Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

“Yes,” says Mélanie again, while I clench my fists with impatience.

The radio in the next room is turned off, and silence fills up the little place. Gaspard starts to get that sweaty, anxious look again. He keeps glancing toward the door, wringing his hands. Why is he so uneasy? He ducks down and pulls a small transistor radio from under the bed, fumbles to switch it on. Yves Montand’s sultry voice: “ ‘C’est si bon, de partir n’importe où, bras dessus bras dessous…’ ”

“You were going to tell us about the day our mother died,” I say finally, ignoring Mélanie’s pacifying gesture toward me.

Gaspard gathers up enough courage to look me fully in the face.

“You must understand, Monsieur Antoine. This is… difficult for me-”

“ ‘C’est si bon… ’ ” hums Montand, debonair, insouciant.

We wait for Gaspard to go on. He does not.

Mélanie puts a hand on his arm.

“You have nothing to fear from us,” she whispers. “Nothing at all. We are your friends. We have known you since we were born.”

He nods, the flesh on his cheeks wobbling like jelly. His eyes brim over. To our horror, his face crumples up and he starts to sob without a sound. There is nothing else to do but to wait. I avert my eyes from the sorry spectacle of Gaspard’s pasty, ravaged face. The Montand song finally ends. Another tune starts, a familiar one. I can’t remember who sings it.

“What I am about to say, I have told no one. No one knows. No one knows, and no one has talked about it since 1974.”

Gaspard’s voice is so low that we have to lean forward. The bed creaks as we do so.

A stealthy chill. Is it my imagination, or do I really feel it creeping up my spine? Gaspard is crouched on the floor. I can see the top of his head, the bald spot crowning it.

Gaspard’s whisper is heard again. “The day she died, your mother had come to see your grandmother. It was early. Your grandmother was still having her breakfast. Your grandfather was away that day.”

“Where were you?” inquires Mélanie.

“I was in the kitchen, helping my mother. I was making orange juice. Your mother loved fresh orange juice. Especially mine. It reminded her of the Midi.” A touching, pathetic smile. “I was so happy to see your mother that morning. She did not come often. In fact, she hadn’t been to see your grandparents for a long time, since Christmas. When I opened the door, it was like sunshine on the landing. I did not know she was coming. She had not called. My mother was not warned. She was annoyed, my mother. She made a fuss about petite Madame Rey turning up just like that. She was wearing her red coat, and how beautiful she was with her long black hair, her pale skin, her green eyes, such a beauty. Like you, Mademoiselle Mélanie. You are so much like her, sometimes it hurts to look at you.” The tears well up once more. But he manages to hold them back. He breathes slowly, taking his time. “I was in the kitchen, cleaning up. It was a lovely winter day. I had many chores to do, and I did them thoroughly. And then my mother rushed in, her face white. She was holding a hand over her mouth like she was going to vomit. I knew then that something dreadful had happened. I was only fifteen years old, but I knew.”

The chill creeps along my chest, my thighs, which begin to tremble. I dare not look at my sister. But I can sense how stiff her presence is next to me.

A silly tune comes on. I wish Gaspard would turn it off.

“ ‘Pop pop pop muzik, pop pop pop muzik. Talk about pop muzik… ’ ”

“My mother could not speak for a moment. Then she screamed, ‘Call Dr. Dardel, quick! Look up his number in Monsieur’s address book in the study. Tell him to come right now!’ I rushed to the study, and I made that phone call, trembling all over, and the doctor said he’d be right there. Who was ill? What had happened? Was it Madame? She had high blood pressure, I knew that. She had recently been given new medication. All sorts of pills to take during her meals.”

Dr. Dardel is a familiar name. He was my grandparents’ closest friend and personal doctor. He died in the early ‘80s. A stocky, white-haired man. Much respected.

Gaspard pauses. What is he trying to tell us? Why is it so long-winded?

“ ‘New York London Paris Munich everybody talk about pop muzik.’ ”

“For God’s sake, get on with it,” I mutter, teeth clenched.

He nods hurriedly.

“Your grandmother was in the petit salon, still wearing her dressing gown. She was pacing up and down. I couldn’t see your mother. I couldn’t understand. The door to the petit salon was ajar. And then I saw part of the red coat. On the floor. Something had happened to petite Madame Rey. Something that nobody wanted to tell me.”

Footsteps are heard creaking past the door. He stops, waits till they fade away. My heart is thumping so hard I am certain they can both hear it.

“Dr. Dardel was there in a flash. The door to the petit salon closed. Then I heard an ambulance. Sirens right outside the building. My mother would not answer any of my questions. She told me to shut up, and she boxed my ears. They came to get petite Madame. That was the last time I ever saw her. She looked like she was asleep, her black hair around her face. She was very pale. They carried her away on a stretcher. Later on that day, I was told she was dead.”

Mélanie gets up awkwardly, knocking the radio with her foot. It turns off. Gaspard stumbles up as well.

“What are you talking about, Gaspard?” she snaps, forgetting to lower her voice. “Are you saying our mother had the aneurysm here?”

He looks petrified. He stammers, “I-was ordered by my mother never to mention that petite Madame had died here.”

Mélanie and I gape at him.

“But why?” I manage to say.

“My mother made me swear not to tell. I don’t know why. I don’t know. I never asked.” He seems about to cry again.

Mélanie whimpers, “What about our father? Our grandfather? And Solange?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know what they know, Mademoiselle Mélanie. This is the first time I have ever talked about it to anyone.” His head droops like a wilting flower. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“Do you mind if I smoke?” I say abruptly.

“No, no, of course, please.”

I go and stand near the small window, light up. Gaspard picks up the photograph on the shelf.

“Your mother confided in me, you see. I was young, only fifteen, but she trusted me.” He says this with infinite pride. “I think I was one of the only people she trusted. She used to come up here in this room to see me and talk to me. She didn’t have any friends in Paris. So she talked to me.”

“What did she tell you when she came up to see you?” Mélanie asks.

“So many things, Mademoiselle Mélanie. So many wonderful things. She told me all about her childhood in the Cévennes. The little village where she used to live, near Le Vigan, that she had never been back to since her marriage. She told me that her father and her mother sold fruit at the market. She lost her parents when she was still young. Her father had an accident and her mother a bad heart. She was raised by her older sister, who was a hard woman and did not like it when she married your father, a Parisian. She was lonely sometimes. She missed the south, the simple life there, the sun. She was lonely because your father was very often away for his business. She talked about you and Mademoiselle Mélanie. She was so proud of you. You were the center of her world.”

A pause.

“She said that having you two made everything worth it. How you must miss such a mother, Mademoiselle Mélanie, Monsieur Antoine. How you must miss her. I had a mother who never showed me any affection. Your mother was all love. She gave us all the love she had.”