The Last Life (37 page)

At my left, my grandmother presided in her tapestry chair, her left hand holding Etienne's. Beyond him, almost unseen, squatted Zohra. We were arranged in a U; the armchair directly opposite my grandfather, which would have closed the circle, remained unoccupied, as if awaiting my father. It was where he usually sat.

"Isn't this a precious day?" said my grandmother.

"Indeed," murmured Titine and the unknown lady—who I deduced must be the widow, Madame Darty, Titine's intimate friend and, later, the ladies' fourth at bridge—in unison.

"We were just telling your grandfather," said this woman to me in a deep voice, "that the flowers are all in bloom for his return."

"And the—mistral blowing," added Titine in her piccolo tremor, pausing midsentence like a feeble breeze herself.

"Eh?" My grandfather strove to lean forward in his chair. ("So," I thought, "they've taken his hearing as well.")

"The mistral," my mother repeated loudly. "It's blowing for you."

As if on cue, the wind swept around the building and set the geraniums on the verandah dancing.

"The good wind," my grandfather said. "We could do with more of it. I've missed it, these past months."

"Your apartment is so glorious," gushed Madame Darty, who, I was aware, spent the moments when attention was elsewhere scanning the room's contents with an appraising air. "Such a view!"

"You've not been here before?" I asked.

She shook her head. "But what a special occasion on which to be invited."

My grandmother smiled. "We should break the
mouna,
Titine, that you so generously brought." She nodded at Zohra, who withdrew wordlessly to the kitchen for this prize, and plates, and napkins. "Yet another treat we miss from the old life."

The ladies sighed; my grandfather scowled. A silence followed, in which my brother chose to wriggle, and to offer his version of speech. My grandmother and Madame Darty spoke at the same time, the latter with a nervous glance at Etienne and immediately away, as though it were impolite to acknowledge his presence.

"Of course you'll have cake too,
chen,
" my grandmother said, "with a nice glass of milk."

"You're rather a hero of mine," Madame Darty was blustering to my grandfather. "I'd have done exactly as you did, I'm sure. The young people today—let me tell you—I was visiting a friend recently, a widow like myself, but without resources. She lives in a part of town where I wouldn't usually go—"

"Ah—" breathed Titine. It was unclear whether she was adding to the conversation or merely gasping for air. Madame Darty chose to ignore her.

"And my car isn't new, but it is a nice car. Well, not a Mercedes, but a nice car. And as I was locking it—parked on the street, in broad daylight—a group of teenagers ambled up. They were—I hate to say it, but of course—they were Arabs." She said this in a stage whisper, with a glance towards the door to be sure Zohra wasn't there. "And one youth insulted me, and they circled the car as I walked away. I saw one of them kicking at the tires. I was afraid to say anything, afraid for my life."

"And for your car," said my mother, with exaggerated concern. Madame Darty nodded gravely.

"Was it stolen?" asked my grandmother. "Or vandalized?"

"Thank heaven, no. But these kids, they get their fun from terrorizing us. It's appalling."

"No respect," wheezed Titine. My brother chorded. Madame Darty made a visible effort not to look at him.

"But poor Madame Darty," said my mother to my grandfather, "has suffered worse than that. Just last week."

"Oh yes?"

"Oh yes. I was burgled." She shook her head. "I'm often out in the afternoon—anybody who watches our apartment building would know that, and—"

Zohra came in with the cake on a platter in one hand and a pile of plates in the other. She placed them on the coffee table in front of her mistress.

"Perhaps Titine would care to do the honors?"

Titine shook her head more perceptibly than it shook itself. "Please."

"Tea, I think, Zohra. And milk for Etienne. And a Coca-Cola?" My grandfather nodded. "A Coca-Cola for Monsieur."

My grandmother cut the
mouna
—a glorified brioche, more like bread than cake, with a hard-boiled egg, like an unexploded bomb, in its center—and I helped to distribute it, seizing the opportunity to claim my father's empty armchair for myself. All the while Madame Darty continued her tale of woe. She had come home and thought nothing of the fact that the door wasn't bolted—"except, 'Silly me,' you know, as one does"—and worried only when she felt a draft, and noticed that the door to the balcony was ajar. The living room was fine, just fine; but then she went into the bedroom and "
MOM
Dieu!
It gives me a turn even now!": drawers open, clothes all over the floor.

"I'd interrupted the thief, you see, before they could get through the whole place. But my rings! My necklaces!" She called the police; it was determined that the thief had entered from the balcony, after breaking into the uninhabited apartment next door. ("Delicious cake, Titine," murmured my grandmother, an insubstantial block to Madame Darty's torrent.) "And my neighbors had only been gone three weeks. But they knew. The thief knew!"

Her greatest revelations she saved for last. "They think the thief must have been hiding on one of the landings as I went by—can you imagine? In the dark, like a cockroach." And then, "The policeman said he thought it must be a woman. And the minute he said it, I thought 'Yes, that's right,' because she went straight for my bedroom, for the precious, personal things. Not a glance at the living room. No interest in the silver service. No, she went for the jugular, where it would hurt me most."

Everyone made aggrieved noises, their mouths full of the
mouna.
Only Madame Darty's portion remained untouched. "Just waiting on the tea, dear," she said, patting Titine's knee. "I'm sure it's delicious; it just looks a little dry to me. So anyway"—to the broader company—"that's when the policeman informed me that there is a band—a band—of Nigerian women on the loose, burgling houses and apartments all over town."

"A band?" I asked.

"That's what he said."

"But if they haven't caught them, how does he know?"

"He said so."

"But how could he know how many there are, or whether they're Nigerian or, or Italian, or British or even French? I mean, if they've not been caught?"

My mother flashed a warning frown.

Madame Darty lowered her dark brow, and spoke sternly. "We must, I think, trust the police to know their business."

"Indeed," said my grandmother who, having put aside her plate, was feeding crumbly bits to Etienne as discreetly as possible. Zohra arrived with a tray, and gave my grandfather his Coca-Cola first. He seemed to have been all but dozing while Madame Darty narrated, and now sat up again, brushing the remnants of the
mouna
from his shirt. He slurped his soda greedily, without waiting for the tea to be poured.

"It's a terrible worry," my mother offered vaguely. "Crime."

"One of so many, nowadays," my grandmother added.

"And yet they set about arresting the wrong people," said Madame Darty, with a broad smile at my grandfather. He was looking into the bottom of his glass, as if surprised to find it empty, and did not notice.

"Zohra," whispered my grandmother, "another drink for Monsieur."

Zohra leaped up again from her little perch and took his glass. "He's very thirsty," she mouthed at me on her way out.

Tea was drunk, and pleasantries were exchanged. Madame Darty seemed to have exhausted herself and allowed Titine to grumble instead about her health ("The spring is very bad, for my lungs, because of the pollen. But nothing compared to the summer, with its terrible heat and no wind..."). In time, the larger woman sat up straight, revealing the fullness of her bosom, and announced, "I think I should take Titine home now. You'll all be wanting a rest before the other guests come."

"You're welcome to stay," offered my grandmother. "It's just a few old friends."

Titine, aghast, quivered. "Oh no, I couldn't. I couldn't breathe. It gets much worse in the evening. Besides, Jeanne will take me, and you want to get home before dark, don't you dear?"

Madame Darty shuddered. "It's spooky, the stairwell now. Thinking of the thief, hiding there. I wonder if I'll ever get over it."

The ladies' leave-taking was laborious. Zohra struggled to lift the oxygen tank. "It's on wheels, my dear, just roll it, you know—roll it along," exhorted Madame Darty, as if to a child, her own bulk hovering instead over Titine who, alas, did not have wheels and teetered unsteadily from one item of furniture to the next, clutching with her clawlike fingers at every available support. Zohra was asked to bring a chair onto the landing, so that Titine might sit in wait for the elevator. My grandmother and mother supervised from behind, offering advice and banter as the little convoy progressed.

"Do you need Sagesse to go with you, down to the car? Can she help?" my mother suggested

Madame Darty looked me up and down. "I think we can manage. But thank you."

When they had been bundled into the elevator, we retreated back to the living room, where both my brother and my grandfather appeared to be snoozing.

"Let's clear up these plates, Zohra," urged my grandmother. "Quietly."

"Sweet of Titine to bring the
mourn,
" said my mother.

"Yes, indeed. Perhaps you'd like to take it home? I've never cared for it myself, although it's a lovely memory. When I was a little girl, all the women carried their cakes to the baker, to the ovens. Streams of women parading in the streets on the mornings before Easter or Pentecost, each with a white cloth over her tray. All those lovely white cloths, pristine, so preciously borne. It was very competitive, you know, whose
mouna
was superior. I like the idea of it, rather than the thing itself. And Jacques—well, he'd rather have a rum baba any day."

"Maybe Zohra would like it?" I suggested.

"Maybe." My grandmother had evidently not thought of this. "Although I think they like stickier cakes, as a rule."

My grandfather opened his eyes, looked startled.

"Sleepy,
chéri
? Want to lie down?" She turned to my mother: "A lifetime of siestas and we're positively flattened without them."

My mother smiled. She stood behind Etienne's chair and rocked it slightly, as if to soothe his sleep; but succeeded instead in waking him. His grey eyes rolled, birdlike, in his cocked head, seeking the source of motion. My mother stroked his hair, squeezed his nape between her fingers.

"Graw," he said. "Graaaw."

"Can the next batch not be cancelled?" asked my grandfather, struggling to sit taller in his chair.

"I don't think so—I thought—you see—I'm sorry,
chéri.
" My grandmother looked truly stricken. "It's a terrible mistake. I don't know what to do—"

"It's all right." He heaved to his feet, a little man. He ran a hand over his hairless dome, let his palm rest on his cranium like a blanket. "I'll go to the bedroom and read for a while. I won't sleep—it's too late. But I may or may not feel up to it. I may or may not come out to join the party."

"As you wish. Of course, as you wish." My grandmother was turning very red and white, foreseeing social disaster. "I never would've invited them—but we talked about it, remember, and you said—"

"I know what I said. But I'm tired." My grandfather was whining. I had never before known him, or imagined him, to do so. "I'll hear the doorbell," he said. "I might come, but don't count on me. Just say I'm very tired. It's true."

But you've been resting for six months, I thought again to myself; I did not say it. My mother and grandmother, wide-eyed, watched his progress through the hall. Zohra, at my elbow, shook her head. "Terrible. It's terrible what they've done to him," she muttered.

"Well. Well. We'd better get this place cleaned up." My grandmother clattered the plates together and made for the kitchen. "We'll get through this evening anyway, my dears, now won't we? It's nothing, compared to what's already been."

My grandfather did emerge, just briefly, but spruce, smiling, in a jacket and tie. He waited till the middle of the party, and passed around the brightly illuminated room kissing the women and shaking the men's hands.

"You look very well," the ladies congratulated him, one after another.

"Ah, I thank you. But appearances are deceptive. In fact, I am very tired. Now, if you'll excuse me...," and on to the next. Greetings accomplished, a toast was delivered, an honor at which my grandfather blushed—his ears turned particularly pink—and showed his teeth. He thanked the assembled company, the doughty matrons in their wafty dresses and the men in their natty blazers: "It is a privilege to see you all, and wonderful to be home. But I am very tired, alas. Now, if you will excuse me—" and he withdrew again.

When the last guests had gone, my grandmother found her husband at her dressing table, his forearms planted among her lipsticks and perfume bottles, perusing a book of Spanish verbs and reciting the foreign words under his breath.

"Not too tired for that, my love?" she asked, as close to reproach as she ever came with him.

"It requires a very different sort of energy," he said. "The energy of solitude, which I now have in abundance."

Turning away from him, my grandmother began, very softly, to cry; but he, immersed in the subjunctive, did not know it.

Zohra helped my mother and me with Etienne's chair, helped to lift him into the front seat. In return, we drove her home, to her salmon-colored HLM, sandwiched among half a dozen other such buildings, clad in turquoise or canary yellow, on the far side of town. We dropped her at a traffic circle, in a soapy pool of fluorescent street light, and watched her slip into shadow, a little bowlegged elf, rolling from side to side as she walked, disappearing into the black maw of the development, a white plastic bag containing the remains of the
mourn
swinging at her elbow.