1933, before summer
Wedding day at Clermain. Large tables covered in white cloths have been set up on the Place de l’Église. The whole village has come together to celebrate the union of Hugo, the mayor’s son, and Angèle the redhead, daughter of the blacksmith.
Since Angèle is ashamed of being a redhead, thanks to the Jules Renard novel, Poil de carotte, she asked her dressmaker, Hélène Hel, to make her a veil out of very thick tulle to hide her locks. She’s even used white tailor’s chalk to cover up her freckles.
It should be the best day of her life, but Angèle feels ill at ease. And it’s not because of her hair or her skin. Frédéric, Hugo’s cousin, keeps staring at her. She can feel his insistent eyes on her. Much as she drinks wine to forget about him, whenever she looks in his direction, his obscene gaze meets hers. Even on her wedding day, he’s still doing it.
It’s been going on for months. Him waiting for her outside her house, or her turning around in the street to find him shadowing her. Each time, she remains cold, but he persists: “Hello, you’re so pretty,” “Good evening, I love your hair,” “Hello, what a lovely surprise,” “Good evening, you have amazing eyes . . .”
Angèle has never dared tell Hugo about it. During the ceremony, she was even afraid that Frédéric might oppose the marriage. There was nothing to justify him doing so, but she couldn’t relax.
Frédéric takes advantage of Hugo leaving his seat to come over to her. Angèle didn’t have time to grab her husband’s hand to keep him beside her. Frédéric walks around the guests and approaches her, smiling. A smile like a bad smell. She closes her eyes, drinks a large gulp of wine, which burns her throat. When she reopens her eyes, he is there. She wants to slap him, scratch him, tear his hair out. She wishes she were a man with the strength to beat him up. She hears him whispering:
“I prefer the red veil of your hair.”
To escape from him, Angèle stands up from the table, too abruptly. Her dress snags on something sharp and tears at the waist. There’s a kind of silence that confuses her senses. She looks at her dress as if it were her own skin that has just been slashed. She’s even surprised she’s not bleeding. Just a few white beads fall to the ground. Her heart starts to pound. She looks up and says to Frédéric, almost formally:
“Disappear.”
Angèle then asks her mother to go and fetch the dressmaker, who lives a stone’s throw from the church.
In the meantime, she will wait in the presbytery. Luckily, no one has noticed a thing, not even Hugo. Angèle’s mother knows Clermain’s couture boutique well. It’s closed: today’s Sunday. She steps in through a half-open porte cochère and follows a corridor that leads to the entirely glazed atelier in the rear courtyard.
Hélène is in the atelier, sitting cross-legged, like a man, on a wooden table. She’s deep in conversation with someone the mother can only see from behind.
She knocks on the door. A bird flies off. Through the glass door, she sees Hélène looking at her without seeing her. Like someone interrupted in the middle of a conversation they don’t want to end. The young dressmaker beckons her in.
What Angèle’s mother had thought was someone from behind is a dressmaker’s fabric dummy. She realizes that the young girl is alone, and yet she could have sworn that she was talking to someone.
One hour later, Angèle’s dress is as good as new. Hélène has restitched every seam. She’s facing the young bride in the narrow corridor, near a mirrored coat rack, and has opened the presbytery door to let in some light. Angèle admires Hélène’s work as if it were a miracle.
“I’m so sorry, Hélène.”
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
Angèle gazes at the face of the dressmaker, who is three years her junior. She couldn’t say whether Hélène looks older or younger than her. Her clear skin, messy bun, blue eyes, large mouth, high cheekbones. Hers is that Slav beauty that one either loves or hates, because every feature is exaggerated. Even her eyes seem to be reaching for her temples. In Clermain, people say that Hélène Hel is crazy, and children are wary of her.
Angèle takes Hélène’s hands into her own.
“When the fittings began, I didn’t like you. It’s my mother who insisted that you be my dressmaker . . . I was scared of you.”
Hélène replies:
“That’s normal. I’m scared of me, too.”
Angèle smiles at the young woman, who always seems to be somewhere other than the room she’s in. It’s true that she’s attractive and disquieting all at once. There’s a kind of turmoil in her eyes. And she never smiles. Even when saying yes. Angèle looks at Hélène’s hands.
“You have such nimble fingers.”
Hélène lowers her eyes. Angèle embraces her affectionately and returns to her guests in her new dress. She scans the crowd. Frédéric is no longer there. She smiles inside, relieved.
Hélène remains alone in the corridor. She gazes at her fingers, and then, finally, packs up her sewing things. She doesn’t close the presbytery door behind her: she has a thing about letting in the sunlight wherever she can.
To get back to the atelier, Hélène decides to walk along the cemetery side of the church. She tries to read the names on the gravestones. She pushes open the church’s small side door. The church is empty. Hélène kneels and speaks to God, tirelessly repeating: “Teach me to read.”
“What you doing?”
I jump. Jules gave me a fright. I close the blue notebook.
“Writing.”
“Think you’re Marguerite Duras, do you?”
“Where d’you hear about Marguerite Duras?”
“In a French class. Found it boring as hell. Hope you don’t write like her.”
“No risk of that. Open the window.”
“You in a bad mood?”
“Nah. You know I can’t stand you smoking in my room.”
“It’s more me smoking that you can’t stand . . . You’re not my mother.”
Jules opens the window and leans out. He’s sulking a bit. So I say to him:
“Yesterday evening, there was another anonymous phone call at The Hydrangeas.”
He turns around; I can’t see his eyes.
“To which family?”
“You need a haircut. Gisèle Diondet’s family. The tiny lady with purple hair who had a haberdashery store. I told you about her last week.”
“Remind me.”
“Before, she spent a lot of time in the card room and joined all the workshops. But since early summer, she just stays put at reception with the others. So she was there when her family arrived, all red eyes and dark clothes.”
Jules flicks his cigarette butt out of the window. Tomorrow morning, Gramps will pick it up in the garden, grumbling. Then he’ll pop it in a bowl of water with the others and use it to water his rosebushes to kill the greenfly.
He’s back sitting on my bed.
“And what did they say, the family, when they saw her . . . alive?”
“Imagine their shock. But I think they were a little disappointed.”
“What d’you mean, disappointed?”
“When old people kick the bucket, it means the guilt’s over. It’s complicated. It’s grief mixed with relief.”
“And the little old lady, what did she say when she saw them?”
“At first, she didn’t recognize them, but she was still pleased. Especially when they took her to a restaurant for lunch. You know, it often happens with the elderly. At the time of the visits, they’re not that friendly to their family, but afterwards, something changes. They’re less anxious. At any rate, this afternoon, Gisèle returned to the card room. She hadn’t set foot in it for three months.”
“You see, it serves a purpose, this anonymous thing.”
“Earlier, Madame Le Camus summoned us all to announce that the police were going to investigate internally”—I imitate her voice to make Jules smile—“to solve the mystery of the anonymous calls.”
But Jules doesn’t smile.
“Will it be proper detectives, and all that?”
It’s me who starts to laugh.
“Are you kidding? Starsky and Hutch are on the case!”
Jules starts to chuckle. Starsky and Hutch are Milly’s two neighborhood policemen. “The cowboys,” as everyone calls them. They’re a few years from retirement and won’t be replaced. Apparently, they’ve been called that for years. Since well before I was born. One’s dark-haired and the other blond. Well, that was before. Now they’re both white-haired. Gramps says they’re the last people you should call for help if in trouble. They’re not liked in Milly: stupidity is very hard to explain, and theirs shows on their faces. They’re arrogant and never greet anyone. When they hold out a hand, it’s to serve a parking ticket. The “causing obstruction” kind. But who can obstruct whom in Milly? The roads are empty. Personally, I only find them half-amusing, because they are armed, after all. Jules says their guns are toys. But I don’t think so.
“Who do you think’s phoning the families?” Jules asks.
I look at his perfect profile. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Jules’s face. Even with hair that’s too long.
“Don’t know. Could be anyone. At any rate, it’s doubtless someone who has access to the families’ files. And who knows the names and habits of those forgotten on Sunday.”
“The names of what?”