Marie NDiaye - Ladivine

Why, here, could he be so easily convinced that a young stranger had taken a sincere liking to them?

It was immature and unworthy of him, Ladivine told herself crossly.

But she had to concede that their hosts seemed determined to prove Marko right, and to persuade her that he was guilty of neither credulity nor blindness, that he had shown only the soundest of judgement.

Some ten adults of various ages were sitting around the table. Ladivine saw them all quietly trying to put the new guests at ease, even Wellington’s sister, whom Ladivine first found so coldly dismissive and who was now keeping a discreet eye on the platefuls of tasty lamb stew she’d efficiently served, ready, Ladivine guessed, to leap up as soon as they were empty and bring out a second helping.

Sitting across from Ladivine, an old woman nodded and smiled each time their eyes met.

A man who might have been Wellington’s father cut the lamb shanks into little pieces on Daniel’s plate, having seen the boy’s difficulties with his dull knife.

That handsome, thin-faced man was dressed in a light green short-sleeved shirt. Ladivine couldn’t take her eyes off it, her head swimming slightly.

Hadn’t Marko packed that shirt for this trip, with the tone-ontone crest on the breast pocket?

She hoped neither Marko nor Annika would notice, as if, once again, her own responsibility was caught up in something repugnant, something deeply ignoble.

To avoid drawing their attention to that shirt, she resolutely looked away from the man, whose chest, more filled out than Marko’s, strained the buttons every time he inhaled.

Now she was feeling more at ease.

Her dining companions didn’t talk much, but those who did now and then break the silence did so in careful English, articulating carefully, looking now at Marko, now at Ladivine, making themselves easily understood.

Marko was always quick to answer. He praised the food, which was excellent, he offered his warmest thanks.

And Ladivine knew he meant it, because she herself was gripped by an unexpected euphoria in this atmosphere of slightly austere but placid, reassuring conviviality, from which all threat of tasteless jokes or complicated humour seemed to have been banished.

It struck her that Clarisse Rivière would have enjoyed this sort of company, she who, on meeting new people, always worried she might not be able to follow their conversation. Clarisse Rivière was too modest, too self-effacing to fear being mocked, and when she was, and when she realised it, she heartily joined in the laughter.

But clever wordplay made her uncomfortable. She could neither enjoy it nor laugh at it, and she never knew how to answer.

“What did you think of the wedding?” asked the friendly old lady across from Ladivine, misinterpreting the sudden panic on Ladivine’s face and repeating the question still more slowly and clearly.

Ladivine cast an anxious glance Marko’s way. He was talking with Wellington and no doubt hadn’t heard. On the other hand, she caught Annika giving her a questioning stare, having almost certainly grasped the word “wedding”.

She leaned as far across the table as she could, her face almost touching the old lady’s, and hurriedly whispered:

“It was a beautiful ceremony, everything was lovely.”

Cheeks burning, she prayed the old lady would leave it at that.

Marko would never understand her lying like this, her pretending to have taken part in festivities she knew nothing of, and he would find such behaviour good cause for reproach and concern — but if somewhere in this city there was a woman so like her that the one could be confused with the other, what could Ladivine do but accept that confusion? Nothing could seem more suspicious than denying you’d been in a place where people are certain they saw you.

Best just to play along, so no-one will be embarrassed or think you odd or suspect.

So thought Ladivine, though she was not sure she could explain this to Marko or Annika.

And to herself she confessed that she found a certain pleasure in being taken for another, for a woman invited to a memorable wedding in this enigmatic city, that somehow it flattered her.

“We weren’t there,” the old woman resumed, “but I heard there was money involved, lots of money. They must have thought we weren’t good enough to be invited, even though we’re more or less cousins, on the bride’s side.”

She seemed to be waiting for some sort of acquiescence, which Ladivine accorded her with a nod.

“What was the meal like? Were there several fish dishes?”

Ladivine gave her a quick “There were”, but, far from discouraging the old lady, her laconic answers only inflamed her curiosity, as if Ladivine were coyly withholding the choicest details.

“How was the fish cooked? And what did they serve with it? What about the wine? What was the wine like?”

“It was a very good Graves, and they had monkfish à l’américaine and shark in green sauce and one more I don’t know the name of, it was grilled, in big boneless pieces.”

She spoke very quickly and quietly, hoping that Marko, if he heard her, wouldn’t be able to follow her words.

“What about the bride’s gown?” the old lady asked eagerly.

“The gown. . it must have been ivory faille satin, with a lace bodice and a big ribbon for the belt.”

“Was it long?”

“Very long, several metres of fabric at least.”

“And what about you, what were you wearing?”

“A yellow gingham dress, with balloon sleeves.”

And then, unsure just what was urging her on, perhaps vanity, perhaps a desire to please the old lady, perhaps simply a lifelong fondness for telling tales, Ladivine found herself recounting the whole wedding as if she’d been there, now unconcerned that Marko or Annika might hear.

A mischievous “I’ll show you” was ringing defiance’s merry little bells in her head.

And little by little the entire table fell into a listening silence as she described the ceremony in lavish detail, not knowing where it was coming from, not wanting to.

She told of the church’s simple decorations, the slightly shrill organ, which played “Ave Maria”, and the bride’s slightly belated entrance (no doubt because of a traffic jam, since everyone had come by car) on the arm of her father, who was dressed all in grey, from his panama hat to his cotton lisle socks, which showed when he sat down in the front row.

She also described the profusion of lilies and white gladioli, recalling as she spoke that it was at Clarisse Rivière’s funeral that she’d seen those flowers, losing her way a little, downing a gulp of water, eyes lowered, smiling a smile that she knew must seem forced, then struggling to start up again in the expectant silence, to recapture the pleasure still making her heart pound, struggling to push aside the memory of Clarisse Rivière’s funeral and the abundance of luxurious flowers ordered by Richard Rivière, greatly outnumbering the attendees and saturating the little Église de la Libération in Langon with their horribly cloying and sensual perfumes.

No-one had come to the Mass, then the cemetery, but a handful of Clarisse Rivière’s co-workers, two or three neighbours and Richard Rivière’s aged mother, confused and whimpering, who was living out her life in a retirement home near Toulouse and begged, disoriented, to be taken back as quickly as possible, seeing in all this a ploy to get her out of that place, which she hadn’t left for over fifteen years, not even to run an errand, convinced that someone was after her room and her things. As for Clarisse Rivière’s side, she was an only child, her parents long dead, and no cousin, no aunt or uncle had taken the trouble to come.