40 THE BEST LANDSCAPE
Barbara read the letter at the retirement home. Her grandmother, sitting next to the poet’s window, didn’t take her eyes off her. She didn’t say anything until her granddaughter finished it.
“Can you still understand my handwriting?”
“You can understand everything.” She looked to see if there was a date on the letter. “Can I keep it?”
“It’s for Anine, lady.”
“Mamie, Anine’s not all there. I’d love to keep it.”
“It’s just—”
“You’ve said so many beautiful things about me. About my mother and grandfather. I want this letter.”
“But—”
For Barbara, the matter had already been settled.
“When will we see each other again?”
“You and I?” Mamie thought about it. “Sooner than you think.”
They kissed each other, and Barbara dismissed the last comment, which seemed to have been said instinctively. She folded the letter and took it home. She wanted to read it to Roger. She was excited, but she waited until it was dark. She played with the light switches until she found the exact lighting she wanted to exude peace and comfort. She wanted to recapture the ambience of the snowy nights when they were shut in and told each other stories without rush. With a newcomer, that is. Hulshoff was keeping them company still.
When she had it ready, she made Roger sit on the red sofa next to her. She took out the letter from under one of the cushions and read it to him out loud.
“‘Dear Anine, you ask me what I want to be when I grow up ...’” He listened with the attention required for Margaux’s confession and Barbara’s recitation. She modulated her voice, pausing, and, at times, her grandmother’s voice emerged. She herself realized it but didn’t stop it. It was the misty mirror of family.
“She was a brave woman,” Roger said.
“It’s not a letter to Anine.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not a letter to Anine. She wrote it for herself. Don’t you see?”
“From Mamie Margaux to Mamie Margaux?”
“She’s the sender and recipient.”
They spoke of the storms her grandmother had had to weather and how she’d endured the hardships without growing sick of life. With tea on the table, Barbara became philosophical and spoke of fear as the motor of the world, of individual mysteries, and of the healing power of writing. She saw it in many of the novels she’d sold across the continents. Roger listened to her. He liked hearing her say that sometimes the lives of writers fascinated her more than their novels. She cited a couple of names. He hadn’t read any of them. He hadn’t even heard of them, but he acted interested, and Barbara was happy he was listening.
That night, they didn’t move from the sofa to make love. The novelty excited them. The pillows moved up and down. At times, the pillows helped them prop themselves up a little better; other times, they placed them under a knee, or to stretch their neck and rediscover damp corners with their tongues. Hulshoff had never witnessed a scene like that. Jasper didn’t do those kinds of things. He was motionless, one eye open, with no intention of intervening.
“I like your body,” Roger said.
“I like yours too,” mewed Barbara. “What if we take this to the bedroom?”
“You’re more comfortable there, huh? It’s because you’re older, of course.”
“You’re so annoying when you want to be.” She pulled him to the room. “Don’t fear, young one. Come with me. I won’t do anything you don’t like.”
The next day, afternoon took forever to come. Roger had been preparing for that day for weeks with the help of Madame Giroud and the secret intervention of Margaux. In the morning, with a tone of someone dreading the matter, he asked Barbara to reserve the evening. He wanted her to accompany him somewhere. She wanted to guess what it was, and she tried to wheedle it out of him any way possible. But he gave her very few clues. Next to the place de la République, cocktail evening wear, transportation by taxi—it would pick them up at six o’clock on rue Chappe—and two hours of heavy emotions. That was all he could tell her.
At six o’clock on the dot, Barbara’s insistence was rewarded when they got into the taxi. She discovered they were going to an art gallery. She’d picked the right dress. A burgundy one-piece, narrow at the waist, with half sleeves and a top that could be opened or closed with three buttons. She had only one buttoned.
The gallery was two corners away from the Canal Saint-Martin. The owner, Madame Giroud, a friend of the Giresse Damien’s striped uniform, which he wore for his last concert; and the copy of One Thousand and One Nights that your grandfather gave her.”
“Oof.” Barbara breathed in deeply. “And where is all that?”
“I’m keeping it in my office,” said Madame Giroud. “We won’t put them out until tomorrow. It’s better to wait until the last minute for these kinds of fragile things. They’re all safe.”
“Our book is here?” Mamie asked, overwhelmed.
“Do you want me to bring it to you?”
The gallery owner entered her office and came out quickly with One Thousand and One Nights .
“Here you go.”
Mamie handled it respectfully and sighed.
She put the book on her lap, her palms on top, like she was swearing on the Constitution of the Fifth Republic with her two hands. She didn’t look at the dedication Damien had written her. She knew it by memory. Once she opened it, she ran her finger along the pages, brought it up to her face, and took in the scent with her eyes closed.
“This book smells like the twentieth century.”
“Of course, Mamie.”
“Paris outraged, Paris destroyed, Paris martyred ... But Paris liberated,” Madame Giroud jumped in, carried away by an excess of enthusiasm.
Much peace is needed to forget war.
Margaux gave the book to Roger. To break the unexpected moment of patriotism, Barbara got on her knees in front of Mamie. She wanted to know what she was thinking.
“Do you know what I would like?” It came out that way. “To dance with you.”
“With me? What are you saying, girl ... My legs—”
“Remember what we used to do when I was little? You picked me up, put me on your feet, and moved me forward and backward ...”
“But—”
“I loved it so much. I wasn’t just dancing on you. I was flying.”
“You must be joking, girl.”
“No. Today, we’ll do it in reverse. You’ll see.” Barbara crouched even farther down. “Hold on.”
Her mamie moved to put her right hand on her granddaughter’s back. Roger gave her his left hand to help her. Bending over, Barbara unbuckled Mamie’s shoes and slipped them off, careful not to hurt her. She helped her stand up, and she gave three instructions of mandatory compliance.
“Hold on to me. Hug me. Per-fect. And now, slowly, stand on my feet.”
“But are you saying ...” She hoisted her bones up as much as she could.
“Don’t worry, I’m wearing shoes. And you don’t weigh very much. First one foot, exactly. And now ...”
“The other.”
“You see. There you are. How is it, Mamie?”
“Fine,” she said, frightened, atop her pedestal without her bearings.
Barbara began to move. She lightly lifted her feet off the ground. She gave her one hand, held her back, and she felt Mamie’s rigid bones against her chest.
“Let go of your weight, Mamie. Don’t worry about me. Like this.”
Slowly, they slid over the tiles, from here to there in small movements.
“Don’t speed up, girl.”
“A turn, come on.” She hummed “C’est Si Bon” and danced. “How are you now?”
“Good.” She laughed happily. “Very, very good. Look, girl!”
With his eye positioned on the viewfinder, Roger began to photograph.
“It’s perfect, Margaux. Like a nice waltz.”
“We did it, Mamie. What do you think?”
“I’m flying too. Look, kids.”
“Isn’t it nice up here?”
“It’s like the movies, Barbara. Let’s dance, dance, dance.”