“My studies are fine, thank you Mademoiselle. I am now beginning the preparations for my final examinations before the summer break. And then in the winter term I will be starting to perform my own dissections on cadavers. In the summer term it will be histology, physiology, and biological physics.”
“How nice. It sounds challenging.”
“We received … or rather, Jeannette …” He glanced across and saw with relief that her expression had softened. “A letter came from Laurent.” She nodded her permission. “It seems he has been putting his learning into practice already.”
“Good luck to him,” said Sylvain.
“He’ll be on leave soon,” said Molineu.
Nolin said, “What is the news from the Front?”
“Oh, please let’s not talk anymore about the war,” said Jeannette.
“Yes,” said Sylvain. “Let’s—let’s talk about cinema, or literature or something. Has anyone seen The Heroes of Yser?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Nolin. “You think talking about cinema is not talking about the war? What do you think the subject is of The Heroes of Yser?”
“Oh, shut up,” said Sylvain.
“High culture has become totally sterile.”
“Patrice.”
“We are actually talking about the cinema. There is nothing left to discuss. Which leads us to the more interesting point that leisure is the grounds for innovation, and that in a state of war …”
“I think we are surfeited with this line now, Patrice,” said Molineu.
Nolin closed his mouth and quivered a frown. What a bore he was, thought Midhat. He noticed the wine was gone from the bottles and their glasses, and wondered if they had all slipped into extreme versions of themselves.
“Have we finished?” said Molineu.
Jeannette had barely touched her dessert; Sylvain’s bowl was empty; the Nolin sisters had made admirable dents. Midhat did not particularly like the soufflé, it tasted too much of egg, but it was sweet and he liked sweet things, and accordingly had eaten half of it. Georgine’s bowl was wiped clean, and at her employer’s question she jumped to her feet and scraped herself free of the chair. Setting off with the squeaking trolley again around the table, she disappeared into the kitchen with the plates.
“Coffee, anyone?” said Molineu.
“I think we have surfeited,” said Patrice Nolin, with a quick smile.
He bowed his head at his daughters, who stood and cooed: the food was delicious, such a treat, really, in these dark days. Sylvain patted his chest, he couldn’t fit in a drop more. They gathered their coats in the hall, and shook hands and kissed goodbye.
In the silence after their departure, Molineu said something about coffee and returned to the dining room. Jeannette hesitated in the hall, and Midhat felt the breath of something resuming. She walked to the door of the cream salon, and turned the key. When he saw she had left the door ajar, he followed.
She was sitting on the piano stool, which was covered in a sheet of canvas, like everything else in the room. The covered piano extended vast and glacier-like before her. There was a strong smell of varnish. He hung in the doorway.
“I understand,” he said.
She looked up at him wearily. He wondered if she would disavow their previous exchange and pretend she didn’t follow.
“Did you drink wine tonight?”
“No,” he replied, with a sharply falling intonation, as if that were a ludicrous suggestion. Then he stepped forward and lowered his voice. “I wanted to say again that I am sorry. Please accept my apology. I understand you are angry. And that I should not have talked with Laurent about you. And that I should not have presumed …”
She faced him. She was painfully beautiful in the yellow dress. Her skin was like soft paper, those blue veins. He could tell by her eyes that she was experiencing some kind of emotion, but he hesitated to name it, so often was he getting things wrong.
“I am not jealous of Laurent. But you know I—I did mean what I said.” He swallowed. “And I’m sorry if you do not—if you do not feel the same, I will not … But, I miss you, Jeannette. Really.” He reached out for the nearest covered piece of furniture, wanting to sit and meet her level; but whatever he had gripped wobbled and he let it go. “I miss talking to you. It meant so much to me, walking with you, and without it, I can’t say what it is, but I lack … Really, I—I loved … And I want to help you to find out what happened to your mother. I will do anything I can.”
Jeannette’s eyebrows rose, though she did not actually look surprised. “My mother. That is kind of you, but there is nothing to be done. As I think I told you I don’t think it’s healthy for me …”
“But as long as you know that—that I am listening.”
Here, at last, she smiled. He had said the right thing.
“There is a line in The Three Musketeers …”
“Oh no, don’t quote The Three Musketeers!” She laughed, leaning back. “You know, you shouldn’t feel you have to rely on what other people have said all the time.” Her eyes rested on him for a moment, then she twisted and tucked her feet under the piano. “I’ll tell you. When I was studying at the university, I was always surrounded by these young men being knowledgeable.” She laughed again, a chain of exhalations. “And it was intimidating. I felt I was less than they were. They were men after all—and who was I?” Her fingers traced where the lid of the piano was hidden beneath its dress. She lifted the lid. The fabric caught on the back of it, like the skin of an eyelid. “I used to come home from the library and go through all my work with Papa. Then I found myself parroting him in my seminars, and I would say exactly what he had told me the night before. And then, after a while, I realised I didn’t need to. It was just language these men were playing with. I would listen very carefully to the arguments they made, the way they discussed things outside class. Leaning on this philosopher and that, adding clause after clause, and I realised it was just language, not life. They knew nothing about life, and this was everything to them, and it was small. And thinking that suddenly liberated me, and I was no longer afraid to speak up. And my speaking became better.” With her forefinger, she marked the cracks between the keys under the canvas, making indentations that disappeared as she moved from one to the next. “I could have disparaged them in my mind and made it easier for myself that way. I could have called them petty young men or something. But I didn’t, because what would have been the point?” She had outlined five keys, now six, her hand moving across the front of her body. “I’m trying to tell you that you shouldn’t think you have to be intimidated by things on the surface, like conversation.”
“I’m not intimidated.”
“Well, I’m just saying. You are not beneath them in any way. You may be much younger, but you have for one thing far more goodness than Patrice Nolin.”
She pressed a key. The sound was manifold and deep, glassy and warm at the same time. She gazed up at him as if she had voiced a dare. The challenge was so direct he should have felt embarrassed. He didn’t: he felt amazed. He felt an exhilarating exposure, the stinging relief of salt air.