The Elementary Particles (23 page)

2

He had dinner at Annabelle’s the following evening and explained clearly and precisely why he had to move to Ireland. His research had been mapped out, everything was coming together. The important thing was not to become fixated on DNA, but to look at the living being as its own self-replicating system.

At first Annabelle didn’t say anything, though she couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from turning down. Then she poured him another glass of wine; she’d cooked fish that evening, and more than ever her little studio seemed like a ship’s cabin.

“You weren’t planning to take me with you . . .” Her words resounded in the silence; the silence continued. “It didn’t even occur to you,” she said, her voice a mixture of surprise and childish petulance; then she burst into tears. He didn’t move, and if he’d made a gesture at that moment she would certainly have pushed him away; you have to let people cry, it’s the only way. “It’s strange,” she said through her sobs. “We got along well when we were twelve . . .”

She looked up at him. Her face was pure and extraordinarily beautiful. She was talking without thinking: “I want to have your child. I need someone to be close to me. You don’t have to help raise him or look after him, you don’t even have to acknowledge him. I’m not asking you to love him, or even to love me; I just want you to give me a baby. I know I’m forty, but so what? I’m prepared to take the risk. This is my last chance. Sometimes I regret having the abortions, even though the first guy who got me pregnant was a shit and the second was an irresponsible fool. When I was seventeen, I never imagined that life would be so constrained, that there would be so few opportunities.”

Michel lit a cigarette to give himself time to think. “It’s a strange idea . . .” he said between his teeth. “It’s a curious idea to reproduce when you don’t even like life.”

Annabelle stood up and began to take off her clothes. “Let’s make love anyway,” she said. “It must be more than a month since we made love. I stopped taking the pill a couple of weeks ago; I’ll be fertile about now.” She put her hands on her stomach and moved them up to her breasts, parted her thighs slightly. She was beautiful, desirable, loving: why then did he feel nothing? It was inexplicable. He lit another cigarette, then suddenly realized that thinking about it would get him nowhere. You make a baby, or you don’t; it’s not a decision one can make rationally. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and murmured: “All right.”

Annabelle helped him off with his clothes and masturbated him until he could penetrate her. He felt nothing except the softness and the warmth of her vagina. He quickly stopped moving, fascinated by the geometry of copulation, entranced by the suppleness and richness of her juices. Annabelle pressed her mouth to his and wrapped her arms around him. He closed his eyes and, feeling the presence of his penis more acutely, started to move inside her once again. Just before he ejaculated he had a vision—crystal clear—of fusing gametes, followed immediately by the first cell divisions. It felt like a headlong rush, a little suicide. A wave of sensation flowed back along his penis and his sperm pumped out of him; Annabelle felt it too, and exhaled slowly. They lay there, motionless.

“You were supposed to come in for a smear about a month ago,” the gynecologist said in a weary voice. “Instead of which you stop taking the pill without consulting me and then go get yourself pregnant. You’re not a girl anymore, after all!” The office seemed cold and humid; when she left Annabelle was surprised by the June sunshine.

She telephoned the following morning. The smear had shown “pretty serious” anomalies; they would have to do a biopsy and a D&C. “As for getting pregnant, now would not be a good time. Let’s take one thing at a time, okay?” He didn’t sound worried, just a little annoyed.

Annabelle had her third abortion—the fetus was only two weeks old, so a little suction was enough. The technology had advanced since her last termination and, to her surprise, it was all over in less than ten minutes. The results arrived three days later. “Well . . .” The doctor seemed terribly old, sad and wise. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. I’m afraid you have stage one uterine cancer.” He resettled his glasses on his nose and looked at the papers again; the impression of general competence was greatly enhanced. He was not surprised: cancer of the uterus often attacks women in the years before menopause, and not having had children simply increased the risk. There was no question as to the treatment. “We have to do a hysterectomy and a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy. They’re standard surgical procedures nowadays, and complications are almost unheard of.” He glanced at Annabelle; that she hadn’t reacted was irritating. She simply sat there openmouthed; she probably would have a breakdown. It was standard procedure for practitioners to refer patients to a therapist for counseling—he’d prepared a list of addresses. Above all, it was important to emphasize the main point: that the end of fertility did not mean that one’s sex life was over; on the contrary, many patients found their desire increased.

“You mean they’re going to remove my uterus . . .” she said incredulously.

“The uterus, the ovaries and the fallopian tubes; it’s best to avoid any risk of the cancer spreading. I’ll prescribe hormone replacement therapy for you—in fact it’s commonplace to prescribe it even for menopause nowadays.”

She went back to her family’s house in Crécy-en-Brie. The operation was scheduled for 17 July. Michel and her mother went with her to the hospital in Meaux. She wasn’t scared. The operation lasted a little more than two hours. When Annabelle woke up the following morning, through her window she could see blue sky and the wind in the trees. She barely felt anything. She wanted to see the scar on her abdomen, but didn’t dare ask the nurse. It was strange to think she was still the same woman, except that her reproductive organs had been removed. The word “ablation” hung in her mind for a moment before giving way to a more visceral image. They’ve gutted me, she thought, gutted me like a chicken.

She left the hospital a week later. Michel had written to Walcott to tell him that his departure had been postponed; after some vacillation, he agreed to stay at her parents’ house in her brother’s old room. Annabelle noticed that he and her mother had become closer while she had been in the hospital. Her older brother also dropped by more often, now that Michel was there. In fact they had nothing much to say to each other; Michel knew nothing about small businesses, and Jean-Pierre was completely ignorant as to the issues raised by research in molecular biology. Nevertheless, over a nightly aperitif they’d managed to establish a semi-illusory male bond. She needed to rest and to avoid lifting heavy objects, but at least she could now wash herself and eat normally. In the afternoons she would sit in the garden; Michel and her mother would pick strawberries or plums. It was strange, as if she were on vacation or a child again. She felt the sun caress her face and arms. More often than not she did nothing, though sometimes she did a little embroidery or made stuffed toys for her nephew and nieces. A psychiatrist in Meaux had given her a prescription for sleeping pills and some strong tranquilizers. For whatever reason, she slept a lot and her dreams were happy and peaceful; the mind is a very powerful thing, as long as it remains in its sphere. Michel lay beside her in bed, his hand on her waist, feeling her abdomen rise and fall regularly. The psychiatrist came to see her frequently, and muttered, worried, talked about “dissociation.” She had become very gentle, and her behavior a little strange; sometimes she would laugh for no reason, other times her eyes would suddenly fill with tears. Then she would take another Percodan.

After the third week she was allowed out, and would take short walks along the river or in the surrounding woods. It was August, and the weather was exceptionally beautiful: day after day, each one identically radiant, without so much as the murmur of a storm or anything that might signal an ending. Michel held her hand; often they would sit together on the bench beside the Grand Morin. The grass on the riverbank was scorched, almost white; in the shadow of the beech trees, the river wound on forever in dark green ripples. The world outside had its own rules, and those rules were not human.

3

On 25 August, a routine examination revealed metastases in the abdomen; under normal circumstances, she could expect it to spread. Radiation therapy was a possibility—in fact, it was the only possibility—but it was important to realize that it was an arduous treatment and the chances of success were only fifty percent.

The meal was a silent affair. “You’ll get better, darling,” said Annabelle’s mother, her voice trembling a little. Annabelle put her arm around her mother’s neck and pressed her forehead to hers; they sat like that for almost a minute. After her mother had gone to bed, she stayed in the living room, leafing through some books. Michel watched her every move from the armchair. “We could get a second opinion,” he said after a long silence. “Yes, we could,” she said lightly.

She could not make love—the scar was too fresh, too painful, but she held him in her arms for a long time. In the silence, she could hear him grinding his teeth. Once, as she stroked his face, she found it wet with tears. She stroked his penis gently; it was exciting and calming all at once. He took two Halcion and at last fell asleep.

At about three a.m. she got up, put on a dressing gown and went down to the kitchen. She rummaged in the dresser and found the bowl, inscribed with her name, that her godmother had given her for her tenth birthday. She emptied the contents of a tube of Rohypnol into the bowl, then added a little sugar and water. She didn’t feel anything, unless perhaps a very general, almost metaphysical sadness. That was life, she thought; her body had taken a turn which was unfair and unexpected, and now could no longer be a source of joy or pleasure. On the contrary, it would gradually but quite quickly become another source of pain and embarrassment to her and others. And so she would have to destroy her body. A big wooden clock loudly counted off the seconds; her mother had been given it by
her
mother, and she’d had it since before she got married. It was the oldest piece of furniture in the house. Annabelle added some more sugar to the bowl. She was far from accepting; life seemed to her like a bad joke, an unacceptable joke, but acceptable or not, that was what it was. In a few short weeks her illness had brought her to the feeling so common in the elderly: she did not want to be a burden to others. Toward the end of her adolescence, her life had speeded up, then there had been a long dull period. Now, at the end, everything was speeding up again.

Just before daybreak, as he turned over in bed, Michel noticed that Annabelle was gone. He dressed and went downstairs: her motionless body was lying on the sofa in the living room. Nearby, on the table, she had left a note. The first line read: “I prefer to die surrounded by those I love.”

The head of emergency services at the hospital in Meaux was a man of about thirty, with dark curly hair and an honest face; he immediately made a good impression on them. There was little chance that she would regain consciousness, he explained, but they could stay with her if they wished, he had no problem with that. Coma was a strange condition, and one which was poorly understood. It was probable that Annabelle was unaware of their presence. There was, however, some weak electrical activity in the brain, which had to correspond to some mental process, but as to what that process might be, nature was defiantly enigmatic. The medical prognosis was far from certain; there were cases where a patient remained in a coma for weeks, even months, before suddenly regaining consciousness; more often, unfortunately, coma slipped just as suddenly toward death. She was only forty, and at least they knew that her heart was strong; that was the only thing they could say for sure.

Day was breaking over the town. Sitting beside Michel, Annabelle’s brother shook his head and muttered. “It’s not possible . . . It’s not possible,” he repeated endlessly, as though the words themselves had some power. But it was, obviously. Anything was possible. A nurse walked past pushing a trolley full of rattling bottles of serum.

Later, the sun ripped through the clouds and the sky turned blue. It would be a beautiful day, as beautiful as the previous ones. Annabelle’s mother stood up with difficulty. “We should get some rest,” she said, struggling to control her voice. Her son rose too, his arms hanging limply by his sides, and followed her like a robot. Michel shook his head to indicate that he wasn’t coming. He didn’t feel in the least tired. In the moments that followed, he was strangely aware of the visible world. He was sitting on a plastic chair in a sunlit corridor. This wing of the hospital was very quiet. From time to time, a faraway door opened and a nurse came out and hurried toward another corridor. The noise of the town some floors below was greatly muted. In a state of complete mental detachment, he went over the events, the circumstances and the stages of the destruction of their lives. Seen in the frozen light of a restrictive past, everything seemed clear, conclusive and indisputable. Now it seemed unthinkable that a girl of seventeen should be so naïve; it was particularly unbelievable that a girl of seventeen should set so much store by love. If the surveys in magazines were to be believed, things had changed a great deal in the twenty-five years since Annabelle was a teenager. Young girls today were more sensible, more sophisticated. Nowadays they worried more about their exam results and did their best to ensure they would have a decent career. For them, going out with boys was simply a game, a distraction motivated as much by narcissism as by sexual pleasure. They later would try to make a good marriage, basing their decision on a range of social and professional criteria, as well as on shared interests and tastes. Of course, in doing this they cut themselves off from any possibility of happiness—a condition indissociable from the outdated, intensely close bonds so incompatible with the exercise of reason—but this was their attempt to escape the moral and emotional suffering which had so tortured their forebears. This hope was, unfortunately, rapidly disappointed; the passing of love’s torments simply left the field clear for boredom, emptiness and an anguished wait for old age and death. The second part of Annabelle’s life therefore had been much more dismal and sad than the first, of which, in the end, she had no memory at all.

Toward noon, Michel pushed open the door to her room. Her breathing was very shallow, the sheet covering her chest almost still—though, according to the doctor, it was sufficient for oxygenation. If her respiratory rate dropped further, they intended to put her on a respirator. For the time being, a drip was hooked up to her arm just above the elbow and an electrode fixed to her temple, that was all. A ray of sunlight crossed the immaculate sheet and lit a lock of her magnificent blonde hair. A little paler than usual, her face, eyes closed, seemed completely at peace. All fear seemed to have disappeared; to Michel, she had never looked so happy. It is true that he’d always had a tendency to confuse happiness with coma; nonetheless she seemed to him completely happy. He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead and her warm lips. It was too late, of course, but it was nice. He stayed in the room with her until nightfall. Back in the corridor, he opened a book of Buddhist meditations compiled by Dr. Evans-Wentz (the book had been in his pocket for some weeks; a small book with a dark red cover).

May all creatures in the east,

May all creatures in the west,

May all creatures in the north,

May all creatures in the south,

Be happy, and remain happy;

And may they live in friendship.

It wasn’t entirely their fault, he thought: they had lived in a painful world, a world of struggle and rivalry, vanity and violence; they had not lived in a peaceful world. On the other hand, they had done nothing to change it, had contributed nothing that might make it a better place. He should have given Annabelle a child, he thought, and then he remembered that he had, or tried to, that at least he had accepted the idea; and this thought filled him with joy. Now he began to understand the peace and gentleness he had felt in these last weeks. He could do nothing more now, as one could not battle against the empire of sickness and death; but at least for some weeks she must have felt loved.

If a man practices the thoughts of love

And does not abandon himself to wantonness;

If he severs the bonds of passion

And turns his gaze toward Faith,

Because he was able to practice love,

He will be born again in the sky a Brahma

And soon will merit deliverance

And forever inherit Nirvana.

If he does not kill nor think of harm,

Nor seek glory in the humiliation of others,

If he practices universal love

At his death will he have no thoughts of hatred.

In the evening, Annabelle’s mother came by to see if there was any change. No, there were no developments; deep coma could be a very stable condition, the nurse reminded her patiently, and it might be weeks before a prognosis could be made. She went in to see her daughter and after a minute came out sobbing. “I don’t understand . . .” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t understand how life can be like this. She was a lovely girl, you know, always very affectionate, she never gave me any trouble. She never complained, but I knew she wasn’t happy. She deserved better from life.”

She left shortly afterward, visibly shattered. Strangely, Michel was neither hungry nor tired. He paced up and down the corridor, then went down to the lobby. The West Indian at the information desk was doing a crossword; he nodded to him, then got a hot chocolate from the vending machine and walked to the windows. The moon hung between the buildings; a few cars drove along the avenue de Châlons. He knew enough about medicine to understand that Annabelle was but a whisper away from death. Her mother was right to refuse to understand; man is not made to grasp death, neither his own nor that of others. He walked up to the security guard and asked for a piece of paper; a little surprised, the man handed him a sheaf of hospital stationery. (Later, the letterhead helped Hubczejak identify this text among all the other papers at the Clifden house.) Some people cling fiercely to life; they leave it, as Rousseau said, with bad grace. Michel already knew that such would not be the case with Annabelle.

She was a child intended for happiness

And gave to everyone her heart’s treasure

She could have given her life for others,

Among the newborn of her bed.

By the cry of children,

By the blood of the race

Her ever-present dream

Will leave a trace

Written in time,

Written in space

Written on flesh

Forever sanctified

In the mountains, in the air

In the river waters clear,

And in the changed sky.

Now you are here

On your deathbed

Still in your coma

You love here still.

Our bodies will become cold, my Annabelle,

Simply present in the grass,

Such will be the death

Of every individual.

We will have loved little

In our human forms

Perhaps the sun, the rain on our graves,

The wind and frost

Will end all our pain.