Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

“I’m sorry,” she says, taking a deep, shaking breath. “I don’t know what came over me.”

She blows her nose. A long pause. I give her time. I hold her hand.

“Lucas told me about your girlfriend. The tall, dark one.”

“Angèle.”

“How long have you been seeing her?”

“Since the accident.”

“Are you in love with her?”

I rub my forehead. Am I in love with Angèle? Of course I am. But there is no way I can say this to Astrid right now.

“She makes me happy.”

Astrid smiles, a brave smile.

“That’s good. Great. I’m glad.” Another pause. “Listen, I’m awfully tired all of a sudden. I think I’ll go up to bed. Will you let Titus out for his last pee?”

Titus is already waiting by the door, wagging his tail with anticipation. I put my coat on, and we head out into the biting cold. He waddles around the garden happily, lifting his leg. I rub my hands together, blow on them to keep warm. I want to get back into the warm house. Astrid has gone upstairs. As Titus flops down in front of the dying fire, I go up to say goodbye. Lucas’s light is off. Arno’s light is off. Margaux’s is on. I hesitate to knock, but she hears my step. Her door creaks open.

“Bye, Dad.” She flits to me like a little ghost in her white nightdress. Hugs me in a flash and takes off again. I go down the small corridor to what used to be my old bedroom. It hasn’t changed much. Astrid is in the adjoining bathroom. I sit on the bed and wait for her. It was in this room that she told me she wanted a divorce. That she loved him. That she wanted to be with him. Not me. That she was so sorry. That she couldn’t stand the lying any longer. I remember the shock and the hurting. Staring down at my wedding ring and thinking that this couldn’t be true. Her going on about how our marriage had become something comfy and distended, like a slack pair of old slippers, and I had winced at the image. I knew what she meant. I knew exactly what she meant. But had it been entirely my fault? Is it always the husband’s fault? Because I’d let the pizzazz fizzle out of our humdrum life? Because I didn’t bring her flowers? Because I’d let a dashing, younger prince whisk her out of my reach? What did she see in Serge? I often wondered. His youth? His ardor? The fact that he wasn’t a father? Instead of fighting for her, fighting like the devil, I had stepped back. A deflated balloon. One of my first, childish reactions had been to have a one-night stand with a colleague’s assistant. It had done me no good. During our marriage I had not been the unfaithful kind. I wasn’t good at that. Some men are. There had been one brief affair during a business trip with an attractive younger woman, just after Lucas was born. I had felt wretched. The guilt was too much for me to bear. I found adultery complicated. I gave it up. Then there had been that long, dry patch in our marriage, just before I found out about Serge. Nothing much went on in our bed anymore, and I’d been lazy about it, not bothering to delve into it. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe I already knew, deep inside, that she loved and desired another man.

Astrid comes out of the bathroom wearing a long T-shirt. She slips into bed with a weary sigh. She holds out her hand to me. I take it, lying down next to her, fully clothed.

“Don’t go just yet,” she murmurs. “Wait till I fall asleep. Please.”

She turns off the bedside lamp. The room seems dark at first. Then I can make out the furniture, the dim streetlight filtering in through the curtains. I will wait till she drops off, then silently take my leave. A juxtaposition of images whirls. The carcasses on the road. Pauline’s coffin. Xavier Parimbert and his smug smile. My mother and a woman in her arms. The next thing I know, an alarm is buzzing deafeningly in my ear. I can’t understand what time it is, or where I am. A radio blares. France Info. It is seven a.m. I am in Astrid’s room, in Malakoff. I must have fallen asleep. I feel her warm hands on me, on my skin, and it is too enjoyable a sensation to pull away. I am still dazed with slumber, incapable of opening my eyes. No, says the little voice, no, no, no, don’t do this, don’t do this. Her hands, pulling off my clothes. No, no, no. Yes, says the flesh, oh yes. You’ll regret this, this is the stupidest thing to do right now, it will hurt both of you. Oh, the bliss of her familiar velvety skin. How I have missed it. There is still time to stop, Antoine, still time to get up, put your clothes on, and get the hell out of here. She knows exactly how to touch me. She hasn’t forgotten. When was the last time Astrid and I made love? It was probably right here, in this very bed. Two years ago. You stupid fool. You dumb idiot. It happens fast, a quick flash of shuddering pleasure. I hold her tight, heart pumping. I say nothing, nor does she. We both know this is a mistake. I get up slowly, stroke her hair clumsily. I gather up my clothes, slip into the bathroom. When I leave the room, she is still in bed, her back to me. Downstairs, Lucas is having breakfast. He sees me, his face exploding into a delighted grin. My heart sinks.

“Dad! You spent the night!”

I smile back at him, flinching inwardly. I know that his dream is to see Astrid and me reunited again. He’s never been shy about this. He has told Mélanie. Me. Astrid. He thinks it is still possible.

“Yes, I was tired.”

“Did you sleep in Mom’s room?”

Hope shining through his eyes.

“No,” I lie, hating myself. “I slept down here on the sofa. I just went upstairs to use the bathroom.”

“Oh,” he says flatly. “Will you be coming back tonight?”

“No, little fellow. Not tonight. But you know what? We will be spending Christmas all of us together. Right here. Like in the old days. How about that?”

“Great!” he says. And he does seem happy about it.

It is still dark outside, and Malakoff appears fast asleep as I drive down the rue Pierre Larousse, then straight into Paris, up the rue Raymond Losserand, which will take me to the rue Froidevaux. I don’t want to think about what just happened. It is like a defeat, no matter how agreeable it was. By now, even the enjoyment has faded. There is nothing left but a bittersweet pang of regret.

Christmas Eve at Malakoff had been a success, and Astrid pulled it off beautifully. Mélanie came, and so did my father, not looking his best, perhaps even more weary, as well as Régine and Joséphine. I hadn’t seen so many Reys in the same room for a very long time.

Serge was not there. When I tactfully asked Astrid how things were going with him, she sighed. “It’s complicated.” After we had cleared up the meal, opened the presents, and everyone was chatting in the living room in front of the fire, Astrid and I went up to Serge’s study to have a talk about the children. About what they were turning into, how we felt we had no control over them. That what we got back from them was disdain, no respect, no affection, no love. Margaux seemed swathed in continuous mute contempt, refusing to see the grief counselor we found. And as we had foreseen, Arno was expelled from the lycée. We enrolled him in a dour boarding school near Reims. The lawyer looking after his case expected the matter to boil down to a sum of money handed over to the Jousselin family for damages. What that sum should amount to, we did not yet know. Luckily, we were not the only parents involved. All this was no doubt normal, part of modern adolescence and its hazards, but even the thought of that did not make it easier to bear. For either of us. I felt relief that she was going through the same turmoil and tried to convey this to her. “You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s worse for me. I gave birth to them.” I tried to describe the repugnance I experienced the night of Arno’s arrest. She nodded, her face a peculiar blend of alarm and wit. “I see what you mean, Antoine, but it is worse for me. These kids came out of me”-she placed her palm on her stomach-“and I can still feel that. I gave birth to them, they were lovely for years, and now this.” I could only add, feebly, “I know, I was there when they were born.” She had smirked.