Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

“She had a soft spot for me in the old days,” said Antoine. “She was always buying me ice cream, taking me for long walks along the beach, holding me by the hand. She even used to come sailing with me, with those boys from the boating club.”

“Robert and Blanche never swam. They would sit up there at that café.”

“They were too old to swim.”

“Antoine!” she scoffed. “This was more than thirty years ago. They were in their sixties.”

He whistled. “You’re right. Younger than Father! They acted so old. Careful about everything. Fussy. Picky.”

“Blanche is still like that,” Mélanie said. “Going to see her has been tough lately.”

“I hardly go anymore,” admitted Antoine. “Last time I went, it was awful. She was in a bad mood, complaining about everything. I didn’t stay long. I couldn’t stand being there. That huge, dark apartment.”

“Never gets the sun,” said Mélanie. “Wrong side of the avenue Henri-Martin. Remember Odette? Shuffling around on those felt slippers to make the floorboards shine. Always telling us to shut up.”

Antoine laughed.

“Her son Gaspard looks so much like her. I’m glad he’s still there, looking after the place. Putting up with those nurses Solange hires. Putting up with Blanche’s temper.”

“Blanche was an affectionate granny with us, wasn’t she?” he said. “Now she’s a tyrant.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mélanie slowly. “She was sweet to us, but only when we did what we were told. Which is what we did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we were ideally silent, polite, meek grandchildren. We never had tantrums or fits.”

“Because we were brought up that way,” said Antoine.

“Yes,” said Mélanie, turning to face her brother and plucking the half-smoked cigarette from his fingers, then burying it into the sand, heedless of his protests. “We were brought up that way.”

“What are you getting at?” he asked.

She screwed up her eyes. “How did Clarisse get on with Blanche and Robert? Did she approve of the fact that we had to be meek and polite all the time?”

He scratched the back of his head.

“I don’t remember,” he said flatly.

She looked across at him and smiled.

“You’ll see. You will. If I’m starting to, then you will too.”

Tonight I waited for you on the pier, but you did not come. It grew cold, and after a while I left, thinking maybe it was difficult for you to get away this time. I told them I just needed a quick walk on the beach after dinner, and I wonder if they believed me. She always looks at me like she knows something, although I am sure, perfectly sure, that nobody knows. Nobody knows. How could they know? How could anyone guess anything? When they see me, they see a nice, timid, proper mother with her polite, charming son and daughter. When they see you… Ah, but when anyone sees you, they see temptation. How can anyone resist you? How could I have resisted you? You know that, don’t you? You knew that the minute you laid your eyes on me that first day at the beach, last year. You are the devil in disguise.

There was a rainbow earlier on, a lovely one, and now the night is coming fast, gathering darkness and clouds. I miss you.

They had a late lunch at the Café Noir in Noirmoutier-en-l’Île, the largest town on the island. It was a crowded, noisy place, obviously a favorite hangout for the locals. Antoine ordered grilled sardines and a glass of white wine. Mélanie had a plate of bonnottes-the famous little round potatoes of the area-sautéed with bacon, butter, and coarse salt. The weather had grown hot, but a fresh wind kept the heat at bay. The café’s terrace gave onto the small harbor and the thin strip of a murky canal lined with old salt warehouses and jammed with rusty fishing boats and small sailboats.

“We didn’t come here much, did we?” asked Mélanie, her mouth full.

“No,” Antoine said. “Blanche and Robert liked to stick to the hotel. They never got farther than the beach.”

“We didn’t come here with Solange or Clarisse either, right?”

“Solange took us to visit the Noirmoutier château once or twice, and the church. Clarisse was supposed to come, but she had one of her migraines.”

“The château is a blank,” said Mélanie. “But I do remember Clarisse’s migraines.”

He watched the nearby table fill up with tanned teenagers. Most of the girls were wearing tiny bikinis. Barely older than his daughter, Margaux. He had never been attracted to women considerably younger than he, but the ones he had met since his divorce, through the Internet or via friends, had amazed him with the unabashed boldness of their sexual behavior. The younger they were, the cruder and more violent they proved to be in bed. At first he had been terrifically aroused. But then, very quickly, the novelty had worn off. Where was the romance? Where was the emotion, the pang, the sharing, the charming awkwardness? These girls flaunted the smooth, knowing moves of porn queens and gave head with such blasé nonchalance it repelled him.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Mélanie, rubbing sunblock on the tip of her nose.

“Are you seeing someone right now?” he asked in return. “I mean, do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nothing serious. What about you?”

He looked across at the group of loud teens again. One girl was rather spectacular. Long, dark blond hair, an Egyptian-like build: large shoulders, narrow hips. A little too skinny, he decided. And a little too full of herself.

“I already told you in the car. No one.”

“Not even one-night stands?”

He sighed, ordered some more wine. Not at all good for his paunch, he thought fleetingly. Too bad.

“I’ve had enough of one-night stands.”

“Yeah, so have I.”

He was surprised. He didn’t think Mélanie would go for that sort of thing.

She snorted. “You see me as some kind of prude, don’t you?”

“Of course not,” he said.

“Yes, you do, I can tell. Well, for your information, dear brother, I’m having an affair with a married man.”

He stared at her.

“And?”

She shrugged. “And I hate it.”

“So why are you having this affair?”

“Because I can’t stand being alone. The empty bed. The lonely nights. That’s why.”

She said it savagely, almost menacingly. They ate and drank in silence for a moment. Then she went on.

“He’s far older than I am, in his sixties. I guess that makes me feel young.” A wry smile. “His wife despises sex. She’s the intellectual type, so he says. He sleeps around. He’s a powerful businessman. Works in finance. He has a lot of money. Buys me presents.” She showed him a heavy gold bracelet. “He’s a sex addict. He throws himself on me and sucks me all over. Like a crazy vampire. In bed, he’s ten times more of a man than Olivier ever was-or any of my recent flings, for that matter.”

The thought of Mélanie cavorting with a lecherous sexagenarian was definitely unappealing. She giggled at the sight of Antoine’s face.

“I guess it’s hard imagining your little sister having sex. Like it’s hard imagining your parents having sex.”

“Or your kids,” he added grimly.

She caught her breath.

“Oh! I hadn’t thought about that. You’re right.”

She didn’t ask him to go into detail, and he felt relieved. He thought of the condoms he had found in his sports bag a couple of months ago. Arno had borrowed that bag for a while. He had handed them back, and Arno had grinned sheepishly. Antoine ended up feeling more embarrassed than his son.