Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

She slips off. For what seems like ages I listen to Gaspard’s woes about the difficulty of finding the right staff, the soaring prices of fresh fruit, the new neighbors on the fourth floor who make so much noise. Mélanie at last comes back and spreads her hands, as if to say, “Found nothing.”

We decide to return in an hour. As we head to the door, Gaspard says in a rush that he’s very happy to make tea or coffee for us. We can go sit in the petit salon and he’ll bring it to us. It’s cold outside today, we can stay cozily here. He seems so eager to have us stay that we feel we can’t refuse. We wait for him in the petit salon. A cleaning lady is dusting along the corridor. She nods to us as she passes.

This is the room that brings back the most memories. The French windows looking out to the balcony. The dark green velvet sofa and chairs. A large, low glass table. My grandfather’s silver cigarette box is still there. This is where my grandparents gathered for their coffee or to watch television. This is where we played charades. Listened to the grown-ups talk.

Gaspard comes back with a tray, coffee for me, tea for Mélanie. He pours out our cups carefully, hands us milk and sugar. He sits on a chair facing us, fists on his knees, his back very straight.

We ask him how our grandmother has been recently. Not too good, he says, her heart has been acting up again and she spends most of her days sleeping. The medication knocks her out.

“You remember our mother, don’t you?” says Mélanie unexpectedly, sipping her tea.

His smile lights up his face.

“Oh, your mother! Petite Madame Rey. Yes, of course I remember her. Your mother was unforgettable.”

Clever girl, I think.

Mélanie goes on. “What do you remember about her?”

Gaspard’s smile stretches even wider.

“She was such a lovely, kind person. She gave me little presents, new socks, and chocolates-and flowers, sometimes. I was devastated when she died.”

The apartment around us is silent all of a sudden. Even the cleaning lady dusting in the grand salon is going about her chores noiselessly.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Well, Monsieur Antoine, I’m five years older than you, so I was fifteen. Such sadness.”

“What do you remember about the day she died?”

“It was terrible, terrible… Seeing her carried out… on that stretcher…”

He seems uncomfortable all of a sudden, twisting his hands, shuffling his feet. He has stopped looking at us. He looks down at the carpet.

“Were you at the avenue Kléber when it happened?” asked Mélanie, surprised.

“Avenue-Kléber?” he stutters, confused. “I don’t remember, no. It was such a horrible day. I don’t remember.”

He rushes to his feet, leaves the room hastily. After a split second we get up and follow him.

“Gaspard,” says Mélanie firmly, “can you please answer my question? Why did you say you saw her being carried out?”

We are standing in the entrance, just the three of us, in the shadow of the dark place. The tall bookshelves seem to lean forward; the pale faces in the old paintings above us have expectant, watchful expressions. The marble bust on the writing table next to us waits too.

Gaspard is tongue-tied, his cheeks flushed. He is trembling. His forehead glistens with a sudden sweat.

“What is wrong?” asks Mélanie quietly.

He swallows audibly, his large Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“No, no,” he whispers, backing off, shaking his head. “I can’t.”

I grab him by the shoulder. His upper arm feels bony and weak beneath the cheap fabric of his suit.

“Is there something you need to tell us?” I say, using a firmer voice than my sister’s.

He shudders, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, steps away again.

“Not here!” he manages to croak.

Mélanie and I exchange glances.

“Where, then?” she asks.

He is already halfway down the corridor, his skinny legs quivering.

He whispers, “In my room. On the sixth floor. In five minutes.”

He disappears. The vacuum cleaner is abruptly turned on, startling us. We look at each other for a moment. Then we leave.

The way to the service rooms is up a narrow, snaking staircase that has no elevator. This is where the poorer residents of the prosperous building live, slogging up those steep steps every day. The higher you go, the flakier the paint. The stronger the smell. The stench of minuscule, airless rooms, promiscuity, the lack of proper bathrooms. The unpleasant reek of a common toilet on the landing. I have never been up here. Neither has Mélanie. There is an uncomfortable contrast between the opulence of the grand apartments and this squalid, overcrowded area tucked away under the roof.

Six stories to climb. We do so in silence. We have not said a word to each other since we left Blanche’s place. Questions whirling round and round in my head, and in Mélanie’s too, I know.

When we get to the top floor, it is like another world. Bare floorboards, a winding passageway lined with dozens of numbered doors. The whine of a hair dryer. Loud, metallic TV voices. People quarreling in a foreign language. A mobile phone twittering. A baby’s squeal. A door opens, and a surly woman stares out at us. The room behind her has a slanting, blotched ceiling, grimy carpets, grubby furniture. Which one is Gaspard’s door? He did not tell us. Is he hiding? Is he scared? Somehow I know he is waiting for us, twisting his hands, trembling. He is plucking up his courage.

I watch Mélanie’s small, square shoulders underneath her winter coat. Her step is sturdy and sure. She wants to know. She is not afraid. Why am I afraid, and not my sister?

Gaspard stands at the end of the passageway, his face still flushed. He lets us in quickly, as if he does not want us to be seen. His confined little room is stifling after the chilly stairway. The electric heater is on full blast, letting out a faint humming noise and the smell of burned hair and dust. The room is so small that he, Mélanie, and I bump into one another. The only thing to do is to sit on the narrow bed. I look around, taking in the scrupulously clean surfaces, the crucifix on the wall, the cracked washbasin, the makeshift cupboard area with a plastic curtain. Gaspard’s life exposed in all its wretchedness. What does he do with himself when he comes back up here after leaving Blanche with the night nurse? No TV. No books. On a small shelf, I notice a Bible and a photograph. I look at it as discreetly as possible. With a jolt, I realize it is a photograph of my mother.

Gaspard stands, as there is no place for him to sit. He waits for us to speak, his eyes darting from Mélanie to me. I can hear a radio in the next room. The walls are so thin I can make out every single word of the news.

“You can trust us, Gaspard,” says Mélanie. “You know that.”

He puts a quick finger to his lips, his eyes round with fear.

“You must talk quietly, Mademoiselle Mélanie,” he whispers. “Everyone here can hear!”

He comes closer to us. I smell the rank odor of his armpits. Instinctively, I shrink back.

“Your mother…” he murmurs. “She was my only friend. She was the only person who really… understood me.”

“Yes,” says Mélanie, and I marvel at her patience. I’m not interested. I want him to get to the point, fast. She puts a soothing hand on my arm, as if she knows exactly what I am thinking.

“Your mother was like me. She came from a humble background, from the south, and she wasn’t complicated and fussy. She was a simple, good person. She never thought only about herself. She was generous, warm.”