Theory of Remainders (9 page)

“I see, I see,” Hervé was saying.

Philip tested his hypothesis by turning the conversation around and quizzing Hervé about his own work. Yes, he realized, this was the way for the conversation to flow. Hervé prattled on with no help, a conversational machine in perpetual motion. He had helped to found an infertility clinic in Rouen, and he had the entire history of that endeavor at the ready. “Seventeen years ago,” he began, “we were on the cutting edge. In France infertility was taboo. People wouldn’t talk about it with their doctors. Instead, they’d engage in all manner of hocus-pocus.” He laughed. “Maybe you know of the sculpture of Victor Noir, in Paris?”

Philip allowed how he did not.

“A handsome fellow, killed in a duel. The funeral sculpture shows him lying on the ground, equipped with, shall we say, a special
bulge
in a particular area. Legend has that if women touch it with their lips, they’ll be pregnant within the year.”

“I have a hard time imagining women kissing a sculpture in the cemetery.”

Hervé gave a sly smile. “Who said anything about kissing?”

On he went with facts and figures about infertility. Did Philip know that forty-seven percent of cases concerned the man? That it could be tied to stress and insomnia? In France the birth rate had been dropping—though not as much as in Italy, where in a hundred years all you’d find were cats!

“And yet,” Philip said, “you and Yvonne only have one child, isn’t that true?”

“I see what you’re driving at. The cobbler should start by fixing his own shoes, is that it? But you see, Philip, reproduction is also a matter of choice . . .” On he went.

Philip’s attention drifted back at the mention of Yvonne. “At first she wanted to live in Yvetot,” Hervé was saying. “But, as you might imagine, it’s rather hard to move here once you’ve lived in Rouen.”

“Why is that?”

Hervé gave a condescending look. Only small children or Americans could not know the answer to such a question. “Let’s just say that Yvetot only exists thanks to its location between more important places.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. The town was drying up after the textile industry collapsed . . .” He prattled on about the steady deterioration through the decades. Yvetot no longer produced anything of value, and now, like so many other small towns, focused on tourism. “So,” he concluded with brio, “like certain mature mollusks that cease eating and survive only by digesting their own bodies, Yvetot has undertaken the moribund process of devouring its past.” His polished delivery of this line suggested how often he had used it.

Philip had a pretty good idea now of the kind of man he was dealing with. Hervé was a know-it-all. He’d be able to crank out answers about any topic handed to him, whether it be pork-belly futures in Chicago or the history of Belgian missionaries in the Congo.

“You should meet Margaux,” Hervé was saying. He craned about at the clusters of people. “She’s around here somewhere. Delightful girl. Terribly good at school. Took first this year in science, you know.”

No, Philip hadn’t known.

“Of course girls are better at science than boys. The boys don’t concentrate enough at that age. But they catch up later. You see, what happens is . . .” Hervé revved up another lengthy explanation.

“You know,” Philip interrupted, “I’m fully aware of how awkward this situation is.”

Hervé stopped and coughed. “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“You don’t need to pretend. You’ve been perfectly decent about it,
Hair-vay
,” Philip continued. “But don’t worry. You don’t need to entertain me. You don’t have to distract me or keep me from Yvonne. In fact, you don’t need to worry about me at all. I’ll be gone tomorrow, and that will be good for everyone.”

Hervé suppressed a scowl and adjusted his sport coat. “I see.”

“I just thought it would be best for us to be direct.”

“Certainly. I appreciate your frankness. Well, I hope your visit has been worthwhile, Philip. Perhaps it will have helped you to turn the page.”

The expression galled him. “Perhaps.”

Hervé stuck out his hand. “I suppose we may never see each other again.” He didn’t seem distressed at the prospect.

“No. Probably not.”

As Hervé moved on, Philip plunged himself into a club chair placed between two rooms, deep in the shadows. On one side the old-timers had sunk into overstuffed furniture. On the other, children were building a fortress out of sofa cushions. Philip eavesdropped on the various threads of conversation, but his language skills slipped as fatigue and jet lag overtook him. He felt like a phantom, barely visible to those in attendance, planted halfway between the geriatric wing and the daycare.

The younger sister, Flora, passed through, chatting with him briefly before leaving to check on little Georges, who had reportedly gorged himself on the chocolates someone had brought, and who now writhed with a tummy ache. Évelyne drifted by a couple of times, bony shoulder blades jutting from the open back of her black dress, nodding politely to Philip. When she finally stopped by his chair, he knew better than to take it as an act of charity. She smelled faintly of mothballs.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked with a patronizing smile.

“Not particularly.” He saw no reason to be coy.

“Have you said all your goodbyes?”

“Are you that anxious to get rid of me?”

“I’m just thinking how uncomfortable it must be to linger somewhere you don’t belong.” There it was again: the sentiment Monsieur Bécot had expressed.

“Tell you what, Évelyne,” he said as he rose from his seat. “Let me freshen your glass. What are you drinking?”
Toe of frog?
he wanted to ask.
Eye of newt?
But he didn’t know how to say these in French. He settled for: “Some kind of witch’s brew?”

It wasn’t a mature response, and it wouldn’t help, but he couldn’t always play the professional. Sometimes the doctor was in, and sometimes he was out. He left Évelyne grimacing, and in the middle of the next room, he crossed paths with her gutless husband, Sylvain, who shrugged a smile in his direction, as if to suggest that he didn’t have the necessary authorization to visit.

Wine and liquor flowed in abundance. He breezed by the table set up as a bar, a rainbow of liquids and labels: Nuits-Saint-Georges, Sancerre, Pernod, Armagnac, Calvados, Poire Williams. There were times he still thirsted for a drink, but this wasn’t one of them. What with the fatigue and the crush of memories, alcohol would finish him off. Besides, what the hell had become of Roger? It was just like his former brother-in-law to insist that Philip stay for dinner and then not show up.

He ensconced himself in another chair, even more remote, and attempted to vanish. He looked at his watch and wondered what time it was in Boston, but his brain failed to complete the calculation.

In the end it was Yvonne who came by. He watched her cross the living room, stopping twice to exchange words with guests. During these brief halts she shot a smile in his direction to make sure he understood she was en route. The brown suit from the morning was gone, replaced by a sleeveless blouse and a black skirt that stopped at the tops of her calves. Her dark hair was probably dyed these days, and he thought there was a bit more makeup than before. Still, if gravity had taken its toll on Yvonne, you couldn’t tell by looking at her breasts or hips, or the underside of her arms. At least from a distance she looked remarkably preserved, while he himself had grown old.

She settled onto the arm of his chair, her thigh near his elbow. “Are you very drunk yet?” she asked him in French.

He inhaled her fragrance. It was hard to imagine that Yvonne and Évelyne were related. “No,” he replied. “Not yet.”

“I am,” she confided. “Drunk, that is. What a horrible week.”

“I can imagine.” He paused. “I’m terribly sorry about your mother, you know. I always liked her.”

“And she doted on you.”

He hunted for something to add, but his mind was as empty as an old cupboard. Finally he turned up a crumb. “When is Roger going to get here? I’m still on Boston time, and I’m not going to last much longer.”

She cracked a smile. “As you may recall, my baby brother can be a little unpredictable.”

“What was all that about this morning? What’s up with him and Élisabeth?”

Her expression clouded. “Bit of a quagmire, really. I don’t fully understand what’s going on. Roger puts on all these airs, but I don’t think he’s very happy. You should ask him about it.”

“That would require his presence.”

“Philip,” she said suddenly, “you’re coming apart at the seams.”

He flinched. Was it so obvious?

“There, on your sleeve. All those loose threads.”

He looked down at his cuff. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I lost a button.”

“You should trim them.”

He waved her away. “Really, don’t—”

“You’re always so ragged.”

He was about to explain that he didn’t typically travel through airport security with scissors, that he hadn’t had time to worry about buttons and shoelaces, and that a few extra threads were the last of his concerns, when suddenly Yvonne leaned down, her blouse gaping at the neck. He caught his breath as she drew the sleeve up to her parted lips. There was a flash of teeth as she bit and pulled, tugging at the fiber.

“There you go,” she said, surrendering his arm to him. “That tidies it up a bit.”

Philip drew back his hand, coughed and looked away.

Two children raced into the room, stopping against the liquor table and making the bottles rattle before they charged out the other door.

“It’s hard to see you again,” Yvonne said.

He nodded. “I feel like I’ve stepped backwards in time.”

“Yes,” she mused. “But perhaps it’s good. To let us close the door. Once and for all.”

“Funny,” he said, his lips pursing. “That’s more or less what Hervé told me.”

“Don’t be too hard on him. He’s not in an easy spot, either.”

Maybe. Philip wasn’t ready to give Hervé the benefit of the doubt. He guided the conversation into other territory, and soon Yvonne was telling him about her position at the University. Then she recounted the story of Hervé’s creation of the infertility clinic, and in her words it sounded less entrepreneurial and more noble. Still, every detail strained his patience. He rubbed his temples. The well of his French was running dry.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything seems to have worked out pretty well for you.”

Yvonne agreed.

“And you have a daughter,” he added bluntly. “Don’t forget about her.”

She paused. “That’s right. Have you met Margaux yet?” She looked about the room. “I’m not sure where she’s run off to.”

How, he wondered, could she speak of daughters so nonchalantly? “Yes,” he said. “I’d say you’ve made quite a wonderful little life for yourselves.”

Yvonne’s posture stiffened. “Do you hold that against me?”

“Not at all. It’s just that we’re different that way, you and I. I can’t shut things away, close them off. You were always so much better at that.”

Now Yvonne was standing. “It was fifteen years ago, Philip.”

“Fourteen. And ten months.”

He’d expected—perhaps hoped—to get a rise out of her, but instead it was a pained expression that formed on Yvonne’s face. In fact, perhaps it was even pity? His neck flushed with heat. “At least I haven’t forgotten,” he said.

“And you think I have?”

He crossed his arms.

Her face contracted. Then she paused and forced herself to relax. She almost never lost her cool, after all, which Philip had counted among her most infuriating traits.

“You and I, we did what we could,” she said to him. Her voice was collected.