29 THE PRESENCE OF ABSENCE
29
T HE P RESENCE OF A BSENCE
She read the letter every day. She pictured the circumstances in which poor Damien had written it. How scared and cornered he must have felt to say such profound things with a steady hand. Soon, she knew snippets by memory. Whole fragments Margaux had traced with her finger. When she read them, they furrowed within the folds of her brain. There were days, in the lackluster mood of the Dutronc apartment, when his frightened words came to her without prompting. She would say them to herself, and she’d hear Damien’s voice.
With the way things are shaping up, I’ll make it out. Everything happens so quickly, and I fear I may not be able to tell you how much I love you again. If I’m writing to you, Margaux, my Margaux, it’s because I’m scared. Very scared I may be next.
On a day that had more sun than rain, she hardened her heart and grasped on to the most helpful sentences of the letter:
You’re very young, you are. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t let these people run it. Go your own way. Always go your own way. Try to be happy. Better said, be happy. Do it, even if it’s for me.
Not even Hitler will be eternal.
And when the day comes, when the barbarism ends, I’ll want only to be with you. To live it. So that the two of us, if you’re willing, can start a family.
Margaux, my duckling ... Don’t ever be ashamed.
You are my life .
And then came the end of the letter. With those two words that tormented her.
Always yours.
It sounded like a formality, but she was convinced it wasn’t. After a whole letter full of heart and bravery, Damien wouldn’t have said goodbye in such an ordinary way. It wasn’t his style. There was a middle ground between politeness and sending her off with the same expression he could’ve used with any ordinary friend. Or maybe he couldn’t continue his honesty and it was his way of saying “I give up”—Margaux eliminated this option out of all of them. “Always yours” had an intention that obsessed her. The “always” as an adverb held the feeling of eternity, which on the one hand she liked, but on the other hand, when taken as a goodbye, it terrified her. She even looked for the entry in the dictionary to see if it had another possible meaning. “Always” combined all of what’s past with what’s to come. And this was when she began to obsess over an idea, one that didn’t let her live in peace. In this future, this “always” from this time forward, would she be with or without Damien? With his return or just his memory? The love would be the same, but life wouldn’t. “Always yours” was, in the end, a way of giving her an order: Resist.
First, she counted the days she hadn’t seen him. Then, the weeks. A month after his arrest, she thought for the first time that she’d never see him again. The presence of absence at all hours was crueler than anything else, maybe even more than death, but she didn’t want to think about that. Every time the madness attacked, she banished it immediately. She kept her worries “on a short leash and muzzled.” She’d always heard her father say that, and she tried to practice it herself. In the battle against sad thoughts, however, she was used to losing. No one could say that she, a girl, hadn’t struggled. Only two words, seemingly so simple—“always yours”—and she hadn’t stopped thinking about it for several dark weeks.
In all that time, Margaux didn’t touch the oboe case. She didn’t try putting together Damien’s instrument, instead waiting for him to be the one to return and touch it. But the months blurred together, news never came, and there were no tears left for her to cry. The days were sad. The nights long. She slept, as teenagers do, but her nightmares consumed her. There were bad ones, and there were worse ones. Every night, old ghosts. Wicked soldiers with the skin of Barrabas stood before her and knocked the heels of their boots like the shriek of a Romani dance. Soldiers pulled Damien by the hair and pushed his head into a bathtub of cloudy water until he drowned. Spiders crawled up her legs, and she didn’t have the energy to brush them off. Her whole body itched, and she scratched until she drew blood. And then she’d wake up sweaty and with an inconsolable sorrow. Her lover’s face faded a little more each day. In her dreams and her memories. She couldn’t handle it. And she cursed herself for not having a photo of him. She remembered his black curls, his smiles, his astute eyes, and the taste of each kiss on her lips. But each day, the outline was more faded, and details began to disappear. This loss of definition was a slow torture for her.
She still had, of course, the time they’d spent together. The oboe, the music, the classes, The Wrong Man , and the day they’d told each other the most loving things.
“Have you ever swum in the Seine?” Damien asked her after a lesson.
“In the Seine? You’re crazy.”
“You couldn’t guess how many people are on the bank of the river past pont du Carrousel on the nicest of days.”
“Germans, I’m guessing.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so ... From the little clothes I do see when I walk past, they don’t look like uniforms. When I walk to the theater, I see them swimming, and I want to join.”
“The water must be cold.”
“Some people swim, and some chat or sunbathe. Do you have a bathing suit?”
“Me? Here?”
“Do you have one or not? Look how beautiful this afternoon is. We still have three hours of sunlight left. If we run now ...”
“Seriously?” Margaux needed to know if Damien was pulling her leg.
“Do you have a bathing suit or not?” he asked again with a sneaky smile.
Margaux ran to her parents’ room, and she tried on one of her mother’s two-piece bathing suits that she liked. It fit her like a glove, and she left it on under her dress.
“And what are you going to wear?” Margaux shouted hoarsely from her parents’ bedroom.
“That’s my problem. Hurry up.”
“You sound like my dad, always in a hurry.”
They rushed down the five flights and left Montmartre on their bikes, pedaling next to each other until they made it to the river near the Louvre. They biked along the bank, and before crossing the bridge, they dismounted and left their bikes next to a tree. Holding hands, they descended the stairs leading to the basin. The blessed beach with its hard stones.
“I didn’t know this existed,” Margaux said.
The men who’d been there the longest—at a glance, there were three times more men than women—had turned the tree bed farthest from the river into their own plots of land. They’d laid out a towel and lazed around in the sun. In the water were a few people who were fussing, and others who suffered the cold in silence.
“Are you going to swim?” Margaux asked.
“I’m going to dive in headfirst.”
“Damien, please. That’s very difficult.”
“Should we sit here?”
Margaux took off her dress and discreetly made sure her breasts remained inside her bathing suit. Her matching bottoms had the same tiger print as the top.
“Do you like it?”
Damien had no choice but to look her over. He’d never seen her with so little clothing.
“It does a lot for you,” he said nonchalantly, as he finished unbuttoning his shirt.
“Well, I stole it from my mother. Don’t tell her.”
“Who? Me?”
He left on his underwear. Tight, black boxers. They were, more or less, similar to the bathing suits belonging to a majority of the men on the beach. Some spoke German. Others, who weren’t as blond, refrained from saying anything out of caution or because they were by themselves. Margaux and Damien weren’t the only couple. Maybe the youngest, yes. And like the rest, they did what all lovers intended on doing there: talk.
The stone ground was red hot, and in order to avoid burning themselves, they shared the only towel they’d brought with them. A white one that Margaux had grabbed from the wardrobe at home, one she didn’t think anyone would miss if she didn’t bring it back. They sat next to each other, their thighs touching, with a view of the swimmers and passersby on the opposite bank of the river. Beyond them, the gothic crest of Saint-Germain-des-Prés peeked out, aligned with the dome of Saint-Sulpice in a distant plane. Behind them, the sun informed them it had yet to retire but hinted that they should leave nothing unsaid, because once the golden hour passed, it was time to go. This was the custom.
“What are your favorite views of the city?” Damien asked.
“Oof ...” Margaux had never thought about it. “From the top of Montmartre, maybe, because those are the ones I’ve seen the most, or from the top of the tower of Notre-Dame. I went up once with my parents. Maybe it’s the memory that makes it beautiful to me.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to the top of Notre-Dame.”
“You should hurry to see it. You never know when they’ll drop a bomb.”
“Notre-Dame? It’s indestructible, Margaux. There’s no one who can bring it to the ground.”
“What about you? What’s your favorite view?”
“This one. With you.”
“I like hearing that, but—”
“But it’s true. Here, with this downward perspective. Sunken, hidden by the river. There’s a point of humility to the city. If you look at it from the Sacré-Coeur, you can see so many things at such a distance that you never end up knowing where to look. From up there, you have a bird’s-eye view, a view of superiority, of total domination. I prefer this. A discreet Paris. Life in its details.” He looked at her from the side. “Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, perhaps ...”
Margaux ran her hand on his thigh to swipe off an ant. Now that her hand had landed—his thigh was hairier and stronger than she’d imagined—she let two fingers walk down his knee, tickling him and moving back up.
“Sometimes I wonder what Paris will be like when they’re not here,” he said.
“Who?”
“These little Germans,” he whispered.
“Do you think they won’t be here forever? I don’t remember what the city was even like before.”
“You’re so young.”
“And you’re stuck-up.” She checked him with her shoulder.
Damien looked at her defiantly. When she turned to face him, he gave her a quick kiss. Not wanting to be taken for less, she returned the affection. They had never kissed in front of so many people. It felt like no one was paying attention.
“I was thinking, Margaux ... What if they never go away? And if the occupation is permanent? Would you come with me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s escape. Let’s flee, you and me. I think I have a way to ... I’ve thought about it many times, and I have a plan. I know how to get to Toulouse without them catching us. And once there, it’s whatever you want.”
“Dami, my love, have you thought about me and you ...?”
“We’d live as musicians. They’ll want us somewhere. And if not, we’ll do something else. It doesn’t matter what. I’m only interested in who I go with. And it’s you. I look ahead and I see that all the hope we have here is crippled. We can’t do what we want, we aren’t free, and we have a life to live. The future sounds good if you’re in it, and I want you to be there with me.”
“I want it too, Damien ... But escaping is risky.”
“It’s worse to stay here.”
“Oh, my ... I’m getting overwhelmed. Leave when, how, in what way? It’s easier said than done.”
“Imtold knows the way. You know who Imtold is, right?”
“Yes, Dami.” She laughed. “Don’t ask me again. You’ve introduced me to him three times.”
“Would you come?”
She took her time to respond. “Swim and I’ll tell you.”
“Swim with me, and it’ll be true.”
He stood. She accepted the challenge.
“But don’t dive headfirst. Everyone goes down that ladder.”
The ladder wasn’t far from them. They had to walk around two people who were sunbathing and a group that was making a ruckus as though happiness were possible. Damien kicked up some trousers that were left scrunched up, and he began to descend. The ladder didn’t have a handrail, and every step was slippery with moss due to the wetness. When he had one foot in the water, he turned. Margaux watched him from a distance. There was doubt in his eyes. Curiosity and a certain dread. It was a first step. She went down to Damien, who took his foot out of the water. Before saying anything, they hugged.
“Is it cold?”
“No. It’s freezing.” With a caress, he moved two strands of hair out of her face. “What are you saying, Margaux?”
“That I’d come. I’d come, and I’d live with you, wherever it is. I only want to spend my life with you and to ... You can just imagine. To know what it’s like to have you hug me and make me yours. I’m dying for it, Damien. I promise you, and I know you know it. But I can’t leave. I can’t leave my parents here. They don’t have anyone else. They’ve done everything for me, and I can’t bear to ... I love you so much. Like crazy. And if this lasts longer and we’re not fine here, we’ll flee from this nightmare later, but now ... You understand, right?”
He nodded, hiding his lips.
“I’ll take charge of it. I love you too. And we’ll always do what you want to do.” He was convincing. “But now?”
“Now what?”
“Now you’ll swim with me.”
“No, no, no ... Please.”
He’d already grabbed her hands, and they both jumped into the water screaming and laughing. After some time spent dipping their heads in the water, chasing each other, and pretending to drown each other, they didn’t find it as cold anymore. Or that’s what Margaux remembered now, as she lamented that her experiences with Damien were slowly losing color, like an old photo. She was too young to look back. At eighteen years old, it wasn’t her time to be nostalgic. But her memory preserved each moment, each gesture, and all the small words from that evening on the Seine, where they stayed till the sun said, “Until next time.”
Since Damien’s arrest, Margaux tried not to pass by the Seine. When she had no other choice but to cross it, she looked at the river out of the corner of her eye and promised herself she would never swim in it again for all the years of her life. Those waters that ran silver would never be for her. She didn’t want to pollute a place where she’d been happy. The two of them, happy. Just thinking about the word made her anxious. She felt bad for having had fun. Regret for the good times. She felt guilty for the simple fact of trying to live during a war, to live without harming anyone, betraying anyone, to live with a hate toward the German uniforms, to live clinging to her homeland and her family at their Montmartre apartment, and to live missing Dédé. She’d spent so many months without him.
Not even Hitler will be eternal.
And when the day comes, I’ll want only to be with you.
She still had the letter memorized and could recite it with her eyes closed. She spent so many hours in her bedroom, whole afternoons there without leaving.
One evening, she opened the door and went into the dining room, shouting. Her parents, who were lying on the red sofa, became frightened.
“What’s wrong?” Michelle, whose head had been on Ferdinand’s shoulder, stood.
“On the radio, they said that—it can’t be true, right?”
“What station?”
“On BBC, Mother. They said the Jews aren’t being taken to labor camps in Germany. There’s a place, I wrote down the name ... Auschwitz or something. They say they suffocate two hundred people a day in gas chambers there. I can’t even imagine it.”
“Holy mother—” Michelle covered her mouth with her hand.
“They’re only telling us that to scare us, Margaux,” Ferdinand said tepidly to calm everyone down. “It’s impossible.”
“What’s a gas chamber?” Margaux asked.
“How do the BBC people know ...,” her father trailed off.
Margaux looked at the paper on which she’d written “Auschwitz.” She’d taken more notes in the corner with her pencil.
“It apparently comes from a newspaper written in the south, Les étoiles , a secret newspaper.”
“I haven’t heard of this newspaper.”
“It’s run by writers, it says.”
“Just picture it ... Who do they think will believe that?” Ferdinand tried to dismiss the story. “Writers from the south and the resistance ...”
In a fit of rage, Margaux threw her pencil against the window. Her anger provoked an unexpected rebound.
“Will you listen to me?” She was surprised by her own shouting, but she couldn’t stop. “Do you want to come down to earth? And what if Damien got on one of those trains? And if hours from now—”
“Margaux, please, I’m sure they don’t do all those things.”
“And Damien isn’t Jewish, honey,” Michelle added.
“So what? What’s that have to do with anything? How many people do we know who’ve been arrested and who’ve never been seen again? You don’t have to be Jewish to know how these things go.”
“We shouldn’t think the worst, Margi.”
“Why? Why do you say that? What do you know? You, who’ve lived here your whole lives, always here, in your house, acting like nothing’s happened. It’s been eight months since they took Damien. Eight, and here we are, acting like life continues. So, no, do you understand? No.”
“Margaux,” her mother said, trying to console her daughter with a caress.
“Leave me alone.” She wasn’t up for speeches. “You work at the store, helping Germans with a smile, like they’re good people,” she said, looking at her mother. Then, turning to her father, she continued. “And you go to the theater to service everything and make sure nothing is needed. Do you plan on doing anything at any point, even if it’s just for me?”
Ferdinand acted like the man he was. He was offended. He huffed like a hippo, went silent, and left the dining room for his bedroom. Michelle, who was just as hurt as her husband, tried to talk.
“You can’t scold us. We don’t deserve that, Margaux. Everything we do, we do for you. If we’ve made a mistake, I don’t know what it was. Stay or leave, what should we have done? But now that we’re here ... We moved so that you have a school and food and so you could be happy despite ... You wanted the oboe, you got the oboe.”
“Happy? You’re joking, right? Without news of Dami in eight months, happy?”
“No one—”
“Can anyone put themselves in my shoes?”
“And can you put yourselves in ours, baby? No one likes the occupation, Margaux. No one. But there’s a moment where you have to say to yourself, ‘This is the way things are,’ and you just have to get used to it. There’s no other choice.”
“Mama, please.”
“Please what? You have no idea how upset your father and I are to see you like this. We don’t talk about anything else. Your father—” She questioned whether she should continue. “The other day, your father said that if he knew where Damien was, he’d ask to switch places.”
“You don’t believe—”
“Margaux, stop pushing my buttons.”
“Why? What’ll happen? You’ll tell one of those Germans you know to come find me?”
Michelle looked at her daughter. She should have slapped her with all her might, but she held back. Instead, Michelle went to the bedroom, opened the drawer of her nightstand, and grabbed the clipping she’d been hiding there.
“What are you doing?” Ferdinand asked, sitting at the foot of the bed with his face in his hands.
“Nothing.”
She went back into the living room, shoved the image right in front of her daughter’s nose, and spoke to her in a different tone.
“It doesn’t seem like you’re having such a bad time, does it?”
“Is that me?”
“It’s you, all right.”
“Where’d that come from?”
“You were radiant.”
All of a sudden, Margaux’s legs quaked. “I remember this day perfectly,” she said, bluntly. “I knew they’d taken my picture, but that ... Where’d it come from?”
“It’s from the Nazi propaganda magazine. It’s all over France, all throughout Europe. Signal. Every fifteen days, there’s a new edition. Some really beautiful pictures. And you’re the most impressive of all of them, posing like a model.”
“How could I have known, Mama? That man didn’t tell me the photo would appear anywhere.”
“No one knows anything when it’s inconvenient to ask.”
“Please ... He asked me if he could take my picture, said the lighting was nice, and I ...”
Margaux couldn’t stop looking at herself in the photograph. So dressed up. It was true. It had turned out nicely. Despite the fight with her parents, she looked herself over and thought she looked pretty. She almost didn’t recognize herself so happy. It was the day she’d gone to the movies with Damien, not long after they’d parted ways. How could she not be delighted? In the photo, not even an hour had passed since the miracle of her lifetime. Her first kiss.