I made my way into the men’s section, where I looked through the coats. A rather spare selection, outmoded fur-lined jackets and trench coats. Nothing that caught my eye until I moved into the “outdoorsman” section and I noticed a good-looking waxed jacket. I was about to try it on when Françoise reappeared, still with that embarrassed air, “No, that’s not what you need. Come, I’ve got something better.”
“I forgot how cold it was here.”
She forced a smile, almost mocking, “Yes, it’s been a while.” A long, uncomfortable silence followed.
She led me to the front of the store, near the windows, and presented a selection of down jackets I’d missed. I tried my hand at continuing the conversation, offering a smile I hoped was friendly, “You must be pretty happy to have the store. You used to say it’s what you wanted most in the world.”
“I’m fulfilled,” she replied dryly, “As you can see.” She grabbed a coat and took it off its hanger. “Try it. One hundred percent down. About your size. Black is okay?”
The jacket fit me well, and it was both light and warm. For some reason, I expected a compliment out of her, like Still so slim? Or Not a trace of grey in your hair yet? But Françoise said nothing. She checked the length of the sleeves. Her practised eye looked me over coldly, without desire, thank God. If she’d given me that old flirtatious attitude like back in the day, I wouldn’t have had any idea what to do. Those old meaningful, complicit looks she shared with my mother, enough to get me embarrassed or angry — women with their mad ideas about marriage. My mother even kept some worthless objects she won at bingo as marriage gifts for us.
“You haven’t asked me why I’m back, Françoise.”
No surprise to her, apparently, “You came for the referendum. To vote.” I burst out laughing at the thought of that idiot Harry Fluke who scared me that morning. She stiffened.
I said, more seriously, “No, to tell you the truth, I didn’t even know about the vote. Pretty embarrassing, right?”
She looked me over suspiciously, then turned her back and walked away. I heard her say, “Gail? Gail Egan?”
Who else?
“She died in the night between Monday and Tuesday. Cancer.” I waited a beat, “You’re not going to say anything?”
She took refuge behind the counter, seemingly absorbed by a carefully organized pile of papers. “What do you want me to say? That it’s sad? Of course it is. I’m not some cold hag, you know.”
“Did you hear anything about her? Did she still visit in the summer?”
“No, not Gail. Her father did, though. He’s so old. If you could see him. A nurse comes with him. Mrs. Egan died a long time ago. Cancer as well.” She came out from behind the counter, went to the display of men’s gloves, and picked up what looked like the warmest pair. “Need some of these as well?” The self-confidence of the sales clerk had returned, and I said yes and thanked her. “Did you still see each other? Gail and you, I mean?” she asked me, polite, though clearly not wanting an answer.
“No, it’s been years. You know, I have my life in the States now, and.…”
She cut me off brusquely, “Yes, everyone knows.”
I looked at her, stunned. Why so much anger? Wasn’t I being nice to her?
“If you want, Françoise, I’d like us to talk.”
“About what?”
“About what happened in the summer of 1962. I feel like there are fragments I lost. Can you help me find them?”
I would have thought she’d at least be curious, maybe even teasing, yes, of course, everyone knew about the baby except you, but that wasn’t the case, she seemed absolutely ashen instead.
“It was too long ago. I can’t remember.”
“You forgot that summer? With everything that happened?”
“I don’t know, Romain … I don’t have the time … I’m busy.”
“Busy?”
Her cheeks reddened. We were alone in the store and not even the shadow of a customer in the deserted streets of the village.
“Invite me over, tonight.”
“I don’t know … I’ll need to look at what’s in the fridge. I.…”
“You’ll find something. You were an excellent cook, as I remember. I’m sure you still are.”
The compliment pleased her, though she didn’t smile.
I said, “Six-thirty, okay?”
She mumbled something that could have been agreement, then protested when she saw my credit card, “No! Don’t. It’s on the house.”
Calculating quickly, I realized it came to three hundred dollars.
“No way, Françoise, I can’t accept.”
“No, I’m telling you, no! It’s a gift!”
A gift? With that tone? I didn’t insist, thanked her, and left.
13
“After all these years, we should celebrate a little, no?”
She had so much lipstick on, her mouth was like a caricature. Françoise opened the door to her small house on Rue Principale, decorated somewhat garishly — golden picture frames, heavy wall-coverings, and massive furniture — proud to show me the table she had set for us, a large block of foie gras in the middle of the table; she’d been keeping it for just such an occasion. “It isn’t every day you get a visitor from so far away.” Her tone was exuberant, playful, a troubling contrast with her behaviour a few hours earlier at the store. The wine glass she held in her hand could have contributed to her strangely euphoric attitude. At the sight of five place settings on the table, I froze.
“You expecting others?” I had been hoping we might speak just the two of us.
She gave me a small shrill laugh and shook her head as if it wasn’t what we’d agreed on. I was irritated — it wouldn’t be possible to have a conversation now that her brothers were coming — who else but Jean and Paul could have been invited? And, of course, the doorbell rang.
Jean and Paul. Barely fifty, but they looked like old men. Paul more than Jean, with his sallow cheeks and waxy skin. Jean was a bit plumper, with the hard belly of a pregnant woman. His hair, however, was greyer, almost white. He held out a firm hand, without warmth, giving me a bitter look, while Paul skimmed the wall and foundered into the living room, avoiding my handshake. Years ago I disappointed their sister’s inordinate expectations, and the brothers still held a grudge.
“Come!” Françoise pulled me into the living room. A tray of oysters lay on the coffee table. Her husband Jérôme had picked them up at the grocery store and managed to shuck them in record time. “Without even hurting yourself, right honey?” Jérôme, a delicate man with an embarrassed smile, acquiesced with the same timid nod he’d given me when I arrived and Françoise had said boisterously, scanning me from head to toe, “Look, it’s the coat I was talking about, it suits him well, doesn’t it?
In the living room, on the burgundy velvet couch, Jean and Paul waited in silence as Jérôme worked the minibar, making them a drink. I had hazy memories of Jérôme, the timid eldest son of Roger Quimper, the owner of the general store. Back then, he had the smooth, fearful face of a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old youth, so quiet you sometimes forgot he existed. “Jérôme? He was with us that night? Are you sure?” That was Jean speaking from behind the wheel of his father’s Rambler, one night in Little Miami, as if suddenly waking from a dream, “Hey! Jérôme!” And Jean turned to ask him before