Gratitude Read online

  GRATITUDE

  ALSO BY DELPHINE DE VIGAN

  No and Me

  Underground Time

  Nothing Holds Back the Night

  Based on a True Story

  Loyalties

  CONTENTS

  MARIE

  JÉRÔME

  MARIE

  JÉRÔME

  MARIE

  JÉRÔME

  MARIE

  JÉRÔME

  JÉRÔME(2)

  MARIE

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  A NOTE ON THE TYPE

  We laugh, we drink. And in us the wounded,

  The hurt go by; we owe them memory and life. For living

  Is knowing that every instant of life is a golden sunbeam

  On a sea of darkness, it’s knowing how to say thank you.

  FRANÇOIS CHENG, Enfin le royaume

  Where do the words go?

  The words that resist,

  Withdraw,

  The ones that argue

  And poison [...]

  Where do the words go?

  The ones that make and unmake us,

  That save us

  When all else goes.

  LA GRANDE SOPHIE

  MARIE

  Have you ever wondered how many times a day you say thank you? Thank you for the salt, for holding the door, for the information.

  Thanks for the change, for the bread, for that packet of cigarettes.

  Thank yous out of politeness, social convention – automatic and mechanical. Almost meaningless.

  Sometimes omitted.

  Sometimes over-emphasised: thank you. Thanks for everything. Thanks a million.

  Many thanks.

  Professional thank yous: thank you for your response, your attention, your participation.

  Have you ever wondered how many times in your life you’ve really said thank you? A genuine thank you. Expressed your gratitude, your recognition, your debt?

  And to whom?

  The teacher who turned you on to books? The young man who stepped in the day you were mugged in the street? The doctor who saved your life?

  Life itself ?

  Today an old lady I loved died.

  I often used to say, ‘I owe her a huge amount.’ And: ‘But for her, I mightn’t be here.’

  I’d say, ‘She matters a lot to me.’

  Mattering, owing – is that how gratitude is measured?

  Did I thank her enough? Did I show my gratitude enough?

  Was I close enough, present enough, constant enough?

  And I’m thinking about the last few months, the last few hours.

  Our conversations and smiles and silences.

  Shared moments come back to me. Others have vanished. And the moments I missed can be invented.

  I’m trying to remember the day when I grasped that a major change had occurred and our remaining time together was now counted.

  It happened suddenly. From one day to the next.

  I don’t mean it came completely out of the blue. Sometimes Michka would stop in the middle of her living room, disorientated, as though she no longer knew where to begin, as if the ritual, though she’d performed it many times before, suddenly eluded her. Other times, she’d stop in the middle of a sentence, almost literally bumping up against something invisible. She’d look for one word but come up with another. Or else would draw a complete blank, like encountering a trap that she had to get around. But for the whole of that time, she lived alone, in her own home. Independent. And she kept reading, watching television, receiving visitors now and then.

  And then that autumn day that arrived unannounced . . .

  Before then, she’d coped. Afterwards, she didn’t.

  I can picture her in her apartment with its low ceilings, on her own, sitting in her armchair. Behind her the curtains are drawn, but there’s a hint of afternoon light through a chink. The paint on the walls has yellowed a bit. The furniture, the pictures, the ornaments on the shelves, everything around her seems to come from a time long ago.

  Her name’s Michka. She’s an old woman who seems like a young girl. Or a young girl who’s become old by accident, the victim of some malign fate. Her long, knotty hands are gripping the arms of her chair as though she’s in danger of capsizing.

  Suddenly a series of beeps breaks the silence. Michka seems surprised, looks around and notices the bracelet on her wrist as though the noise might be coming from this strange, ugly object that she was reluctantly persuaded to wear.

  Then the voice of the helpline operator comes through.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Seld, this is Muriel from the helpline. Did you press your alarm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you had a fall?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Do you feel unwell?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Can you tell me what’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you are, Mrs Seld?’

  ‘In the living room.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, but . . . I’m starting to lose . . .’

  ‘You’ve lost something?’

  Michka clings on tighter, feeling as though the armchair is pitching beneath her, or maybe it’s the floor that’s giving way. She doesn’t reply.

  ‘Are you sitting down?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in my armchair. But I can’t move.’

  ‘You can’t get up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long have you been sitting there, Mrs Seld?’

  ‘I don’t know. Since this morning, I think. I sat down after breakfast as musual, to do my crossword. But I couldn’t do any of it. And then, I . . . I wanted . . . I couldn’t get up . . . I’m losing everything, that’s why.’

  ‘What have you lost, Mrs Seld?’

  ‘It’s not visible. But I can feel it. It’s excaping . . . escaping.’

  ‘Can you move your legs, Mrs Seld?’

  ‘No, no, no. I can’t. It’s all over. I’m scared.’

  ‘You really can’t get up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you had lunch today?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘So you’ve been in your chair since this morning and haven’t moved?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I’m going to call one of the people on your contact list, is that all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I’m sure Michk’ heard the quick tap of the woman’s fingers on her keyboard.

  ‘I have the name of a Miss Marie Chapier. Shall I call her?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Is she your daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to call her?’

  ‘Yes, please. Tell her I didn’t want to . . . truffle her, but it’s because I’m losing something, something important.’

  Muzak replaces the operator’s voice. Michka remains still, looking straight ahead in a state of focused expectation that I’m familiar with. A few seconds later, the operator returns.

  ‘Mrs Seld, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Marie’s coming round right away. She says she’ll be there in twenty, twenty-five minutes. She’ll let your doctor know.’

  ‘All night.’

  She says ‘all night’ in exactly the tone you would say ‘all right’.

  ‘All night what?’

  ‘Yes, all night.’

  ‘I’m not far away, Mrs Seld. I’m going to get on with my work, but if you don’t feel well, press the button on your bracelet again and I’ll be here, OK?’

  ‘Yes, all night. Thank you.’

  Michka remains in her chair, arms on the armrests. She tries to steady her breathing.


  She closes her eyes.

  A few moments later, she hears a little girl’s voice.

  Am I going to sleep at yours? Will you leave the light on? Will you stay here? Can you leave the door open? Will you stay with me?

  She smiles. The little girl’s voice is a memory that’s both pleasant and painful.

  Can we have breakfast together? Are you scared? Do you know where my school is? Don’t put the light out, OK? Will you take me if Mummy can’t?

  I gave the bell a quick press and immediately put the key in the lock.

  I went into the room and there she was, clinging on to her chair as though it had been carried off on the tide.

  I went over and gave her a kiss. I smelled the sweet smell of her hairspray, which still conjures up memories as powerfully as ever.

  ‘Hey, Michk’, what’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll help you get up, OK?’

  ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘But Michk’, when I was here three days ago you were walking fine with your stick. I’m sure you can get up.’

  I put my arm around her to help her. She leaned on the armrests to give herself purchase. She got to her feet, looking surprised. She was a bit shaky, but managed to stay upright.

  ‘You see!’

  ‘Did I tell you I fell in the living room?’

  ‘Yes, Michka, you told me.’

  ‘Head over wheels.’

  I handed her her stick and then went round her other side so she could take my arm.

  ‘Right, off we go!’

  ‘Careful, eh . . .’

  ‘You must be starving . . .’

  We went towards the kitchen. She was hanging on to me, taking tiny steps forward. Gradually, I sensed she was regaining her confidence.

  ‘Could be worst . . .’

  But from that day on, Michka couldn’t live alone any more.

  Michka’s sitting in front of a desk piled with files in a nondescript room. The big black leather chair on the other side is empty.

  She’s singing to herself as if for reassurance.

  I’m a brave little soldier

  I must be bold and strong

  A brave little soldier

  And I must carry on

  I’m a brave little soldier

  A severe-looking woman comes into the room. She’s carrying a giant file, which she slams down on the desk. Unsmiling, she looks at Michka. She has huge fingernails, painted a dark colour. She sits down in her chair and says coldly, ‘Can you introduce yourself, Mrs Seld?’

  Michka immediately feels intimidated.

  ‘Well . . . My name is Michèle Seld, but people call me Michka.’

  ‘Good. Are you married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘No.’

  The director lets the silence linger. She’s waiting for details.

  ‘I . . . I travelled a lot with my work. I was a photojournalist for magazines. And later I was a proofreader for a newspaper. I read through the articles. Nothing got past me: typos, bad grammar, the wrong verb, repetition—’

  The director interrupts.

  ‘Why do you want to leave your current position?’

  Michka doesn’t understand the question. She’s unable to hide a flash of panic on her face. She looks around for someone who could help, but she’s all alone with this woman who’s drumming impatiently on the desk because she’s slow to reply. The director’s nails make a dull grating sound on the formica.

  ‘Well . . . I have to tell you that I’ve been retired a long time . . .’

  The woman gives a forced smile that’s hard to interpret. Then sighs ostentatiously.

  ‘Let me phrase the question differently, Mrs Seld. What was it that caused your interest in our establish-ment?’

  ‘Perhaps I got the wrong room . . . I mean, office . . . I didn’t know you had to go through this, I mean, that you had to do this.’

  The director is no longer concealing her exasperation.

  ‘Mrs Seld, you are having an admission interview for a place in a nursing home.’ (As she goes on, her tone becomes increasingly brusque.) ‘You need to show the best of yourself because, need I remind you, we receive countless applications.’

  ‘No, no . . . of course. I understand. But I didn’t prepare anything. I didn’t know you had to have an admission interview.’

  The woman loses her temper.

  ‘So what did you think, Mrs Seld? That we took in anyone at all, just like that? What an idea! There isn’t enough space for everyone, as you very well know. Not enough space! It’s the same with everything – whatever you do, you have to have tests, interviews, competitions, exams, assessments, evaluations, grading! You have to show your dedication, your commitment, your motivation, your determination! At school, at university, at work, everywhere, Mrs Seld, yes, everywhere – e-ve-ry-where – we have to grade, sift, select! We have no choice. Sort the wheat from the chaff, even in a nursing home. It’s the way of the world. I don’t make the rules, I just apply them.’

  This seems to make an impression on Michka.

  ‘You mean you have to prove yourself.’

  ‘Exactly. What are your strong points, what’s your greatest weakness, what are your strategies for improvement, what’s your capacity for development? How can you be your best self?’

  ‘I’m an old lady, you know.’

  ‘And that’s the problem, Mrs Seld.’

  ‘And I . . . I can no longer remain at home. I’m afraid . . . I lose things . . . I’m afraid it’s getting worse.’

  The woman sighs again. Melodramatically.

  ‘You’re not making this easy for me. Can you dance at least?’

  ‘Yes, a bit.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Michka gets up. Walking hesitantly at first, she moves back from the desk. Then she begins to dance, her movements like those of a little girl. She pirouettes, her arms joined above her head. She rises on her toes; she’s graceful. Gradually her body becomes more supple; she enters into it and dances better and better, her gestures become freer. She smiles.

  She now resembles a young girl. Her movements are precise and controlled. She’s beaming.

  The woman notes something in her file. Then, without a word, gets up and leaves the room.

  Michka remains alone in the centre of a circle of light, still dancing for herself.

  Then she moves into the shadows and disappears.

  She recounted her dreams to me several times. There were variations. Either because the memory of them was gradually becoming sharper, or because she was adding details she thought more striking, so that we – we who came and went freely, we who were in full possession of our faculties – could grasp the feeling of terror that was dragging her under.

  The day of the appointment has come. Michka’s sitting in the same place as in her dream. But I’m there beside her.

  Both of us facing the desk, waiting for the director. Michka’s tense, as though she’s about to take an important oral exam.

  ‘Don’t worry, Michk’, it’ll be fine. It’s just so they can get to know you.’

  ‘Are you sure I don’t have to have an investigation . . . interview . . . prove myself . . . to get in?’

  ‘No, no. You’ll see.’

  I look at her and smile. Her face seems to relax a little. She takes the opportunity to look at me with mock confusion.

  ‘Have you had your hair done?’

  ‘Yes, Michk’, I’ve had it done.’

  A woman comes into the office. She looks kind and affable. She’s wearing a light suit.

  She puts a file down in front of her.

  She speaks to Michka.

  ‘If I understand correctly, Mrs Seld, you were living independently until a few weeks ago?’

  Michka nods cautiously. She’s on guard.

  ‘But now you can no longer remain alone . . . According to your doctor, you’ve had se
veral falls in the past few months, one of which required a short spell in hospital. You suffer from vertigo, which partly explains your fears and your difficulty moving around at home.’

  Michka makes a small movement of her chin in agreement. The lady is still scanning the file.

  ‘Do you get out?’

  ‘A little, with Marie. Once a week. I used to do laps of the balcony at home, but I can’t do that any more.’

  ‘Laps of the balcony?’

  ‘Yes, round and round, like a crinimal . . . ten circuits, sometimes even twenty, when I was in shape. It’s ten steps across, then two steps up, that makes twelve. I’ll let you tut it up.’

  The director is watching Michka, trying to work out to what extent she’s sending herself up. But she’s not. Michka is proud: 120 steps a day is an achievement.

  She looks at me as though she’s passing the baton; it’s over to me.

  ‘When I go round, we always try to have a walk outdoors, but Michka’s increasingly afraid because of her falls, and because of everything going on around her. Things move too fast for her: children, people in a rush.’

  ‘Have you thought about caring for her at home?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But the problem is having someone there day and night. Michka can’t be by herself at all. She’s afraid.’

  Michka adds: ‘At night, there are . . . nightmares.’

  ‘I thought about her moving in with me, but she won’t hear of it.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s on the sixth floor and there’s no clift and anyway, there’s no reason why Marie should look after me!’

  The director turns to me enquiringly. But I look at Michka and want her to meet my eye. I wait for her watery gaze to look up and focus on my face.

  ‘Of course there is, Michk’! There are lots of reasons.’

  ‘No, out of the question. Old people are a burton. It wouldn’t work. I’m well aware how these things burn out, believe me.’

  The director looks at us both, then says to me: ‘So for the moment, you’ve moved in with Mrs Seld?’

  ‘Yes, at night I have. I’ve found someone who can take over while I’m at work during the day.’

  ‘I shall call you when a place becomes available. We’re in touch with the doctor, who endorsed the application. It could happen quickly, but I can’t give you a precise date. It depends on . . . departures.’