Inseparable Read online

  “Can you believe it!” I said, pointing to the tables covered with food.

  “Yes, all the best Christians must carry out their social obligations!” said Andrée.

  The cream wouldn’t thicken. We gave up and sat down around one of the tablecloths, joining the group of young people who were over twenty. Cousin Charles was speaking in a sophisticated tone of voice to a very ugly young woman who was wearing wonderful clothes: no words seemed adequate to describe the color or fabric of her dress.

  “This picnic looks like a ball with green trimmings,” murmured Andrée.

  “Is it a meeting with a prospective suitor?” I said. “The girl’s really ugly.”

  “But really rich,” said Andrée, sniggering: there were at least ten marriages being arranged.

  At the time, I was rather insatiable when it came to food, but the abundance and solemnity of the dishes being passed around by the servants put me off. Fish in jelly, in cones, in aspic or shaped pastry, galantines, stuffed meats, casseroles, cold meats in sauce, pâtés, terrines, preserved goose and duck, duck breast cooked in wine sauce, cold vegetable salads, plain and in mayonnaise, pies, tarts, and almond cakes: you had to taste it all and compliment everything so you didn’t offend anyone. And on top of that, everyone talked about what they were eating. Andrée had a better appetite than usual, and at the beginning of the meal, she was rather cheerful. The man on her right, a handsome snob with dark hair, continually tried to get her attention and spoke to her in a low voice; she soon seemed irritated. Anger, or the wine, made her cheeks turn a bit pink; all the winegrowers had brought samples of their wines, and we emptied many bottles.

  The conversation grew lively. We got around to talking about flirting: were we allowed to flirt? And how much? On the whole, everyone was against it, but it gave the boys and girls a chance to snigger and whisper together. All in all, these young people were rather straitlaced; some of them, however, clearly made a bad impression: there was a lot of bawdy snickering. The titillated young men began telling stories, respectful ones, but in a tone of voice that suggested they could have been telling different ones. They opened a magnum of champagne, and someone suggested that we all drink from the same glass so that we would learn the thoughts of our neighbor; the flute was passed around. After a handsome, smug young man had taken a drink, he handed the glass to Andrée and whispered something in her ear; she slapped it out of his hand, flinging it onto the grass.

  “I don’t like people getting too familiar,” she said firmly.

  There was an embarrassed silence, then Charles burst out laughing. “Our Andrée doesn’t want us to know her secrets?”

  “I don’t want to know anyone else’s,” she said. “Besides, I’ve already had too much to drink.” Standing up, she said, “I’m going to get some coffee.”

  I watched her, confused. I would have taken a drink without making a fuss; yes, there was something troubling in these innocent innuendos, but what did that have to do with us? Undoubtedly, to Andrée, it was sacrilegious, this artificial meeting of two mouths on a glass: was she thinking of Bernard and how they used to kiss, or of Pascal and the kisses he hadn’t yet given her? Andrée didn’t come back; I also stood up and headed for the shade of the oak trees. Once again, I wondered what exactly she meant when she spoke of kisses that were not platonic. I was very well informed about sexual issues, for during my childhood and adolescence, my body had had its desires, but neither my considerable wisdom nor my infinitesimal experience could explain the ties that united the flesh to tenderness, or happiness. To Andrée, there existed a link between the heart and the body that remained a mystery to me.

  I emerged from the thicket. I found myself on the bank at the curve of the Adour River; I could hear the sound of a waterfall. At the bottom of the clear water, the mottled pebbles looked like bonbons posing as little stones.

  “Sylvie!”

  It was Madame Gallard, her face bright red beneath her straw hat.

  “Do you know where Andrée is?”

  “I was looking for her,” I said.

  “It’s been nearly an hour since she disappeared; it’s very rude.”

  In truth, I said to myself, she’s worried. Perhaps Madame Gallard did love Andrée in her own way: but in which way? That was the question. We all loved her in our own way.

  The sound of the waterfall was pounding loudly in our ears.

  “I was sure of it!” said Madame Gallard, stopping.

  Under a tree, near a cluster of autumn crocuses, I could make out Andrée’s dress, her green belt, her heavy cotton slip. Madame Gallard walked closer to the river: “Andrée!”

  Something moved at the foot of the waterfall.

  “Come in!” said Andrée, peeking her head out. “The water is marvelous!”

  “Come out of there immediately!”

  Andrée swam toward us, her face lit up with laughter.

  “And just after lunch! You could have gotten cramps!” said Madame Gallard.

  Andrée hauled herself onto the riverbank; she had wrapped herself up in a woolen cape that she adjusted with some pins; the water had straightened her hair, and it fell over her eyes.

  “Oh! Just look at you!” said Madame Gallard, in a gentler voice. “How are you going to get dry?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “I do wonder what the Good Lord was thinking when He gave me such a daughter!” said Madame Gallard. She was smiling, but added quite harshly: “Come back immediately. You’re failing in all your duties.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Madame Gallard walked away, and I sat down on the other side of the tree while Andrée got dressed.

  “Oh!” she said. “I felt so good in the water!”

  “It must have been ice-cold.”

  “When I first felt the waterfall on my back, it took my breath away,” said Andrée, “but it did feel good.”

  I picked an autumn crocus. I wondered if they really were poisonous, these odd flowers that were both rustic and sophisticated in their simplicity, flowers that sprang from the earth in a single burst, like mushrooms.

  “Do you think the Santenay sisters would die if we had them drink a soup made from these autumn crocuses?” I asked.

  “Those poor girls!” said Andrée. “They’re not really that bad.”

  She came over to me; she’d put her dress on and was adjusting the belt.

  “I dried myself with my slip,” she said. “No one will see that I’m not wearing a slip; we always wear too many clothes.” She spread out the damp cape and crumpled skirt on the grass. “We have to go back.”

  “Too bad!”

  “Poor Sylvie! You must be really bored.” She smiled at me. “Now that the picnic is over, I hope I’ll have more free time.”

  “Do you think you could manage to arrange for us to see each other a little?”

  “One way or the other, I’ll arrange it,” she said, sounding determined.

  As we were slowly walking back along the riverbank, she said: “I got a letter from Pascal this morning.”

  “A good letter?”

  She nodded. “Yes.” She crumpled some mint leaves in her hand and breathed in the scent; she seemed happy.

  “He said that if Mama asked for time to think about it, that’s a good sign,” she continued. “He said that I should be confident.”

  “That’s what I think too.”

  “I am confident,” said Andrée.

  I wanted to ask her why she had thrown the champagne glass on the ground, but I was afraid to embarrass her.

  For the rest of the day, Andrée was charming with everyone; but I was hardly having a good time. And during the days that followed, she had no more free time than before. No doubt whatsoever: Madame Gallard intentionally arranged things so we wouldn’t see each other. When she discovered Pascal’s letters, she must have been kicking herself for having allowed me to visit, and she was making up for her mistake as best she could. And I was even sadder because the ti
me was nearing when I had to say goodbye. When they returned, there would be Malou’s wedding, I told myself that morning, and Andrée would replace her sister at home and in society; I’d get a glimpse of her in a rush between some charity sale and a funeral.

  It was two days before my departure and, as often happened, I walked around the grounds while everyone was still asleep. Summer was dying, the shrubs were changing color, the red berries on the mountain ash trees were turning yellow; beneath the pale morning breeze, the copper colors of autumn seemed more intense. I liked seeing the trees shimmering brightly above the grass, still covered in dew from the cold. As I sadly walked along the well-kept pathways where wildflowers no longer grew, I thought I could hear music. I walked toward it; it was the sound of a violin. At the very end of the grounds, hidden within a cluster of pine trees, Andrée was playing. She’d thrown an old shawl over her blue jersey dress and was listening, thoughtfully, to the voice of the instrument propped against her shoulder. Her beautiful black hair fell to one side; the neat line made by the part was so moving that I wanted to run my fingers along it with tenderness and respect. I secretly watched the bow flow back and forth for a moment and thought, looking at Andrée, “She’s so alone!”

  As the final note faded away, I walked over to her, my footsteps crunching the pine needles.

  “Oh!” said Andrée. “Did you hear me playing? Can they hear me at the house?”

  “No,” I said. “I was taking a walk. You play so well!” I added.

  Andrée sighed. “If only I had some time to practice!”

  “Do you often hold outdoor concerts like this?”

  “No. But I’ve wanted to play so much these past few days! And I don’t want all those people to hear me.”

  Andrée lay her violin in its little case.

  “I have to get back before Mama comes downstairs; she’ll say that I’m mad, and that won’t help matters for me.”

  “Are you bringing your violin to the Santenays’?” I asked as we headed back to the house.

  “Absolutely not! Oh! Spending time there horrifies me.” She added, “At least here, I feel at home.”

  “Are you really obliged to go?”

  “I don’t want to fight with Mama over little things,” she said. “Especially not now.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  Andrée went back into the house, and I sat down in the middle of the lawn with a book. A little later, I saw her cutting roses with the Santenay sisters. Then she went to chop some wood in the shed; I could hear the dull sound of the ax.

  The sun was rising in the sky, and I found no pleasure in reading. I was no longer at all sure that Madame Gallard’s decision might be favorable. Andrée would have only a small dowry, like her sister, but she was much prettier and far more brilliant than Malou; her mother undoubtedly nurtured high hopes for her. Suddenly, there was a loud cry: it was Andrée.

  I ran toward the woodshed. Madame Gallard was leaning over her; Andrée was lying in the sawdust, her eyes closed, one foot bleeding. The blade of the ax was streaked with red.

  “Malou, bring down your first-aid kit, Andrée is hurt!” cried Madame Gallard. She asked me to go and phone the doctor. When I came back, Malou was bandaging Andrée’s foot, and her mother was making her breathe smelling salts.

  “I dropped the ax!” she whispered, opening her eyes.

  “The bone hasn’t been cut,” said Malou. “It’s a deep gash, but the bone wasn’t touched.”

  Andrée had a mild fever, and the doctor found she was very tired; he ordered her to rest for a long time. In any case, she wouldn’t be able to walk on that foot for nearly two weeks.

  When I went to see her that evening, she was very pale, but she gave me a big smile.

  “I’m laid up until the end of the summer holidays!” she said in a triumphant voice.

  “Are you in pain?” I asked.

  “Not much!” she said. “Even if it hurt ten times as much, I’d prefer that to going to the Santenays’,” she added. She looked at me mischievously. “It’s what’s called a happy accident!”

  I stared at her, confused. “Andrée! You didn’t really do this on purpose?”

  “I couldn’t hope that fate would be bothered with such a small thing,” she said cheerfully.

  “How did you have the courage! You could have cut off your foot!”

  Andrée leaned back, her head against the pillow. “I couldn’t stand it anymore,” she said.

  She looked up at the ceiling for a moment in silence, and seeing her chalk-white face, her blank expression, I could feel an old fear rising up again within me. Raise the ax, strike: I would never have been capable of that, the very idea repulsed me.

  What terrified me was what she had been thinking just as she’d done it.

  “Does your mother suspect?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, sitting up in bed. “I told you I’d find a way to have some peace, one way or another.”

  “You’d already decided?”

  “I’d decided to do something. The idea of the ax came to me this morning while picking flowers. I first thought of cutting myself with the shears, but that wouldn’t have been enough.”

  “You frighten me,” I said.

  Andrée gave me a big smile.

  “Why? I did a good job: I didn’t cut too deep. Do you want me to ask Mama if you can stay until the end of the month?” she added.

  “She won’t want me to.”

  “Let me talk to her!”

  Did Madame Gallard suspect the truth? Did it make her feel fear and remorse? Or was it the doctor’s diagnosis that worried her? She agreed to have me stay in Béthary to keep Andrée company. The Rivière de Bonneuils left at the same time as Malou and the Santenays; overnight, the house grew very calm.

  Andrée had her own room, and I spent many long hours at her bedside.

  “I had a very long conversation with Mama about Pascal,” she said to me one morning.

  “And?”

  Andrée lit a cigarette; she smoked whenever she was nervous.

  “She had a chat with Papa. A priori, they have nothing against Pascal; he even made a good impression on them the day you brought him to the house.”

  Andrée looked straight at me. “It’s just, I understand Mama: she doesn’t know Pascal and she wonders if his intentions are serious.”

  “She wouldn’t oppose a marriage?” I asked, full of hope.

  “No.”

  “Well! That’s what’s most important,” I said. “Aren’t you happy?”

  Andrée took a puff of her cigarette. “There would be no question of marriage for two or three years . . .”

  “I know.”

  “Mama is demanding that we get officially engaged. Otherwise, she has forbidden me to see Pascal: she wants to send me to England, to sever all contact.”

  “So you’ll get engaged, that’s all.” Then I quickly added, “Okay, you’ve never broached the subject with Pascal, but you can’t believe he’d let you go away for two years!”

  “I can’t oblige him to get engaged to me!” said Andrée, sounding agitated. “He asked me to be patient, he said he needed time to understand himself; I’m not going to throw myself at his feet, crying, ‘Let’s get engaged!’”

  “You won’t throw yourself at his feet: you’ll explain the situation.”

  “That’s the same as backing him into a corner.”

  “It’s not your fault! There’s nothing else you can do!”

  She resisted for a long time, but I finally convinced her to talk to Pascal. She refused only to tell him what was happening in a letter; she told her mother she would have a conversation with him as soon as she got back. Madame Gallard acquiesced. She smiled a lot those days; perhaps she was thinking: “That’s two daughters married off!” She behaved almost kindly toward me; and often, when she was arranging Andrée’s pillows, or helping her switch on a reading light, something in her eyes reminded me of the photograph of her as
a young girl.

  Andrée had told Pascal, in a playful tone of voice, how she had hurt herself; she received two worried letters from him. He said that she needed someone responsible to watch over her, and other things that she didn’t tell me; but I understood that she no longer doubted his feelings. Rest and sleep brought the color back to her face, and she even put on a little weight: never had I seen her look so radiant as the day she could finally get out of bed.

  She limped a little, walked with difficulty. Monsieur Gallard loaned us his Citroën for the whole day. I had rarely been in a car, and never for pleasure. So my heart was full of delight when I sat down next to Andrée and we drove down the wide road, all the windows open. We took a very straight, long road through the forest of the Landes, between the pine trees, as high as the eye could see. Andrée drove very fast: the speedometer read nearly fifty miles an hour! Despite her competent driving, I was a little nervous.

  “You’re not going to get us killed?” I asked.

  “Definitely not!”

  Andrée smiled happily. “Now I absolutely do not want to die.”

  “And you did before?”

  “Oh, yes! Every night when I went to sleep, I wished I would never wake up. Now I pray to God that He keep me alive,” she added cheerfully.

  We’d turned off the main road and were slowly winding our way past the still ponds surrounded by heather; we had lunch by the sea in an empty hotel. The summer season was ending, the beaches were deserted, the villas closed. In Bayonne, we bought multicolored nougat bars for the twins; we ate one while slowly climbing up the cloisters of the cathedral. Andrée leaned against my shoulder. We talked about the cloisters in Spain and Italy where we would go for walks one day, and other countries, even farther away, where we’d travel. On the way back to the car, I pointed to her bandaged foot: “I’ll never understand how you had the courage!”

  “You would have too if you’d felt as harassed as I did.” She touched her temple. “I ended up getting the most unbearable headaches.”

  “And you don’t anymore?”