Maylis de Kerangal - The Heart

Sean and Marianne have still not moved. Despondency? Courage? Dignity? Révol has no idea, and is half-expecting them to suddenly explode, leap over his desk, sending his papers flying, knocking over his stupid ornaments, maybe even hit him, insult him — you bastard, you piece of shit. God knows they have reason enough to go crazy, to bang their heads against the wall, to scream with rage. Instead of which, the two of them appear to be slowly dissociating themselves from the rest of humanity, migrating toward the edge of the earth, leaving this time, and this place, to drift among the stars.

* * *

How could they even think about the death of their child when what was a pure absolute — death, the purest absolute of all — had been reformulated, newly defined, in different bodily conditions? Because it was no longer that beating rhythm in the hollow of the chest that confirmed life (a soldier removing his helmet and leaning down to put an ear to the breast of his comrade lying in mud at the bottom of the trench), it was no longer breath exhaled by the mouth that signified life (a dripping lifeguard giving mouth-to-mouth to a young girl with a greenish complexion), but the electrified cerebrum, activated by brain waves, preferably beta waves. How could they even contemplate it, this death of their Simon, when his skin was still pink and soft, when, as Rimbaud wrote, the nape of his neck was bathed in cool-blue cresses and his feet were stretched out in the yellow flags? Révol gathers the representations of corpses that he knows about, and they are always images of Christ — pale-bodied crucified Christs, foreheads spiked by the crown of thorns, hands and feet nailed to the black, glistening wood, or Christs taken down from the cross, heads laid back and eyes half-closed, white-skinned and emaciated, hips covered by a thin shroud, in the style of Mantegna, or The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb by Holbein the Younger — a painting of such realism that Dostoyevsky warned believers if they look at it, they risk losing their faith — or they are kings, prelates, embalmed dictators, cinematic cowboys collapsed on the sand and shot in close-up, and he remembers that Christlike photograph of Che, his eyes open, exhibited in a morbid mise-en-scène by the Bolivian junta, but he can think of nothing analogous to Simon, this intact and calmly athletic body, free of blood or wounds, resembling a young god in repose, Simon who looks like he is sleeping, who looks alive.

How long do they stay seated like this after the announcement, slumped on the edges of their chairs, held captive in a mental experience of which their bodies had, until that moment, not the slightest inkling? How long does it take them before they accept death’s new regime? For now, there is no possible translation for what they are feeling; it strikes them down in a language that precedes language, from before words, before grammar, an unshareable language that is perhaps another name for pain. Impossible to extricate themselves from it, impossible to substitute another description for it, impossible to reconstruct it in another image. They are, at once, cut off from themselves and from the world that surrounds them.

* * *

Thomas Rémige has remained silent, sitting on the metal stool next to Révol, legs crossed at the knees, and perhaps he is thinking about the same things as the doctor, forming the same mental visions. He has put his box of matches away and now waits, with them. Time passes. Their minds whirl and the room fills with their silent screams. Then Révol stands up, tall and pale, his long, sorrowful face indicating that he must leave them now, I have to be somewhere, so Thomas Rémige remains alone with Simon’s parents, who do not stand up but move closer to each other, shoulder to shoulder, and weep in silence. He waits for a moment, then asks them, in a kind voice, if they would like to go back to Simon’s room. Without replying, they stand up and leave the room, the nurse following, but as soon as they are in the corridor, Sean shakes his head, no, I can’t, not yet. He is breathing loudly, filling his lungs and swelling his chest, one hand covering his mouth, and Marianne slides under his shoulder — to support him, to protect him — and the three of them come to a halt. Thomas goes up to them and explains: I’m here to accompany you, to be with you; if you have any questions, please ask me. Sean sounds like he’s suffocating, then — how does he find the strength to speak? — he demands: What’s going to happen now? The nurse swallows while Sean continues, his voice ravaged by grief and disgust: Why are you keeping him alive if there’s no hope? What are we waiting for? I don’t understand. Marianne, staring vacantly through the lock of hair that has fallen over her face, seems not to hear any of this. Thomas is searching for a way out, a way to formulate his answer: Sean’s question has severed the usual chronology of the protocol, designed to protect the grieving from the sudden shock of the tragedy, the brutality of the announcement, by giving them time. But the question must be answered. He decides to speak to them now.

Cordélia Owl plumps Simon’s pillow, smooths the sheet over his chest, draws the curtains, leaves the room, closes the door behind her, and walks toward the reception desk, tracing arabesques on the floor of the corridor — damn these tight, fitted scrubs: she would have liked more room right now, to be able to hear the rustling of the folds, feel the fabric rubbing against the bumps and indentations on her knees, which she knew to be supple and reliable. On the way, she puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out her phone: no messages. Nyet. Nada de nada . 2:40 p.m. He must be asleep. Yes, he’s sleeping. Lying on his back somewhere, bare-chested, abandoned. She smiles. Don’t call.

Underwear back in place, buttons rebuttoned, belt buckles adjusted, they stood facing each other on the sidewalk, well, I should go, wow it’s late, um it’s actually pretty early isn’t it? yeah, okay bye, a kiss on the cheek, a kind smile, and then they separated, following the appropriate ballet steps — smooth balancé, dégagé arrière, tour piqué —and moved away from each other along the same line, before both melting into darkness. Cordélia had walked slowly to begin with, clacking her heels like a fifties starlet in a pencil skirt, one hand holding her coat collar tight to her throat. She didn’t turn around — absolutely not — but once she had rounded the corner, she began to spin like a top, face to the sky, mouth open to the wind, arms held wide like a whirling dervish, then, once she was facing the right way, started to run, speeding between buildings, occasionally leaping a gutter as if it were a river she had to cross, her arms waving like ribbons, the cold night air lashing her face, blowing open her coat, which she hadn’t buttoned up, and it was good, she felt beautiful, supple, felt like she’d grown at least seven inches taller since the two of them had gone clattering into garbage cans, since her panties had slid to the floor and he had put his hand under her mound, his palm hollowed so he could raise her up the wall, and she had lifted herself on the toes of one foot, wrapping the knee of her other leg behind his back and drawing him toward her, his cock inside her, tongues clamoring in their mouths like fire in furnaces, teeth finally biting into flesh. She laughed as she walked, the hot-cold shivers of a girl who had overplayed her role as a solitary heroine, in the eyes of the world, now thawed, the amazon of the city assuming her desire and controlling her actions, she moved forward through the windy boulevards, the deserted five a.m. streets, broke into a run, indifferent to the car that slowed down next to her, to the windows that lowered, to the sexual insult that was bellowed from within, hey slut, you want some? devouring the space in front of her, burning it up, so she almost crossed Rue d’Étretat just as Chris’s van pulled out to her left on the Quatre-Chemins crossroads, stopping dead by the sidewalk, the fresco on the bodywork filling her vision — it seemed to her that the California surfer girls in triangular bikinis were winking and smiling at her as if she were a possible sister — and a few strides later, she was home, buried under the down comforter, eyes closed, although she couldn’t sleep. She had not asked anything of that guy who had been tormenting her for so long, had not posed a single question — brave girl.