Theory of Remainders (32 page)

The hollowness of the old house deepened after Roger’s exit, and the dust covers on the furniture aggravated its emptiness. He already felt like a ghost in Yvetot, and the prospect of a night in the house of his dead mother-in-law, in the very bed he used to share with his ex-wife in the guestroom, didn’t help. The structure was a century and a half old, and it emitted its share of creaks and groans.

Over the mantel hung the portrait of old Guillaume, still judging Philip with his unswerving severity. The Aubert patriarch felt like France in miniature, the pattern of kings and emperors trickling down into the very structure of families. To think that some people believed that a revolution had changed all that!

He toured the deserted rooms, reacquainting himself with the house he had once known so well. Years ago it had been the hub of the Aubert clan—an always lively place filled with high-spirited people. Now it had gone as still as a museum, and Philip tried not to disturb the relics. He limited himself to the kitchen, the bathroom, and the guestroom on the second floor. Thanks to this rule he resisted the urge to venture up to the very top, to the little bedroom Sophie used to occupy when visiting Anne-Madeleine, the room later taken over by Margaux.

The only signs of recent activity appeared in the living room, now cluttered with boxes. Yvonne had started the sorting process as they prepared the house for sale. Behind the doors of the buffet, he discovered a vast selection of liquor and liqueurs, all the raw materials for social gatherings. The sight of the whiskey triggered a pinch in the back of his throat. But he pressed the buffet doors closed again, sealing that vault.

Why had Roger wanted him here, of all places?

He checked his watch. On top of everything else he had the appointment with Melanie Patterson later this evening—the call they’d been building up to—and he would need to be ready. How could he hold a phone when his hands still tingled from the brawl with Morin, from the weight of Yvonne in his arms? Everything had turned unreal, impossible. Roger himself had become opaque.

If he was to give Melanie his full attention, he needed to purge his mind of the day’s events. In the guest bedroom he played back the recording of the meeting with Morin, transcribing phrases into the blue diary, noting changes of tone. When he came to foreign languages, he marked down what little he could, trying to capture Morin’s unusual pronunciation, adding the translations Yvonne had given him afterwards.
There are borders one shouldn’t cross
, Morin had insisted, and Philip couldn’t agree more. But everyone seemed to be crossing them.

At the same time, images of Yvonne unspooled in his mind: her ugly look at Morin, the gaping blouse, the blood streaming from her lip. He was still astonished by it all. Something had been unleashed inside of her. It worried him and thrilled him, which he knew to be foolishness. He had no claim on her. It was Hervé who had everything—even a daughter.

He ran his hands through his hair. Fathers and daughters, sons and fathers, husbands and wives. It all came down to this.
Du bist nicht mein Vater
, Morin had said. Along with Melanie:
You’re not my fucking father
. Or even Margaux:
Does that make you my stepfather?
But no, Philip was childless and orphaned, no one’s father, no one’s son. Even Guillaume Aubert, dead and gone, hanging over the mantel, was more of a father than he.

A knot formed in his stomach. There was one possible connection, one relationship he didn’t want to acknowledge. Filial rather than paternal.
We’re not so different
,
you and I
, Morin had said. An absurd statement, but one that also rang true. The sentence had lingered in his memory, and his mind gnawed at the words patiently like an old dog with a bone.

He forced himself to concentrate on his notes. He saw now how Morin had bolted in new directions, ducking into different languages, leaving Philip dizzy with unexpected detours that led to side streets, and from there into country lanes and dirt roads, through the innumerable Sorquainvilles of a deranged mind.

When he replayed the passage with Morin’s English accent—or a wild blend of British tinged with French and humming S’s—he tried to transcribe it phonetically.
I’m terribly sorry, chums
, he heard, writing “teddibly” to show how each R was tapped. “
Zawry
, chums,” he wrote. “I’m
nawt
at
libuhty
to
discuzz
thizz
any
fawther
. No
fawther
a-toll
.”

And above all the others came the nagging question: Why, when Philip had prepared to strike him, had Morin not defended himself? He could have protested or cried out. And yet he had practically leaned in for the blow. Only one explanation seemed plausible. Behind all the posturing and arrogance, Édouard Morin wanted to be punished.

Seventeen

It was midnight when he called from the guest bedroom in the Aubert home, family photographs staring at him from the walls, a vase of dusty silk flowers parked in the center of a doily on the oak dresser. A window rattled from the wind. He had the cell phone in his hand, the diary of notes laid open on the bedspread before him. He closed his eyes as he reviewed his plan. When he opened them, he was ready.

The phone rang eight times before Melanie picked up.

“So,” she said. “Another long-distance call. You should double my rate.”

“Hello Melanie. How are you doing today?”

“Oh, I’m great. That’s why I have to keep talking to a shrink. All my friends think I’m a nut job. So does my dad. So, yeah, I’m pretty much hunky-dory.”

Philip paid less attention to the words than to the intonation, the subtle inflections in the timbre of her voice. The barbed wire was up. It would be hard to get close. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re not a nut job.”

“Sorry, but you’re not exactly, like,
objective
. You get paid to say that.”

“You’re not a nut job,” he repeated. “You just don’t know what you want. You’re confused.”

“And I suppose you’re going to straighten me all out. Good luck with that little project. Send me a card when you finish.”

He figured she was still mad at him for the last time. While he considered his options, the wind kicked up again outside, and beams creaked in the attic.

“How are things at home?” he asked.

“What about you?” she said, her voice flat. “How’s everything in French-land?”

He wondered how hard to push. “Well,” he began, “if you really want to know, it’s a rather barbaric place. At least the little corner of it that I’ve been occupying.”

“Not much of a vacation, huh?”

The images of the past forty-eight hours filed through his mind. “You could say that.”

“And that thing you were trying to fix?”

“Not going well, I’m afraid.”

“How come?”

There she was again, prying away. “It’s complicated, Melanie,” he said.

“Meaning you’re not going to tell me, right?”

He sighed. “I can’t get into this. It’s not—”

“If you can’t even fix yourself, I don’t know how you expect to fix me.”

She was already starting to irritate him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Melanie.”

“And you don’t know how to listen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“People try to tell you things, but you don’t even hear them.”

His eyes narrowed. “What don’t I hear?” he asked. “Give me an example.”

“Give me an example,” she repeated mockingly. “Right. Like you need proof.”

Taunting was the last thing Philip was in the mood for. He’d gotten his fill of it from Édouard Morin. “This is going nowhere, Melanie. Maybe we should just try again some other time, when you’re ready to—”

“It’s all because of the girl, isn’t it?” she blurted out.

The words caught his breath. He was sitting bolt upright, the phone clenched hard. “How do you know about that?” he demanded.

“Like it’s not obvious.”

“Who told you?” he snapped. “How do you know about Sophie?”

“Is that her name?”

“How do you know about this?” he said, his voice rising.

She snorted. “You don’t have to be a genius. It’s
always
a girl. What’s the matter? Don’t you even go to the movies?”

He drew the phone away from his ear and tried to ease his breathing. There it was, his example of how poorly he listened, how quick he was to project his own thoughts on other people’s words. Everything was blurring together.

She spoke again. “So what is she, some long-lost girlfriend?”

His eyes fell on the images hanging on the bedroom wall, family photos, peopled with faces he didn’t wish to see. Even from picture frames on the night table, eyes looked up. There was nowhere safe to turn.

Another gust of wind pressed against the house.

“What’s going on?” she was saying. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Who’s Sophie?”

He gritted his teeth. “We’re not talking about this, Melanie.”

“She must have really gotten under your skin, right?”

“Knock it off, Melanie. It’s ancient history.”

“How ancient?”

“
Very
ancient. Time to talk about you now.”

“And this thing you’re trying to fix, it has to do with the girl, right?”

He rolled his eyes. He saw what was going on. She didn’t want to talk about her father, so she’d latched onto another story, one dealing with another person’s pain.

“So now you’re trying to get her back?” She paused for an answer, and when none came, she forged ahead. “I bet she doesn’t want a thing to do with you, does she? And I bet you really miss her. Don’t you?” She paused before prompting him again. “Don’t you?”

He rubbed his temple. Such incessant digging. But she was just a young girl trying to understand affection. Underneath the sarcasm and jabs, Melanie Patterson wanted to believe that something not foul might exist between a man and a woman. She hungered for this possibility.

He wasn’t going to let her into the private territory of his life, the part staked with no trespassing signs. But he could give her the general sense of the landscape.

“Yes, Melanie,” he said, feeling his throat swell. “I miss her.”

There was a silence, and Philip knew she was absorbing this confession of emotion. When she spoke, he heard an ache in her voice.

“So . . . what are you going to do?”

He cast about for the vaguest possible formulation. “I’m trying to talk to a man who knows something I need to learn.”

“Something that will help you?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“And he won’t tell you?”

Philip paused. “He wants to say something, but I think he . . . doesn’t know how to express it.”

The line went quiet, long enough that Philip feared the connection had been lost.

“Like me,” she breathed.

“What?” he flinched. “No. Not like you, Melanie.” Any comparison between Édouard Morin and Melanie Patterson was unthinkable, repulsive. “Not at all like you.”

“And how’s it going with this man?”

“Not well. Not well at all.”