Colin phoned his son without realising he was going to, as if the days and days since Delphine said I pushed her, and she fell hadn’t been a vertiginous trial of longing and reluctance, of not right now, but maybe later; as if the thought of doing it didn’t bring him out in a sweat.
He dialled the number, those quick, slippery digits that Frederique had given him.
“Hello?”
The sound of his boy’s voice shot through him, the shock of it reaching right to his fingertips.
“Michael…?”
He was walking along the tow path of the Canal St Martin: walking as escape, walking as expiation. He stared at the green water lapping against the waterway’s green walls, the green railings at street level, the green branches arching under the ribbed blue sky: the long, urban nave of the canal.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Hello, my boy.” He didn’t want to sound too eager; he didn’t want to sound too cool. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m at home. They released me yesterday…”
“That’s great news.” In front of him, the tow path widened. A knot of people was listening to a busker playing the cello. He took a deep breath. “You don’t have to speak to me and you don’t have to see me if you don’t want to–”
“I do want to.”
“–I’d quite understand.”
“I do want to see you.”
“Oh.” Two cyclists went past in a blur, whirring, leaving behind them a slipstream of silver and blue. “Well, that’s good,” he said, his heart thudding in his chest. “I want to see you too.”
There was silence on the line as the two of them acclimatised to the notion that they could fix a meeting place and just turn up, that bridging nine years of separation could be that simple.
“So where shall we–?” / “Do you want to–?”
“You go first,” said Colin.
Michael cleared his throat. “A psychologist is coming here to see Delphine later on this morning. Perhaps I could meet you somewhere? I’ve got a parcel I need to post.”
“Anywhere–” said Colin, his heart still ticking like a clock; a slow continuum of all the time spent waiting, the chronology of loss, of stupid, stupid waste.
“What about the Buttes de Chaumont? It’s a park near where we live. I’ll meet you at the metro.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” he said, finding his voice, his mouth dry. “I’m on my way.”
~~~
He messed up the Metro – he followed the line towards Nation instead of Porte Dauphine, taking the interchange at a swerve in his hurry, but he’d been running towards this for years and years and he couldn’t stop now. He sat on the train listening to the slow pneumatic hiss of the wheels on the track, urging them onwards. He walked the length of all the carriages to the one in the front to be closest to the exit, but when he arrived at Michael’s station, it said Sortie at the far end of the platform and he began to run again: up the stairs, through the barrier, up and up.
He raced panting into the daylight, shouldering past some bloke who was on his way down, and there, leaning against the railings, was his son. Colin stopped dead in his tracks. The proportions of his face had changed: his eyes were more striking, his head was shaved. He was so thin. It is easy to assume that suffering brings wisdom, but perhaps it just brings pain.
Michael hunched his shoulders diffidently and shoved his hands into his pockets. “How was your journey?”
They were shy with one another. They were like acquaintances, trying to find what common ground they shared.
“I went the scenic route…”
They regarded one another, puzzling over each small revelation: how they had changed, what they had become.
“You’ve lost weight.”
Michael stared down at his chest and stomach, as if they were unfamiliar too. “Yes, I suppose…”
“I haven’t! I’ve spent too long in Burgundy.”
“I don’t know Burgundy.”
“It’s very beautiful.”
“We always went to Brittany for the holidays…”
“Delphine said.” Colin hesitated, “She showed me her album. I saw pictures of…” When it came to it, he didn’t have the courage to say her name, “Of her mum. She was looking very happy.”
Michael glanced behind him and then glanced back. “Yes. Well…”
Neither of them spoke. They stood in loose proximity, like strangers disassociating themselves. “I need to post this,” Michael produced a small package from under his arm. “It’s a book,” he said. “For my cellmate. To say thank you.”
Colin watched him as he crossed the road, weaving his way between the cars, sliding the parcel into a post box, then weaving his way back, conscious of all the tremulous trajectories that children make, from their first, faltering steps to the long walk away from home.
Then they set off, heading for the park. “I’m sorry – for everything. That’s what I’ve come to say. I thought that letting you go was in your best interests,” the words came blurting out of him. “I loved you so. More than I loved your mother. I shouldn’t say that, I know.”
Michael was staring at the ground, listening to his Dad speaking, taking in the sound of his voice, the effect of it.
“I didn’t want you to feel torn. I never wanted you to have to choose between us.”
He remembered the phone call in the prison, his Dad’s excuses: parents sometimes have to make difficult decisions. He half expected a kanga to tap him on the shoulder and tell him that their time was up. He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“I tried to make it up to you, with Delphine…”
“It’s forgiven and forgotten. Honestly. Let’s put all of this behind us.”
Colin made a sound; fighting the squall in his throat, the weather in his chest.
“Are you alright? Shall we sit down?” Ahead of them was a bench with a view out over the ornamental lake. It was a rustic fantasy: a cliff face, a waterfall, a small suspension bridge and a cluster of city trees that lacked the vigour of their country cousins. Nothing that day seemed quite real.
“How is she?” Colin asked when he had sat down and steadied himself and then because he couldn’t stop himself, “How did it happen? Tell me. What did she do?”
Michael ran his hands over his scalp, fingering his stubble. “Charlotte was leaving,” he said. “And I was very upset. That part of my statement was true.”
Colin stared at the fringe of grass running down to the lake, wanting to hear and not wanting to know.
“We were standing on the landing. There’s a little corridor that leads off it to Delphine’s room. I kept asking Charlotte if she would stay. I thought if we could give it one more chance…” he tailed off. “You told me once that she would ruin my life.”
“Did I say that?”
“Both of us were upset I couldn’t let it drop and in the end she got angry. We were shouting and I was conscious that Delphine’s door was ajar and I knew that she’d be listening, that she couldn’t help but hear. I was shouting at Charlotte: What about your daughter?” I was playing dirty,” he said sadly. “I feel so guilty about that. She said it wasn’t about Delphine, that I should leave Delphine out of it; it was about the two of us. She turned to go and I gave one of those weird, animal cries – I called out her name – howled it.”
Colin closed his eyes, seeking the retinal image of his boy standing vengefully at the top of stairs, but the picture had faded and gone.
“Delphine’s door burst open and she came flying down the corridor at us. She was as wild as we were. She kept screaming, over and over again. She kept screaming No. She flung herself at Charlotte. She pushed her, very hard. And Charlotte looked so surprised, so taken aback. She lost her balance and then for a moment she almost recovered herself and I reached out to try and grab her. She was flailing. I couldn’t get hold of her. It was like watching someone drown.”
Colin thought of Delphine ramming the potato into Tyler’s face, leaping into the lock to rescue Amandine, how swift she was to action. He thought of her doing her funny, lying down dance with her headphones on and the tender intentness of her dialogues with the little monkey. He remembered her arguing, sulking, playing, laughing, cajoling. He remembered everything.
A cindery breeze stirred, he could feel its silk graze on his skin. “What you tried to do for Delphine, I thought I was doing for you,” he said haltingly. “Putting you first. Your best interests. I just got it wrong.”
His son reached out to touch him on the shoulder: the brief silhouette of a gesture.
“Who’s my boy?” asked Colin tentatively, gazing at Michael’s face, his familiar, perplexing, grown up face. They regarded one another searchingly for a moment.
“I’m your boy,” said Michael.
~~~
They walked back to the house and Colin followed him inside, aware of being in the interior of his son’s life. He looked around him: kilims, pictures, a circular table, a wooden staircase painted black. He was inland, at last.
Frederique and a man he didn’t know, the psychologist he assumed, rose up from the table when they entered.
“Is Delphine–?” said Michael.
“She’s in her room,” answered Frederique. “She talks about you and your trip all the time,” she said to Colin.
“Do you want to see her?” Michael asked, jerking his head at the stairs.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he thrust his hand into his pocket and then straightaway took it out again. They set off in the direction of the staircase at the same time, bumping into each other, then stepping back.
“Sorry–”
“No, no, you go first–”
She must have heard their voices. A door opened, and Delphine came hurtling along the landing. “Colin!” she cried tumultuously, reaching the top of the stairs with her arms outstretched. The spectre of Charlotte flickered in the air as she came racing down the stairs and flung herself at them. Her father caught her, or perhaps it was her grandfather, the only thing certain was that the three of them were standing there clutching onto one another, holding on for dear life.
“Lulu!” gulped Delphine, as the kitten wound her tortoiseshell wiles around them, little Libellule, with a whip and flick of her tail. Colin scooped the creature up and deposited her with his granddaughter, cradling them both and wrapping his arms around his son as well, and slanting through the shutters, the Paris sunshine lay upon them as lightly as a leaf.