Augustino and the Choir of Destruction (3 page)

Southern Light
tempted them toward the waves,
Southern Light
, said Vincent,
Southern Light
, and he may have loved Marie-Sylvie more than his own mother, and it may have been to Mai's detriment that they never left each other's side, and Mère again thought, yes, it's true, one day or one night, I'll not open my eyes, not see my daughter Mélanie, so many regrets, especially at being so far from perfect, I'll miss her, she is so attentive, I'll say to myself I did everything there was to do here, at least all I could, but was it really enough, things will go on without me, manoeuvres, battles, cities decimated under a rain of missiles, generals, ministers taking refuge from the sound of these bombings on women, men and children in their country-house for the weekend, life is well-worn habit for the good and the evil, that I will no longer be able to talk about with my daughter, what is a successful life anyway, Marie Curie herself never knew, the upright and misogynist Pasteur grew old, a young woman who might have been resplendent wore herself down acquiring knowledge, sharpening her devotion to science all the while, and she would soon have a husband as brilliant and disinterested as herself, like kindred spirits meeting and fusing into one another, did she recall the young man she had met writing one day that there were few women of genius, or at least he had written, said, affirmed somehow, that women of genius were rare, the phrase she heard in the interweaving of marriage, the abandonment of marriage, but the young Marie Curie bowed her head and said nothing, she needed most of all to act, not to interrupt her thoughts, her inner discourse, also to be wary of a long tradition of prejudice when in the company of men, she would be no rival to her husband Pierre nor to anyone else, all feelings of rivalry would be banished, she must be mistress of herself, and how beneficial it would be, this rigour, uninterrupted self-discipline, bringing into the world two daughters, two Mélanies, one consumed by love of the pure sciences like her mother, a blazing and attractive replica, just as independent, straightforward, disinterested, and — like her mother — destroyed, sacrificed too soon to radioactivity, both working hard into the night in uncomfortable sheds, suffering from the dampness in the walls; Marie serious always, drably dressed, absorbed in her thoughts about uranium rays, orderly, minute, here in this shed, radium is treated exclusively, while the first little Mélanie was cutting her teeth, Marie Curie's first daughter, later to be her own mother's colleague, and whose studious shadow would in turn later haunt the laboratories in this shed, but before growing up, as Mère had done with her own daughter, Marie kept a diary recording the fifth, the sixth teeth to come through the baby's gums, her bath in the pond, the cries as the child refused to drink milk,
Irène cried today, I hope she'll stop
, though Mère thought Mélanie cried relatively little, at least wrote nothing to that effect in her own diary, along with the study of new rays, Marie had dated her discomforts shortly after Irène had been born, suddenly this phantom lesion diagnosed in the lung, it was this shed with walls that dripped humidity in autumn and winter, the stubborn adherence to work, still Pierre was by her side with so much to lighten her life, so close as the day wore on, a friend, a companion to go home with at night on foot or by bicycle, that too she had written in her diary at the same time as the baby's teeth and tears, few words in a solid hand, a hundred-and-fifty times more active than uranium, then there was the phantom, the shadow of the lesion, atrophied lung and those fingers, why were they suddenly so chapped and swollen from handling murderous substances, Irène may have been her mother's cherished one, but so was research as well, radioactivity is my life and my child as well, and what is my future life to be if not devoted to it, usually so discreet, this she confided to a disciple, a young girl who would study with her, she was mother to her work, a creation slow in coming to birth, and who knows if the student remarked on the bloodless face of her teacher there in that shed, that factory for heating poisons, that airless shed, heated by an iron stove in winter, and what was she to think of this diminutive woman, working silently on chemical operations amid the odours of gas burners, her creation on the point of consuming her at the very moment her daughter Irène needed her at home, working on her first teeth, crying ceaselessly, later her mother was to say I'll tolerate no cries of sadness or of joy, my husband and children must be silent, no, no noise at all, and Mère thought that if Mélanie had cried very little, it was because her mother was always with her, no, Mère was wrong about that, Mélanie had cried the day her parents divorced, the day her grandmother was buried, when the distance between her parents suddenly showed itself in such savage hostility, they no longer saw each other, spoke together, even on a day like that, her grandmother's funeral, and Mère recalled Mélanie shedding finally the tears she had held back the day of the communicants in the Pyrenees, when one little girl had separated herself from the line of communicants on the edge of a highway and had in an instant been struck down by a bus, the flash of white thread from her dress caught between the wheels, Why Mama? Mélanie had asked her, her long hair masking her crying face, she was the same age as Mélanie, what was unexplained, what failed to explain the undefinable, the indefensible, and above all the word not to be spoken in front of Mélanie, Mère had managed to extricate herself from all these entanglements . . . you see, it's like a moth, it comes, it flies away, the communicant was that white moth, the shining blood on the snow, Mama, tell me why? Don't look back my dear, Mère had said, we must learn that in life, don't look back, I can't explain any of it, Mélanie, except that when a child is struck down like that, it is a crime, a crime of God, this was how she tried to distract Mélanie from her sadness, for Mère had never spoken to her of God, and Mélanie fell quiet, never did Mère see her cry again, yes, perhaps on the day Samuel left for New York, but it was her son, her flesh, pulling away from her, she had been expecting that, hadn't she, Einstein said glory had not corrupted Marie Curie, but how could such glory corrupt a woman who deemed herself so ordinary, who had never considered this glory for herself? Notoriety was a man's business, a ridiculous ambition which did not concern her there in her shed, her shadowy laboratory, and with these numb, swollen hands impeding her progress, would she have time to finish, thus was the simple, pain-filled woman Albert Einstein was to meet later on, someone who thought of herself as she had been before, an ordinary being riddled with doubts and privation, then Mère remembered Chuan's question, Why aren't your sons here for your birthday, Esther? Oh, I invited them, but they don't have much time to visit their mother, Mère had replied abruptly, my sons take after their father, cosmetic surgeons, they don't have time for me any more, Mère slid out from under Chuan's questioning intrusion into her family life, which seemed complex to her, forcing deeper inside the shame her sons had made her feel, lining up as they had with their father at a time when he was unfaithful to her, she saw her sons again on the back seat of the white limousine, they had mortified her, but still why couldn't she forgive them, it was time to erase past wrongs, these boys were young and already successful in life, she ought to have spoken of them with pride to Chuan and Olivier who were covered with pride in their son, well yes, Jermaine was charming, not contemptuous of his mother for being a woman, if you could call life successful when it concerns only material wealth, thought Mère bitterly, neither of her sons was as sensitive as Mélanie, though really she could not complain about them, whether she felt humiliated or not, the boys were her triumph like Mélanie, they had a considerable place in society, even if they did have precious little time to visit their mother, and they did live far away in California but phoned often, more polite than before, not like a friend of hers who had no news from her son for years, and then suddenly learned by accident that he had died of AIDS in a Los Angeles hospital, or had she found out by messenger or letter, the mother had often said our son Thomas never told us anything about his life, we know nothing about him, and why had these middle-class parents entered into a pact of mystery when they suspected how their son lived his life, the same bourgeoisie as Mère with its way of plastering over its shameful secrets, rejection, when really Thomas' parents had known all along where he was and how he lived, but they did not want to know, rejection, dismissal suited them better, like a bum living in the street or under bridges, they covered up for him, he would die alone with his skin diseases and rapidly deteriorating eyesight, an outcast in a Los Angeles hospital where he had come for pneumonia, and then without understanding why, he had died from the radical rejection that had befallen him, depressed, hopeless of any cure, might his mother have received a last phone call from him begging her to take him in, and had she perhaps refused, saying no, Thomas, you cannot come back to us, thus the bourgeoisie patched up its shortcomings, one more scandalous than the next, like the wounds on Thomas' face, denying everything, seeing nothing, so Mère could not really complain about her own sons, she would tell Mélanie how proud she was to see them so well set in life, and if she didn't forgive them now for her birthday, when would she, who knows which will be the last birthday, this right hand trembling more and more, and Mère recalled her dreams once more, each one perhaps the symbol of life's approaching end refined to the point of sadism, an indicator of failing health, wasn't that to be feared more than all the nastiness of dreams, in one such dream, Mère was asleep in her room, a little afternoon nap in the languid heat, it would have been so sweet if Mélanie had not suddenly burst into the room and her bed with a suffocating mass of lilies and delicately spread them around Mère's face, I'm just resting, Mère wanted to say, Mélanie can't you see my eyes are open, it's not yet time for flowers, they're choking me, wouldn't they be better opening out by the Mediterranean than here in this room where we'll all suffocate together, they're for you, Mama, said Mélanie, no, no, Mère wanted to cry, but no sound passed her lips, and when she awoke, Mélanie was no longer there, that was the day she took Vincent to the doctor's, so she couldn't have been in the room, could she, still the choking smell of Asian tiger lilies seemed to linger, sometimes in a dream, the putrefaction seemed to be stealing some other body than hers, one of her sons returning disfigured from a war, then leaning over him she realized it was herself, her eye colour, the son's pained mutterings became her own, this too seemed to her too hard to put into words, Mère wanted to tell her sons she had always refused to send them to war, she had not done this, but still she was mute, dimly aware that a disproportionate and sinister misfortune hung around her, and Mère remembered the story of Caroline's little bag, a small, flat, cloth handbag that she had mislaid that day they scattered Jean-Mathieu's ashes near The-Island-Nobody-Owns, the story of the bag was an absurd one, Caroline asking everyone if they had seen it, when, only seconds before, Jean-Mathieu had been scattered on the ocean, but this event still seemed fantastic for Caroline, who could not believe that her friend was really dead, expecting him to come home from Italy that evening, as he had so often done, she said he had given her that bag, almost as though he might scold her that evening for having lost this old gift, just a little bag with a compact, house keys, never mind the car keys, the chauffeur would be waiting for them in the port at sunset, Mère had noticed Caroline's sudden mental dislocation, usually so haughty, and now here she was asking everyone, where's my cloth bag, have you seen it, her face largely hidden by her broad-brimmed hat, but Mère heard increasingly rapid breathing, and Mélanie at the same time worriedly asking everyone if they had seen her daughter Mai, yes, she's run away again, Mélanie fixing her gaze on the empty swing where Mai, yes, we saw her there, swinging, but where is she now, and there was Mélanie, beside herself with worry, who had said to Caroline, here's your bag, you forgot it in the wicker armchair on the patio, and possibly there had been wicked smiles all around when Caroline had confidently mentioned her chauffeur, because they all knew Charly was an addict, all perhaps thinking, like Mère, about how they could get rid of this unsavoury character who might even be drugging her, Caroline hasn't been the same lately, she needs help soon, expressing child-like gratitude, Caroline had taken up the bag, thanking Mélanie, thank-you, thank-you, young lady, lady — a dated, old-fashioned word to address Mélanie, and she, a mother of two big boys, was at a loss to respond, eyes riveted on the swing Mai had abandoned, and where was she anyway, it would soon be time to get back to the boat she murmured, and Caroline went on, my dear young lady, Mélanie, I call you that because I was present at your birth, and yet here you are pursuing that frightful thing called politics, now her handbag was recovered, Caroline's face had composed itself again and become protective of Mélanie, reassuring, don't torment yourself, Mélanie, your little daughter never wanders far, you know, I used to want to slip away from my nanny at her age, and perhaps they had all noticed beneath the broad-brimmed hat the child Caroline who was every bit as unreasonable, an ageing adult now, still mixing with bad company like Charly because she fancied herself still young and had a fondness for youth, and although Caroline's friends showed her respect, knowing that with the loss of Jean-Mathieu today she was the most desolate of creatures, the thought that someone pitied her was repugnant, and Mère thought I am Caroline, this sudden dislocation is me, and perhaps today, five years later at Mère's birthday celebration in Chuan's garden, Mère would have loved to know where Caroline was, why did she go out so rarely, was she still in town, well, of course, it was gossip, vicious talk when people said they saw her silhouette sliding around at night, walking around the block with her dog in front of her unable to recognize her own house, none of it was true, Mère thought, rumours and nasty tongue-wagging, but still why had Caroline missed the party, she never would have skipped one before, of course she would have been with Jean-Mathieu, what a touching couple, travelling together, learned about painting and opera, unparalleled friends, an accomplished life she had, her photographs known round the world after those last exhibitions in Paris and London, and his life too was a success as a renowned poet Adrien said he envied, how had a poor boy, a sailor from the port of Halifax, so mastered his art, the love of Caroline had won him over, would he have travelled and written so much without her, she had never known he was born poor, she had learned not to speak of her modest fortune in front of him, he not realizing she was sharing it with him, and where were they now Jean-Mathieu and Caroline, and what was an accomplished life, the life of doubt led by Marie Curie there in the greyish photograph talking to Einstein, they were in Geneva by a lake, a prematurely aged woman draped in a shawl, shivering with cold, a life without triumph it would seem, a life triumphed over by the word solitude, solitude by Lake Leman, talking to Einstein — was he even listening, heavy in his coat and smoking his pipe, the immovable empire of knowledge and absent-mindedness, not listening, actually, and she knew it, just an enfeebled woman with numbed hands and wrapped in a shawl, more isolated next to this man than in her laboratory at the Institute, alone she was able to make advances on all fronts, visiting a radium plant or on the arm of an American president in the White House, always the lone woman at international commissions, alone next to Einstein, or to the right of Bergson and male colleagues, the only one at conventions, an elevating personality notable by her austere face, from its white hair among all those men, never smiling, and that ultimate triumph, thought Mère, that word solitude on the verge of death, when Marie Curie contemplated through eyes gas-burned and uranium-seared in her lab, that which approached her and which she awaited uncompromisingly, death, the end of a life she still thought of as too banal in her abhorrence of vanity, she demanded only one thing, to be left in peace, and Mère strolled among Chuan and Olivier's guests wondering why Caroline, who professed to love her, had not shown up, if she had, Mère would have embraced her joyously, she might have told her what was really on her mind, my dear Caroline, here we are, you and I, about