Forgetfulness (30 page)

Thomas poured a dram of calvados while he waited for coffee, mentally making a list of things to be done. Repair the roof, repair the car windshield, fetch wood for the fireplace, lay in some wine, get someone to inspect the billiards table. The lawn could wait until spring. He had never been good with repairs. His instinct was to ignore them, move along, another city, another country. But this was the only place he had ever actually owned, held title to, paid taxes on, insured; and in its particulars the house was Florette's. Florette had handled the insurance and he wondered now if automobile windshields and the roofs of houses were included in the coverage. Likely not, nor billiards tables either. He had never in his life collected on an insurance claim. Thomas poured coffee and drank, making a face; much too strong. He ran his hand over his chin, feeling two days' stubble. Nearly dusk now, shadows lengthening, a bite to the air, unshaven, unshowered, wearing his bathrobe at four in the afternoon, sipping coffee corrected with calvados, he thought he had a glimpse of the future. His domestic arrangements were breaking down, his house damaged, his lawn in ruins, a tree branch dug into his roof, Granger's beautiful billiards table damp with mountain rainwater, and in the adjoining field the orchard was dying. Ghosts were in every corner of his house. Thomas felt as if he had wandered from the pages of one of Chekhov's stories, a character surrounded by decay.

A week later, late on a Tuesday afternoon, he finished the portrait of old Bardèche. He cleaned his brushes while he looked at it; there was nothing more to be done. The piece was finished. He lit a Gitane, inhaling especially deeply as he remembered the lecture that morning from the officious Dr. Picot, how fortunate he was to
have escaped pneumonia but he would learn soon enough that he was on parole only. If he continued to use tobacco, pneumonia would be the least of his worries. Emphysema and heart disease would surely follow, at which time he could look forward to an early and unpleasant death. Gitanes were the worst. Meanwhile, she poked and prodded, looked into his nostrils and ears, his mouth and eyes. She announced she would leave the rectal exam for another occasion, nor would he be required to cough. The cut on his head was not infected. His feet were almost healed. All in all, a fortunate outcome which smoking would negate. All this time he had said barely a dozen words, half of them "yes" or "no" in answer to her impertinent questions. He was thinking about old Bardèche's portrait, finishing it in his mind. And when she was done at last he thanked her, paid her, and departed, but not before she reminded him of his heart murmur. She advised him to consult a cardiologist. Cardiology was not one of her specialties.

How are you getting on otherwise?

Fine, he said.

You don't look fine. Your color's not good. You should lose weight. Fifteen pounds at least.

Nevertheless, he said as he closed the door to her office.

Thomas cleaned the last brush and put it in the oversized coffee tin. He looked up when he heard two sharp raps on the front door. Through the window he saw a black Mercedes in the driveway, a man in a Bailey hat at the wheel. He could not see who was at the front door but he knew who it was.

Victoria Granger was snugly turned out in a red beret and a loden coat, eskimo boots on her feet. She smiled nicely and said she was back for the closing on her house, the buyer an engineer for Airbus in Toulouse—a German, as it turned out. She didn't have to come back but she wanted to, for a last look around. Also, she wanted to meet the German. This time she brought her husband with her—she gestured at the man in the car—so that he could see the place.

We'd like to invite you for a drink, she said.

A last get-together before the German takes over.

Well, thank you, Thomas said.

She looked at him, wrinkling her nose. Have you been painting?

Finishing up, he said.

I didn't realize oil paint smelled so.

It's the turpentine, he said.

She wrinkled her nose again and looked at her watch. Come at seven.

He said, All right. I'd like that.

We sold the wine cellar with the house. But I held back a few bottles. We might as well drink them.

Even with all that tannin? he asked with a smile.

Victoria laughed merrily and returned to her car, waving as it backed up and sped away down the driveway to the road.

Thomas showered to rid himself of the paint smell and pulled on a fresh pair of khakis and a work shirt. As he was leaving the phone rang but he decided not to answer it. He thought, One thing at a time. He marched across his frozen yard and into the field that separated his property from Granger's. The night was clear, the sky filled with silver stars, Orion directly overhead. He noticed that the fruit tree in Granger's back yard was still down but the debris was gone. Ghislaine must have cleaned it up. The cold air felt good after his long day in the studio. He thought he needed to get out more, clear out his lungs, take advantage of the beauty of the landscape, the snow-blanketed mountains, the spire of the church in town. He paused to take it in while he lit a Gitane. The Americans were certain to have no-smoking rules in place. The night was windless so the wire of tobacco smoke rose straight up. He remembered Ballard saying something about seeing all the way to heaven when you were alone on the Great Plains at night. What Thomas saw was the mass of Big Papa crowding the valley. He threw away the Gitane and continued his march in the direction of the Granger house, lit from within. When Thomas rang the doorbell he heard rustling sounds and then a man's voice.

Come in, Tom.

They were seated in the easy chairs on either side of the fireplace. Victoria was in Granger's old chair, her husband in Thomas's
usual place. The husband rose and greeted Thomas at the door, asked him what he wanted to drink, offered to take his coat, waved him amiably to the sofa. I'm Ed, he said.

Thomas gave Ed his coat and said he'd like a glass of red wine.

He took in the living room, unchanged since Granger occupied it except for the bare space where the billiards table had been. That made it a different room. Thomas said to Victoria, Did the German buy it furnished?

Every stick, she said. And everything else, flatware, dishes, garden tools. The books in the bookcases. The rugs on the floor. He loved the furniture. Ed says that's because all of it is brown, the color of fascism. Isn't that right, Ed?

You got it, Vic.

How old is he? Thomas asked.

Younger than you, she said. So he wouldn't know the Nazis firsthand.

Historical memory, Ed said, handing Thomas a glass and returning to the chair by the fire. Ed was as big as a football lineman, his face ruddy, his blond hair close-cropped, military style.

So you've met him, Thomas said.

Oh, yes. He seems nice enough. He designs airplane fuselages. Speaks perfect English.

We're rid of it, Ed said. That's the main thing. And I got what I asked for, Victoria said. Good for you, Thomas said. Yes, she said.

So the notaire worked out after all, Thomas said.

Her face clouded and she admitted not quite as well as she'd hoped. Her Paris lawyer seemed unable to find the time to devote to the sale so the notaire had a free hand. It took a very long time, she said. His fees were appalling, just appalling. How do they get away with it?

Same reason that American lawyers charge a thousand dollars an hour, Thomas said. Because they can. Well, she said. It's disgusting.

We're rid of it, Vic, Ed said. Look on the bright side. I'm trying to, she said.

The goddamned house is haunted anyhow, Ed said. Let the Kraut deal with it.

Ed thinks Granger's ghost lives here, she said to Thomas. I wouldn't be surprised, Thomas said. I think he's gay, she said. The ghost?

The German, she said. He keeps talking about his partner. That's the word he uses, in English, "partner." My partner this, my partner that. He's worried that the partner won't like the drapes.

The doors slam all the time, Ed said.

That's the wind, Thomas said. The house has always been drafty.

The damn drapes are brown, Vic.

Maybe the partner's anti-Nazi, Victoria said.

Strange noises, Ed said. In the night and the daytime, too.

It's an old house, Thomas said. It creaks.

Ed did not reply to that. Instead, he refilled his glass, Victoria's, and Thomas's, draining the bottle. Thomas observed that one of his portraits was still on the far wall. It was a sketch he had made of Ghislaine. Granger liked it so he gave it to him. Thomas supposed that the German bought the portrait along with the dishes, the flatware, and the Berchtesgaden furniture. Suddenly the house seemed not to be Granger's domain but another place altogether.

That's one of yours, isn't it? Victoria said, following his eyes.

It's Ghislaine, Thomas said.

Well, it's his now.

I have to make a call, Ed said abruptly and left the room. Tokyo, Victoria said.

Thomas looked at his watch, four
A.M.
in Tokyo. Thomas said, I hope they keep late hours.

All hours, Victoria said. They follow the various exchanges, Seoul, Tokyo, Singapore. Currency speculators. Ed always calls at about this time. What's that bandage on your head?

We had quite a storm a week or so ago and I got caught in it. Trees down, branches everywhere. Seventy-mile-an-hour winds.

She nodded absently. She had no interest in the storm. She sipped her wine and said, Have you been getting on all right, Thomas?

I've been worried about you, she added. You have?

Yes, she said. I have. I'm fine, he said.

I'm afraid I wasn't very cordial the last time we met. In fact, I was pretty much of a bitch.

It was a difficult time, he said. For you, too.

I was so angry at him, Granger. Glad he was dead, angry he had taken his secrets with him. I'm sorry I took it out on you. I had no right to do that. She looked up, saw his glass was empty, and said he should open the bottle on the sideboard. Ed's conversations go on forever, she said. Ed likes to stay in touch. He loves his BlackBerry. That way he's always in touch.

Thomas was carefully working the cork from a bottle of 1983 Margaux, wondering what a BlackBerry was.

Tell me something, Victoria said. Isn't it strange for you, being back in this house, Granger gone, strangers here, a German soon to be.

Don't forget the partner, he said from the sideboard. Yes, the partner.

New faces, he said. Maybe they play billiards.

I went into town today, walked around the church for the first time. It's a beautiful structure. I walked into the café for a coffee and asked about you. No one would tell me anything.

My instructions, he said.

They protect you, she said.

That they do, Thomas said. Common village practice.

Still, she said. Don't you find it lonely here?

Thomas paused a moment and said, Yes.

Always, or just now?

Not when Florette was alive.

You could get married again, find a girlfriend—

Thomas smiled and did not reply.

Of course you have your work. That's fortunate.

Thomas returned with the bottle and poured wine into their glasses. From somewhere upstairs he heard the rumble of Ed's voice.

You can have the portrait of Ghislaine if you want it. The German will never miss it.

No, it should stay with the house.

As you wish, Victoria said.

But thank you. I appreciate the offer.

Does it look like her?

Pretty much, he said.

I've only seen her from a distance. She wasn't friendly. Thomas shrugged and sipped his wine. Thin, he thought. So you'll stay on here, she said. Looks like it, he said. I couldn't bear it.

No wonder. You don't like the French.

I never said I did. I like France and that's a different thing. And even so, this valley is not of the modern world. As opposed to Pennsylvania, he said.

Pennsylvania's beautiful, she said. You can make a life in Pennsylvania. She went on to describe the hill towns of the Poconos and the mountains farther west, the border towns south of Pittsburgh. The suburbs were superb. The Susquehanna and the Allegheny north of Pittsburgh, beautiful rivers. Her mother's family had lived in Pennsylvania for generations, William Penn himself a shirttail relative. Surely he knew the work of the Wyeths, she herself could never keep them straight. Thomas listened with attention and after a while her Pennsylvania sounded as exotic as the Czech Republic or Bhutan, inland nations with rich histories. She said, Wouldn't you agree that St. Michel du Valcabrère is a closed book? But I'm intruding again. I promised I'd stop that. Victoria stared into the fire a moment, then began to laugh quietly. She said, I'm a tennis fanatic. I play every day when I'm home. Tennis is a game of repetition. You place your feet just so back of the baseline when you're serving. You toss the ball at a specific angle to a specific height, and if the angle is
off or the height too high or too low you retrieve the ball and do it again. One small mistake with your feet or with the toss can throw your serve way off—the ball goes long or wide left or wide right or into the net and you lose the point. That's my chaos theory of tennis; the butterfly's wings flutter in Mexico and a year later a typhoon hits Japan. One of the things I don't like about St. Michel is that there are no tennis courts. No chaos theory either. So yes, I prefer Pennsylvania. Aren't you the least bit curious about the United States?

Not personally, he said.

People are friendlier in Pennsylvania.

I'll keep that in mind, he said.

We're leaving tomorrow, she said. I expect we won't see each other again.

Likely not, he said.

Perhaps sometime when you get to Pennsylvania.

He glanced at his watch and drained off his wine. I must go now.

Thank you for coming, she said.

I have one bit of news for you, Thomas said. A while ago I visited Thiepval, the graveyard and the monument. Your great-uncle's name is there along with the thousands of others who died at the Somme. In case you or your children are ever in the neighborhood you could visit. He paused at a blast of Ed's laughter from upstairs, something hilarious from Tokyo. He said, It's not cheerful. But it's interesting. And there he is, high up in the central vault.