floor, making me jump, spilling milky tea into a star-shaped stain. Margaux chokes, and tears well up. I draw her to me, but she pushes me away furiously. Never have I seen her so angry, her features contorted, crimson, swollen with rage. She screams at the top of her voice, spitting specks of saliva into my face.

“Why did this happen, Dad? Why Pauline? She was only fourteen!”

I don’t know how to calm her. No soothing words come to my lips. I feel useless. Nothing comes to mind. I am stranded, lost. What can I say to my daughter? How can I be of any help? Why don’t I know how? If only Astrid were here, I think. She would know what to do, what to say. Mothers always know. Fathers don’t. At least not this one.

“Let’s call your mother,” I mumble ineffectually, trying to calculate the time difference with Japan. “Why don’t we give her a call.”

My daughter stares at me with disdain. She stands facing me, clutching Pauline’s bag to her.

“Is that all you can come up with?’ ” she whispers, outraged. “Let’s call your mother? Is this how you think you are helping me right now?”

“Margaux, please…” I mumble.

“You’re pathetic,” she hisses. “This is the worst day of my life. And you don’t even know how to fucking help me. I hate you. I hate you.”

She turns away and strides into her room. The door slams shut. Her words bite into me. They sting. I don’t care what time it is in Japan. I go and find the piece of paper with the hotel number in Tokyo. I dial the number with fumbling fingers. I hate you. I hate you. I can’t get those words out of my head.

The front door bangs, and the boys walk in, Arno on his phone, as usual. Lucas starts to say something to me as the hotel picks up in Tokyo. I raise my hand to silence him. I ask for Astrid, using her maiden name, then suddenly remember that she is registered under Serge’s name. The receptionist informs me flatly that it is nearly one a.m. local time. I say it is an emergency. The boys glance at me, surprised. Serge’s droning voice comes on. He starts to complain about being woken up, but I snap at him and ask for Astrid. Then her voice, thin with alarm.

“What is it, Antoine?”

“Pauline is dead.”

“What?” she breathes, all those miles away.

The boys stare at me, horrified.

“I don’t know what happened. Margaux is in shock. Pauline collapsed during gym class. I only just found out. ”

Silence. I imagine her sitting up in the bed, her hair tousled, him beside her, one of those high-tech, sleek hotel rooms in a skyscraper, the ultramodern bathroom, the view, the blackness of the middle of the night. The “sushi” catalog laid out on a large table with his photo gear. An open computer. A spiraling screen saver glowing in the dark.

“Are you there?” I say as the silence stretches on.

“Yes,” she finally replies, calm, almost cold. “Can I speak to Margaux?”

The boys, openmouthed and gawky, stumble back to let me pass, phone in hand. I knock on my daughter’s closed door. No answer.

“It’s your mother.”

The door opens a crack as the phone is plucked from my hand, then slams shut again. I make out a stifled sob, Margaux’s fearful voice. I go back to the living room, where the boys await me, petrified. Lucas has gone white. He is fighting back tears.

“Dad,” he murmurs, “why did Pauline die?”

Before I can answer him, my mobile phone buzzes. Patrick’s number shows up. Pauline’s father. With a sinking heart I take the call. My mouth goes dry. I’ve known this man ever since the day his daughter was born. For the past fourteen years we have had endless conversations about kindergartens, schools, vacations, trips, bad teachers, good ones, who picks up who and when, Disneyland, birthday parties, slumber parties, summer camps. I can only utter his name as I press the phone to my ear.

“Hi, Antoine…” His voice is exhausted, barely audible. “Listen…” He sighs. I wonder where he is. Probably still at the hospital. “I need your help.”

“Yes, of course! Anything…”

“I think Margaux has Pauline’s stuff. Her schoolbag and her clothes.”

“That’s right. What do you want me to do?”

“Just hang on to them. Pauline… has her ID card, keys, and her phone in there. Her wallet-I guess. Just hang on to them, okay? Just keep them, for the moment…”

His voice breaks. His tears immediately bring out the wet in my own eyes.

“God, Patrick-” I blurt out.

“I know. I know,” he says, fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Thank you. Thank you, pal.”

He hangs up abruptly.

Tears gush. Huge, fat tears. There is no way I can hold them back. It is odd because there are no sobs, no hiccuping, as when I cried the night of the accident. Just a thick stream of tears pouring out of me.

Very slowly I set the phone down, collapse onto the sofa, my face in my hands. My sons stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Lucas comes to me first, pushing his head under my arms to fit against me, his wet cheeks slippery against mine. Arno lands at my feet, his bony arms encircling my calves.

This is the first time in their lives my boys have ever seen me cry. It’s too late now. I can’t stop it. I give in to it.

We stay like that for a long time.

Pauline’s bag is in the entrance, a pile of clothes neatly folded next to it. My eyes turn back to the bag and the clothes again and again. It is late, two or three in the morning. The night feels like a bottomless pit. I am emptied of all tears. Dried out. I have smoked half a pack. My face is a puffy mess. My limbs ache. But the thought of going to bed scares me.

Margaux’s light is still on. I can hear regular breathing when I stick my ear to her door. She has passed out. The boys have too. The apartment is silent. There is hardly any traffic on the rue Froidevaux. I try not to look at the bag, but it seems to be calling out to me. After a while I give in. I tiptoe over to it, pick it up gingerly. I sit down, the bag and clothes on my lap. How is this possible? I wonder. Pauline is dead. And yet her stuff is here, on my lap. I zip the bag open. Fish around. A hairbrush. Long blond hairs still trapped in it. Pauline is dead, and strands of her hair are right here, shimmering between my fingers. I cannot understand it. Her phone is on silent mode. Thirty-two missed calls. Had her friends called her phone today just to hear her voice? Maybe I would have done just the same if my best friend had died. Schoolbooks. Neat handwriting. She was a good student. Better than Margaux. She wanted to be a doctor. Patrick was proud of that. Fourteen years old, and she already knew what she wanted to do. Her wallet. A purple diamanté affair. ID card. It was two years old. The photo was the Pauline I knew. The skinny kid I used to play hide-and-seek with. Makeup, lip gloss, a deodorant. Her date book. Homework for the next two weeks. I flip the pages. “Dallad on Sunday.” A pink heart. Dallad was Margaux’s nickname. Pauline was Pitou. Ever since they were small. Her clothes. The ones she had taken off to put her sport gear on. A white sweater and jeans. I put the sweater gently to my face. A mixture of cigarette smoke and fruity perfume. Pauline is dead, and her smell is still on that sweater.