Chapter 7: …to a Conversation

A little bit of night music twinkled over the radio. Monsieur Trousseau limped in from the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane.

Someone knocked. Thrice.

"Not locked, come in. Damn!"

A twinge in his leg toppled him to the ground. He grabbed for the mantelpiece.

Slipped.

Fell.

Stopped?

"Monsieur?" The little Asian girl from across the way lowered him gently onto the chaise longue. Behind her, the door bounced back on its hinges, and a table lamp wobbled slightly.

"Oh, er, Miss Yuumura," he said, slightly winded. "What brings you here?"

"Your leg. It's hurt."

"Ahh, it's nothing, it's nothing," he growled. "Slipped on the ladder this afternoon. Told Cosette to hold it steady, but did she listen?"

"I'll get the kit," said Kirika, as she swept out the door.

"No, no, don't bother, it's not that —" He gave up, and settled back on the chaise. After a few moments, he shifted into his favourite spot. He winced. Something was digging at his back. He felt around behind him, and found it.

An old memory.

"Huh," he said to the room at large. "Must have knocked it down. Thought I got rid of this."

"Of what?"

He fumbled it in surprise.

"Oh. Didn't hear you come in," said Monsieur.

The girl said nothing, intent on searching the first aid kit.

"Ah, nice catch, by the way."

Kirika, still looking through the kit, wordlessly placed the fallen picture frame on the side table, and then brought out a tensor bandage. He made a feeble protest, and then let her see to his leg.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" he asked, as she wrapped the bandage.

"Mireille wanted to be alone. I didn't."

"Well, you're in for a treat then!" he said. "Darjeeling, Jasmine, Caravan, you've all tried, but tonight? China White. Been saving it for a special occasion."

"Tonight is special?" she asked.

"The sun is shining, the sky is clear, and I'm still kicking. Special enough for me." A bell went 'ding.' "Ah, could you get that…?"

The TV tray squeaked its way into the living room, followed by Kirika. "Monsieur Molbe, he runs the shop on the corner, he imports a bit of this every month or so," explained Monsieur. "I was telling Monsieur Duceppe about it last week. Then, then he reaches into his coat and brings out this great pouch of the stuff. Direct from Fukien Province, no labels or anything. Said he passed through there a few months back. Ahh, look! Look!" he said, as he served it. "Gold as liquid light…"

"What's this?"

"Hm?" Kirika was holding the old picture frame. It held a medal pinned to a slip of cheap cardboard.

"This medal. What's it for?"

"Just a trinket," he mumbled. "A relic of the past."

She turned it over. "'Patria Non Immemor,'" she read.

"Not important. Worthless."

"No." She touched it. "It's important. It's a memory. A part of you, a part of your past."

"Like I said," he replied, "worthless. Put it back up in the corner there, behind that picture, please."

"But…"

"Then you can try one of these tea biscuits. They're quite good, you know." He crunched one messily. "Augh, crumbs."

Kirika looked on him with a mixture of pity and disbelief, and then crept over to the mantelpiece.

Monsieur took a sip, and boarded a slow boat to China. "Nah, not there, child," he said, "over more, way in the back. That's better."

"So many pictures," she breathed.

"It's Cosette," he said. "Maniac for photographs. What's wrong with memory, I say? Keep your mind active and you'll have all the film you ever need. More than you want, actually," he mumbled.

"This girl?"

The cup froze halfway to his lips.

"This girl, here." She stood on her toes and grabbed a small picture next to where she'd placed the medal. "She's not in any of the other pictures. Who is she?"

The slow boat sank. He exhaled, scattered the cup's soothing steam, and set it down.

"If you don't want to talk…" she said, hesitantly.

"That's Marien," he said. "My daughter."

"I didn't know you had one. Is she…?"

"Dead? Oh, good heavens no," he replied, forcing a chuckle. "To her," he mumbled, "we might well be." He noticed her blank expression. "We, we don't talk very much."

"You don't?"

"Rather she doesn't."

She looked from daughter to parent. "But…why?"

"If you want the whole story," he sighed, "you might as well sit down." She did, slowly, placing the picture between them. Outside, the sky faded from fire orange to a dull, bloody red.

"She was our first child," he began. "Born late evening, March 14, 1952." A tea-thin grin crept over his face unheeded. "Beautiful. Eyes like lakes in summer moonlight. A cardinal's voice. Hair like a mop. Dark, dark brown, dark as old oak. We didn't have much money back then; we'd just renovated this place, and the job market was terrible. But she went to school all the same. Played the violin. I, I remember, we were walking by L'Arc, and there was this wrinkled old fellow with one leg, tanned black by the sun. And he was strumming along, going da daaah da da dah daaah da!" he said, miming the motions, "sweat flying from his face, bow singing. How she laughed! That laugh, the tinkle of chimes on the wind!"

"I hurried her along to the nearest music shop. Oh, it took months of course, but I saved and saved, and on her eighth birthday, I gave it to her. Soon, every day, there was music in this house, such beautiful music. And Cosette and I, we knew someday we would hear her in the symphony, and she would play for de Gaulle, she would play for kings and queens…Aaaah, but I'm boring you," he trailed off.

"Mm-mm." She shook her head.

"Well, I guess I might as well finish it…" he said, taking a sip of tea.

She leaned forward, listening with rapt attention.

"She fussed over Peter all the time, like a good sister. There was one time, he was flying a kite in the park, and the string, it sort of, slipped, out of his fingers. This great wind carried it up to the very highest tree. Well, Marien, she takes one look at him, and away she goes. Scampers up the tree like a monkey and grabs it. Got her brand new dress all muddied and torn. Oh, we gave her such a talk when she got back home. But the thing about Marien, she talked back. There, there was spirit in her. She said someone had to do it, someone had to help, and she was there, and where were we?"

"She was always like that, as she grew older. Around the table, at dinner, I'd read the headlines from the paper, and she'd debate forever on every little point. She go on and on about the tests and the war, about how France needed to be strong. And we'd argue with her. She didn't know war, you see. Didn't know how precious peace was."

"Pretty soon, there wasn't as much music anymore. Just words. Angry words. Things were said…that should not have been. And then, one night, she moved out. Without a word. Joined up with this young man of hers. Went to college. Moved overseas. Works in an embassy, I think." He took a nervous sip, grimaced, and set the cup aside.

"She doesn't write?" asked Kirika. "Or visit?"

"Dropped by once in '93. Told us we were grandparents," he spat.

"But, you're her father," she said, in disbelief. "Her family. Family…its important…its --"

"What I took from her. Family." The words swirled round inside her head as she walked slowly away. Behind her, a jubilant young woman stepped forth in the opposite direction, off to a meeting with destiny. "Will she see him there, as I left him? Her father? Dead? By my hand?"

She clenched her fists, and willed the tears to come. They did not. "I want…to feel. Something. Anything. But there is nothing, nothing. No sadness. No regret. Just the weight of sin, pulling me down, down, down. What I can do? What I can say?" She shivered, despite the warm weather.

"How can I find release?"

"Not to her," he growled.

An uncomfortable silence followed. He grumbled, and scratched at his back; the frayed, woollen strands of the chaise longue's slipcover galled him.

"Do you…write…to her?"

"Mm?"

"Do you write to her?"

He stared at her. Same distant eyes, but was there something more there now? "Uh, no, no," he said, looking away. "Not for a long time, anyway."

"You should try again."

He laughed softly, as those who see no hope do. "She won't write back. What would be the point?"

Something soft settled onto his arm. A hand. He noticed, and looked up.

There was something there. The way the setting sun caught them: same sadness, same emptiness, but somehow…closer?

"You, you have, so much here," she began, thinking over each word. "A wife. A son. A daughter. A past."

He mumbled something dismissively.

"My parents. I never knew them…well," she continued, adding the last word upon noticing his expression. "Children…should know their parents. But so much can change in an instant. You wake up, and everyone's gone. You should write to her, to your grandchildren. Tell them, about that," she said, with a glance at the dusty medal. "Before, before it's too late. I, I mean, um…" She trailed off, and drew back, seemingly embarrassed.

A clink of old china. Monsieur Trousseau gave the tea another try. "Your friend, Miss Bouquet," he said. "She said the same thing to me three months ago."

"Oh," she whispered, realizing what that meant.

"Ahh, don't worry about me," he said, patting her hand. "I'm just an old man who's too stubborn for his own good. I shouldn't be loading my troubles onto you."

"You're not. Your stories, I like them."

"Bah," he bahed, bashfully. He rose to put the picture in its place. "You'd best start on that before it gets cold," he added, referring to the tea.

She did. If she enjoyed it, it wasn't apparent.

A floorboard creaked in the hall. Two voices approached, one laughing. The door opened.

"— and whoop! Popped right back out again!" said Madame.

"That's terrible," said Mireille, her expression suggesting otherwise.

"Cosette? Why so late? It's almost ten," said Monsieur, gesturing towards the clock.

"Oh, I just ran into —"

"Mireille…" said Kirika, noticing her.

"— Yes, and we got to talking. You know how it is."

"No I don't!"

"I see you found something to do then?" said Mireille, with a nod to her roommate.

"Trip to the Orient," said Monsieur, proffering the cup. "Care to join us?"

"Maybe another time. Oh," she said, snapping her fingers, "I still have that recipe book you loaned me. Did you —"

"Baaah," replied Monsieur, "keep it. Read it a thousand times. Author doesn't know his Earl Grey from his Earl Green."

"I didn't think he was that bad."

"Ehh, it's a good one if you're starting out, I suppose. You might find it useful, Miss Yuumura."

"I've read it," she replied, setting down her cup. "It is."

"Kirika?" said Mireille. "We better turn in; early flight tomorrow, remember."

"Off on another business trip, eh?" said Madame.

"Uh, yeah," said Mireille, evasively. "We have to meet a man in Russia."

"Russia? I've head it's cold there this time of year; you'd better bundle up!"

"We will."

Kirika finished her cup, gave thanks, and then rose to leave. She cast one last look back at the mantle, glanced sadly at Monsieur Trousseau, and then closed the door behind her.

"I do hope she'll be all right," said Madame, as she settled into her easy chair. "She has so much on her mind, it seems, the poor girl."

"Mm," agreed Monsieur, lost in thought.

"But that's the way of youth, I guess," she said, taking up a slipcover she was patching. "You get all caught up in the troubles and grudges of the day that you end up forgetting all the joy in life. I just hope she remembers before it's too late."

"Cosette," he said, after a few moments.

"Mm?"

"Do we have any stamps?"