I enter room 19. Roman is seated beside Hélène.
“Hello.”
He stands up.
“Hello, Justine.”
He indicates From the Land of the Moon with his eyes. I’d put the book back on the bedside table for him to retrieve on his next visit.
“Did you like it?”
“I devoured it.”
He smiles.
“I hope that didn’t give you indigestion.”
I blush.
“It made me want to go to Sardinia.”
He looks at me.
“I have a little house over there, in the south of the island, towards Muravera. I’ll lend you the keys any time you like.”
I lower my eyes.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Silence.
“Do you come across the characters in the book there?” I ask.
He looks at me.
“Every day.”
I look at him.
“Even the Veteran?”
“Especially the Veteran.”
He picks up the novel and then immediately puts it back down. Then he stands up again.
“I’m running late, I must go, if I’m not to miss the last train. Hélène hasn’t said a word to me today.”
I look at Hélène. I think of the house in Sardinia and say:
“Next time.”
And he, with sadness, says to me:
“Yes. Perhaps. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
Whenever he leaves a room, a slight shadow descends. He never asks me if I’ve started writing for him.
Hélène turns her head towards me and smiles.
“So, my beautiful Hélène, it’s the world of silence today?”
“Lucien non-married me on January 19, 1934, in Milly, his village. There was lots of snow that day. He picked the coldest day of winter on purpose so no one would be able to come . . . Justine?”
“Yes.”
I move closer to her and take her hand.
“Do you know why Lucien never wanted to marry me?”
“Because the wedding ring encircles the only finger with a vein running directly to the heart.”
She starts to laugh like a little girl.
“The left ring finger.”
I sit down beside her. She resumes her monologue:
“We disguised old Louis’s house as a town hall. It was a large square house, with three floors, right opposite the railway station. With a ladder, Lucien hung a tricolore from the gutter, and a large ‘MAIRIE’ sign above the front door. My parents, who had never set foot in Milly, were none the wiser. And anyhow, the snow covered everything up.
“There was no one in the streets. We were waiting for my parents in front of the fake town hall when they emerged from the station. I was wearing a very simple white dress, with no lace.
“We told my parents that we’d marry in church later, in the summer, and I’d add lace and a tulle veil then. My mother was disappointed that the only daughter of the Clermain tailors should have such a plain dress on her wedding day. As for Lucien, he was proudly wearing his first navy-blue flannel suit. He’d lost a lot of weight; I’d had to make some alterations.
“When he took my arm and we entered the fake town hall, he kissed me with his eyes. On that day, it wasn’t just my hand I was giving him, it was both hands: I was starting to read Braille on my own, without his help. I owed everything to him . . . Justine?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what that means, owing everything to someone?”
“I know what it means, but I’ve never met anyone I could owe everything to.”
Silence.
“On the ground floor of the house, old Louis had removed all his furniture and installed a large desk and a few chairs. Lucien had hung up some fake bylaw decrees on the walls, and on a locked door had written “Public Records Office.” Old Louis loved playing the mayor. He took his role very seriously, without really grasping why Lucien was going to such lengths not to marry me. Much as Lucien explained to him that marriage prevented the blood from reaching the heart, and enslaved men and women to promises that were impossible to keep, he never really understood.
“Old Louis was a stout man with a deep voice. With his tricolore sash across his chest, he read out the civil marriage code to us. Article 212, the husband and wife have a duty to be faithful to one another, and supportive. Article 213, the husband and wife together maintain the moral and material welfare of the family, provide for the education of the children, and prepare for their future.
“My parents left after the ceremony, so they wouldn’t be caught out by nightfall, which was very early at that time of year.”
She goes quiet.
“Hélène?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say a word to Roman today?”
She shrugs to indicate that she doesn’t know. Then opens her mouth one last time before returning to her beach:
“After the exchange of kisses, Baudelaire, our fake witness, recited a poem:
My sister, my child
Imagine how sweet
To live there as lovers do!
To kiss as we choose
To love and to die
In that land resembling you!3
3 Charles Baudelaire, “Invitation to the Voyage,” in The Flowers of Evil, trans. James McGowan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993).