Invisible Love (21 page)

“They drove all the way here. They're inside, that's for sure!”

They would have liked to run but everything stopped them. Because it had been raining, the ash had stuck to the snow and become a lumpy glue that fixed the soles of their shoes to the ground, forcing them to make a huge effort with each step. And in this flatter area, the wind tormented them in a different way, it was like a whiplash, stopping them from thinking. Its rumbling force seemed to be trying to kill all thought and sweep the surface of the earth.

At last they reached the cabin. Smoke was rising from the chimney, to be immediately dispersed by the wind.

Magnus signaled to Alba to keep quiet. He was relying on the effect of surprise.

With his shoulder, he shoved open the door.

Vilma, who was sitting next to Jonas, resting, had time only to see a body loom up in front of her before Magnus hit her on the head, stunned her, and tied her hands.

Once immobilized, Vilma blinked, realized what was happening, and started screaming.

Alba rushed to Jonas. His features were drawn, his nostrils contracted, and he was having difficulty breathing. She tapped his pale cheeks.

He opened his eyes and saw his aunt's face. “I knew you'd come . . . ”

At these words, Vilma became even more vociferous. “Leave me alone. Don't touch her. She's my daughter. I recognized her in spite of everything. She didn't struggle, she's been nice to me, that's proof, isn't it?”

Magnus tried to gag her. She bit him and kicked him in the crotch. He grimaced. “What am I supposed to do with this maniac?”

Alba threw herself between them and looked Vilma up and down. “Tie her to the chair,” she ordered Magnus. “I just want her to leave us in peace. We'll send the police to get her.”

“Help me, Alba,” Vilma moaned. “You agree with me, Alba. You're the only one.”

“You're sick, Vilma, very sick, but I hope the doctors will help you get better.”

“Take me with you.”

Alba had to restrain herself from slapping her. “I don't trust you. Can't you see what a state you've put Jonas in? Because of you, he may die.”

Magnus had rapidly dressed his nephew, put a mask on him, and without asking him for help, hoisted him on his shoulders. “Hang on tight, my boy, we're going!”

They left the cabin.

As soon as they were outside, the wind grew even stronger. Was such a long, sustained, relentless fit of temper possible?

The red house was still withstanding the assault but it was shaking, its joints creaked, and its roof quivered. From deep inside, they could hear Vilma's shrill sobs.

They staggered on, unable to concentrate. The wind was trying to empty their heads and the plain.

Suddenly, they heard an unusual noise. A kind of persistent rattle. Stones were falling.

“Cover yourselves, quickly!”

Alba was pointing to a rocky outcrop that she had always known, where she and Katrin had once planned some huts. They ran toward it. Around them, the volcanic fragments rained down, some as small as eggs, others as big as monoliths.

Jonas let out a cry. Alba and Magnus thought that he had been hit by a stone and turned in panic.

Jonas was pointing at the red cabin in the distance.

A huge stone had gone through the roof and smashed into the one room, and now the flames, released from the fireplace, were starting to lick the beams.

Within five minutes, the building was on fire. Then a gust of wind rushed across the plateau and buried it beneath the ashes.

 

*

 

Alba smiled. That diffuse light, that slight wind announced that something was about to be born: spring.

The sun was shining out of a calm sky. The seagulls were screaming with excitement. Soon, the earth would stop being as hard as stone, the grass would grow, the Alaska lupins would clothe the embankments in blue.

She was standing by the letterbox, waiting for Whistle.

The previous night, he had hacked into the hospital's computer system and printed out some documents.

There he was, coming up the path, swaying on his bicycle. You might wonder, seeing that figure, which was the thinner, he or the bicycle.

He approached Alba, brandishing the file victoriously. “Here it is!”

“How can I ever thank you?”

“By making the revolution, comrade. Let's not talk anymore, they may see us.”

He left again immediately, freewheeling down the slope, getting smaller until he was just a dot on the road leading to Reykjavík.

With the envelope in her hand, Alba went back into the house, where Jonas was still asleep and Katrin was recovering from her tiring journey.

She took the sheets of paper from the folder, and without even glancing at them, fed them into the shredder. As the paper tore, she felt stronger, more passionate, more alive. Then she made some tea and toasted some bread.

There was a noise behind her.

Jonas appeared, blond, fresh, and as beautiful as the dawn in his coral-colored pajamas. “What a pity you canceled my homecoming party!” he said. “My friends were really looking forward to it.”

Alba handed him his breakfast tray. “Later. It's only postponed. In the meantime, how about a little belote?”

O
n the bench opposite mine, a woman was feeding the birds. Sparrows and blue tits had hopped timidly toward her, fearing to become earthbound again, ready to retreat back into the air at the slightest suspicious movement, then had come to rest at her feet, ever more numerous, drawn up in a semicircle like a chorus of beggars. Some of the bolder souls no longer hesitated to leap onto the bench, even onto the woman's thighs or arms. Attracted by the feast, a robin chased away its fellow creatures with stabs of its beak, and even clumsy pigeons waddled forward.

The picture intrigued me. It wasn't that I hadn't witnessed a scene like this a hundred times: a strange woman giving the birds a treat, regardless of those around her. But one thing was different today: this woman's appearance defied the cliché. She wasn't a bag lady, she wasn't poor or old, her strawberry blonde hair had only recently been tended to at the salon, she was wearing a stylish clear linen pantsuit, and her amber complexion was redolent of vacations by the sea or in the mountains, in other words the leisure of the well-to-do. An upper-middle-class lady was feeding the sparrows of Paris.

The friend I was with nudged me and whispered, “Look.”

An individual of similar age and type—early sixties, sporty appearance—was walking along the path looking for a bench. On that first bright morning after long, dull weeks of rain, what Parisian wouldn't want to warm himself in the sun's rays? The walker noted that there was only one seat left, beside the bird lady.

Without a word of greeting, without even a glance, he sat down and behaved as if he were alone. He cleared his throat and opened wide his newspaper, encroaching on his neighbor's space.

The woman pretended not to notice him. For a moment, I thought she was throwing crumbs between the man's legs so that the noisy, aggressive birds would swarm around him.

A couple passed. The man looked up and greeted them. Three seconds later, the woman did the same. Then they each went back to their own activity, indifferent to the other. Having acquaintances in common did not seem to bring them together.

Suddenly, the wind blew one sheet of
Le Figaro
to the end of the bench. The woman did not move, as if nothing had happened, and let the man thrash about trying to catch it.

Later, in bending forward, she knocked over her bag, which rolled along the ground as far as the man's ankle. He reacted with indifference, merely crossing his legs.

Neither paid any attention to the other, and paradoxically you sensed that this was their main concern: not to pay attention to each other. Everything about them—the tension, the waves of scorn they emanated, the languid pace they imposed—suggested that they lived and breathed only to tell each other:
You aren't here
.

My friend was amused at my dismayed expression. “Would you believe they're husband and wife?”

“You're kidding.”

“Not at all. They even live in the same house.”

“They do?”

“But not together.”

“Now I know you're talking nonsense . . . ”

“They've cut their apartment in two. He comes and goes via the service entrance. They had a wall built so they never have to meet. Actually, they bump into each other twenty times a day, on the stairs, in the entrance hall, in the shops, on the street—especially as they've kept their old habits—but they ignore each other.”

“You really are kidding me, aren't you?”

“If only you'd seen them a few years ago: they were so much in love. For the people in the neighborhood—around Place des Vosges, everyone knows everyone—they were the perfect couple, a model of harmony, the paradigm of a happy marriage! Who would have thought?”

“What happened?”

“One morning, they divided their property—the apartment, the chalet in the mountains, the house by the sea—and they haven't talked to each other since. It happened suddenly.”

“Impossible . . . ”

“If people can fall in love at first sight, why can't they fall out of love in the same way?”

“I wish I could understand.”

“You're lucky, then! I learned the truth from a friend of Séverine's.”

“Who's Séverine?”

“The bird lady opposite you.”

 

*

 

Séverine and Benjamin Trouzac collected the signs of success: they were good-looking, young, popular, and their careers had prospered.

A graduate of the National Business School, Benjamin Trouzac worked at the Ministry of Health, where he dealt with the most difficult assignments. He was highly regarded for his sharp intelligence, his natural authority, his in-depth knowledge of cases, his strong sense of the public good.

Séverine was a freelance journalist who wrote lively, amusing articles for several women's magazines. Capable of knocking off a humorous column about making muffins or ten hilarious pages on the latest colors of nail polish, she delighted editors with her mixture of intelligence and frivolity.

The only thing missing was children. They both wanted a family, but kept putting it off. They liked to enjoy themselves too much, loved going out, loved friends, travel, sports.

When Séverine turned thirty-five, she became alarmed at how quickly time was passing. The moment had come, they decided, to start a family.

At this time, Séverine's sister gave birth to a daughter who had a rare disease.

Séverine was shattered for her sister, but Benjamin was horrified for the two of them. “I'm afraid of what's in store for us. Believe it or not, there are there are handicapped children in my family too. These things are no joke, Séverine!”

Séverine put off having a test for as long as possible, but her longing to be a mother had become so urgent that she eventually yielded to Benjamin's entreaties. The specialist they consulted—a female doctor friend of Benjamin's, whom he had met at the Ministry—did not beat about the bush: she told them that they were bearers of genes that exposed their offspring to disabilities.

“So what do we do?” Séverine asked.

“Well, when you become pregnant, we'll take samples, and then you can make an informed decision.”

Séverine and Benjamin sighed with relief. Disconcerted as they were to know the truth, they realized that even though there was a risk they could continue with their plans.

The year Séverine turned thirty-seven, after several false alarms, she at last became pregnant.

Séverine and Benjamin were so overjoyed they almost forgot the advice they had been given. Luckily, Benjamin ran into his doctor friend at an international conference, and she reminded him of what he had to do.

One gray Monday, at eight in the morning, in the bare office of a run-down hospital, a consultant in genetics informed Séverine, who was smugly holding her round belly in her hands, that her fetus had a dangerous disease, cystic fibrosis, an ailment in which mucus accumulates in the respiratory and digestive tracts. Being as honest as he could be, he told the couple that the child would suffer from pulmonary problems, that it would require a great deal of care and treatment, and that its life expectancy would be limited. For these reasons, he informed Séverine, she would be given the right to abort even though her pregnancy was quite advanced.

Séverine and Benjamin faced a week of torment, torn between the desire to keep the baby and not to keep it. Depending on their mood, they either felt quite capable of bringing up a child who was different or were overwhelmed at the prospect. Their friends from the Ministry of Health provided them with conflicting opinions: according to some their child wouldn't live beyond the age of fourteen, while according to others it could survive to forty-five. Who to believe? The doctors they consulted were equally contradictory. One evening, placing themselves in the hands of fate, they threw dice, but as soon as the game gave them an answer, they rejected it in horror and refused to trust their future to chance. In short, after a week of inner conflict, they still had not chosen.

It was a TV program that helped them make up their minds. Channel hopping, they came across a report on the care of severely sick children. The presenter of the program had a political ax to grind—he wanted the government to commit itself to providing more care for the handicapped—and so painted a deliberately bleak picture, showing the daily lives of the patients and their parents in a tragic light. Séverine and Benjamin were so shocked and appalled at the thought of the ordeal that not only awaited them, but which they would inflict on the as-yet-unborn child, that they agreed to terminate the pregnancy. They contacted the hospital.