Book of My Mother

XVI

WIDE AWAKE I dream, and I tell myself what it would be like if she were alive. I would live with her simply in solitude. A little house by the sea, far from mankind. Just the two of us, she and I, in a crooked little house. A very peaceful and untalented little life. I would forge myself a new soul — the soul of a little old lady like her — to avoid embarrassing her, and make her utterly happy. I would stop smoking, just to please her. We would cope nicely together with the household chores. We would do the cooking, making little remarks like “I really do think that a bit, just a touch, of chicory brings out the flavor in coffee” or “It’s better not to put in enough salt rather than too much — you can always add some later.” Like her, I would pat the dinner with a wooden spoon. Two old sisters, she and I, and while one strained the macaroni the other would grate the cheese. We would sweep up everywhere, chatting all the time, we would polish the brass, and when all was done we would sit ourselves down. We would smile at each other in contentment and good companionship, sigh with satisfaction, pleasantly tired, and happily survey the result of our work, our kitchen so spotless and tidy. For love of her and to please her I would play up my satisfaction. And then we would reward ourselves with hot coffee, and as we sipped she would smile at me through her glasses, which would be touching the rim of her cup. We would sometimes get the giggles together. We would always be doing each other little turns with a smile. In the evening after dinner, when everything was perfectly trim, we would chat cozily by the fire, she and I, looking at each other so agreeably, two real little old ladies, so easy and comfortable and sincere, two little pippins, impish and contented, with very few teeth but sprightly as they come, and for love of her I would be sewing like her, Maman and I, sworn pals, chatting together, together forever. And that is my idea of paradise.

I can hear my mother saying with her wise smile, “That life wouldn’t suit you. You couldn’t live that way. You wouldn’t change.” And she adds what she so often said to me in her lifetime: “My crazy lord, my prince of ancient times.” She also says, drawing closer, “And, anyway, I wouldn’t like you to change. Don’t you know that mothers like their sons to be superior and even a bit ungrateful? It’s a sign of good health.”

I raise my head, I look at myself in the mirror, and, while some chap on the radio goes on and on, I watch myself write — gentle, good as gold, with an expression all at once almost kind, absorbed and peaceful as a child engrossed in a very foolish forbidden game, absorbed, weightless, smiling slightly, holding the paper lightly with the left hand while the right advances with childlike application. I feel quite sorry for this man who is writing with such loving care and who is going to die soon.