We were coming back from a long outing at the Jardin des Plantes. Luna had developed a singular affection for a pair of red pandas. We walked slowly as I like to do, observing everything with our full attention. What I like about my granddaughter is that she’s always looking for a new angle. She likes looking at things from on high, from below, and from all sides, front and back. She also stopped several times to look up at the sky. It’s very pretty to observe her long neck tilt back and see her cascade of blond curly hair fall lower down her back. Poor Catherine would not stop sighing. I’ve always had the habit of simplifying and seeking out the humorous side of things, but it does not protect me much from all that’s sad.
During the walk Luna spoke more about her thesis on Steiner and said again how astonished she was to learn that my father had known him.
“Hmm, you mean I’ve never spoken to you about my father?”
“No. Is he the man on the horse next to your bed?”
“Yes, he was an excellent rider. He attended Saint-Cyr.”
“What was his name again?”
“Louis, but my brother and I called him Papyrus.”
“You loved him, didn’t you?”
“I adored him, but it was a real disaster.”
“Really? Why?”
“Oh, it’s a long story.”
“And your mother?”
“A perfect woman.”
“Terrible you mean?”
“Inoffensive but unbearable all the same.”
“You didn’t love her?”
“Of course I did! We didn’t get along, but that’s another matter.”
“And what did you know about Papyrus and Steiner? And no making stuff up, I need solid material!”
“But I don’t need to invent anything! It bothers me when you and your mother accuse me of that. A story, even about historical events, remains a story, you know. Would you ask a master chef to cook without salt?”
“Oh là là, you certainly have a high opinion of your storytelling skills.”
“True, but also for what I lived through. So I’m going to tell you things as I lived them and not as though it were the evening news, got it?”
She laughed and I did too.
We had hardly stepped in the door when Madame Joseph rushed up, her cheeks on fire, visibly thrilled at being dragged into the family drama. She told us that Lorenzo had called several times and insisted each time on how important it was for Catherine to contact him. My daughter made no reply and went to her room. I contemplated consoling her, but she said she preferred to be alone. I had to pass by my husband’s office to get to the kitchen to prepare tea. Luna was reading. It was so sweet to have the two women in my life all to myself, a pot of Lapsang souchong steeping, and to recollect our magnificent walk in the Jardin des Plantes, but Catherine’s suffering prevented the light from shining forth completely. That was life — constantly moving among obstacles to reach its fruits.
In a closet there was a large military trunk in which I saved everything to do with my father. I was the only survivor of my family.
I had not opened that big green metal trunk in ages, and now suddenly I was experiencing weird feelings about this ancient storage box of mine. I was accustomed to its presence but I remembered nothing about what was inside it. It had two rusty latches and an open padlock hung from the left one. I removed it, and with the uneasy feeling that I was opening a casket, I grabbed the two upper pieces of each latch and tried to lift the lid. It didn’t budge. I tried several times with all of my senior citizen strength, but it was no use, the trunk refused to open.
Catherine appeared in the doorway.
“Mother, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to open Papyrus’s trunk.”
She had a go at it, first alone and then with my help. Finally the lid came up and a cloud of dust made us cough. Peering into my father’s trunk hardly revealed a pot of gold. With my thumb and index finger I picked up the gray rag that I supposed was what remained of his hussar’s military coat. I avoided shaking it and placed it delicately on some boxes stacked nearby. The things it had been covering were in better condition: books, notepads, various objects, pipes, a small silver ball for storing opium, and a framed saint’s medal pierced by a bullet mounted on a plum-colored piece of velvet.
“What’s that?” asked Catherine.
“A miracle. My mother ceremoniously gave him a necklace with this medallion of the Virgin to wear as he set off to war, and can you believe it, that atheist had his life saved by that present. See for yourself.”
Catherine dusted off the frame and stared at it.
“Wow, incredible,” she said without lifting her eyes.
Her hands were covered with freckles and her nails, curved and healthy, struck me tenderly all of a sudden. As a young girl, Catherine already had the hands of an adult. I remember her clutching her baby bottle with the fingers of a miniature woman. In fact she always gave me the impression of having a spirit that was older than her years. At a time when the world ought to have hit her with its banal materiality, when all children have their eyes lit up by every little conquest, Catherine behaved like a grand bourgeoise who was above such things.
“You said it! To think that my mother’s faith ended up saving his life.”