Enough About Love

THOMAS AND LOUISE

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THOMAS THOUGHT he would feel no pain. The analyst believed he was prepared for his father’s death, had so clearly inscribed the idea on his mind that he could already picture him under the earth. But he has a persistent ache, a blend of remorse and resentment. He never loved this absent father, this man he only ever called by his first name, Pierre, this father who showed so little interest in fatherhood that Thomas feels he can count the times they spent together on the fingers of one hand. As a teenager, Thomas wanted to change his name, he could have called himself Durenne, his mother’s maiden name. Then his anger lost its painful edge, was less of an issue. Eventually, he even thought he no longer bore him a grudge.

And yet when, almost twenty years ago now, “Pierre” said over the telephone, “I know you’re hurting, I know you resent me …,” Thomas sniggered to himself. He did it loudly enough for his father to hear, and the freshly qualified analyst in him knew that meant the business was far from over, and he said, “I’m sorry, Pierre. You’re probably right. I resented you and I still do.”

As he drives to La Roche-sur-Yon, Thomas knows he is going to confront him. If Stoics are right, if there really is nothing between men, no love, tenderness, or friendship, but the body is everything, if all feeling really does germinate and take root in the individual, then this journey, however belated it may be, will not be pointless. Thomas is driving toward his own appeasement.

Louise has canceled all her meetings, she wanted to come with him.

“Thanks for being here, Louise.”

Tenderly, without a word, she rests her head on his shoulder, he breathes in her perfume. She closes her eyes, puts her arms around him. She is wearing a sober black suit, looks at the map, acts as copilot.

“We need to take exit 30,” she says quietly. “And then the first turn to La Roche-sur-Yon and Noirmoutier.”

“In one kilometer, turn left,” says the satellite navigation system, which has maintained a discreet silence for nearly five minutes.

“That’s what I just said,” sighs Louise. “Can’t you at least switch it to Italian or Spanish, so we can practice a language?”

“You can actually. You can also have a man’s voice, if you like.”

“In five hundred meters, turn left onto the D347.”

“Someone should invent a GPS for life,” Louise smiles, and she adopts the machine’s slightly nasal, disembodied voice: “In one week, take a lover. In one day, take a lover. Take Thomas Le Gall now, on the left. In one month, leave your husband. In one week, leave your husband.”

“Leave your husband now,” smiles Thomas.

“Turn left now,” says the GPS.

“There, you see?” says Louise.

She puts the map down.

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“Eight months ago, for his eightieth birthday. I hadn’t seen him for, what, fifteen years. But I wanted my daughters to meet their grandfather, the ‘real’ one, at least once. So it wouldn’t stay a family secret, a phantom link. They didn’t want to, I had to insist and explain, to keep at it. In the end I convinced them by saying that if he died tomorrow, before they got to see him, they’d regret it for the rest of their lives.”

“In one kilometer, take the second exit at the rotary.”

“You can shut up. So the girls agreed. It was in a big, fancy restaurant, near the Porte Maillot, the sort of place I’m glad I never set foot. It was kind of cheerful, even if I did find it hard relaxing completely. Alice and Esther thought he was very nice, and they loved their cousins.”

“Your sister’s children?”

“My half-sister’s. Aurèle and Just.”

“Just?”

“You’re right, Just is a weird name. I wanted my girls here for the funeral, but it was too complicated getting them over from Glasgow.”

Louise points at a road sign saying LA ROCHE-SUR-YON—15 KM.

Thomas nods.

“I booked a pretty hotel in La Rochelle, in the old town, with views of the sea. We’ll leave right after the funeral. Is that okay?”

“Perfect. I have an overnight pass. I said I had to visit a lifer at Saint-Martin de Ré prison, for a review. It’s almost true.”

“How should I introduce you? Louise Blum? Just Louise? My friend?”

“Yes, Louise is fine, I think. ‘My friend’ is okay too, seeing I’m here as your friend. And I’m wearing black, which is appropriate.”

“Your dress really suits you.”

“It’s a suit, you moron …”

“Take the second turn on the right, onto the D347,” intones the GPS.

“Look,” Louise says, flipping up her skirt. Bright red lace with gray edging appears right at the top of her naked thigh. “I put on my sexiest underwear. To be honest, I even bought it for … for the occasion.”

“Fantastic, my love. I’ll tell my father as soon as I see his coffin.”

Thomas slides his hand onto her knees, strokes her legs and moves right up her thighs, which part to let him through. He slows down, the car shifts a gear.

“Good thing I rented an automatic.”

“Turn right now,” says the GPS.

Thomas absentmindedly obeys the computer’s instructions. His hand slips beneath the silk, flits over Louise’s pubis, which proves compliant.

“I love you,” says Louise.

Thomas’s fingers start to wander, so does he.

“Make a U-turn,” the GPS says flatly.