“Oh, yes, Monsieur.”
“Patience,” said Jeannette, drawing out her chair.
Nevertheless, Jeannette required only the lightest suggestion from her father to rise again and fetch Midhat for dinner. Yesterday she would have insisted on giving him privacy. But now she felt so unmanageably agitated—not only by her father but by the entire day, whose many strands lingered, threatening different undefended parts of her, so that a panic was already welling up—and it seemed to her in that particular moment that the only remedy for this unruly beating of her mind would be to walk into the hall and apologise to Midhat on her father’s behalf, and so settle at least that quarter of her agitation.
She saw their guest through the banister. He stood half-framed by the door to the salon, where the piano was stretching out, coffin-like, and the sun in the window lit a few threads dangling from his forehead, which was bent low with reading the letter in his right hand. His whole attitude was frozen. Then he shifted his weight to his other foot, and put his left hand limply on his hip. He pulled a face, a part-frown, as if straining against a bright light: the squint of trying to discern something. Although she was certain she had not made a sound, he suddenly jolted to face her. She sprang to life as naturally as she could, as though she was just entering from the dining room. But the motion of her arms was theatrical and from his expression she knew it was obvious she had been watching him. His fingers quickly folded the letter.
“I wanted to tell you,” she said, sliding her hand down the banister. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” her voice caught as her own eyes fell, to his sun-dark neck, and she shut them. “I wanted to say …” Everything rose; she inhaled, grasping after what she meant to say. Her thoughts slithered from her grip. “I didn’t tell you the truth.”
The silence that followed gave her just enough time to register what she had embarked upon; it was not enough time to think twice.
“When?” said Midhat.
“When I told you,” she began, “about my mother. The truth is, I do know how she died. She, she shot herself. With a gun.”
Midhat’s reaction to this was minimal. His eyes widened, fractionally, which she might not have even seen were it not for the way the light was falling. Nevertheless, Jeannette immediately repented. She wondered how on earth she had so quickly given in to that glimmer of a desire to expose herself to him, which had arisen like a sudden shard among the many other thoughts and concerns that were whirling around, disorienting her and setting her off-balance. In ordinary circumstances, she would have seen such an impulse and neatly stepped aside. But today nothing was ordinary. Here she was, burdening their houseguest with this uncomfortable piece of her personal biography.
To her alarm, Midhat started walking towards her. He still hadn’t said anything. His forehead was wrinkled with confusion and interest, as if she resembled someone he knew, and he was trying to work out who it was. She felt a hand reaching into her stomach and squeezing.
“Dinner is ready,” she threw out.
He stopped, seeming to understand what she really meant, and nodded, corrected.
“All right.”
“I’m sorry,” she added, in a forced casual voice. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
She gave him a breathy smile and directed her steps towards the dining room. There was a pause of a few seconds before she heard him follow.
Midhat was unsettled by this exchange. Jeannette’s intention in telling him this was by no means obvious. What he did not admit to himself now, although it would strike him with force later, was that her confession seemed to glitter at him, like a fresh wound, or a point of entry. For now he reflected only that her divulgence did not really correspond with the restrained manner of its delivery, and that this was rather bewildering. He had been approaching her to examine her face, and after she departed, he hung in the hallway wondering how else to read her. That catch in her voice occurred to him as a symptom of distress—the only apparent symptom, in fact—although to be distressed at having lied to him did not seem plausible. She was more likely distressed from remembering her mother’s suicide. He looked at the space she had vacated, between the banister and the shadow-braided wall, and felt a lunge of pity.
At the dinner table, he tried not to look at her. He was afraid of what his face might give away. Frédéric slipped his napkin from its silver ring, and as Midhat set the envelope beside his placemat and picked up his spoon, his mind, shutting out Frédéric’s monologue about his colleague at the department, drew some shaky maps of interpretation. Had Jeannette told him about her mother to excuse herself, her aloof manner, perhaps? Or something else she had done that he had not noticed? Or was she really ashamed that when he had been honest with her, she was not honest with him? Or was she explaining something else, referring to another part of their conversation he had failed to understand, some nuance in French—and as he mindlessly applied the butter to his bread roll he found himself picturing what Jeannette might have seen as she entered the hall. This set off an unexpected burst of pleasure, imagining himself from the outside, standing in this house.
“Was the letter from your family? Are they well?”
He lifted his head, and saw Frédéric dabbing his lips.
“Yes, well. Thank you.”
Midhat glanced at his envelope. The label was visible: “Opened by Examiner 257.” He reached out and, pretending to scan the address, flipped it over.
Frédéric was the first to stand. He put his hands on his hips and regarded the door, as if the task ahead, of taking a digestif in the salon, was going to require the orchestration of a regiment. “Will you join me, Jojo?”
“Not tonight. I’m tired.”
“Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.”
Midhat also declined. He mounted the stairs, thinking of the letter. Work hard in your studies. He couldn’t prevent that sudden, double vision: the external view of all this, of what his father might think of it.
5
Carl Page heard it first from Madame Crotteau, who said she had heard it from the Nolins, but when the Nolins were asked they knew nothing about it. On the Friday before the party, Georgine went in to collect an order of tartelettes and she heard it from the baker. Sylvain Leclair, it was said, had been hit by a motorcar on the Avenue de Toulouse. He was alive, but both his legs were broken.
On Saturday it began to snow, very lightly, and after dropping Midhat in town to buy an evening suit, Pisson drove Jeannette to Sylvain’s vineyard with a bouquet of pink lilies beside her on the backseat. Later, Midhat walked home carrying his new suit in a box. Afternoon was turning into night and the lampposts sprinkled yellow snow in perfectly triangular beams.
It was December, Midhat’s third month in Montpellier. His walks with Laurent had become a fixture, and the best consolation for his loneliness. Besides his breakfast interrogations by Docteur Molineu and the occasional exchange with Jeannette, they were also his principal opportunity to practise French beyond the scientific vocabulary required at the Faculty. The guests at tonight’s party would provide another opportunity; he needed to be agile, alert. He tramped up the drive to see Pisson shutting the car door, and heard Jeannette’s voice as he stepped into the hall.