“WHY DID YOU BECOME a photographer?” was a question Linden often got asked. He never tired of answering the question, just as his father never tired of telling the story of the first tree he had saved. Linden enjoyed mentioning working with old Monsieur Fonsauvage, who had offered him his first camera, the Praktica, and how the Leica came into his life. There were some aspects of his job, however, that he couldn’t put words to. How could he possibly describe accurately that to him, photographing was like acquiring experience? He had no wish to sound pedantic. He had no lessons to give. He never wanted to preach through his work, just as he didn’t like his subjects to pose stiffly. It was too intimate and knotty a conviction for him to share out loud. Once, he had tried to explain to a French journalist writing a portrait of him for a magazine that the act of photographing was using a language understood all over the world, and it seemed deceptively easy, describing it as such. The woman had smiled at his choice of words. How could he tell her there was nothing simple about it; that each photographer possessed his or her own version of that language? It was easier to say that even when he did not have a camera in his hands, he was still mentally photographing everything he saw; that every time he had seen beauty or tragedy, he had wanted to immortalize it, in his own way, with his own vision.

This Wednesday morning, at the hospital, it is his father he is photographing, both with his phone and the Leica. There is not much light in the small room. Paul is awake and gazes back at him with his wide eyes. The nasal cannula for oxygen is still in his nose. Because of his twisted mouth, Linden cannot tell if he is smiling, but he likes to think his father is content. As usual, whenever he holds the camera, he doesn’t need to speak. He concentrates on photographing his father’s hands, knobby and strangely pale against the yellow blanket. There haven’t been any doctors yet. Perhaps they came earlier? Nurses tend to his father with practiced gestures. Some of them are more outgoing then others. High above the bed is a complicated array of screens, with red, green, and yellow stripes and numbers flashing across them rhythmically. Linden observes his father’s body, shrunken and emaciated beneath the blue hospital johnny. This will be a shock for his mother, and for Tilia, he knows. In a mere four days, Paul has aged, seeming far older than his seventy years.

A woman enters the room quietly. She is middle-aged, plump, dressed in a tweed skirt and a brown cardigan, with short gray hair. She greets Linden. He has no idea who she is. He acknowledges her, puzzled. She introduces herself as Dominique. Her voice is soft and pleasant. He wonders if she is in the right room, but then she asks how his father is this morning. Is she an unknown friend of Paul’s? One of those tree lovers? As if she had foreseen his questions, she explains she is a hospital volunteer. She has been working in Professor Magerant’s ward for a long time. She usually comes in only on Tuesdays, but with the flooding, and new patients being transferred here, she is on tap all week. The hospital can do with all the help it can get. At first, Linden doesn’t feel comfortable with her being there. Dominique is now sitting down, opposite him, placing her bag on the floor, and it looks like she is settling down to spend quite some time here. He feels a twinge of annoyance. How can he ask her to leave? It wouldn’t be very polite; she seems a nice lady. She takes her knitting out of her bag and gets to work, needles clicking steadily. He watches the long trail of blue wool. A scarf? A sleeve? He can’t tell. Has Linden seen the news this morning? It’s quite something, isn’t it? Luckily, she lives in the fourteenth, not far from the hospital. Apparently, the Seine has reached eight meters, and it will go even higher. Only a bit to go before it gets to the historical level of 1910! Has Linden seen the extraordinary images of the Eiffel Tower? The river has encroached upon the entire Champ de Mars. The tower looks like it’s been planted bang in the middle of a giant lake. Isn’t it rather unbelievable, what’s going on in the city right now? She heard that the best way to get around Paris, apart from a boat, of course, is on horseback. She saw it on the news: the incredible coverage of police horses with water up to their chests trudging down avenue Bosquet. And of course one mustn’t forget the suburbs, where people are suffering just as much, but not getting half of the attention Paris is getting. The suburbs have always been a sensitive area, and the flood isn’t making it any better; there is mounting unrest there. Dominique heard nocturnal lootings began in some of the swamped neighborhoods—apparently, gangs of youths from the northern suburbs—and the police and the military were having a hard time protecting the deserted buildings. The president was going to visit Javel later on today by boat. Did Linden know that? The president had been criticized by many for not doing this beforehand. She hopes he will make it to the suburbs, as well; the people there feel neglected. She has a cousin in Alfortville, whose home is inundated. Her tone is soothing, pleasant to listen to. After a while, Linden finds he quite likes listening to her. She goes on with her conversation, placidly, her hands moving swiftly. He is tempted to photograph her; there is an interesting halo of light around her silver hair. Dominique read in the paper (Was it Le Parisien, or Le Figaro? She can’t remember) that the recent nonstop rain was the direct result of global warming. The weather was bad in all of France, as well as in other European countries. Wasn’t that worrying? Didn’t that mean more rain to come in the future, and more floods? Linden nods, agreeing with her. The article she read also mentioned that deforestation upstream from Paris, which had never ceased in the past decades, could also have contributed to the swift water heave. Getting rid of trees is never a good idea, is it? Linden notices his father is taking in every word. Paul’s bright eyes dart from Dominique to him, like those of a spectator watching a tennis match.

“Your father hears and understands everything we say,” says Dominique, seeing Linden glancing at his father. She had quite a conversation with Mr. Malegarde last evening. When Linden frowns, puzzled, she resumes: Of course, Mr. Malegarde can’t talk properly yet, but he can certainly communicate. This is what she does, every week; she connects with patients who’ve had strokes, and she helps and teaches their entourage to do so as well. Linden wonders what she knows and learns about every family to whom she offers solace. It must be a difficult job, and not even getting paid for it is all the more remarkable. How did she end up doing this? What triggered her? What was Dominique’s life like? Did she have someone to go home to, or was the hospital the only focus of her day? His father’s eyes are settled on Dominique’s round face, flickering down to the knitting. Perhaps Paul is comforted as well by her presence. What was Paul able to express to her yesterday? Linden feels curious. Dominique gets up inconspicuously, folding her wool away. It’s been a pleasure talking to them. She will be back tomorrow. When she goes out and shuts the door behind her, there is a void. Linden struggles to find his own path in the sudden silence. Should he resort to simply chatting, like Dominique did? Just talk, let the words flow out? In his father’s eyes, he reads expectancy. He pulls closer to the bed, takes Paul’s hand in his. Your father hears and understands everything we say. He feels his father’s slow pulse at his wrist, beating against his thumb. He marvels at the convolutedness of the human body, of all the unseen maneuvers going on beneath the skin. He thinks of the clot blocking his father’s artery, of how his father’s constitution is fighting it. He wants to be able to hope, to believe his father will pull through. Holding his father’s hand like this, in this peaceful moment, makes Paul’s possible death a heresy. And yet, at the back of his mind, there is a powerful image, one that he cannot erase. It seems his father’s life is slowly ebbing away, with the same stealthy pace as the rise of the Seine, as if the two events are intertwined and preordained. The complex intricacies of nerves, cells, and organs composing his father’s body resemble the Parisian network of streets being gradually invaded by water, shutting down power, blocking computerized data transmission. Linden looks through the spattered windowpane, and it seems to him he has become a sentinel, on the lookout for the inevitable aquatic invasion, watching over his father, over the rain, over the entire city.

Linden starts by saying Lauren is better. Hopefully, she will soon be able to come and see her husband. She looks beat, but she’s over the hump. She’ll be okay. His father’s face twitches a little; he blinks, makes a strange groaning noise. Linden can’t understand what Paul wants. He leans closer. A whisper. He makes out “You.” The word you. Linden points at himself. Paul lowers his chin, grunts again. What does his father mean? Oh! He gets it! Paul means him. Him, Linden. How is Linden feeling? Paul rumbles and nods again. Linden smiles, exulted that he can decipher this new language. He’s fine. He’s fine, a little tired, but fine. He moves on to the Seine, convinced this will absorb his father, like earlier on, when Dominique was bringing up the latest news. He describes how the flooding is slowly spreading to the eighth arrondissement, exactly like it had in 1910, despite obstructions and pumping devices installed by the city. Another lagoon is forming in front of the Saint-Lazare train station, creeping down rue de l’Arcade, where blockades have been raised. The authorities have locked off the area, not only because the enormous station was built on unstable ground, which had been thoroughly quarried for sewers, undercrossings, parking lots, and the Métro, but also because an ancient and stagnant branch of the Seine used to flow there, centuries ago, on a northern path from Ménilmontant to Chaillot, and the flood has resuscitated it, sucking water into the vicinity. The Musée d’Orsay’s ground floor is entirely swamped; artwork has been stowed away safely, but impairments to the museum are colossal. The Maison de la Radio, the circular modern building situated on avenue du Président-Kennedy, very near the river, which usually broadcasts several national channels, had to be shut down and evacuated. Gigantic inflatable rings had been fitted all around the edifice, but the flow had still filtered through. Transmissions were now being made from temporary dry offices, near Montmartre. La Défense, the major corporate area, west of Paris, where thousands of businesses have offices, has been cut off from the capital and overrun by the swollen, furious river at the pont de Neuilly level. Specialists are now saying the city will be paralyzed for over fifteen days. The peak of the surge should be reached tomorrow, or the day after, Linden heard. He realizes he might be worrying his father, so he refrains from mentioning the numbers he heard on the news, that over five million people would find themselves without running water, without electricity. The impact of this flood would be ten times worse than in 1910; he doesn’t mention that, either. He tells him instead that his agent emailed him to inform him that several of the black-and-white photographs he took at Javel with the old Leica have been published in the international press. As he talks, Linden is convinced his father is aware, perhaps more than anyone else, of the supremacy of nature. Paul is listening carefully; Linden can see it in the intensity of his eyes. Part of him is crying out to talk about something else, to evoke more personal subjects. They have never done this, his father and he. How can he start? Perhaps he should ask Dominique; she might know how to help. His thoughts are interrupted by Mistral’s arrival. He feels both relieved to see her and thwarted because he hasn’t been able to share more intimate concerns with his father. Mistral is glowing with exhilaration; she has a surprise for them. Can they guess? She hops up and down, her face pink. They both stare at her, baffled. Slowly, she opens the door, and Tilia is standing there, pale and still. She catches sight of her father and promptly bursts into tears. Mistral pulls her into the room gently, leads her to the bed. Tilia, still sobbing, catches her father’s hand and kisses it. She can’t talk; she can only press her lips against Paul’s skin again and again. It was quite something getting her here, murmurs Mistral to Linden. It was Tilia’s idea in the first place; she wanted to do it, but when they got to the hospital entrance, she chickened out. She went white, had to sit down; then she said she had to go back to the hotel, that she couldn’t go through with it. So they sat for ages, and Mistral talked to her, and it worked. As usual, when he looks at his sister, Linden is torn between amusement and emotion. She is such a bundle of nerves, that one, uncontrollable, unpredictable. Their father’s face seems less distorted (or has Linden gotten used to it?), and Paul makes moaning noises that are both touching and embarrassing. Linden has the perfect excuse to use the Leica, to hide behind it, to protect himself.

Later, when he departs, leaving Tilia and Mistral with Paul, he bumps into Dominique in front of the elevator. He hesitates, only for a few seconds, and then asks her how can he talk to his father? He stammers, feeling ridiculous. He means to really talk, not just babble on about the river and the weather. She takes his question seriously. They ride down in the elevator together and walk to the exit on rue Saint-Jacques. She explains that sometimes families are put off by the strange expressions and noises that stroke survivors make. So if that bothers him, he can look out of the window, and try talking that way, in the beginning. And then he will get used to it. Linden doesn’t dare tell her that his father’s appearance does not inconvenience him; it is essentially confiding in his father that does. He thanks her and takes his leave.

Like an old friend, the rain greets him as he strides along boulevard de Port-Royal toward Montparnasse and the hotel. There are many people in cafés, he notices, having lunch, drinking, making merry, while half of the city is doused. He finds it perturbing how tragedy lurks in only some areas, not in others. Won’t all of Paris be affected? Isn’t that what they must learn to face? In the quiet of his room, he watches the live images of the president visiting the Javel neighborhood by boat, escorted by the mayor and the prime minister. Their expressions are solemn and lugubrious; behind them, another boat, this one full of journalists armed with cameras, follows. People shout out to the president from their windows: several insults, some pleas for help, many cries of thanks. The president answers everybody patiently, reaching up to shake hands, offering his sympathy, even responding to the few invectives. Yes, he should have come here before. Yes, he feels for them. Yes, he is here to help. As Linden looks on, a text message from Oriel shows up on his phone: Hope your dad is OK? Tonight, meet me at 22 hours on corner of rue de Grenelle and rue de Bourgogne. We’ll be in a patrol boat. Don’t take your camera. No flash allowed. O xxxx.

*   *   *

In the afternoon, Linden knocks on his mother’s door. No answer. He catches the whine of a hair dryer and guesses she can’t hear him. He waits for another five minutes and tries again when it gets quiet. This time, Lauren opens up, wearing a bathrobe, her hair still damp, dryer in her hand. She says she hasn’t quite finished, and asks him to stay in the bedroom. The whirr starts again; she closes the bathroom door. Linden sits, thinking this may be the right time to talk to his mother about the next couple of weeks. If Paul’s condition remains unchanged, they are all going to have to decide what to do. They can’t stay in this hotel much longer. If Lauren must remain in Paris, then this must be organized. Do they have Parisian friends that could put her up? He can’t think of many, and besides, the flood makes it more complicated. What about those friends Colin mentioned? Not a very good idea. Best to keep Colin out of it. His mother’s phone buzzes, right next to him, on the bedside table. JeffVDH. It’s that guy again. Her ex. Jeff van der Haagen. Linden shouts through to Lauren, “Phone ringing!,” but again she can’t hear him. After a few moments, a text message flashes on the screen. He shouldn’t be looking, but he does.

My love, so glad to hear you’re better. Call me when you can. Think of you night and day. Kiss you all over. J.

Linden gets up, tempted to leave before his mother comes out of the bathroom. He doesn’t know what is worse: his embarrassment at discovering his mother has a lover, or having to confront her, knowing he is fully aware of the situation. In a couple of minutes, she will emerge, and he will have to act normally, as if he saw nothing, as if nothing has happened. He doesn’t feel up to it. He wonders what his sister will make of this; then he realizes Tilia probably already knows, or has guessed. He doesn’t want to be part of this; he doesn’t want to judge his mother, nor for her to think he is judging her. This is her private life, and it has nothing to do with him. He stands near the window, feeling uncomfortable. His parents’ marriage? It’s none of his business. He left home when he was fifteen. Their relationship is a mystery he refuses to look into. Why should he? Yet the text message has created ingress into that mystery, has forced him into their intimacy. He can’t help thinking of his father. What does Paul know? How long has it been going on? Linden recalls the summer when Jeff and his family came to Vénozan, a hazy memory. Is this a recent affair? Or one of those long-lasting clandestine ones, like Candice and J.G.’s? More questions come. Are his parents happy? Have they always been happy? Had it been easy for Lauren to give up her country, her life, for a new one, for a new language she hardly knew, and still spoke badly? She was only nineteen when she met Paul. Had she felt forlorn when both her children left home? She was forty then. Perhaps that had been her hidden fragility: the prospect of being alone in that large house, with a husband who only listened to trees. The hair dryer stops at last. When Lauren appears, dressed in a dark sweater and trousers, Linden remains silent. He cannot bring himself to act naturally. His arms hang stiffly on each side of his body. He waits for his mother to discover the text message, to put two and two together. She slips her reading glasses over her nose, takes her phone in her palm. Linden looks away. The minutes drag by. Perhaps she’ll say nothing. Perhaps she’ll hide it all, like when she couldn’t face the fact he was gay, like when she probably told her friends her son had girlfriends.

“You must be disappointed in me.” His mother’s voice is low, but he hears her perfectly. He shakes his head, raises a hand: He doesn’t have to hear all this; he doesn’t have to know. His voice comes out a little noisier than he expected. She sighs. There, she knew it; he’s angry, and he has every right to be angry. How can Linden explain to his mother that he would rather she not unburden herself, that he doesn’t need to be told all the details? His parents’ personal life holds no appeal for him, and he marvels that she cannot fathom that. Lauren blunders on, laboriously, and for the hundredth time he thinks how different she is from her sister, who was intuitive, understated. Yet, he loves his mother, even if he knows she is self-absorbed, unsubtle, at times insensitive. She has a sharp sense of humor, which he finds endearing; she has often made him roar with laughter. Now, laughter is very far from his mind. He raises his hand again, interrupts her, tells her it’s okay, that he understands. She doesn’t have to go on. He’s an adult. Why can’t they stop talking about this, now? Lauren’s face seems to sag. Gone is the resplendent mother who got all the attention. Lauren bangs her hand down on the table, hard, making him jump.

“Linden, just listen to me!”

Her tone is tense, filled with pain; tears glisten in her eyes. He steadies himself for what is to come. There are many, many things in her life she has done wrong. The good thing about reaching her age is that she can see these mistakes; she can pinpoint how they happened, why they happened. She’s not out to make excuses, to wallow in self-pity. She knows exactly what she has done. Jeffrey, her old fiancé. Yes, Jeff is married as well. Yes, it sounds low and shameful. God, it isn’t! It began years ago. She hardly sees Jeff. He lives in Boston with his family. They meet once a year, perhaps even less. Now that her parents are dead, she has no excuse to go to Boston. She writes to Jeff every day. They have been corresponding like this, on a daily basis, for fifteen years. He is her confidant, her best friend, her soul mate. He is always there for her, even if he is miles away, and she tells him everything. She is there for him in return. They have written pages and pages to each other, letter after letter, email after email, text after text. No, Paul doesn’t know. At least she thinks he doesn’t know. And would he care if he did? She’s not sure. Linden asks her what she means. She gives a little dry laugh that he doesn’t like. Linden just doesn’t see, does he? Nobody does. Nobody sees. Nobody can tell. Paul is gentle, kind, and patient. He is not aggressive; he has never yelled at her, never hit her. It’s just that Paul lives in another world. He doesn’t see what they see; he doesn’t hear what they hear. All he sees, all he looks out for are trees. Must she really explain this to him? Surely Linden must know. Surely, Linden suffered from this, as well. She knows Tilia did. Linden mutters he knows. His mother goes on, her voice still wobbly. Paul is content with her merely being there. Her presence is all he needs. The silence drives her mad. Over the years, she tried opening up to her husband. He always listened, but discussions never took place; Paul wrapped himself up in his customary reserve. She concedes she has more conversations with her housekeeper, Nadine, or even old Vandeleur, the gardener. She organized this very trip in the hopes that he would somehow interact with her, with his family at last. She thought it wasn’t too late, that Paul would somehow learn to communicate, at seventy! Had she been so very wrong? And now, this tragic thing has happened: her husband is fighting for his life in a hospital. Is she going to be able to speak to him again? Will he hear her? Will he survive? She feels so guilty. Lauren begins to cry, gently. Linden wonders if Candy knew about Jeff, about her sister’s difficulties. She probably did. Candy was close to Lauren; she knew how to keep secrets. He feels sorry for his mother for the first time, his nonchalant, exquisite mother who rarely seemed perturbed by the course of events. He has hardly ever seen her cry. He reaches out and pats her shoulder comfortingly; he says Paul is going to pull through, that she’ll be able to see him soon, that she mustn’t worry. He gets up, murmurs something about going back to his room, but she pulls on his hand.

“I want to talk to you about my other mistakes.”

She sounds determined now, less tearful. Her wet face is turned to his. She says she’d been waiting for the right moment to tell him this, and that moment never came. So she’s choosing now, even if they’ve had their fair share of emotions during the past week. She’s been carrying this burden around for too long now; it’s too painful. She wants to talk about his coming out. Linden was not expecting any of this. He sits down again, wordless, his heart beating a little faster. His mother clasps her hands together, flinching. What she is trying to say, and being utterly hopeless at it, is this: She’s sorry. Sorry for reacting the way she did when he told her, thirteen years ago. Sorry for all those years when she never brought the subject up again, until she met Sacha. She let Linden down, badly. She has never forgiven herself. And that silly jealousy when he said Candy knew before she did: How could she have been so stupid, so uncaring? She had been overwhelmed by all the wrong feelings. To be honest (and she wants to be honest; she wants nothing but honesty between them right now), she had guessed he was gay when he decided to leave for Paris. She suspected he was being bullied at school. And yet she did nothing, said nothing, another terrible mistake. She knows why. She can say it now, but she couldn’t back then. She said nothing because she was afraid. She was afraid of her son being a homosexual. It was the dread of being different, of standing out. The fear of having a child who was not like the others at school, especially in that narrow-minded provincial town, because of the name she bore, that name, Malegarde: a family of notables, a lineage of which Linden was the only heir. The last one to carry on the name. There was no one she could voice her fears to. There was no one she could talk to. She couldn’t bring herself to say out loud “I think Linden is gay and I’m scared of that.” So she let it go. She let him leave for Paris, and she can see him now, tall, thin, and unhappy, coming to say good-bye to her in the kitchen, his father waiting in the car to drive him to Montélimar to catch the train to Paris. Deep down, she knew her sister would offer Linden all the tenderness and comfort he needed, everything she wasn’t capable of giving him there and then. She despised herself. She considered herself a hopeless mother. When Tilia left, and then got pregnant, she felt lonelier and more useless than ever. She didn’t know how to talk to Linden; and there he was, becoming closer and closer to Candy every day. She let her envy get in the way. She could have talked to her sister, and she didn’t. Another mistake. So many mistakes. She’s the queen of mistakes, isn’t she? When Linden had summoned up his courage that spring day in his flat on rue Broca, she had behaved disastrously. When she thought back to it, she wanted to scream. The worst part was when she had told him she didn’t know how his father would react and that she left it up to him to talk to Paul. How could she have brought herself to say this to her son? Such cruelty! Such hard-heartedness! She sees now that it was once again her fear making her say these things, her terror of having a gay son. Her fear of saying to people: My son is gay. She loathed herself for this. She had wanted her son to be like all the other sons of people she knew. Yet she hadn’t been raised by bigots! Her parents, however old-fashioned, were open-minded. They had taught their daughters to be tolerant, generous, impartial. So what had happened? It took her a while to figure it out. Years, in fact. She realized she had to banish the image of the son she thought she had, the so-called perfect son, the son who would fit in; the images of her son getting married to a woman, having that woman’s child. She understood she had to stop lying to others about her son’s sexuality, for the simple reason she couldn’t face their reaction. It hurt now to think back on all those years when she didn’t dare question Linden about his personal life, his boyfriends, even after his coming out. He must have found her callous. Time went by, and Linden’s career took off. He became more famous than his father, in another field. She was proud, she really was, but there was this nagging feeling inside her, always. Linden was leading his own life, and she knew nothing about it, apart from his photographs. She just couldn’t figure out how to talk to him, naturally. She brought it up with Tilia, who became impatient and told her off. And she could not discuss it with Paul. She never had. She did not dare. It was so stupid of her. Linden’s personal life was a topic she never discussed with her husband. Did the reluctance come from Paul? No, she did not believe so. It came only from her, and with each year, the silence thrived. And then, in 2014, she met Sacha, with Linden, in New York. She had never met any of her son’s boyfriends; she had never even heard their names. She had been nervous about this dinner; she was worried about this young man, this stranger. Linden had told her, candidly, by email, that he was in love, that he was moving to San Francisco soon, and that he wanted her to get to know Sacha. Lauren had been in Boston for a week in April 2014, for her mother’s funeral, which Linden had attended. It had been a sad period for Lauren: her sister’s suicide two years earlier, her father’s death the year before, and now her mother’s. She had agreed to stop by in New York, and Paul had flown back to France from Boston for an important dendrologists convention. The night that Sacha and Lauren met, she saw them walk into the restaurant, and her son’s face was glowing with happiness. She saw only that, at first, the incredible light shining from Linden’s eyes. And then she looked at the man standing beside him. The same light. The same radiance. She saw two people in love. She saw it, then and there. Why had she been afraid? She felt liberated! She would never lie again. She didn’t need to. When she mentions Sacha, she always adds: my son’s boyfriend. When she speaks to Paul, she simply says, Sacha. Paul has never asked anything about Sacha, but he knows exactly who Sacha is. What does he think of his son’s living with a man? She has no idea. She has never mustered the courage to ask him. Linden says he hasn’t, either, for the same reasons.

“Maybe you’ll be able to talk to your father now. At last,” says Lauren. A silence ensues, humming with all sorts of possibilities. Lauren is the first to break it. Does he remember that first dinner with Sacha? Of course he does! How could he forget it? Maialino, a restaurant overlooking Gramercy Park, fried artichokes as starters, prosecco sparkling in their glasses. Lauren goes on to describe how Sacha, whom she had barely met, made her laugh within the first ten minutes of their meal. She couldn’t even recall what the joke was about; all she can see is herself choking with mirth into a napkin. Was it one of his imitations? Sacha was awfully good at impersonating famous people.

Lauren talks with more ease now. Her expression is less strained. There is one more thing she wants to say. Occasionally, people have strong reactions when they hear her son is gay. Well, last summer, for example. She was at a ladies lunch at Grignan, an elegant do at a pretty restaurant, down by the historic washhouse. She usually did not attend these events, because it meant dressing up and resorting to small talk, but a neighboring friend she was close to was also going. There was a table under the arbor, decorated with bouquets of roses, and a delicious meal. She was seated next to an emaciated woman from Montbrison who wore pearls: Madame Moline. Lauren was told Madame Moline had a splendid house up in the hills, with a magnificent garden, and she remembered Paul’s having gone there to assess the trees when the Moline family moved in, a couple of years earlier. Madame Moline was thrilled to hear Lauren was Paul’s wife. She had a warm remembrance of him; his knowledge of trees was immense. How lucky Lauren was to be married to such a remarkable person. And did Paul and she have any children? Lauren nodded yes, a daughter and a son. Madame Moline, while picking at her food jadedly, appeared to be most interested in the Malegarde family. She wished to know all about Tilia and Linden. What unusual names! Their father had chosen their names, Lauren said. And so Tilia was an artist in London and Linden a photographer based in San Francisco? Any grandchildren? Yes, Mistral, seventeen, a student. And what about Linden? Was he married? Lauren smiled. No, but he was planning to be. Madame Moline stretched her red lips into a smile. An American fiancée, like his mother? A young American man, Lauren told her. Madame Moline’s lips seemed to shrivel. She frowned. A man, she repeated. Yes, said Lauren brightly, a young man. And because Madame Moline seemed completely lost, she added, “My son is engaged to a young man.” Madame Moline blinked. She opened her mouth, dabbed it with her napkin, and still no sound came out of it. (In spite of himself, Linden chuckles. His mother’s mimics are hilarious.) Lauren then said in a clear voice that her son was homosexual and that he was in love with a man. Madame Moline looked rattled; she kept staring at Lauren as if Lauren had grown a beard, or turned blue. Finally, she managed to articulate how very brave it was of Linden to have chosen to be a homosexual, very brave indeed. Lauren gazed back at the lady and said firmly that her son had not chosen to become homosexual; he was born that way. And she was proud of him, proud of who he was. Madame Moline took Lauren’s hand. Her skin was parched and her fingers bony. Lauren was so incredibly courageous! Such unconditional love was admirable, like those mothers whose sons were in prison and who still loved them, even if they were murderers. Linden interrupts her, saying he cannot believe what he is hearing. Lauren smiles ironically. It is true; it is all true! Another close friend once admitted to her, when he found out about Linden, that he would have hated having a gay child. She had read such pity and distaste in his eyes that it had made her want to slap him. Another friend had crooned: Oh poor you, what bad luck! Perhaps the nastiest remarks were the flippant ones that were meant to be funny. Oh, so her son was gay? Well, wasn’t that something to do with the mother? Did Lauren mollycoddle him, or what? In the end, wasn’t it all Lauren’s fault? She had learned to distance herself from this, even if at times those remarks still stung her.

As he takes Lauren into his arms, hugging her close, Linden realizes it never occurred to him that his mother could be criticized because of her son’s homosexuality. It seems unexpected and unfair that she, too, would have to go down that dark road of intolerance, of rejection. Her words ephemerally resuscitate the suffering of his own journey toward self-acceptance, the rebellion against the shame others had persisted in sustaining around him.

Lauren steps away from her son and strokes his face. Her eyes are wet again.

“I’m so proud of you, Linden. I’m sorry it’s taken me all this time to tell you.”

*   *   *

There is no more public lighting in this part of the capital. Ahead, the motorboat waits in the darkness. The glow of flashlights guides Linden and Oriel along the narrow metal walkways of desolate rue de Bourgogne. Three policemen greet them; the divisionary commandant, Bruno Bouissy, and his two adjutants. Linden cannot distinguish their faces, but he makes out weapons carried against their bodies. For the second night running, the commandant says, gangs of pillagers have been reported in the district. The seventh arrondissement is a traditionally wealthy one; that’s why the looters are active here. They have also been targeting the eighth, specifically rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, with its numerous luxury boutiques. They’re looking for jewelry, for leather goods, for cash. They’re very organized, apparently; they come in silently on paddleboards and canoes, sometimes improvised ones, created with planks and crates fastened together, making the most of the unlit streets. They carry stepladders and mallets. How do they operate? Very simple: A couple of them guard the boat while another climbs up the ladder, smashes a window that hasn’t been shuttered, and breaks in. Then valuables are hauled down with bags. It takes only a few minutes. Most of the apartments here have been evacuated, but a few stalwart dwellers remain. No one hears the gangs, and even if someone does, most residents are terrified. Landlines are out of order, and mobiles no longer function in the area, so the police cannot be summoned. The only way to fight the thieves and arrest them is to patrol the streets by boat, incessantly, but there aren’t enough dinghies, and there aren’t enough men. Crime is on the rise, in rhythm with the water, points out Commandant Bouissy. People are freaking out, worrying about how they will make ends meet, how they will eventually be reimbursed. Several shops have been plundered, and it’s getting worse near Nanterre and Gennevilliers, northwest of Paris. There is little solidarity, one of the captains adds grimly. Oriel says she hates this egocentric world where selfies rule, where no one bothers to find out if their neighbor is all right. As they climb into the fluvial brigade motorboat, Linden notices it has stopped raining. This is the first time it has relented since he arrived on Friday. Oh, but the rain will be back, says the adjutant driving the boat. That is the problem; it will be back.

The night air is icy, burdened with the stink of putrefaction and drains. The moon peers out from behind clouds, casting a supernatural nacreous light on the flooded streets. Paris looks like an obscure and sinister Venice, a drowned metropolis gradually sinking into oblivion, incapable of putting up a fight, yielding to the unhurried and lethal violence of its demented river. The commandant tells them he has never seen anything like this in his life. The past four days have been crazy. The Seine’s power of destruction is unimaginable. This morning, he flew over the hub of the Parisian agglomeration, Île de France, by helicopter and what he saw was unreal. The river has altered the landscape, gobbled up quaysides, park, and streets, transforming places into different ones, redrawing maps, doing as it pleases. The ravages in the suburbs, all along the river’s course upstream and downstream, from Melun to Mantes-la-Jolie, and beyond, are dreadful. Even within Paris, despite all efforts, some neighborhoods are not getting the same consideration. Priority is going to the eighth, where water now threatens the presidential palace, and the big department stores on boulevard Haussmann, Printemps and Galeries Lafayette, have been closed in haste. They can’t keep up with the general panic and the delinquency, the burgled shops, the suffering, the commandant admits sadly. They are not prepared for this. They have learned to deal with terrorism, but faced with the unleashed frenzy of nature, they are powerless. The truth is, he adds, the government is overwhelmed, trapped in a skirmish between the prefecture, the city hall, and the mayors of suburban towns, while experts blame climate change, excessive deforestation, environmental degradation, but at the end of the day, no one comes up with solutions.

Motor quietly chugging, the boat turns left at the bottom of rue de Bourgogne into rue de l’Université, passing through marooned place du Palais-Bourbon, its crowned statue now encircled by a pond. Farther on, in the distance, to their left, Linden can glimpse the bulk of the Invalides, its golden dome glistening in the moonlight. The Seine has swallowed up the esplanade and all intersecting streets, creating a boundless lake. The wind blows violently; the water slaps against the boat. When they get to the other side, nosing into the continuation of rue de l’Université, the wind can no longer reach them. The silence is even more profound here, the darkness, too. The tall buildings around them seem abandoned, sepulchral, as if no one had ever lived there. The boat glides left into rue Surcouf. Why here? Linden wonders. Why back here? Why this street? He almost smiles at the irony of it. Why do these trips bring Linden back to untold stories of pain and regret? First Candy, now Hadrien; first rue Saint-Charles, and now rue Surcouf. Because of the gloom, he can’t read the numbers above the doors, but he knows it is number 20. Commandant Bouissy explains that the river level, compared to that in other streets, is very high here. The sector comprised between boulevard de la Tour-Maubourg and avenue Rapp is much lower than elsewhere, situated in a hollow basin. This is where the flood is the deepest, he says, in all of Paris, worsened by the gush coming underground through the RER train rails right beside the river. Parisians with ground-floor lodgings here have water up to their ceilings. There are no lights visible through the windows, just the flicker of candles here and there. Slowly, the policemen shine their search lights over the façades, and although Linden’s eyes follow the yellow circles of light roaming over stone, he sees none of it. He is nineteen years old again. Third floor, door on the right. The silkiness of Hadrien’s skin, the heat of his mouth. Eighteen years ago, but it still feels like now. He has not forgotten anything. One spring morning, a young man had walked into the photo lab near Bastille where Linden worked. The young man, who was about his age, had the loveliest smile he had ever seen. He seemed shy, incapable of looking Linden in the eye, at first. He was there to have a couple of black-and-white prints duplicated and framed. Linden hardly noticed the photographs; he saw only the young man’s hands, slim and tanned. Since Philippe, there had been no serious boyfriends; just affairs, none of them important. Linden often felt lonely in the small room he rented on rue Saint-Antoine; his daily existence seemed dreary. The blue-eyed stranger and his shy, sweet smile somehow gave him hope. Later on that day, as Linden left the lab to go home, the young man was waiting a little farther on, on rue de la Roquette. That was how it began. Linden took him back to the tiny room beneath the roof. Hadrien had caressed Linden’s face, kissed him slowly and ardently. In Hadrien’s arms, Linden felt as if he had found a secret place where he felt safe. They met again, and again, always at Linden’s place. They had to be careful; Hadrien lived with his parents, and he had not told them he was gay: He had even invented a girlfriend so that they would stop asking questions. Hadrien studied history at the Sorbonne. He was an only son. He was a gentle young man, serious and earnest. Linden remembers his voice, soft-spoken and melodious. Their affair lasted a year, and it gave Linden hope and confidence; he felt less lonesome. Hadrien’s love filled up the emptiness. Sometimes, they talked about the future. Hadrien was afraid of his parents’ reaction; he wasn’t ready to tell them. His father, especially, often made homophobic remarks, saying gays should be locked up, or hanged. He felt his mother might understand better, but he was too scared to tell her. There was no one he could talk to, or turn to. Not even his friends. How lucky Linden was to have been able to tell his aunt so easily, and how wonderful her reaction had been.

Linden’s reminiscences are interrupted by the loud sputter of the walkie-talkie. Apparently, the police caught a gang red-handed on nearby rue Malar—three robbers and their entire booty. The men have been handcuffed and are being taken to the police station on avenue du Maine. Linden nods, pretends to be pleased, but his thoughts are not with the arrest. He sees the door of number 20 now, on the right, next to the restaurant. It is an unpretentious, pale edifice, more modest than the imposing buildings next to it. There is no candlelight at any window. Do Hadrien’s parents still live here? He remembers the apartment well, even if he came here only twice. It was a little dark; the sun never filtered in. The morning it happened, Hadrien’s parents had been away on a trip to Spain. His father was a teacher; he and his wife left at each school holiday. They thought they were safe. They could never have imagined the parents would come back earlier than planned. Hadrien had begged Linden to spend the night with him in the family home. Only one night! They could sleep in the big bed for once. He’d change the sheets before his parents got home. He would cook a fine meal! Linden had not been able to say no to Hadrien’s enthusiasm. Neither of them heard the key in the lock. They were fast asleep, naked, in each other’s arms. The first thing Linden had heard was a strangled yell. He had opened his eyes and seen a middle-aged man and woman standing there. They seemed outraged. It had happened so quickly. The strident shriek of the voices; the father, beside himself, his face scarlet, telling them how repulsive they were, how vile, how nauseating; they were dirty, disgusting faggots. The hands, pointing, like claws. Linden and Hadrien had crawled out of bed, vulnerable, recoiling under a torrent of insults; they had gotten dressed, hurriedly, awkwardly. Tears were streaming down Hadrien’s face. Impossible to forget what the father had said, his words spewing out: Hadrien was not wanted here anymore. He and his poof of a boyfriend were going to get the hell out of here and never come back. Did Hadrien hear that? Was it clear? The venom in that voice, the hatred. Hadrien was no longer their son. It was over! A homosexual son? Never! He was nothing but a failure. He was an embarrassment to the entire family. What would his grandparents think? His aunts and uncles, his cousins? Had he thought about that? And had he thought about him, his own father? His own mother? Hadrien’s father said he wished his wife had had a miscarriage when she was pregnant. There would be no more money for Hadrien, either, ever, nothing, not a centime. Hadrien should be ashamed of himself. People like him were perverts. They were not normal. They belonged in prison. There were medical treatments for people like them. In other countries, homosexuals were executed, and perhaps the fear of that could knock sense into them! Didn’t they see there was no place for them in this world? Didn’t they see nobody wanted them, that nobody pitied them? Linden had dragged Hadrien down the stairs. They had gone straight to Linden’s place on the Métro. They didn’t dare hold hands, but during that long ride home on line 8, Linden longed to comfort Hadrien. Nearly twenty years later, Linden still feels the weight of that moment. He is glad the lack of light is preventing Oriel from seeing his face. Hadrien had never complained; he never mentioned the episode. It was as if something had been broken within him. He lived with Linden for a while, continued his studies, diligently. Then he found a job in a bookstore, moved out, and they no longer remained in touch. It was Hadrien’s choice. A few years later, Linden saw on Facebook that Hadrien had gotten married, that his wife and he had had a baby. There was a family photograph, with Hadrien’s parents in the background, proud smiles on their faces. Linden couldn’t get over the photograph. He showed it to his friends, some of whom had known Hadrien when they were together. One of his friends, Martin, had said Hadrien looked like a lamb being led to slaughter. When Linden moved to New York in 2009, full of exciting projects for his future, the pain he felt when he thought about Hadrien had lessened a bit. He met other men, he traveled, he worked hard, but he knew he would never forget. A year and a half ago, just after his Parisian trip with Sacha, he had received a message from Martin. Hadrien was dead. Martin had no details; he had read it in Le Figaro’s “Carnet du jour.” Hadrien was thirty-five years old. What had happened? There was no way Linden could find out. He searched online, but nothing came up. Over and over, he had asked himself why and how Hadrien had died. There were no answers, only questions and doubt. He felt the same suffocating torment that came with Candy’s death, the same waves of inconsolable sadness that left their mark.

The motorboat slinks down rue Saint-Dominique, past numerous shops bolted in vain against the flood. All stocks and basements must be underwater. Like rue Saint-Charles, this used to be a busy street, teeming with traffic and passersby. It is now a dreary, watery wasteland without a soul in sight. Up ahead, the silhouette of the Eiffel Tower emerges like a gaunt gray phantom. The black water ripples around them; on its surface, a pallid moon floats like a drowned face staring up in tomblike silence. The team is now going to check on passage Landrieu, a peaceful, narrow lane with no shops between rue Saint-Dominique and rue de l’Université, a place where many tourists rent lodgings for a couple of days or a week. As far as they know, the apartments here are empty and in need of surveillance. Last night, there was a break-in at number 4, on the upper floor of a lavish loft leased out for parties and events. The burglars got away with computers, sound systems, and hard drives. Linden looks up at the moon, unsuccessfully trying to banish thoughts of Hadrien. Oriel’s shout startles them all.

“Listen! There is someone crying!”

The motor is turned off, and they all strain their ears. At first, they hear nothing, and even Oriel wonders if it wasn’t her imagination. One of the adjutants says many house pets have been abandoned, another sad truth of the flood. The other night, a desperate, starving cat had sounded quite human. Now they all hear it: a muffled, faraway wail. It is a child. It takes them a while to locate it, past the modern blocks that rise at each opening of the passage. The men angle their search lights up to the dark windows. The child continues to cry, a thin, piercing whine, leading them to it. Perhaps the child is too small to come to the window. They paddle on, halting in front of number 10; the sobs are coming from here. On the third floor, a window is slightly ajar. They shout up, shine their lights along the glass. No response. Commandant Bouissy scrambles up a rescue ladder held in place by the two others. The rocking motion of the boat makes Linden queasy. Oriel whispers to him she has a bad feeling about this; this is exactly the kind of situation she has been dreading. The commandant has now pushed the window open, and he climbs inside. When he appears again, moments later, there is a toddler in his arms. He shouts down to them, his voice altered. There is a dead woman in there. They need to call for extra help.

Later, Linden and Oriel learn this is the first official casualty linked directly to the flood. The victim was a twenty-eight-year-old woman from Poland, whose working papers were not in order. She worked illegally as a cleaning lady for low-cost rentals. The studio on passage Landrieu where she had been found belonged to a friend, who had agreed to put her and her child up for a few weeks. The concierge of number 10, who had been displaced a few days ago, and who was now in a shelter near the place de la République, told the police she had never noticed the woman’s presence, nor that of a child, or if she had, she didn’t remember. There were so many comings and goings in that flat, which was sublet on the Internet to different clients. Nobody had checked on the woman. The police said she probably died of seasonal flu. She had been dead since Sunday, since the water rose. Oriel felt it was more the lack of caring that killed the Polish woman. What was going to happen to this poor kid? Another boat came, taking away the body of the woman, wrapped in a sheet, and the weeping child, curled up in a police officer’s arms. For a long moment, Linden and Oriel don’t speak.

It is midnight. The captain leads the boat toward pont de l’Alma. Their team has more night watches to do in the seventh arrondissement, until dawn. The moon radiates in a freezing blue-black sky, illuminating the swollen watercourse. There is a higher spot at the end of rue Cognacq-Jay, just before the bridge, and they head there. As they step out of the boat, icy water shoots up to their shins. They wade through it, teeth clenched. The place is completely deserted. The Seine is now drenching the Zouave’s shoulders. The bridge has been entirely closed off by metal barriers and it seems to be poised on top of the river. The commandant explains the pont de l’Alma was rebuilt in 1974, because the lower ancient structure was in danger of collapsing. The new steel arch is higher and wider, but as a result, the statue of the Zouave was reinstalled eighty centimeters higher. So, in reality, the river should be up to the Zouave’s neck. It is a tragic, silvery spectacle; Linden wishes he had his camera with him. Discreetly, he takes a photo with his phone.

They board the boat once more, and it turns back down rue de l’Université, crossing the Esplanade over to rue de Lille, by the submerged and barricaded Musée d’Orsay. Paris seems deathly, plunged in silence and obscurity. The City of Light has been snuffed out, stripped of its liveliness. The only sound they hear is the putter of the motor echoing off the stone edifices. Rue de Verneuil is pitch-black; the commandant holds up a powerful floodlight so the captain can see where he is going. The tall buildings are built close together in this small street, creating a stifling impression. Linden thinks of all the empty apartments, of all those who had to flee in haste, wondering what to leave behind them, what to take. There are many art galleries on rue Jacob, where they now slide through in the same thick silence. How many have been affected? The commandant says that even in the northern Parisian quarters, which have not been flooded, the atmosphere is the same as here: uninhabited, dead quiet. No more nightlife. Restaurants are becoming emptier and emptier; theaters and cinemas have dwindling audiences. Parisians are either leaving the city or staying at home, waiting for the Seine to recede. The capital is at a complete standstill. Not to mention the anxiety of expecting mothers, the sick, the elderly. Electricity is only barely working in half of the city. No wonder it’s driving them all mad! How many out there are cold, wet, hungry, and furious? Hundreds! Thousands! He certainly hopes the peak comes soon. The situation is unbearable. God knows what will happen if this goes on. The experts say it could be tomorrow; they’re saying the Seine could go over the level of 1910, which was 8.62 meters. It could reach the highest level ever recorded, that of 1658, up to 8.96 meters, which would mean more damage in the fifteenth and seventh arrondissements, with water sneaking to unprecedented places, all the way up to the seventeenth, to Wagram, to Batignolles; in the third, to boulevard de Sébastopol and rue de Turbigo; and in the fifth, to rue Buffon and avenue des Gobelins. The cost of all this will be colossal, adds the commandant bitterly. It will take months, even years, for everything to get back to normal. The Seine’s ire has only added to the general feeling of dissatisfaction toward the authorities for not coping and not foreseeing the crises, and is not abetting a vulnerable nation still nursing its wounds since the first terrorist attacks targeting it. The flood will divide France all the more.

*   *   *

When Linden returns to the hotel, late, there is a note under his door from Lauren.

I want to see your father tomorrow. I must. I spoke to the doctor. He says I can go. Please take me.

Love Mom xxx

The images of a sinking Paris had, momentarily, taken Linden’s mind off his parents. He lies on the bed, weary, checks the time. Two o’clock in the morning. That’s 5:00 P.M. in San Francisco. For Sacha, it’s still Wednesday. He reminds himself that Sacha has meetings at that time with his staff, every day. He’ll have to call him later, or tomorrow. He sends him the photograph of the submerged Zouave in the moonlight. He sleeps fitfully and awakens to the sound of a knock at his door. It is still dark outside, just after eight, and the rain is back, pattering against the window, just like the policeman said it would be. It is Mistral, telling him they are ready and asking if he can come down. Agathe has managed to order them a taxi, as Lauren feels too weak to walk to the hospital. They meet for breakfast. The hotel is more or less empty now, save for them. To Linden’s surprise, Colin is there, debonair, impeccably dressed and shaved, smelling of Floris aftershave. He greets Linden heartily, clapping him on the back, acting as if nothing had happened. Linden has often observed his brother-in-law in this Jekyll and Hyde mode, switching from intoxicated barbarian to polished gentleman overnight. Tilia looks on, imperturbable, sipping her coffee. Their marriage is a mystery. How does she put up with it? Colin lying, again and again, convincing his entourage he is heroically controlling his drinking, not even realizing how pitiful he is. Linden wonders how long the couple will last. Colin is laying it on too thick, pouring out Lauren’s tea, bouncing up to get a fresh croissant for Mistral, all smiles.

Leaving them to their breakfast, Linden concentrates on the news, reaching out for the morning newspapers. The Seine will reach its peak today, Thursday, rolling in at a frightening 8.99 meters at pont d’Austerlitz. Can the city take it? He reads the river has turned a violent, stinking yellow, flowing ten times faster than normal. Experts are worried about hazardous waste being swept along by floodwater, about the alarming mass of refuse, of decomposing plants, of putrescent organic matter. Sullied by toxic chemicals, by metal contamination, the fetid water dominates the city with its tenacious and noxious miasma. All the newspapers scream out the same headline: NATIONAL DISASTER; all use the same words: ruin, devastation, unemployment, paralysis. Dismayed, Linden reads on, discovers the Apple Store on rue Halévy was ransacked during the night. The capital’s two opera houses, Garnier and Bastille, have both been inundated. (Sacha will be very upset to hear this.) The famous English-speaking bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, situated near quai de Montebello, has been, as well. Several photographs make Linden wish he had taken them: Notre-Dame, shrunken and altered, literally squatting on the river like a wounded creature; the Jardin des Tuileries entirely smothered by a lake, doused trees thrusting out like desperate arms. Saint-Michel fountain is spewing sludge; the École des Beaux-Arts, on rue Bonaparte, is no longer dry. Major power cuts are slowing down the city, as many electrical processors are underwater. The brand-new Ministry of Justice, an imposing block of glass and steel, situated on higher ground at Aubervilliers, is safe. Linden discovers bitter criticism of the recent relocation of the gigantic Hexagone Balard, dubbed the “French Pentagon,” housing the new Ministry of Defense in the fifteenth arrondissement. It had apparently been built on stilts to prevent being flooded, but it has been damaged, even if no one knows to what extent. Uproar had commenced: Why had it been constructed on that floodable spot in the first place, just like the nearby, and out-of-order, Pompidou hospital?

At Cochin Hospital, Linden waits in the corridor until his family has spent the time they need with Paul. His room is too small for all of them to be with him at the same moment. Tilia comes out looking preoccupied. She thinks their father looks less well this morning. Paler skin, more sunken eyes. Using her bossy-sister voice, she asks a nurse if they can see Professor Magerant and is told the ward is short-staffed this morning; there have been difficulties with all new patients arriving from flooded hospitals. Tilia sits down next to her brother. How she hates being here; how she hates talking to nurses, waiting for doctors, all that bullshit. When Linden doesn’t answer, she glances at him, tells him she’s never seen him look so tired. He wonders if she has any idea of how maddening she is? He responds with a tight-lipped smile. Then she says something that frightens him: She says fiercely that their father is not going to make it. She can tell; she knows. Linden explodes. What the hell is she talking about? Adamantly, she shakes her head. Their father is dying, and deep down they all know it, and they can’t even say it out loud. They can’t face it, and they’re bloody well going to have to. Linden wants to slap her. How dare she? How dare she destroy their hope? He feels like throttling her. When their mother steps out, in tears, Tilia pulls herself together, and he wipes the fury off his face. They both get up to comfort Lauren, and when Linden’s eyes meet Tilia’s over their mother’s head, there is steely determination in his. The message to his sister is clear: Tell our mother he is going to be all right. Tell her we all have to believe. Lauren murmurs she is in shock; she can’t get over how thin and old their father looks. She can’t bear it. It takes them a long moment to calm her down.

Linden will spend all morning here with his father. They can go; he’ll be in touch. He says this reassuringly. He watches them leave, Lauren suddenly frail next to Mistral, whose arm is around her shoulders. Back in the room, the first thing that strikes him is how ill his father looks today. Was Tilia right? He must remember not to reveal his anxiety to his father. He stands by the window, glancing out at the gray wetness; he can feel his father’s eyes on him, watching him. The small, unventilated room is silent. Linden picks up the low murmur of voices, the click of footsteps outside in the corridor. The moment stretches out, and it seems interminable. The rain continues to drip. He listens to his father’s breathing for a while. He could continue to stand here, watching the drizzle. It would be easy. He could also turn around and speak honestly to his father for the first time in his life. The choice is there in front of him, like a crossroad. He doesn’t hesitate very long.

“Papa, I want to talk to you about Sacha.”

As soon as Linden pronounces Sacha’s name, it feels like doors opening with a smooth whoosh, like a path snaking out in front of him, a path full of promise and possibility, and he flings himself down that path. Sacha is standing next to them, filling the room with his presence, the way the sun ignites a wall. Sacha, he says, is the man he loves. Sacha is short for Alexander. His dad is from San Francisco and his mother is from L.A. Sacha is his age. He is left-handed. He likes to cook, and he does it beautifully. Doesn’t this sound trite? Linden wonders as he speaks. Is this the right way to do it? He rushes on, tautly. They met at the Metropolitan Opera House, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Sacha’s love for opera is like Paul’s love for Bowie. It’s visceral. As a child, Sacha took violin lessons, which he never continued when he grew up, but his teacher once took him to see The Magic Flute when he was seven. Papageno, the comical bird catcher garbed in a feathery costume, charmed him with his fetching tune. Sacha came home singing the aria at the top of his lungs. That’s how it started. Then he was smitten with Don Giovanni, especially Leporello, the peevish manservant. By the time he was a teenager, he wanted only opera in his earphones. Other kids listened to Brandy, Madonna, or Dr. Dre; Sacha stuck to opera. That night in 2013, Linden was taken to the Met by his agent, Rachel Yellan. She had tickets to see La Traviata, and she had insisted, in that rather imperious tone of voice, that Linden join her at Lincoln Center. He had been living in New York for nearly four years now, and he knew how much he owed his agent. She had put all the energy she had into getting him those first jobs that launched his career. He didn’t have the heart to decline. It was an opening night, and Rachel had said he must look smart. No jeans and sneakers, please! He was expecting to fight off ennui, but to his surprise, he found the performance diverting. He savored the melodious, sensitive nuances despite his untrained ear. He had read in the program that traviata meant “fallen woman.” The young German soprano who played Violetta, the ill-fated courtesan dazzled by love, astonished him with her vitality. Dressed in scarlet, she strutted up and down the stage, climbed sofas, flung herself on the floor, pouring all her emotions into her voice. Linden used to think opera singers were static middle-aged dames with double chins. Paul chuckles at this. Linden takes it as an encouragement. During the interval, Linden went to the bar to get champagne for Rachel, who was chatting with friends. He saw Sacha from the back first. He spotted him because he was tall, as tall as he was. Black hair, parted in the middle, reaching to his shoulders. When he turned around, Linden saw long black eyebrows, a curved nose, hazel eyes. Not good-looking in a classical sense, but quite mesmeric. He heard his laugh. He remembers thinking what a delightful laugh it was. He couldn’t help observing the striking stranger as he was waiting for the champagne. He watched him listen to his friends, nod, laugh again. The man was wearing a suit, a white shirt, no tie. He wore a necklace of some sort around his neck, but Linden couldn’t tell what the ornament nestling on his collarbone represented. The man took off with his friends and Linden watched him leave. He wondered who he was, what his name was. He felt sure he would never see him again, and somehow that made him sad.

Linden pauses. Why is he telling his father this? Because he wants Paul to know; he wants Paul to know who Sacha is, and who he is, as well. He says it all out loud. There will be no more holding back. Linden plucks up his courage, clears his throat. The second part of the opera was as spellbinding as the first. The young soprano sang with passion as she drew near her inevitable demise. Lying on her deathbed, in a heartbreaking aria, she bade farewell to her dreams, “Addio del passato,” begging God to have mercy on her. Sacha’s favorite part. The subtle, haunting fusion of her voice and the orchestra affected Linden unexpectedly. All of a sudden, it was no longer the young soprano he saw onstage, but Candice, who had killed herself a year before, unable to face life. It was excruciating for Linden to behold; the music dug into his heart with such potency, he had to wipe his eyes. It was then that he noticed him, the tall, dark man, a few rows away, sitting and looking quietly at him. It took his breath away. It was impossible to drag his eyes from the stranger’s. It was Rachel who introduced them to each other moments later, in the crowd on the way out. It appeared she knew him well. Sacha was a keen opera lover. The ornament around his neck was a small silver drop. It would look silly on any other guy, but not on this one. “Linden Malegarde, meet Sacha Lord. I think you two might get along.” Another pause. This is harder than he thought. He starts stuttering again, which unnerves him. You can do it, says Sacha’s voice inside his head. Come on, Linden, do it. Do it for me. Do it for us. Talk to your father. Tell him. Tell him everything. Don’t be afraid. Linden tries to keep his voice light and breezy, but at times the emotion takes over and seeps through. Maybe Paul is wondering, What is so special about Sacha? Why Sacha? Why him and not some other guy? It’s simple, and it goes something like this: Sacha is the kind of person who makes others happy. It could be seen as a natural gift, he supposes. Sacha gives off special energy; it contaminates, in a good way. Perhaps it’s his enthusiasm, the fact Sacha likes to listen to people, that he’s interested in them. That’s how he began his start-up, because he wanted to give those with great ideas a chance. He likes getting people together; he likes creating, communicating, mapping out, imagining. Linden tries to explain what Sacha’s start-up is about, how it works. He’s worried a technical exposé might bore or tire his father. What would Mr. Treeman have to say about Silicon Valley? Linden tries not to think about his father’s responses. If he does that, he might as well stop. Sacha’s start-up analyzes the influence of digital technology on everyday life, hunts out new apps, experiments with them, funds them. Linden wonders if Paul knows what an app is. Paul doesn’t even have a smartphone, let alone a computer. He might as well try to explain. Apps cover a huge range of various sorts of actions. What Sacha does is hunt out any promising digital inventiveness; for example, a smart dude created an app that worked with recycled mobile phones to protect rain forests. How? The phones were rigged to branches, and if they ever picked up the sound of chain saws, the phones would automatically call the guards. There are many concepts out there, and some of them sound downright ludicrous, but Sacha listens to every single one of them. Each person who contacts Sparkden.com with a project has Sacha’s attention. Sacha always looks ahead. The past doesn’t interest him much; he’s fascinated by what the future holds, however dystopian that future may seem. The list of app possibilities in every domain is endless: tracking moods, sleep, dreams, improving posture, controlling budget, weight, monitoring health, projecting favorite videos and photos on walls from a phone, transforming surfaces into keyboards or musical instruments. Is his father following all this? He hopes so. Another point: Sacha is a great boss. He never patronizes or bullies. The twenty people working for him worship him. Oh, but he does have failings, like everyone else. Paul mustn’t think he’s perfect; he isn’t! He spends his life glued to his phone, which drives Linden crazy. He is at times impossibly impatient and stubborn. He flies off the handle, and then blames his conduct on his histrionic mother, Svetlana, who is a quarter Russian. He’s a hopeless driver; he becomes incensed in traffic jams and then daydreams at green lights, heedless of the hooting behind him. He’s a bit of a prankster, too, which can occasionally be annoying; he loves playing tricks, disguising his voice over the phone (which he is very good at). Sometimes Linden thinks Sacha should have been an actor.

Linden feels the path is not taking him the right way, where he wants it to go. He must leave this sunny, frivolous area, heading in a darker direction. That’s better, but it’s less easy. He’s afraid he’ll start faltering again. Linden says he guesses that maybe he isn’t the son Paul wanted to have. Perhaps Paul is disappointed. His father often said, when Linden was small, that he was the last of the Malegardes. The last male heir. The last one to bear that name. His father seemed to think it was important. Perhaps Paul is saddened that his son will never have a child with a woman. Perhaps Paul doesn’t want to hear all this chat about a man. About the man Linden loves. Silence. Linden still doesn’t dare look at his father. What might he read there? Repulsion? Resentment? Instead, he stares at the rain dribbling down the pane like teardrops, and it is again Sacha he sees: Sacha rooting for him, urging him on. He plants more power into his voice; it’s getting all thin and teary again. Linden felt different before he was ten years old. He hadn’t known how to express it. It was such a confusing sensation. At first, when the kids at school called him those names, he had felt shame; he had even wanted to die, to run away, but not anymore. No, not anymore. Isn’t he talking too fast? The words rush out, almost jumbled. Shouldn’t he slow down? He takes a deep breath, resumes. He knows Sacha is the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with, the person he wants to grow old with. He had never thought of getting married until Sacha. He had never even envisaged a family until Sacha. Now, a wedding and a family are part of their future, part of their plans. In 2013, the year he met Sacha, people took to the streets in France to demonstrate against gay marriage. Paul probably remembers that small children were dragged to these rallies, wearing pink and blue T-shirts that read ONE DAD, ONE MOM. While there were many walking the streets, the majority of citizens approved the law, which was passed, as Paul no doubt knows. Linden is not ashamed of what he is; he wants Paul to know this. He has many friends who still cannot admit to their families that they are gay. They lie, and they pretend, because they are afraid. They invent other lives, other loves. That is their choice, and he respects it, but he does not want to be trapped in duplicity. Perhaps, in the beginning, Linden should have talked to Paul. It wasn’t easy to open up to his father. Did Paul ever sense this? Linden had tried. At times, Paul seemed so wrapped up in his trees that he wondered if his father had ever wanted to see the real world. Or simply, are trees the real world to Paul? If that is the case, he can understand, because taking photos is like putting on armor, sliding a protective shield between reality and his own vision of it. Linden had chosen to come out to Candice because he sensed she would understand. She did. Years later, he spoke to Lauren, who did not react as well as her sister. It had wounded him. Today, Linden is not sure his father understands, or accepts what he is. All he knows is that he is at peace with himself. If his father cannot bear who he is, what he is, then Linden will learn to live with it. He will face it. With Sacha’s love, he can do this. The most important thing for him is not to lie to his father. He cannot pretend to be someone else. So now Paul knows. Paul knows everything there is to know about his son.

Linden is still facing the windowpane, his breath drawing bubbles of vapor on it. He turns around. From where he is standing, he can’t see his father’s eyes. Linden comes closer, bracing himself for what he will discern there. What if it is rejection or disgust? What will he do? Turn around and leave? The dread within him looms; he can’t help thinking back to the abhorrence in Hadrien’s father’s face, to the words he spat out: dirty, disgusting faggot. Shuddering, he reaches for his father’s hand. He sits down, looks straight at Paul. What he discovers takes his breath away. The blue eyes shine out to him, and he reads such love there that tears come; powerful and tranquil love, as if the weight of his father’s hand, encompassing and tremendous, were resting on his shoulder, as if his father’s arms were wrapped around him in one of those brief bear hugs he used to give him when he was a kid. Paul is trying to speak, but only garbled words come out, and Linden doesn’t care; he lets the tears run unchecked. His father loves him. The force of that love. That’s all he knows. That’s all he sees.

*   *   *

Linden lingers in front of Professor Magerant’s office, hoping to see him. His assistant tells him the professor is still in the operating room and won’t be back for a while. Nurses are looking after Paul again. While Linden waits outside, Dominique emerges from another room, her knitting in her hands. He tells her he’s alarmed by his father’s condition, and she nods. She noticed the degradation, as well. She’ll see Paul now. Does Linden mind? Linden says of course not; he’s going to spend most of the day here anyway. He settles into a chair and sends a message to Sacha. Dominique reappears after a few minutes. Her face seems flushed.

“Your father needs you to go get something for him.”

Flummoxed, Linden asks her what she means. She explains that there is something Paul wants Linden to fetch from the house in the Drôme. Linden stares at her. What is it? She says she doesn’t know. She wrote his words down on a piece of paper, which she hands him. Nonplussed, Linden reads: Tallest lime. Blocked-up hole where dead branch used to be, halfway up, left as you face the valley. Get Vandeleur to help. Again, he asks her what the object is. Dominique shakes her head. Paul wouldn’t say; he just said his son must reach down the hole and bring it back. Linden looks at her with wariness. Paul can’t talk, so how can she know all this? She replies calmly, saying he can talk; it’s difficult to understand him, but she knows how. That’s her job, interpreting people who have had strokes. She asks Linden who Vandeleur is. The gardener, he tells her. He’s been working there for years; he descends from a British army officer. He’s someone his father trusts. They wait till the nurses leave before entering the room. When they are alone with Paul, Dominique inquires about the object in the tree. Paul’s pale face seems to scrunch up even more, but a sound does come out of his mouth, and Linden has no idea what it is. Paul repeats it several times, but Linden still can’t make it out. Dominique nods. She says it is a box. A metal box in the tree. His father wants him to go get a box hidden in a tree, he asks, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice; his father wants him to do this now? More unintelligible gurgles emanate from Paul. Dominique listens vigilantly. She translates: Yes, he wants Linden to bring it to him. As soon as he can. He says it’s very important. Linden says he doubts he’ll get a train; most of them have stopped running because of the flood. How will he get to Vénozan? It’s over six hundred kilometers away. Dominique suggests quietly that perhaps he could drive. Linden glances over at his father. In the ashen, misaligned face, the blue eyes glow with intensity. There is no way he can back down before them, even if he’s apprehensive about leaving his father in this state. He nods, tells Paul he’ll get the house keys from Lauren, rent a car, and be on his way. The parched lips bend into the semblance of a smile. Linden bends down to kiss his father’s cheek, wondering what this means, wondering what he will find.

To his surprise, Linden rents a car easily at the Montparnasse station. He is told that’s because the tourists are all gone—a disaster for business, for everything. Luckily, the tank is full, and that’s good news, because he is warned he will have a hard time finding gas in the city. It will also take him a while to leave Paris. He even gets an upgrade, a sleek black Mercedes for the same rate as a humble Peugeot. At the hotel, Lauren hands over the house keys to her son. She has no idea about the box in the tree; neither does Tilia. Mistral wants to go with him, and Linden rather likes the idea, as the trip will take him over six hours, but Tilia says firmly she needs her daughter by her side. It is almost noon. If there is no traffic, he can be at Vénozan by six. It will be dark then, and complicated to locate the tree, Tilia points out. Lauren says he should get a good night’s sleep once he’s there, then leave early tomorrow morning. That sounds good, he agrees. Lauren gives him Vandeleur’s number and the one for Nadine, the lady who looks after the house, in case of a problem. She’ll call Nadine while he’s on his way and ask her to put the heat on in his room, fresh sheets on his bed, and to leave dinner for him in the fridge. Linden grabs his phone, his Leica, some rolls of film, and a change of clothes. He waves good-bye to them as they watch him draw away. It feels odd to be at the wheel of a manual car again; it takes him a little while to master the sensation. The robust Mercedes is a pleasure to drive. He heads to porte d’Orléans as wispy rain draws feathery streaks on the windshield. The A6 highway traffic is dense, as predicted. Linden turns on the radio; a provocative female voice is saying how the flooding is having positive effects; Parisians are fascinated by the event, and many love affairs are beginning on the bridges. The voice goes on to mention that the Latin motto of the city of Paris is fluctuat nec mergitur, which means “tossed about by the waves but does not sink.” Isn’t that what they all need to remember? she quips. The facetiousness annoys Linden; he changes channels. A news flash announces the archbishop of Paris is praying in Sacré-Coeur Basilica for the flood victims during a special Mass: the archbishop’s morose tone exhorts listeners to care for one another, to leave their selfishness behind, in the name of the Lord. Linden cuts him off, as well. And then … Is it a coincidence? Hardly! An acoustic guitar twanging in an ethereal fashion fills the Mercedes: the unmistakable beginning of “Starman.” Linden turns the volume up and finds himself singing along, accompanying Bowie’s impish “low-oh-oh” and “radio-oh-oh” with gusto, belting out at the top of his voice that there’s a starman waiting in the sky, only to discover the driver in the next car staring at him unabashedly. He can’t help laughing, only a trifle self-conscious, and the car picks up speed now, at last, putting malodorous, damp Paris behind him. In the masses of articles published after Bowie’s death in 2016, he read that everyone had their own special Bowie. He wonders what the singer really represents for his father. A man who loves trees could have been soothed by the mellifluous accents of Charles Trenet or Charles Aznavour, or by Georges Brassens’s gruff southern accent, not far from his own, and yet it was an eccentric Englishman who fascinated him—a skinny, gawky guy with orange hair and chalk white skin who shaved off his eyebrows and wore makeup. It is precisely that, which Linden finds astonishing: his father’s veneration for an artist so dissimilar from himself.

Guilt comes over him unexpectedly. Was he right to drive off like this, without even speaking to Professor Magerant? And what the hell is in that box? Why is the box in the tree? How long has it been there? The usually busy highway grows more and more empty; he wonders why. Near Beaune, three hours away from Paris, he stops for a sandwich and a coffee in a deserted cafeteria. Afterward, he connects his phone to the car audio system so that he can play his own music and make and receive calls. Another 180 minutes before he reaches Vénozan. He daren’t try his home number. It’s too early in the morning in San Francisco; Sacha won’t be getting up for another hour. He’ll give it a go later. He calls Tilia, tells her to warn Magerant that he’s gone to get something for their father. She says she will, and that Mistral will be spending the day with her grandfather, which reassures him. As he draws nearer to Lyon, the traffic gets denser, and the rain vanishes, offering him his first glimpse of a blue sky in seven days, since he landed last Friday. It fills him with a sort of hope, spurs him on. After a sluggish passage through Lyon, the road becomes fluid again. Just two hours to go. The light is dwindling gradually, the sky glowing pink with the setting sun. Linden feels tired now; there’s an ache in his neck and back, but he wants to keep at it. When he leaves the highway at Montélimar, night has fallen. It is cold, though not as cold as in Paris. Mistral calls to say Paul is asleep and that Tilia spoke to the professor: Paul is going to be put on new medicine. There is no need to operate for now, the doctor said. The road twists through the hills toward Grignan, Sévral, Nyons, and in spite of himself, Linden can’t help feeling joy in returning to the land of his childhood. He hasn’t been back for four long years. When he parks the car near the house, the cool night air enveloping him as he steps outside smells of moss, wood, and rich, moist soil. He breathes it in avidly, stretching his weary limbs. The full moon glows down upon him magnanimously. He unlocks the front door; it lets out a familiar groan and click when it is pushed open, and the heavy iron doorknob still draws the same cold imprint in his palm.

Nothing has changed. He is greeted by the scent of lavender and roses, with a touch of beeswax. He could be stepping back in time, in a flash. The entrance is warm, thanks to Nadine, who also left a couple of lights on for him. In the kitchen, the table is set for one. He checks the fridge: fresh soup, ratatouille, rice and chicken, a slice of tarte aux pommes. There is a note for him on the kitchen table from Nadine, in her small, neat handwriting: She hopes his father will soon be back home. Linden suddenly remembers (how could he have forgotten?) that cell phone reception is hopeless here. The only way to get a decent connection is to walk up the hill, beyond the swimming pool, higher and higher, holding your phone up like the Statue of Liberty—nothing he feels like doing right now. He finds it chilly in the big living room, so he moves to his father’s office while his dinner is gently heating up. No more lavender and rose scent here, but more the acrid flavor of tobacco. This is Paul’s room, where he can’t be disturbed, where he comes every morning, sitting behind that old-fashioned writing desk, to answer his letters, to make his calls, to write his conferences papers. Paul sits facing the valley, which can’t be seen now because the curtains are drawn and the shutters closed. On the walls hang framed leaves pressed under glass from all kinds of different trees: ginkgo, yew, beech, cedar, sycamore. The only visible photograph is the one Linden took in December 1999 of the storm at Versailles. Paul’s Bowie vinyl records are preciously stacked here, next to the old record player. Paul has always refused to succumb to digital recordings, asserting that analog formats have a richer, truer sound. Linden glances through the records, chooses Blackstar, Bowie’s last album, the one he knows less well. He clicks the old stereo on, sliding the record out of its case, a gesture he hasn’t done in a while but one that he has watched his father accomplish so often. Static crackles on his skin as he manipulates the record, making sure he doesn’t get his fingers on the surface. He gently lowers it onto the turntable, positioning the tone arm to the outer edge. Then he sits at his father’s desk, his hands spread on the old scratched surface. The music rises, opulent and intense, wrought from audacious, sometimes disconcerting harmonies, interleaved with abrupt outbursts of weird sound effects, the fizz of a synthesizer, and an almost religious chant. After a full four minutes, as Linden tries to fight off his perplexity, a sheer high note picks its way through the confusion and Bowie’s voice rings out, true and clear, sending a shiver down Linden’s spine, something about an angel falling. As he listens, entranced, his hands stroking the worn wood, memories resurface randomly, and he doesn’t push them away. Paul teaching his son to drive; once, he got furious because Linden drove straight into a fence, making a dent in the car. Months later, when Linden obtained his license, motoring his father all the way to Lyon, Paul was proud. Linden remembers that pride, how Paul would nod to all the unknown people they passed, chanting, “It’s my son driving. Hey, look, it’s my son at the wheel!” Paul, kneeling in front of the mantelpiece, showing him how to start a good log fire. His deft hands, crumpling newspaper up into small balls, stacking tinder into a sort of grid, then balancing two split logs on the very top. Paul letting Linden light the fire with a long match, saying, “You need to let the fire breathe. Don’t overfeed it. Give it time to grow.” Paul teaching him to swim, his father’s thumbs firm under his armpits. Paul never wanted to use those little floater wings other kids had. He said his children had to learn without them, like he did. The first thing he taught them was how to hold their breath underwater, and then how to float on their backs, without being afraid. Linden would put his head on Paul’s shoulder: Look up there at the sky. See what you can see. Birds, clouds, or a plane maybe, or a butterfly? Put your head way back; hold out your arms. There! You’re floating, all by yourself! When Linden was nearly ten years old, his father took him on an excursion up the Lance mountain, which rose behind Vénozan in a long curved arc. His father said it would take six or seven hours, that it wasn’t always easy, but that he could do it. Tilia wanted to go, too, but Paul had insisted this was between father and son. How well Linden remembers that phrase: “between father and son.” They left early in the morning, on a crisp April day, carrying food and water in their backpacks. They climbed up through lavender fields, cherry orchards with blossoms sending sweet perfume their way, then cut though thick woods. The first pass was easy to get to. It became a little tougher from there. Linden felt breathless, but he forced himself to keep up with his father, putting his feet where his father had tread. Paul climbed steadily and swiftly, knowing exactly where he was going. Sometimes he’d point out the stump of an old oak, or the ruins of an abandoned farm. After a while, once they left the forest and reached the plateau lining the highest part of the mountain, moving through the second pass, they stopped for lunch. They were alone, just the two of them, sitting on a flat boulder. Paul split the bread, ham, and cheese with his knife, handing slices to his son. His father didn’t speak, but Linden felt intensely happy. The sun scorched the tip of his nose. He listened to the wind, blowing stronger as they edged closer to the pinnacle. They set off again, rising up through steep pastures peppered with rocks and bushes. The grass was short and yellowed, parched in places. Linden felt tired all of a sudden; his legs ached, and he nearly sprained his ankle on an unsteady stone. Just as he was about to fall back, to murmur he couldn’t do it, that his father had been wrong, he was too small, he would never make it up to the top, Paul’s hand shot out to grab his, just like when he was younger, and he held on to it, feeling his father yank him upward, as if a new energy was streaming from his father’s arm to his. At the top of the mountain, the view was magnificent, like a reward, and it made Linden laugh out loud with awe. An ancient stone cross was implanted there, and he reached out to touch it. His father said they could see all the way to the Italian border, over the Alps, and Linden believed him. He felt as if he were standing on top of the world: Endless layers of hazy blue and green spreading out in front of him like a vast carpet dotted with crests and peaks, and if he stretched out a finger, he imagined he could caress them. The splendor of the image remained imprinted in his mind. His father finally spoke. He said it all seemed calm, so peaceful, didn’t it? Linden nodded. His father then said something he never forgot. When nature got angry, Paul said, there was nothing man could do about it. Nothing at all.

In the grain of the wood, Linden’s fingers follow grooves and incisions, feeling his father’s presence beat there like a pulse. How old is this desk? It has probably been in this room since his great-grandfather Maurice’s day, although it was less shabby then, its corners less rounded. On the left, fountain pens and blotting paper, a jar full of pencils and ballpoints, a magnifying glass with a curved handle, an ashtray, a lighter, and the snow globe that Linden remembers so well and which he now picks up to shake. Flurries spin around miniature white birch trees studded with tiny red-and-brown robins. Linden pulls on the brass handle of the top drawer, which opens with a squeak. He finds writing paper, its pages curling with damp, stamps, an old black wallet, which smells of tobacco, in which he discovers a forgotten fifty-franc banknote and a school picture of a plump-faced Tilia, age nine or ten, which makes him grin. At the back of the drawer is a cemetery of old copper coins, rusty scissors, and a jumble of obsolete keys. On the right of the desk, next to the telephone, there are stacks of paper, unopened mail, with stamps from all over the world. It’s extraordinary how all these tree lovers get in touch with Paul. Linden knows his father answers every letter he gets. Paul doesn’t own a computer, or a typewriter; he does it all by hand. Linden reads a long paragraph on a single sheet of notepaper. Several sentences and words have been crossed out and rewritten. He guesses it is the unfinished draft of a speech his father was working on before he left for Paris last Friday. His father’s large, sprawling handwriting has never been difficult to decipher. Trees. Always trees. And now the box in the tree, in the oldest lime. What is the significance of that box? Why did his father want him to come here and fetch it? Linden goes into the kitchen to get a tray, on which he places his food. This room has few happy memories for him. This is where they had breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Lauren never used the formal dining room, which she considered not cozy enough. Linden sees himself in that chair, there, by the window, thirteen or fourteen years old, told off by his mother because he wasn’t sitting up straight; burdened with the daily teasing and taunting at school, which he didn’t have the courage to bring up. How lonely he was; how sad he felt. Is this why he seldom comes here? Because it brings back that pain, that rejection? Doesn’t Vénozan deserve a second chance? Must it always bear the scars of his adolescence?

Installed in his father’s office, Linden eats his meal hungrily. The ring of the phone startles him. It’s his mother, making sure he got there safely. She says she called Vandeleur, that he’ll turn up first thing tomorrow morning. Paul had a peaceful day, but he still seems very tired. She’s worried. She says she thinks Professor Magerant looks worried, too, but she can’t get anything out of him. Tilia had a go at him, and Linden can imagine what that means. The professor had remained surprisingly calm. He told them only that they were changing the medical treatment. Nothing more. It was frustrating. Linden comforts her the best he can, but he can feel the disquiet grow within him, as well. When he finishes talking to his mother, he uses the landline to dial Sacha’s cell phone. The call goes straight to voice mail, which is rare, as Sacha’s mobile is usually always on. He tries Sacha’s direct line, and gets his assistant, Rebecca. No, she hasn’t seen Sacha yet this morning, but she’ll let him know Linden called. She checks the agenda. No, there are no outside meetings scheduled for Sacha today. Linden hangs up, marginally bothered. In the nearly five years they’ve been together, he has never been unfaithful to Sacha. He has never even wanted to. He hopes and believes Sacha feels the same way. He trusts Sacha; he always has. At present, with a new tenuousness rocking the base of his world, he wonders. He is aware of the magnetic effect Sacha has on other men. He’s seen it. It is instantaneous, potent. Sacha seems blind to it, but surely he must be conscious of it. He calls the cell phone again, asking Sacha to ring him at Vénozan, leaving the number for him. There’s so much he wants to share with him. He’ll start by recounting how he described Sacha to his father, so that after a while, it felt like Sacha was there, in the room with them. How is he going to put words to what he felt when he understood his father loved him? It was the warmest, most beautiful and precious sensation, and just thinking about it brings tears to his eyes, brings him back to the boy he was, following Paul around in the garden, listening to him talk about plants and nature. Another memory surfaces: Paul pointing out the big black carpenter bees to his small son, explaining the males never sting, they can’t, and he can even catch them in his hand, which he promptly does, while Linden looks on, quaking. Look how beautiful they are, with their shiny black bodies and metallic dark purple wings; Linden mustn’t be afraid, even if they make such a loud noise and look menacing. The females will sting only if they feel they are under attack. Linden just needs to let them alone. One summer day, his father gently deposited a male carpenter bee into his palm. It felt tickly and quite terrifying, because the insect seemed huge in his tiny hand, but he felt his father’s pride, and it made him glow inside.

Linden puts his dinner things away, clears up, and makes his way upstairs. He has never felt frightened in this house, but it does seem particularly silent tonight. For once, the mistral is not blowing at all. He enters his old room. He left here twenty-one years ago, and his mother had it redecorated, but as soon as he finds himself within these walls, he suspects he might harvest the angst of the sad, harassed teenager again, shedding the know-how of the sophisticated, worldly photographer. He decides he won’t be enduring any of that despondency tonight. It is a small inner tussle leaving the painful memories behind, but he does it quite effortlessly. He has a quick shower and slips into bed. He thinks of his father again. There is so much catching up to do, so many conversations to have. How will this be possible? Paul won’t be able to board a plane for quite a while, he imagines, because of his stroke. Well then, in that case, Linden will have to return to Vénozan, this time with Sacha. They must both make time for this. He sees it clearly: the white wrought-iron table, candles flickering in the soft evening breeze, the sun setting on the right of the house, sending its final golden rays over the valley, all the way up to the gigantic cypress trees standing in a row, the ones Paul calls “the Mohicans.” He sees Lauren and Sacha laughing, with Paul looking on, his father’s eyes always roving back to his army of trees clustering around the house: the old oak with its splintered trunk, the two towering planes, the maple and the elm, familiar landmarks of Linden’s childhood. What will happen to this house when Paul and Lauren are gone? Who will look after the land, the arboretum? It is the first time this cheerless thought comes to him. Not Tilia, surely; she seems attached to her life in London, her daughter, her art, her hopeless husband. He thinks now about all the decisions that will have to be made once his parents are no longer here. The idea of the estate being sold or razed makes him wince. No matter how unhappy he was here as a teenager, this house, this land, is part of who he is. The child that Linden and Sacha will adopt one day will carry both their names. That child, the one they so often talk about, the one who is woven into their future, will come to know this land; of that, he is certain.

Linden had left the door open so that he could hear the phone ring from his parents’ room if Sacha called back, but what wakes him is the cavernous clang of the doorbell penetrating his sleep. He is astonished to see it is nearly nine o’clock and that sunlight is peeping through the curtains. The doorbell jangles again, mightily. Linden dresses in a hurry, pads down in his bare feet, wrestles with the lock. Vandeleur is standing there, a wide grin on his freckled face, and it is Linden’s childhood beaming at him. The bright red hair has tapered to a sandy gray, the shoulders seem less broad, but Vandeleur’s green eyes still twinkle above his bulbous nose. He calls Linden “little chief,” like he always has, slapping him on the back with a powerful square hand. What’s all this business with the boss? The boss, in the hospital? Can’t be possible. Got to get him out of there fast. Is the boss on the mend? He must be, because Vénozan will never be Vénozan without the boss. His hoarse, rough voice is perhaps a little less brash. Linden takes him into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, then runs upstairs to get his shoes. He explains what he is here for. Vandeleur stares at him, incredulous. What? The boss wants to dig a hole in the old lime? That lime? The oldest one? Linden nods. They must get to work now. God knows how long it will take. There is a box in the tree that his father needs. Vandeleur nearly drops his coffee. Does Linden mean a treasure, or something like that? Linden can’t help smiling. The seventy-year-old gardener has the expression of a five-year-old being taken to the circus. When Linden steps outside, he is dazzled by the golden sunlight. It is so strong, he has to close his eyes, and yet how delicious it feels on his skin. The past week in Paris has been similar to living in a cave. He mentions this to the old man as he follows him to the shed, where they pick up tools. Vandeleur says he has never seen anything like the Paris flood, which he’s been watching on TV. He wants to know what it was like, those watery streets, the desolation. Hell, answers Linden. As they walk up to the arboretum, carrying the ladder between them, as well as a sledgehammer, Linden realizes there is nothing watery around them, only grass, trees, and blue sky. The pure wintry air courses through his lungs, invigorating and refreshingly fragrant. How far away sodden, stinking Paris seems! When they get to the top of the hill, he turns to look at the valley behind him: the house nestling in the hollow where the winding path ends, the sky immense, unencumbered by bulky clouds. The wind lies low today; only the tips of the trees at the top of the vale sway with a gentle whisper. Yes, Linden has missed this land, this place that saw him grow up. He has missed it much more than he thought.

All the trees of the arboretum sport their winter garb: naked black branches, not a leaf in sight. Spring is still far off. They know exactly when to blossom—Linden recalls Paul telling him this as a boy—launching the formation of their lush pale green bower with absolute precision. Vandeleur’s voice is a little ragged from the climb. The boss used to love playing here as a kid. He’d come here every day. He had a tree house in one of these. Does Linden know that? Linden nods. Vandeleur continues. The boss still comes up here all the time, sometimes alone, sometimes with him. Not much talking going on. Just looking out on the land and checking how the trees are doing. The tallest lime is easy to pick out, looming high over the others, its huge gnarled branches stretching out like gargantuan arms, its thick, twisting roots reaching deep into the gravelly hill. How can Linden not think of his father when he is standing here, right under his favorite tree? He can almost hear Paul’s voice, explaining to him how rain was greedily sucked up by the tree, branches and leaves opening up like cupped hands to catch each raindrop, sending them streaming down the trunk in rivulets, feeding the thirsty roots. Vandeleur sets the ladder against the lime. He scratches his head. Is Linden sure they’re supposed to slash into this one? Linden says he’s sure. Vandeleur doesn’t seem convinced. It sounds crazy to him. This is the boss’s favorite tree. Linden says he knows, that he was named after it, Linden means “lime” in English. Vandeleur guffaws. He never guessed that at all! He thought it was just a fancy American name! But he knows Tilia is the Latin term for it. So, the boss has a thing for lindens, doesn’t he? He and the boss fight about this old tree’s age all the time. Vandeleur thinks it’s over four hundred years old, and the boss says three hundred. Cut into it? It just doesn’t make sense. This tree is like royalty. This tree is the master of the forest. Vandeleur puts his hand on the old bark with reverence. Is this really what the boss ordered? Linden reads aloud from Dominique’s note. “Tallest lime. Blocked-up hole where dead branch used to be, halfway up, left as you face the valley. Get Vandeleur to help.” The old man starts at the sound of his name, then nods. He’ll do what the boss wants. Linden says he’ll go up to find the hole while Vandeleur steadies the ladder. He climbs up gradually, surprised at the girth and height of the tree. He had never imagined it was so enormous. He can now glimpse the small lopsided hole clogged up with cement, on the left, where a dead branch used to be. The ladder doesn’t quite reach high enough; he wonders how he is going to manage. As he twists around, figuring it out, the ladder wobbles.

“Don’t take a tumble, now, little chief,” warns Vandeleur from below. “Wouldn’t want two Malegardes in the hospital, would we?”

From the top of the ladder, the gardener seems very far away. Linden asks for the sledgehammer, which Vandeleur hauls up to him, but try as he might, the tip of the mallet is still far from the blocked-up hole. He has to haul himself up higher to reach it. He can make out a sturdy, thick branch where he can place one foot, slowly pushing himself off the ladder with his right hand, the other holding the sledgehammer. It’s an easier maneuver than he thought, although he can’t look down anymore; it’s giving him vertigo. The sensation of being high up in the vast naked tree is elating. Linden wishes he had his camera with him. How is it he had never thought of taking pictures from up here? Above his head, the branches coil toward the sky, and he can feel the wind blowing through his hair. The air up here is crisp, pure; he could stand on this branch and breathe it in for ages. An astonished woodpecker peeks at him from a higher bough. Vandeleur yells. What the hell is little chief doing? He’s worse than his dad when it comes to admiring trees! Linden chuckles. Time to get on with it. The hole is accessible now, and he starts swinging the tool into it, doing his best to keep his balance. The old cement disintegrates quite easily, crumbling into a fine gray residue that coats his head and gets into his eyes. Vandeleur shouts that they don’t block gaps in trees like that anymore; they don’t use cement. The thing is, they need to stop bugs or birds from getting into the nooks, which could be dangerous for the tree. Linden coughs, wiping the powder off his lids. Vandeleur says he’ll get one of the other gardeners to close it up again the way they do it now, with a thin metal flap or screening. Linden scrapes away the last of the cement with his hand. The hole gapes open, about the size of a watermelon. He has to edge closer, inching along the branch, sledgehammer still in hand. Gingerly, he eases his fingers into the orifice, until Vandeleur bawls at him to use the gloves he put in his jacket pocket. No way should Linden put his bare hand in there! There could be a nasty surprise! Insects or birds or Lord knows what! Linden pauses, slips the gardening gloves on, balancing the sledgehammer on his thigh. Then he tries again, forcing his fist through the cavity. He feels a humid sponginess, like moss or weeds, and pushes his wrist right in, turning his hand around clockwise. Nothing resembling a box meets his fingers. Could his father be wrong? Is the box still here? Perhaps it has moved, with time, into the center of the tree? In that case, he will never get hold of it. Disappointment floods him; what is he going to tell Paul? Did he come all this way for nothing? He slides his arm in farther, marveling at the deep cranny within the tree, like a secret passage, and then he touches it, the sharp corner of a metallic object. He hollers out to Vandeleur that he’s got it; he can feel it. He just has to pry it out; it seems stuck. A fierce struggle ensues; his cheek is squashed against the coarse bark, his fingertips sliding powerlessly over the slippery edges of the box. It’s almost as if the tree won’t relinquish the box. Linden finds himself muttering to his namesake, talking to the tree as if it could hear him. “Come on, linden, don’t do this to me. Let go of it. Let me have it.” He has an idea. He slides the end of the sledgehammer right into the hole, straining the handle up against the corner of the box with all his might. He hears a faint squelch, and when he darts his hand in again, the box moves more easily now, like a loosened tooth. It takes further effort to pull it gently out toward him, bringing it to the light and the air, like a strange, outlandish birth, but all of a sudden, the box is in his hand, and he stares down at it in awe while Vandeleur crows with triumph. It is a small biscuit tin, covered with moss and crawling with ants, which he blows away. Gingerly, he makes his way down the tree, his head spinning. Vandeleur asks him for the sledgehammer, which he hands down, then for the box, so Linden can use both his hands, but he won’t let go of it. The ladder seems awfully far away. His legs feel weak. He lets Vandeleur’s voice direct him. Little chief needs to take it easy now; there’s no hurry. One step after another, that’s right. Once his trembling feet are on the ladder, Linden regains his strength and climbs down adroitly. Vandeleur peers at the box, asks Linden if he’s going to open it. His father didn’t say to open it, Linden points out: He just said to bring it to him, that it was very important. Vandeleur wants to know if it’s heavy; Linden places it into the worn-out old palms. The gardener lets out a whelp of surprise. It’s as light as a feather! He shakes the box, holds it to his ear, like a kid trying to hear the ocean in a seashell. Is it money? Linden says he has no idea. He is tempted to find out, but he doesn’t feel comfortable in front of Vandeleur. He’ll do it later, in the car, when he’s alone, on his way back to Paris. He promised to come back fast; he should be on his way.

When Vandeleur has gone, and when Linden has locked the front door, it is approaching eleven o’clock. He takes a few quick photographs of the house and the valley with his Leica. Just before he left, he called Mistral, Lauren, and Tilia from the landline to say he had the box and was on his way. He couldn’t get through to any of them. He wondered if it was to do with the flood and the mobile coverage not functioning. He tried Sacha’s cell phone and the home number as well, and got voice mail each time. Linden takes to the road with somber thoughts, stopping at Montbrison for gas. The sun is rising higher into the sky. The box sits on the seat next to him; he looks at it from time to time. Heading north to Montélimar, to the highway, he passes Grignan, the town where his parents met, with the castle high on its stony promontory. The roads are clear; he can drive fast and smoothly. He turns on the radio and discovers, to his dismay, there has been a night of terror in Paris. Marauding gangs attacked shops after nightfall, starting with the Champs-Élysées and neighboring avenue Victor-Hugo, causing thousands of euros of damage to a capital enfeebled by the flood. Hundreds of hooded looters then stormed through the dark streets of Montparnasse, poorly lit because of electricity outages, smashing windows and stealing everything they could get their hands on, from electrical items to clothing. The mobs came from outlying districts, determined to engage in lawless mayhem and to clash with the police. Horror-struck, Linden listens. Boutiques on rue de Rennes were ransacked in a matter of minutes, one after the other. The supermarket near the corner of boulevard Saint-Germain was emptied and set on fire. Police, bombarded all night long with bottles and bricks, admitted being overwhelmed by the scale of the attacks, because many officers were already busy guarding flooded areas. Firefighters struggled with blazes for hours. Hundreds of people were arrested; fifty or more were injured. A tearful old lady says she has never seen anything like this since the student insurrection of May 1968. Linden reaches for his phone, meaning to call his family to check if they are all safe, but he is unable to locate it. He pulls over at the next rest area to hunt for it, looks under the seat, in the back, in his bag, and realizes with dread he forgot it, left it plugged into the socket in the bedroom. He feels lost and helpless without it. He knows none of his family’s numbers by heart, let alone Sacha’s. He bemoans the fact he has no address book, not even a slip of paper with important numbers jotted down. How could he have been so reckless? He does have backup in his iPad, but he left that at the hotel. Cursing, he takes off again, going faster than he should be, a dull foreboding in the pit of his stomach.

The news on the radio does little to alleviate Linden’s disposition. The level of the Seine has started to recede ever so gradually, but the water still annexes half of the city, and it can’t really be called water anymore, declares the journalist deprecatingly, more like vast stagnant pools of oily slush reeking of cesspools. Chaos. There is no other word for what is going on in Paris. Pumps are unable to suck up the muck, as it is too thick and gritty. Stinking rubbish both piling up and floating about is another major sanitary problem. Exasperated inhabitants have decided to burn trash wherever they can, fashioning wild bonfires on every available street corner, another hazard. Linden can hardly believe his ears. Can it get any worse? Will Paris ever pull through? The voices on the radio continue their unsettling litany. Should he turn it off or find music to listen to? On the other hand, he tells himself he needs to know what’s going on, what he’s returning to. He learns the Red Cross is launching a larger disaster response, and that more donations are needed to allow their workers to assist thousands of freezing, homeless Parisians with food, shelter, and emotional support. Clearly in the grip of an unparalleled crisis, Paris seems beset by ancient class, racial, and political divisions; the recent upheavals are not encouraging acts of solidarity and altruism. The lack of coordination between governmental officials, relief organizations, and the military are making headlines worldwide. The person being blamed in the press appears to be the president, who is being accused of not being able to rally his troops to deal with the disaster. The president’s major opponents have not stopped condemning him, judging his administration lethargic and incapable of meeting the needs of all those affected by the flooding. But on social media, the young president is revered by the majority of Parisians, who are convinced he is doing everything he can in a dramatic and unprecedented situation.

When Linden reaches Lyon, two hours later, he stops in a self-service cafeteria for gas and a snack. He makes calls using his credit card from a run-down pay phone that looks like it hasn’t been used for years. It is practically impossible to get any information without the Internet, he realizes. He finally obtains directory assistance and asks for the number of Cochin Hospital and has a panic-stricken moment finding a pen and a piece of paper. A woman standing nearby drinking coffee proffers both. The hospital takes ages to answer, and when he does get through, the jaded person on the other end of the line does not react well to his impatience. Professor Magerant’s direct line rings and rings into thin air. Why is no one responding? Where is his secretary? The woman who lent him pen and notepaper takes pity on him. Doesn’t he have a cell phone? Linden ruefully admits he forgot it. She hands him hers with a smile. How kind! How unexpected! Using it, he goes online to find the hotel number, dials it, and is told his family is out. He assumes they are at the hospital. He uses the lady’s phone again to scavenge for another number online for the hospital, manages to find the nurses’ office on his father’s ward. Again, the endless ringing tone. Finally, a female voice responds; the woman sounds as if she’s in a hurry. She says she can’t hear him. Can he please speak louder? He says he is the son of Paul Malegarde, who’s in room 17. He just wants to tell his family he’s on his way. He’ll be there as fast as he can, in under four hours if the traffic is good. She says she still can’t hear him correctly. Can he repeat the message? A sort of rage comes over Linden. He wants to shout, to insult her, to use the nastiest possible words. Instead, he hangs up, riled, giving the mobile back to its owner. He has no more time to waste. The lady asks him if everything is okay; she has a pleasant, honest face. He nods briefly, thanks her, and sprints back to the car. He knows he’s driving too fast, that he should be careful, but he can’t help speeding ahead, hands gripped on the wheel, the ominous sensation churning within him. The highway becomes more and more congested as he nears Paris, and when he reaches Nemours, only an hour away, he finds he has to halt in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. As he sits immobilized in an interminable queue of stationary cars, fury sweeps over him again, red-hot, like a scorching blaze. Minutes tick by and still the line is not moving forward. He feels like bashing his head against the steering wheel, imagines blood trickling from his battered forehead. He tries calming down, breathing gently, emptying his mind.

The box glimmers in the fading daylight, as if it were calling out to him. He stares at it. His father didn’t tell Dominique not to open it, did he? Linden reaches out for it, cradling the cold metal in his hand. A solitary ant crawls over his palm; he flicks it away. He could open it now. Perhaps this traffic jam is fate’s way of telling him to do so. Stranded, stuck, without his phone, what else is there for him to do? He clasps it between his fingers, trying to pry the top up. He fiddles with it for a while, maddened; the lid feels like it has been glued on. He remembers the ballpoint pen the lady lent him and that he forgot to give back. It’s still in his jacket pocket. He fishes it out hastily; bends the clip on its side all the way back. With the point of the clip, he presses hard on the corner of the box. It clicks open. Linden lifts the lid off carefully. The inside is surprisingly intact. No bugs, little humidity. He discovers an unsealed envelope, peers inside. There are several pages of paper, neatly folded, and two short yellowed articles from a newspaper. The date on the first one is August 5, 1952. “The body of a young girl found at a private property at Vénozan, near Sévral, on August 3 has been identified as that of Suzanne Vallette, sixteen, from Solérieux. The police suspect foul play.” The second article dates back to August 10, 1952. “A man connected to the rape and murder of Suzanne Vallette is in custody at Nyons. He is a 35-year-old shepherd from Orelle with a criminal record.” Who is Suzanne Vallette? What had she got to do with Paul? Mystified, Linden unfolds the sheets of paper. A loud honk from behind makes his heart race; the column of cars is moving again. Nervously, he drives onward, the papers spread out on his knees. The traffic is slow-moving, but not slow enough for him to read safely, and it drags on all the way to Paris, where the rain has stopped at last. A dark blue sky glows above the highway. When he reaches porte d’Orléans, Linden is hastily able to decipher the opening paragraph of the first page at a red light. He recognizes his father’s familiar handwriting. There is no date.

I will start with the tree. Because everything begins, and ends, with the tree. The tree is the tallest one. It was planted way before the others. I’m not sure how old it is, exactly. Perhaps three or four hundred years old. It is ancient and powerful. It has weathered terrible storms, braced against unbridled winds. It is not afraid.

Linden wonders what the rest of the papers contain. What will he discover? Why are they so important to Paul? Will he have time to read them before he gets to the hospital? Probably not. He must drop off the car at the Montparnasse station. Shouldn’t he drive straight to Cochin Hospital? But where would he park around there? Should he return the car and then dash to the hospital? While he dithers, horns blare behind him again. He decides to drive to the hospital; he’ll return the car later. A sort of desperation mounts within him. He turns right into rue du Père-Corentin, not expecting the blockage awaiting him there. For twenty minutes, he sits in the car, fuming. He sees, as he draws slowly nearer, that a unit of policemen is stopping all cars heading into rue de la Tombe-Issoire. As Linden rolls the window down, the icy night air rushes in, nauseating with pungent smoke. No more rain, but a putrid rotten-egg stench that makes him to want to retch. Where is he going? a policeman asks. To the nearby hospital to see his father, Linden says. He is asked to show his identity card and the vehicle registration documents. Is he a tourist? Is he aware that driving through the city is not recommended, due to the flood and the recent rampaging? He says he’s not a tourist; he’s French and he is here with his family. Can they please let him through? His father is waiting for him at Cochin Hospital. His father is very ill. These men look drawn; they have dark circles under their eyes. They must have had a tough night. He feels sorry for them. The policeman takes his time, glancing from the card to his face. Finally, he lets Linden pass. He warns him that he’ll find it hard to park. He is right. Linden spends another interminable moment or two looking for a free space around the hospital, tension rising within him. He loses his temper, swearing at the top of his voice, sounding like Tilia, hitting the wheel with furious hands. At his wits’ end, he leaves the car on the pavement on rue Méchain, knowing he’ll get a fine. There’s no other solution. The freezing, foul-smelling city around him seems inimical and alien. He runs as fast as he can to the principal entrance on rue Saint-Jacques, the box tucked in his pocket. It takes him another minute to reach the building where his father is.

The inside lights glare at him, hurting his eyes. Linden feels out of breath as he waits for the elevator, mouth dry, heart pounding. Why this anguish? Paul will be upstairs in room 17; Mistral, Tilia, and Lauren are there, expecting him; perhaps Dominique is with them as well. He’ll hand over the box to his father jubilantly. He’ll make Paul chuckle by telling him about how he and Vandeleur carried the ladder, how it didn’t reach high enough, how the box was stuck deep in the tree, and what a struggle it had been to pull it out, and that a surprised woodpecker had gawked at him all the while. He’ll tell Paul about the loveliness of the land, the light, the air, how he had wanted to stay up in the tree and feast his eyes on everything the valley had to offer. He had seen the beauty of Paul’s world. He belonged to that world, too. All this, he will tell his father.

Out of the tail of his eye, Linden notices a person approaching swiftly from his left. The elevator door slides open with a beep; he steps forward, meaning to get in, but the blurred contour of the individual drawing near him comes into focus and he turns his head. A tall, dark-haired man stands next to him, so close, he can breathe his familiar odor. He needs a couple of seconds to understand who is stretching his arms out to him. Light-headed with happiness, Linden pulls Sacha close, his disbelieving fingers reaching up to caress strands of the long black hair. Sacha’s arms intertwine behind his back, clasping him tight. The past week has been a jumble of raw emotions fueled by the rising, wild river, seven strange days that have tampered with Linden’s acuity. He tries to find the right words. All he can murmur is “My love. My sweet love.” Sacha quivers, as if he is cold. Surprised, Linden detects long shudders coursing through his body. Why is Sacha so silent? He hasn’t uttered a word. Glancing over his shoulder, Linden sees the dingy wall of the hospital entrance, posters tacked onto boards, lusterless linoleum. A woman sitting in a plastic chair seems fast asleep; a nurse pushing a patient in a wheelchair lumbers by. Is Sacha crying? Bewildered, Linden tries to take one step back so that he can look at him, but Sacha won’t let him, cradling him desperately, hanging on to him with all his might, as if the thing he wants the most in the world right now is to protect Linden from whatever lies ahead, buying him a little more time, building him an infinitesimal dam of ignorance, because he knows Linden will remember this moment, this Friday, for the rest of his life.

Linden gently pulls away, bracing himself for what he will read in the beloved eyes. He doesn’t want Sacha to say the words; he doesn’t want him to pronounce them. He puts his palm on Sacha’s cheek and notices with wonder how unsteady his hand is. Sacha speaks at last. They called and called. They understood there was a problem with Linden’s phone, or that he had forgotten it. There was no way they could reach him. It had happened in the middle of the afternoon. It had been peaceful. Paul was holding Lauren’s fingers. It took place just like that, with her in the room, and no one else. Lauren came stumbling out, all the color drained from her face, incapable of talking.

Linden thinks of his mother, witnessing that last breath, that last heave of the chest. How painful that must have been for her. How heartbroken she must be. The tears come now, spurting from Linden’s tired eyes. His father is gone. He remembers the last time he saw him, just yesterday, when he bent down to kiss him good-bye. Linden feels numb, unable to move, to react. He wants to sit down; he wants to be able to wait here, to rest, to say nothing, to gather up his strength, just for a while. He knows he can’t. Upstairs, they are waiting for him. How are they? How are they taking it? Sacha says Tilia is impressive. She is the one holding them together. Tilia? Linden is surprised. He thought she would have collapsed. No, she hasn’t. She certainly hasn’t. She is up there comforting Lauren, who is desperate, as well as Mistral, who has broken down. She is dealing with all the procedures. She has spoken to the doctor, to the nurses. She is calm and compassionate.

Linden rides up in the elevator, Sacha’s hand tight in his. The door to room number 17 is closed. He knows his father’s body is behind that door. He knows he will have to lay eyes on it at some point. He will have to see his father in death, just like he will have to watch his father’s coffin lowered into the ground in the small green cemetery at Léon des Vignes. It is an ordeal that awaits him and that he will not shy away from. He follows Sacha to the waiting room a little farther down. There is his sister, her arms wrapped around his mother and his niece. Colin sits in front of them, his head in his palms. They see him; they cry out his name and the tears come again. There is an intense, confusing moment of sorrow where sentences seem chaotic, interrupted by sobs.

It is later, when they have been able to speak more straightforwardly, when they have comforted one another somewhat, that Linden pulls the box out of his pocket. He tells them that this is what Paul wanted him to bring back from Vénozan. There are papers inside, but he hasn’t had time to read them all yet. He is going to do that right now, right here. He takes the first page and starts to read. He reads slowly, taking his time, pausing to draw breath. Sometimes he glances up at Lauren, at Tilia, for courage, for support.

When Linden comes to the last page, he hands it over to his sister. Tilia’s voice fills the small room, at first unsteady and hesitant, then taking on power, and it is almost—almost—as if Paul were there, standing at the threshold, his hands in his pockets, his blue eyes shining out to them.

*   *   *

I heard its footsteps come closer to where I stood. Every time it took one step, the leaves and the grass rustled to warn me. It thought it was making no noise, but I heard it perfectly. I heard it almost too loud. Every single part of me was straining to listen. Now I sniffed its stink, sweaty and boozy, like those drunken field hands I sometimes saw hanging around the farm before my father ousted them.

I leaned against the tree, my eyes closed. I was so still, I was like a branch. The monster came awfully close, but it passed on by, lurching, mumbling under its breath.

The rain began to fall, thick and steady and strong. No storm, no thunder, just the rain gushing down. I heard the monster run away, swearing. I thought of Suzanne getting wet and I began to cry again. The tree sheltered me like a huge umbrella.

I fed all my terror into the tree. It took my fear and made me part of it. The tree held me. It locked me into itself. Never had I felt such protection. Never had anyone or anything safeguarded me this way. It was as if I had become the bark, as if I had slipped into the cracks and fissures, past the moss, past the lichen, past the insects crawling up and down the trunk.

And there, in the heart of the linden, I knew no monster, no horror, would ever find me.