The Rain Watcher Page 7

  How could he ever forget that December night in 1998, when he came back after four in the morning? He hadn’t warned Candy, hadn’t thought of ringing her, and when he had thought of it, it was already so late, he’d wake her if he did. He remembers the frostiness of the air, a little like tonight, the way his shoes slid on the icy pavements. When he had turned his key in the lock and slid into the apartment, he realized with a shock that the lights were still on and that she was waiting for him in the living room. She sat there in her pink dressing gown, her hands cupping her herbal tea.

  “I was so worried,” she said. “I thought something had happened to you.”

  He had looked away, ashamed. He mumbled that he should have called, that he was sorry, and took his jacket off. He went to sit across from her. Muffin blinked curious yellow eyes at him and then nestled back to sleep on the sofa. This was twenty years ago, and yet Linden recalls every moment, every second. Candy never asked questions. She didn’t pry. She didn’t ask whom he was with, where, if he had had a nice time. And yet he felt he had to talk. It was building up inside him like a huge bubble. He looked at her hands holding the cup. They were longer and whiter than his mother’s. He said he had not been at a party. He had been with a friend. Her eyes remained steady, compassionate, never looking away from his, but not unnerving. The silence grew between them, but he didn’t find it distressing. He was just searching for the right words. She gave him time. He finally said his friend’s name was Philippe. He was in the same class, at the lycée. He had spent the evening with him, and he hadn’t noticed the hours go by. The words stopped there. He couldn’t bring himself to go any further. A sort of fear gripped him, a dread that she would judge him, that she might be repelled, or angry. Then she said (and he remembered those words with precision; they had never left him, ever), “Linden, don’t be afraid. Tell me what you have to say.”

  He saw tenderness in her eyes, nothing else. He got up, stared out of the window, down to empty rue Saint-Charles with its glittering Christmas decorations. He guessed it might be easier if he didn’t look straight at her. He felt naked, exposed, more vulnerable than he had ever been in his entire seventeen years. For a short moment, a couple of seconds, he thought maybe he should keep it in, not say anything, never tell, shut up about it, never mention it. But the bubble inside him was already rushing up, craving to be let out and away. He said slowly that Philippe was the person he thought about night and day. Philippe was handsome, special, and he felt comfortable with him, felt himself. He could talk to him, express things he had never told anyone. The bubble soared up, pushing at the threshold of his throat and mouth, and there was no way he could hold it back. He said he had always felt different. It started a long time ago, at Sévral. The kids at school sensed it. He didn’t know how they had picked up on it, as he hadn’t thought it showed, but they had guessed it, and they made his life hell. When they began to have girlfriends, at thirteen, fourteen, to be obsessed with girls, with girls’ bodies, legs, breasts, he felt left out because that obsession never came to him. And instead of leaving him alone, they taunted him ceaselessly: And where was his girlfriend, then? Didn’t the American have one, or what? Had he ever touched a girl that way, this way? Had he even ever kissed one? Was he downright gay, then, a fiotte, a pédale? They rejoiced in the string of insults they flung at him during recess, and the only thing he could do was to brace himself. A girl once whispered to him the other boys were jealous because he was good-looking. Why didn’t he have a girlfriend? she asked. He could have all the girls he wanted, starting with her. He had not answered her. When he got to Paris, last year, he’d felt relieved. No one in his class ever mentioned him being different. No one cared if he had a girlfriend or not. He was popular. And then, one day, Philippe. Philippe and his curly hair, his merry eyes. Philippe was comfortable with himself, with who he was. He didn’t have to pretend to be someone else. Philippe had taken Linden to his bedroom one day after their last lesson. How could it have been so simple? It had. They were alone in the apartment, and Philippe had kissed him. That’s how it began. Recently, three students from their class had stopped Philippe and him on the stairs. The voices rose around them, taunting, jeering; the invectives hissed, always the same dreadful words, and Linden had felt himself recoil in horror. He was projected back to Sévral, to the teasing and the scorn, and he had felt his eyes close with dread. He heard Philippe’s voice ring out, calm, humorous (how on earth could Philippe remain so calm? he had wondered); his tone was unruffled, fearless, and Linden opened his eyes and saw Philippe standing there in his long black coat, superb, chin raised, a smile on his lips. Gay? Yes, he was gay. Was that a problem? Was he going to be arrested? Was he going to be mobbed? Tied up, lynched, and thrown to the lions? Should he go crying home to his mummy? Should he hate himself because he was gay? Is that what these guys were trying to tell him? Well, he had news for them. He was seventeen years old, and he was not afraid. No, not afraid. Not afraid to be gay. Not ashamed to be gay. Was there anything else these guys wanted to add? Something like sale PD, perhaps? There had been a silence. The three students had shuffled away. Philippe’s hand grabbed his and held it tight. Linden had felt it shaking.

  Linden paused again, for a long time. His breath drew a puffy white cloud on the cold windowpane. Candice waited. The bubble drifted out of him, up and out. He said, “You might not like to hear this.” Another pause. And then he added, “I’m gay. Are you disappointed?”

  He felt fear, wretchedness, loneliness, and then, strangely, relief. He turned around and confronted his aunt. She was smiling and her smile was nothing different from the ones she gave him each day. She got up and came toward him, putting her arms around him. Then she said, “I’m not disappointed. I love you just the same.”

  How he had cherished those words. I’m not disappointed. I love you just the same. They stayed with him during the lengthy span of time when he felt he was not ready to tell anyone else. They stayed with him when he thought about the Sévral years, the abuses, his lonesomeness. They stayed with him when he contemplated telling his father, his mother, his sister. He waited. Candy’s precious words protected him, for the moment, from all the fears he had.

  Linden turns left into boulevard du Montparnasse. The traffic is denser here, even at this hour. At the crossroad with rue de Rennes, the pavements are full of people, despite the cold. Linden is aware of how much he misses walking. His job doesn’t let him do enough of it. When he’s at home, in San Francisco, he walks over an hour a day, rejoicing in the steep streets.

  Many bars and cafés on the boulevard are still open, with clients spilling out on the pavement to smoke. When he gets to the hotel, there’s a note on his door from his sister. She wants him to come and see her no matter what time it is. Her face is pinched and white, her eyes red. He tells her everything he knows. She keeps asking him beseechingly if their father is going to be all right. At one point, slightly exasperated, he tells her to go back with him to the hospital, so she can ask the doctor herself.

  “Dude, I can’t go with you to the hospital.”

  He stares at her. What on earth does she mean? Tilia hangs her head, embarrassed. He waits. She clears her throat after a short silence. She explains, haltingly, that she hasn’t been able to enter a hospital since her accident, back in 2004. Oh, and he can stop looking at her like that, please! She just can’t do it. She can’t. Yes, she knows it was ages ago; she was only twenty-five, but it’s impossible. She has tried. She feels faint every time she puts a foot in a hospital. It brings back all the horror. Linden points out that she never talks about it. So how could anyone know much about the horror? She crosses her arms, puts on that obstinate face he knows so well. She cannot go, and that is that. She’ll look after their mother, who is not doing well. Lauren’s fever is still high. She cannot go and he’ll have to make do with that.

  There are so many things about his sister he doesn’t know, Linden realizes as he heads wearily back to his room. It is odd to th
ink that he spent nearly sixteen years living by her side, he is convinced he knows her backward and forward, but no, he doesn’t. Shadowy areas remain. He doesn’t know what happened the night of the accident except that she was the only one who wasn’t killed. Yes, they are close, but how close? How close can you get to a sister? he wonders. What is close? Knowing each other’s secrets? Each other’s past, or even present? His sister probably has no idea what his life is like since he has become a famous photographer. She no doubt thinks it all glorious. She knows nothing of the tension, the rivalry, the drive it takes. He can hear her saying, oh yes, Linden Malegarde is my little brother, with that half-sneering, half-smiling expression. Is she jealous? He’s never thought of it until now. But perhaps she is. Jealous of his success, jealous of the good looks she did not inherit? It is time to call Sacha in California. Sacha will know what to say, how to soothe him.

  Later, Linden cannot sleep. He remains on his back, eyes open in the darkness. When he gets up to look out of the window, surprised by the sudden silence, he sees the rain has transformed into snow. Snowflakes circle around lampposts like a flock of insects seeking light. He settles back into bed after turning the heating up a little. No, he will not switch the TV on. The rising Seine is too alarming. He wants to concentrate on his father, even more alarming. He has to be strong for his father, for his mother, for his sister. Somehow, he understands he is the one who is going to be dealing with all this, that he is the one singled out to lead the battle. Is he ready? He has to be. He hasn’t got much choice. Until now, he always thought Tilia, being the bossy older sister, was the one to take things in hand. Beneath the swagger and bad language lurked someone else, someone far more fragile than he’d imagined. Sacha had been amazed by the fact that Tilia was not going anywhere near the hospital. He had asked Linden if he was disappointed. In loyalty to Tilia, Linden had said no. But deep down, he was.

  He thinks of his father, in intensive care. Has Paul regained consciousness? Does he know what happened to him? Is he in pain? These thoughts frighten him and keep sleep at bay. He remembers meeting a woman on a plane once, with whom he had had an interesting conversation, and who had suggested that whenever he felt scared or stressed, all he had to do was to conjure up a positive image, the depiction of a thing, a place, or a person that would appease him. He has never tried it out. He closes his eyes. The first picture that comes to him is his father, his father at Vénozan, wearing his frayed straw hat and dungarees; his father bending down to look at his shrubs and flowers. When he was a small boy, Linden used to follow Paul around the land. His father didn’t talk much, but Linden became used to that. He still felt close to Paul during the silences; he learned not to be upset or bothered by them. He would kneel down next to Paul, knees in the limestone, wielding his toy rake and shovel, and observe. His father’s hands darted here and there, pulling out weeds, straightening stems. One of his earliest memories was pointing out the different colors to his father. “Bleu,” he would say proudly in French. So many blues to choose from! And such magical plants! Awed, he fingered small wispy indigo globes that felt like woolly foliage, as if magical spiders had crafted them. “Echinops ritro,” his father replied gruffly. Linden pointed to another blue: intricate tubular flowers atop slender silvery wands. “Russian sage” came the answer. He circled around tight mounds of needlelike blades, not daring to touch the vibrant blue spikes. “Festuca,” his father replied. And what about the dense batches of star-shaped blue flowers that attracted ravenous bees? “Borage.” He loved playing the color game with his father. Always in French. “Jaune!” Linden would shout excitedly, picking out all the yellows. The gorse glowed as bright as melted butter; so did the lemony bobbles on a plant his father called santolina, which sounded like a girl’s name, he thought. Sometimes his father turned the game around and asked him to name the flowers. The Latin names eluded him, but Linden always managed to remember what the treasure flowers were called, oversized daisies with their striped orange-and-golden petals. “Gazania splendens!” he lisped triumphantly, brandishing his tiny spade. Paul stroked the top of his head with a grimy palm. Vandeleur, his father’s favorite gardener, looked on and clapped. Linden liked Vandeleur, with his red hair and freckles. He got dreadful sunburns, but he didn’t seem to care. Apparently, Vandeleur had English blood, but he couldn’t speak a word of it, and Lauren teased him sometimes. Paul’s garden was an enchantment at every season, even during the shorter winter days. He knew which plants bloomed in autumn, which ones stayed eternally green, which ones smelled delightful at Christmastime, like odorous sweetbox. When the storms broke and caused the electricity to fail, and after the black clouds had scurried away, leaving pearly mist in their wake, Linden couldn’t wait to head back outside, because the fragrance of the garden was at its strongest. The rain intensified the intoxicating aromas and he’d breathe them in hungrily.

  Linden feels a gentle peace enveloping him. He can smell those fresh scents now, and in his mind, he sees the arboretum. He sees his father standing next to the tallest and oldest linden. His father resembles the captain of a ship, sailing on a sea of leaves. There is sweet woodruff under Linden’s feet, with its whorls of bright green leaves and pale, pointy buds. He sees bunches of houseleek, thick pink rosettes with jagged edges, which used to fascinate him as a child and which reminded him of an artichoke. He reaches down to caress succulent dark red sedum. Butterflies hover over purple aster flowers, and one lands on his outstretched palm, just like they used to when he was a child, slowly batting its delicate wings. The woman on the plane was right; it is working. He can see the butterfly perfectly, its tiny fuzzy head, its round eyes, its fine antennas; he can make out the texture of the iridescent wings. He notices his palm is not the one of a grown man. He is a little boy, in his father’s garden. He feels safe, calm. If he walks back to the house, he can glimpse his mother sunbathing on the terrace, near the oleanders and hollyhocks. He can hear Madame Leclerc, the cleaning lady, washing up pots and pans in the kitchen. Tilia is cartwheeling on the lawn, over and over again, as if in slow motion. That’s the last thing he sees before he falls asleep at last.

  THREE

  On prit l’habitude de passer les soirées sous un immense tilleul à quelques pas de la maison.

  —STENDHAL, LE ROUGE ET LE NOIR

  My favorite place was up by the trees. In summer, it was my realm. The girl liked going there, too. She read a book in the shade while I built a tree house with branches and twigs. Sometimes she helped me construct it. My father never came. I soon understood he preferred to be in town. As for my mother, her pregnancy tired her. She didn’t want to come up here. I seemed to be the only one who liked to have fun up by the trees. My friends preferred the pastures or the lawn, where they could throw a ball around or fight. My sister was not yet born. Not that I played much with her anyway when she was.

  My tree house moved with the wind and made creaking noises like a ship. The girl would send the wicker basket up filled with whatever I needed. I’d pull on the cord and heave it up. She always encouraged me. I felt strong, manly, even if I was only a boy.

  The girl would spread a checkered tablecloth for us to sit on. In the basket, she had carefully packed figs, peaches, wild strawberries, all from the garden, small squares of dark chocolate (which we had to eat quickly when it got very hot), and chunks of baguette.

  I played with the trees. They were like living things to me, as alive as humans. They seemed to whisper secrets. Maybe I was the only one who heard them. Trees were at the heart of things. I was four years old, but I sensed that already.

  How well I remember those slow, sunny afternoons. Everything around me seemed at peace. From up in the branches, I watched various kinds of insects climb up and down the trunk: beetles, moths, ants, caterpillars, and firebugs, my favorites. They were harmless and climbed on my finger. They clustered together in groups, making one red patch. I observed the bees garnering pollen, fascinated by their little yellow pouches growing larger and lar
ger. I never got stung, even when the tree attracted clouds of bees in July.

  She was pretty to look at. She had the whitest skin I had ever seen. It was like milk. She had to keep out of the sun, she told me. On her feet, she wore espadrilles. She’d kick them off when we were sitting on the tablecloth. Even her toes were pale and creamy. She was my first crush. On the afternoons she spent with me, I’d stand in front of the window on the first floor, waiting, just to watch her walking up to the house. Her father dropped her off in his blue van. She always wore dresses. On the days the mistral blew, the dress would float up above her thighs. She was called Suzanne. Every time I hear that name, something inside me breaks.

  A TEXT MESSAGE FROM Oriel jolts Linden awake at eight o’clock on Sunday morning. Are you all still in Paris? Seine rising much too fast. Never been so fast for a long time. Rubbing his eyes sleepily, he turns on the TV. It’s all over the news. Overnight, the Seine jumped up a meter, reaching the Zouave’s thighs. Channel after channel shows the same images: brown water mounting higher. Linden learns water has started to flood more basements and parking lots, slowly but surely, rising into buildings from below. He hadn’t realized the flooding was springing from underground, stemming from marinated soils, and not gushing from riverbanks. Outside, the snow is still falling, leaving a slushy layer on rue Delambre, but it will soon turn back into rain, apparently.