Ordinary Funeral

[DieterM]

Basically, he was just that guy, you know. Sixtyish, I'd say; short, stout, balding, white-skinned, thin-lipped. Refined and noble features but, all in all, rather non-descript, if my memories can be trusted. More frequently present in the media than in my thoughts. Even if, by one of the strange and ironic twists that destiny obviously treasures, he happens to be my father.

Damn it – I must not forget to use the past tense, henceforth.

He happened to be my father.

Well, yes, he's dead, it seems.

It's past nine in the evening. Boredom seeps in through the open window. You could say I'm watching telly. Watching without watching, you know what I mean? The volume low, my gaze unfocused, a half-muted TV debate mingling with the noise of the traffic flowing up from the avenue. I’ve chosen this means, as good as any other, to drown the mortal silence in my penthouse. Honestly, it was that, or some Mahler sadness, or me screaming at the white walls.

That's when the telephone rings. I'm surprised to hear my older sister Raphaëlle’s voice, strangely breathless but brisk, businesslike. I've always known her like that, you know: unfazed, unmoved, almost emotionless. I'm talking so-called positive emotions here, of course. She can be very cross when she sets her mind to it.

Whatever. After a hasty 'Hi, Marc, it's Raphaëlle', she immediately spills the beans. She’s staying with my mother. Because the old man has died.

'When did it happen? How?' I ask.

'Oh, let me think. Two days ago? Three? Wait, I can ask mother. She must remember when it happened exactly…'

'No, don't bother,' I shrug her suggestion off. 'It doesn't make any difference anyway. I'm just surprised they haven't talked about it in the news yet… Where's she? Mother, I mean…'

'In the kitchen. I guess she's supervising the hors d'œuvres…'

'Oh. You wanna say she's pouring herself another drink. Nice try. I should have known, anyway.'

Suddenly, I'm at a loss. How shall I go on from here? Am I supposed to condole her? Would that be the right thing for a brother to do? Then, I remember. 'Tell me: do I have to come? I mean, there'll be the funeral and stuff, I reckon…'

'Of course.' My sister snorts. 'Even if one prefers to say 'obsequial service'. Specially unpawned my pearls for the glitzy occasion, I have. But you don't sound overtly delighted to come.'

'You're joking?' I ask sardonically. 'I can't think of anything nicer than being filmed while attending that obsequial service.'

My sister sighs. 'Oh Marc… Don't let it out on me, okay? Anyway, the funeral will take place the day after tomorrow. And yes, you ought to come. But if you prefer to stay away, do as you please. You're free.' Her voice betrays nothing.

'I'll have a look at the trains' schedule,' I say wearily. 'Is it alright if I get back to you tomorrow?'

'No problem.' Her voice has a certain hard edge now, like a hoarse and coated texture.

'Is that a teary voice there?' I ask, incredulous. 'You been weeping or what?'

'No, silly,' Raphaëlle says. 'Nobody has thought of turning on the heating. It's freezing in this house; I guess I’ve just caught a cold.'

*****

Strange coincidence. No later than this morning, I've thrown away a postcard my father and mother sent me, about a month ago. I don't normally keep them but, go figure why, I've rather liked this one. It's an old black-and-white picture showing the banks of the river Nive, its waters dark and ominous, three houseboats anchored in front of a longstretched, shoddy shed. In the foreground, a wall with baroque stone vases; thick-leaved chestnut trees behind; a hilly landside you can guess in the distance; a cobbled gangway leading down to the river. Two boys stand near the water; their faces no more than two white flecks, they gaze down on the flowing stream of water, side by side, a cautious distance between them. They seem to be together yet look distinct, separated, each one lost in his very own, personal stream of consciousness.

The frozen, photographic symbol of my father and mother. Sorry if I always say 'my father and mother'. I’ve never been able to think of them as a unit, you know; for me, they’ve never formed that singular nucleus expressed in the word ‘parents’.

So, just an ordinary postcard. Something had appealed to me, though. I had put it on my bookshelf. And only realized this morning that it still was there.

Before I threw it into the dustbin, I read the message on the back of the postcard again. It read, 'Bayonne is very beautiful. The weather is fine. We are doing alright. Greetings.'

God knows why I even bothered reading the message when the postcard arrived, let alone read it again this morning. The messages my father and mother sent me always turned out the same, word for word. Wherever they went, the places happened to be very beautiful, a bright sun apparently shone on all their trips, they were forever doing alright. And always, always sending their greetings. It felt like the Queen and her Prince consort regally and randomly waving at one of their subjects.

Of course, it had been my mother who had written the message, dutifully, in her neat, regular, impersonal handwriting. She always signed the cards 'Your mother', which never ceased to strike me as odd. Each time, I'd have wagered she'd forget and rather sign by her stage name. My sisters must have received the very same postcard with the very same message, too. Fancy or improvisation were not really a hot feature with my mother. Nor with my father.

Oh, he always signed the cards, too. He took the stack my mother had prepared and signed them off, one by one, with the same interest, enthusiasm and dedication some postal worker would apply afterwards when stamping them.

So, basically, the only written link between me and my father would be that: his signature on otherwise anonymous postcards. Even my mother's handwriting couldn't erase the cards' anonymity.

'Father', he'd always write. Nothing else.

That quite sums up our father-son-bond. A hastily scrawled 'Father' on a bloody postcard. Our relationship couldn't have been more distant. Sometimes I think even the word 'distant' conveys too intimate a concept.

Now, he's dead. Which won't challenge anything that could've been going on between the two of us.

(will be continued)

[Delta40]

You've done a good job of echoing the distance between you and your father. The postcard is an excellent device. I look forward to reading the next instalment.

[Benvenuti]

What will keep me reading is waiting for Marc to realise that he is actually quite bitter, while pretending to himself that he doesn't care. Will I discover that his parents are as strange as they seem? Or will he turn out to be a little strange too, as hinted by his sister pretending not to cry (or did I get that wrong)?

One thing that confuses me is the start: "Fiftyish, sixtyish, I'd say". I understand that it's a way of telling us that his father is a stranger. But (to me) it doesn't quite ring true that he wouldn't have a rough idea of his father's age. If he'd said "middle aged", or even just "sixtyish" I'd be OK. But ten years is a big gap, so it makes me wonder whether it's supposed to be some sort of hint about Marc? But then, I often try to read too much into things!

I like this piece because the characters seem real and it makes me want to know more about them.

[DieterM]

@Delta: thanx; I take it you think/thought I was telling my own story yet, alas, I do not live in a penthouse, and I've wept my father's death bitterly. So I guess it's just pure fiction. But if you took it to be my personal story, I feel flattered because I wanted the thing to sound genuine, real, lived.
@Benvenuti: thank you to get so involved with the story, and your confusion about "fiftyish, sixtyish" points out a really stupid mistake I've made. You're absolutely right; I'll edit that. You're a precious "helping hand" because I've proof-read the part and didn't notice it was a bit too strong.
Followups will follow quickly!

[DieterM]

(Continuation)

Sitting in the train. The Gare de l'Est pulls away when I glance through the window. Unexpected early spring sunrays flood the cityscape. Somehow, they still manage to underline the dreary shabbiness of the high buildings boarding the tracks. They make their dirty grey look even greyer and dirtier.

I’m alone in my compartment. The provincial town I’m heading for apparently doesn’t attract tourists nor tired Parisian weekenders. Of course, apart from its crumbling church, the Renaissance pavilion where King Henri IV is said to have shagged his lover Gabrielle d’Estrée, and a huge nuclear power station, no sights worth of taking the train. I never quite understood why my father decided to bury himself in such a sleepy hole in the first place. Hell, even his former electorate was miles away. Why my mother followed him there remains an even greater enigma.

Oh, whatever. As if I cared…

Händel’s ‘Water Music’ is gently bubbling in my headphones while I stare at the former Mills of Pantin passing by. With a sigh, I unfold ‘Le Monde’. Quickly, I find the small notice in the lower section of the front page. It announces my father’s death. ‘Read more – page 8’.

The paper only dedicates a half page to him. ‘FORMER STATE SECRETARY / MP DIED AT AGE 68’, the headline says.

Gosh, 68! I didn’t know the man was that old already. That is, I should have known, I reckon. I read on. ‘Aged 68, Jean-Marc Laforge has died of a stroke last Tuesday in his house in Nogent-sur-Seine. Not only does he leave his wife Estelle and his three children in mourning, but he bereaves his former district and his party of a willingly harkened voice.’

Who writes these obituaries? Mourning and bereavement – they didn't pull their punches, that much is certain. I’ll have to look the part, then. I’ll have to rehearse a stricken expression before the funeral takes place.

The article retraces my father’s curriculum, his studies, his political engagement, his precious services to the Nation. They briefly speak of my mother’s career, her meeting my father, their wedding. They mention Raphaëlle and Angélique and finally ‘Laforge’s son, currently working as a tourist consultant in the capital’.

Tourist consultant! Despite myself, I have to giggle. I suppose Raphaëlle must have provided that bit.

The rest is bla-bla-bla. The party’s Secretary general expressing grief and condolences to the family. His political opponents voicing the same, heart-felt sadness. Everybody regretting with hypocrite pathos ‘the demise of a loyal, hard-working politician who has devoted all his energy and intelligence to the greater good of his country.’

At least, he has devoted his energy and intelligence to a worthy cause. Failing, as he was, to care for his family.

I've bought ‘Le Figaro’ and ‘Libération’, just in case. But I don’t bother opening them; I’m not in the mood to read some more crap phrased in the same, agreed fashion.

*****

‘Where’s our Star?’ I ask Angélique, who has come to pick me up at the Railway station.

‘Mother’s resting,’ my younger sister replies, pouting, her voice strained. She’s the only one of us who seems to feel something like a link with mother. Or else, she believes it her duty to defend and protect that woman? Go figure.

‘Knocked out cold, in other words,’ I correct her. ‘Never mind.’ I smile broadly. ‘Come here and give your bro’ a hug!’

She does, reluctantly at first, but then, she willingly surrenders herself to my arms. ‘Good to see you,’ she murmurs.

The tone of her voice makes me react. ‘Don’t you dare and weep, Angie’ I warn her.

My sister sniffs and wipes her eyes. ‘Not everyone has a heart as cold and stony as yours’, she murmurs.

‘Why, I’m the son of Cruella and Lord Voldemort,’ I reply dryly. ‘Let me live up to my genes, will you?’

(To be continued soon)

[Benvenuti]

Ah ha, so Marc has bought all the papers but then doesn't read them all... his sister thinks he has a cold heart... but he does give her a hug and calls her by a familiar diminutive. Yep, I reckon he's definitely more upset than he makes out!

Some more random thoughts as I went throught it as a first time reader:
Nice sense of place. Is this all happening in French (their names are French and he reads French papers fluently)? He is very familiar with English ("crap", "pull their punches", "shagged"), so I don't imagine him speaking with a French accent. References to 101 Dalmations and Harry Potter place it later than 1990.

I'm enjoying the story. Hope it's OK to pass on thoughts that go through the head of a new reader.

[DieterM]

Yeas, Benvenuti, the story indeed takes place in France, with French main characters. And it's supposed to take place now (spring 2011). And yes, it's OK to pass on your thoughts; I'm really very glad you do because it gives me very interesting insights into what works in my story and what doesn't. Thank you so much for sharing!

[DieterM]

(Continuation)

I find Raphaëlle sitting on the white leather couch in the Salon Bleu, leafing through a glossy Home Deco Magazine, a half-empty drink standing on the low glass table in front of her. Angélique disappears upstairs without acknowledging our sister’s presence. I leave my bag in the entrance hall and walk over to kiss Raphaëlle on the cheek. She doesn’t even look up, just says flatly, ‘Hi, Marc. You finally made it, then. Even if you did not call me, as promised.’

‘Hey, no sweat. I called Angie instead. Hasn’t she told you?’

‘No. Our dear, angelic sister didn’t deign talk to me since she’s arrived. Good for you that she’ll speak to you, though.’ Raphaëlle pretends to study an article about chintz curtains. Alright, she's cross with both of us.

‘Come on,’ I say placatingly. ‘You’re going to treat me like that for the rest of my stay? Listen, I’m sorry. I know I should have called you. But things have been a bit, you know, rushed.’

‘M-hm.’

‘You okay?’

‘Well,’ she sighs and looks at me at last, ‘yes, I’m okay. Go pour yourself a drink, will you? I don’t like to be the only one to have alcohol at this time of day. Makes me feel like such a boozer…’

‘You sure you’re our mother’s daughter?’ I joke while I stroll over to the bar.

‘Leave her alone,’ Raphaëlle says automatically, half-heartedly. ‘She’s going through a lot of things right now.’ I can hear that she doesn't mean a word.

I mix myself a stiff Gin-Tonic, then sit down on the Louis-XV-chair across from my sister. ‘Is she?’ I ask. ‘Poor woman. But at least, she’ll be in the spotlight again.’

Raphaëlle smiles. ‘Still the same, you are,’ she says. It sounds almost approving, tender. ‘You look good in black. You always did.’

‘That’s why I never wear anything else,’ I shrug. ‘Made the packing of my bag so much easier, too.’

‘Cheers,’ my sister waves her glass at me. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Yeah, good to see you, too. Here’s to family,’ I reply.

We glare at each other for a second. Then, a bitter and unamused laugh escapes us both.

(to be continued soon)

[DieterM]

(Continuation)

In the afternoon, Angélique joins us in the Salon Bleu. The girls make an effort but still, some half-nasty things are uttered, falling like poison drops into a golden goblet of red wine at a Borgia banquet. All in all, though, and on the surface, we seem to get along rather well.

Inoffensive baroque music babbles us toward dinner.

That’s when the situation reaches a peak. We’re only three, my two sisters and I, to sit down in the stilted decor of the dining room. I haven’t seen mother since I’ve arrived. She’s kept to her room all day, resting, it seems. But I heard sitcom telly laughter when I passed by her door. Anyway, I prefer not to face her right now. I don’t dig Hollywood vintage drama, you see. This will be the occasion for my mother to play an important role, after all. Think Liz-Taylor in ‘Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ and you’ll get the picture.

During the first course, a painfully polite atmosphere lies in the air, as heavy as an unutterable family secret. The eruption finally happens when I ask Angélique, ’How’s Emma, by the way?’

This makes Raphaëlle wince, and visibly so. Luckily, our mother's butler is serving the duck and the roasted potatoes, which provides us a moment of respite. He refills our glasses, then leaves.

Angélique throws back her hair and prefers to ignore our sister’s reaction for the moment, answering my question instead. ‘Oh, Emma’s fine. A real doll. We taught her to make almond cookies last weekend.’

‘How cute,’ Raphaëlle mutters under her breath, sarcasm dripping from each word.

‘And Carole? Still working for that pharmaceutical company?’ I ask while shooting Raphaëlle a warning glance.

‘Yeah, and still very busy. I hardly ever see her. She seems to be on the road all the time,’ Angélique answers. She takes a deep breath, which turns out useless because a second later, she snaps, ‘And don’t you roll your eyes, Raph. I see you! I know you don’t approve but can you just, for the sake of a nice family meal, not exhibit your disgust so openly?’

‘I haven’t said a word,’ Raphaëlle replies coldly. ‘And what I think of my sister living, and worse: raising a girl, together with that… dyke is none of your business, okay?’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, Raph, watch your language,’ I try to interfere. Too late, of course. We won't be able to eat the duck in peace.

‘Hey, I got news for you, sis: you’re currently sharing your dinner with another one of those filthy dykes,’ Angélique spits. ‘Got a problem with that?’

‘F.u.c.k it, I’m a conservative,’ Raphaëlle states slowly. She throws her silverware on the white damask tablecloth, where they leave a greasy stain. ‘You want to live with those women, you want to spoil a child’s life with that unhealthy environment you have the guts to call a family, go ahead. It’s your choice, after all. But don’t expect me to find it sane or even remotely right that you indulge in such an… unnatural way of living!’

That tops it off. Raphaëlle shouldn't have said this because now, Angélique really goes berserk. Spittle flies from her mouth as she screams, 'F.u.c.k you! You tell me what's sane and what is not? Who has got an abortion when she was living in New York? Who has tried out every single drug she could lay hands on, back then? Who has married that bastard vicomte she secretly loathes?'

Raphaëlles lips are tight. She clinches her napkin so hard that the knuckles stand out, gleaming white under the tightly stretched skin. 'I've changed since then,' she whispers as if she wanted to persuade herself. 'I've found God.' Is it me, or does she really sound sad when stating this?

'Damn it, you hypocrite!' Angélique shouts. 'Don't tell me your God wants you to treat your sister like some yucky freak! Why do you always pick on me, anyway? Why is it Marc and his way of living never seem to revolt you the same, huh? You still think he's a f.u.c.king Saint? You still believe he's a bloody tourist consultant? You really bought that?'

'Angélique!' I say sharply but she won't listen.

'Hell, that adorable brother of yours is no better than a whore! Not that I would care. He's always been like that, and I've always loved him nonetheless! So stop treating him like precious china, and me like a piece of filth! You hear me?'

'What you mean, he's no better than a whore?' Raphaëlle asks, her voice toneless.

'Come one, wake up, you can't be as naïve as that,' Angélique snorts. 'Do you really believe those fat, old oil tycoons from the Middle East and those pink-haired American widows pay to see the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre? Marc sells his company, his good looks, and his body! Don't tell me you're surprised…'

That's too much for Raphaëlle; she turns on me now, bursting into tears of anger. 'You told me the rumours were wrong when I asked you about them!' she yells. 'And I believed you! How dare you lie to me that way? How dare you…'

'Oh f.u.c.k it! Have I come here to go through this s.h.i.t? I say loudly. Both my sisters look ready to pounce upon me with joint forces but I stop them, with a sharp, cynical edge to my voice, 'Stop it now! Look at the three of us. Look at how we behave, how we treat each other! Don't you think father would be SO proud to see us right now?'

That definitely shuts them up.

The ensuing silence is somehow almost harder to bear than the violent row we've just had. It feels like a defeat.

(will be continued)

[DieterM]

(Continuation)

3 a.m. I'm lying in bed, quite wasted as we have downed three bottles of that excellent Château Latour plus a bottle of a so-so Dom Pérignon. Still, sleep seems to play hide-and-seek with me. Out of nothing, a memory comes back. The day when my mother had shown up in Gstaad, where I was attending that obscenely posh boarding school.

I must have been fifteen or sixteen. Gstaad had turned out dull but highly lucrative. Dull because, well, what else do you expect from a Swiss boarding school? And lucrative because, very quickly, I had started selling discreet toilet-handjobs and after-lesson-blowjobs to the other boys, all those rich South-American heirs and Oriental princes. Until the administration had got wind of my dealings. I suspected that stiff British c.u.n.t. I shared my room with to have given me away. What a jerk! Anyway, the school Principal, a Baron von Arschloch or other, was so afraid of a possible sex scandal that he decided to throw me out. Father was touring the French West Indies with the Prime Minister at that time, so it was mother who answered the summons to come and pick me up.

Before we left, Baron von Thingy-or-other insisted on seeing us both, mother and me. It was the first time ever I saw my mother without make-up. She must have wiped it off before entering the school building; I could still detect faint mascara smudges under her eyes and traces of foundation behind her ear when she air-kissed me. Her hair was artfully tousled to give off the poignant impression of a loving mother who has rushed to her son's rescue. She was wearing old blue jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt with, I swear to God, two holes. I couldn't help wondering from whom she had snitched it: her gardener? father's bodyguard?

Anyway, we were served tea in Baron von Whatnotcrap's office, a room as huge and welcoming as a railway station waiting hall, but much more chic. Everything wore that smell of musty-dusty, superannuated Germanic schooling. While the headmaster granted us with a starchy and opaque sermon about the school's high standards, the importance of good manners, and morality in general, I was looking at his trousers' creases, which were so sharply ironed and neat and regular that they felt like a symbol of Swiss boredom and accuracy to me. I only snapped out of my daydream when that creep concluded, 'I shall not vant to go into the details of vhat has brought about the decision of our Education Board.' He sat there, all uptight, straight spine and half-assed smile, holding his cup of tea before his chest like a shield. 'Suffice it to say zat zis institution cannot tolerate ze behaviour you have shown, young man.'

'What has happened?' my mother cried, throwing out her arms in a theatrical gesture, false alarm in her eyes, fake concern in her voice.

'I vill beg you, dear Madam, to discuss zis matter wis your son,' the coward sleekly shunned her inquiry. He then asked if I had anything to add.

I looked at him coolly, then said, 'Yeah, screw you.' A stupid rebel reaction but hey, I never pretended I was a smart teenager. I just knew how to earn a penny, that's all.

Never mind. My silly answer made mother shed some quite convincing show-tears. I almost bought it until I saw something shiny blink under the hankie with which she was dubbing her eyes. I understood immediately that it must have been a bottle of glycerine. It was all very embarrassing, with me writhing on my chair and that woman sobbing and whining 'I don't understand' and complaining that she had given me all her love and s.h.i.t. and that she was so worried about me. Oh, objectively speaking, it was a great performance, I had to admit; even Baron von Whatnotcrap's eyes started to moisten. Personally, mother made me want to puke.

'Is this how I raised you, Marc?' she sniffed at one moment, dubbing her eyes with a hankie.

'It would seem so – mother!' I answered uncharitably.

I lie in the darkness, smiling fondly. I'm still quite proud of that answer. And just for the record: mother never ever asked me why I had been fired.

(will be continued)

[DieterM]

(Continuation)

The next morning dawns upon us even though I’ve secretly prayed my dread would suffice to will it away. Breakfast is a hasty and silent affair, unperturbed by conflict. Better still, mother prefers to have hers in her room.

When we hear the distant din of the church bells tolling, we proceed to Angélique’s car, reluctantly. The day turns out brightly lit, sun-blue and splendid. Why pretend I'm surprised? Even dead, our father seems to conduct things masterfully, as if his positive penchant for perfection had survived him. This is clearly a weather photographers and cameramen all over the world would pay a fortune for.

When we reach the huge square in front of the dark grey church, Raphaëlle involuntarily murmurs something rather un-Catholic. ‘Holy s.h.i.t!', I believe, is what we hear. I entirely share the emotions I guess behind her blasphemy. We knew there would be some kind of buzz but none of us has expected so many people to turn up. Black limousines are parked wherever you look; government members, MPs, show-biz celebrities, square-shouldered security guys, media people are milling around. The square is a buzz of subdued blabbering; famous and wannabe-famous people in black hang out in the early springtime sunshine. Father has never been the most liked politician; but he sure remains influential way beyond his demise.

We leave the car in a small side-street. As we approach the church's shadow, I spot Line Renaud chatting it off with Catherine Deneuve and Gérard Dépardieu, who, from the looks of it, has had the excellent idea of attending the funeral in an advanced state of drunkenness. I swear, he literally sways like a poplar in a tornado. I immediately envy him.

‘I don’t want to go there,’ Angélique suddenly declares, grabbing our arms. ‘I don’t feel I’m really part of all that,’ she makes a lame gesture with her hand.

‘Oh please, no scandal, okay?’ Raphaëlle implores. She sounds exasperated. ‘Leave the scandals to mother, be a darling. And now, let’s say hi to the Prime Minister. Come on!’

I’ve had enough, too, before the whole show has even started.

****

After some tedious small talk with several ministers and the display of sham-mournful grimaces for the photographers, we discreetly slip away to the edge of the throng, waiting for the ordeal to start and, above all, to end as soon as possible. The three of us are sporting sunglasses now, and disgusted pouts that anyone could easily mistake for grief. That’s the moment our mother sublime chooses to come on stage at last.

A huge black limousine comes to a halt a mere metre from where we're standing. A liveried chauffeur gets out at the driver's side, comes around and opens the back door. A thin leg in black tights appears, a shiny black stiletto shoe is set on the cobblestones. Then, the second leg is placed neatly beside the first one.

Finally, la Diva emerges, slowly, relishing the fact that everybody's gawking. Mother is clad in a tight, short, black dress which underlines her still fabulous body; a black Hermès scarf rather reveals than covers up her tanned, generously displayed bosom; long black gloves, a huge black hat and, of course, a dramatic veil round off the idea she has of the photogenic widow. She turns toward the photographers as if she attended the Cannes Festival and not her late husband's funeral. The bzzt-bzzt-flash-flash of the cameras and mother hungrily sucking up the photographers' attention make me want to vanish in the balmy spring air.

'This is too much,' I murmur into Raphaëlle's ear. 'You go ahead. I can't.'

'But…' she says.

'I'll join you after the service, don't worry. The press will get marvellous photos of the whole family,' I reassure her. 'But I'll definitely not go in there,' I wave a hand toward the church entrance. 'And do me a favour: refrain from saying a prayer for my soul, okay?'

Raphaëlle nods in silence, fighting back tears. Whether they are tears of sadness, or grief, or anger again, I cannot say. On a whim, I kiss her on the cheek and gently squeeze Angélique's shoulder. Then, I'm off.

(will be continued)

[DieterM]

(Continuation)

I hurry down a small lane. When I pass before the Market Hall, I overhear an old woman saying to another, 'Would you believe the ballyhoo! All those journalists and camera-crews! Why, one could mistake it for the funeral of some movie star!'

'Yes, yes,' the other woman nods. 'There was less ado when Annie Girardot was buried, last month. You know what? I wouldn't be surprised to learn we've paid all this rumpus with our tax money!'

'Hell, I hope not! One shan’t talk bad about the dead,’ the first woman drops her voice, crossing herself, ‘but honestly, I’ve never liked that sleek eel. I surely don't want to pay for his funeral, now he's gone at last!'

'He would've voted for, I bet. Called himself a Socialist, but he’s always been quite a moneygrabber, one hears.'

They notice my presence, take in my mourning garment and shut up at once.

I enter the Market Hall, walk straight to the stall where they sell wine and buy a bottle of cheap Vin de table.

****

Sitting under the comforting roof of a weeping willow’s branches on the Isle Olive. The bottle is already half-empty. For the last half-hour or so, I've been sipping red wine, something I excel in, and cogitating, which I always do clumsily at best. The Seine flows by the same way it has done during those faraway times when king Henri IV had his secret meetings with his lover, on the other bank of the river. Knowing that little has changed ever since feels almost soothing. The sound of the rushing floods and the soft wind fills my ears and my mind. Birds are chirping gaily in the trees.

Strangely enough, I’m thinking of my shrink. The last time I’ve seen him, he has investigated my relationship with father once again. He always seemed quite fascinated by that topic. Much more than I could’ve ever been, to be honest. ‘What do you blame him for, Marc?’ he asked me, not knowing that it would be the last time he’d have a chance of doing so.

‘Not much,’ I shrugged. Our sessions seem to have been a long series of shrugging, for my part.

‘Come on, Marc. If you want this therapy to work for you, you must be sincere. If not for my sake, then at least for yours. Don’t you think you’re trying to punish him for something?’

‘Punish?’ I laughed. ‘What do you mean, ‘punish’?’

‘Well,’ he writhed on his leather chair. ‘Look at your life-style. Do you think he would approve?’

‘What’s wrong with my life-style?’ I asked. ‘I’m earning loads of money. I’m in touch with the powerful and rich of this world. My father has always cherished cash and power. The more, the better. So, he should be rather proud of me, I gather. Don’t buy his social stance; it’s a politician’s attitude, nothing else.’

‘So, basically, you think he’s proud of how you earn a living?’

‘Duh,’ shrug again, ‘he doesn’t care, how often do I have to tell you?’

‘So you’re punishing yourself, perhaps?’ the shrink tried another approach.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said contemptuously. ‘That’s just shrink-crap-talk. I don’t pay you, and handsomely, to hear you utter such nonsense.’

‘Why are you so aggressive with me, then?’ he wanted to know. ‘Is it because you know, deep inside, that your… morally dubious ‘job’ is just some sort of disguised self-punishment? So that you can despise yourself, like, in reflection of what you think your father feels for you?’

I stood up. ‘I don’t have to listen to your moralistic sermons, okay? And the answer is ‘No’. I don’t despise myself. My father doesn’t, either. To despise me would mean that he wants to get involved. That he cares. But he f.u.cking does not. If you don’t even grab that simple reality, I don’t see why I come here week after week.’

I left then, never to return. What good can it do to talk to, like, a bloody wall? Why seek advice from someone who's obviously so devout to some stupid preconceptions? That shrink, like so many people, still lives with a ridiculous ideal. You know, the utopia of the harmonious family as the only means to allow you to construct yourself in what they dub 'a sane way'. The concept of no emotional bond whatsoever between a father, or mother, and their offspring simply doesn’t fit in their dream-world where everything's jolly as long as Mom and Dad love you.

But hell, mine don't, and that absent feeling is mutual. You understand, my family’s just an ordinary, modern family, after all.

A mother duck and her ducklings swim by. They look innocent, oblivious, thus happy.

A strange sensation presses upon my chest all of a sudden. It feels like nostalgia. Can it be I'm nostalgic of something I've never had, something I've been denied all my life? Or is it just the cheap wine?

Without thinking, I empty the bottle into the river. I don't want to become more pathetic than that, okay? The red liquid creates a bloody patch on the swirling surface before the Seine dilutes it and carries it away.

(will be continued)

[TheBearJew]

Really well written. I enjoyed it. I was a bit turned off by some parts (for example, writing you know what I mean in narrator's opening, as it seemed unnecessary), but on the whole, I enjoyed it. Still, I'm all for loosening up the narrative and losing the formal narrator, but I still have a preference for leaving certain phrases out of narratives (inside quotations it's alright) as it cheapens the language a bit

[DieterM]

thanks BearJew for your sincerity and the opinion you voice so openly. The version published in this space is but the first edit; I'll keep in mind what you said about "cheapening the language" when I'll edit the piece anew.

[DieterM]

(Continuation)

The square in front of the church, again. I'm standing under a chestnut tree, munching a mint chewing gum and waiting for the service to end. The mayor is among the first to come back out of the church. As soon as he sees and recognizes me, he walks over and eagerly shakes my hand. 'I offer my condolences,' he says with an accomplished politician's trembling graveyard voice.

I mumble something even I don't understand. The rest of the mourning stars and the media crowd and other ghouls spill out of the old building in slow, ceremonious waves.

My two sisters, visibly sulking, frame our mother, conducting her carefully. They stop some metres from where I’m standing.

‘My son! Where’s my son? I need my son!’ mother whines. She's still not taken off her dramatic, silly veil. ‘Where’s my son?’

To me, she sounds a lot like Eddie Monsoon. You know, in that ‘Abs fabs’-episode when Eddie discovers her son’s gay. ‘My son! My son Serge's gay!’ Too bad my name’s not Serge; too bad I’m not gay, either, no more than the average, modern straight male; too bad, at last, that mother completely lacks Jennifer Saunder’s talent. Moreover, Saunders merely plays the boozer, whereas mother sounds genuinely pissed to her tits. Pills? Booze? Weed? The three at once? She’s plain pathetic, as always. I decide to ignore her.

But the mayor nudges me. ‘Shouldn’t you go and join her?’ he asks.

‘Oh alright,’ I sigh theatrically. ‘It's, like, my duty, isn't it?’

The mayor looks at me, quizzically. 'I think your mother needs you,' he stresses, his voice steely and betraying what he thinks of me.

‘F.uck she does,’ I murmur yet move to my mother’s side. My sisters let go of her, relieved.

As soon as the woman in black feels my presence, she clutches my arm, without looking, and cries out once more, ‘My son! Here he is!’

Then, she glances at me, her eyes unfocused, and repeats, ‘My son!’ Something seems to bother her, though. She stares at me some more, as if she didn’t recognize me. ‘My son,’ she says again, but rather weakly this time, and she makes it sound like a question. I suspect her to pull off that ‘My son’-fuss because she simply doesn't remember my first name. I’m sure now: too many pills, too much Whiskey. And probably the odd joint.

‘Yeah, it’s me,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

The funeral procession slowly leaves the square, the black car with the coffin in front, then the family, then the celebrity hoi polloi.

The woman by my side stumbles along for a while. When the stumbling becomes too much to bear, I tell her between gritted teeth to pull herself together. ‘Can’t you f.ucking behave for once?’ I say under my breath.

This makes the silly cow stop on the spot. Eyes open wide, which is visible even with the thick veil, she asks me blandly, ‘Who are you?’

‘The one you were so desperately wailing for,’ I reply. ‘Your son. Marc, in case you’ve forgotten. And keep walking, Jesus!’

‘Don't be silly. How could I forget my son's name. But do I know you?’

That woman gives me the creeps. Despite her being completely out of it, she suddenly seems quite sober, almost farseeing. She seems to realize for the first time that she doesn’t know me at all, although I am her son.

‘Walk on and shut up, for God’s sake,’ I hiss. ‘People are looking. Play your part; show the photographers you're a mourning widow. And let’s get it over with.’

But secretly, I'm thinking that she's right; she really doesn't know who I am. Why, I reckon even I don't know who I am.

Chopin’s Funeral March lends the rhythm to our slow steps as we follow the coffin to the cemetery.

(last part coming soon)

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear Dieter

Quite honestly I don't know what to make of it. My plodding steps of advanced dotage fail to keep up with your mountain goat leaps from one aspect of this tale to another.

Don't get me wrong. It both intrigued & confused me. You jump from blow jobs in Swiss boarding schools to observations on your late father with a felicity that I cannot keep the focus on.

When you describe scenes, landscapes, backgrounds you do it thoroughly. Family fueds are emotionally charged.

I do not however recognise France in the Americanised dialogue i.e. " Come here and give your bro a hug" / "Hey no sweat" / "Whoa whoa whoa."

The France I know its "Vien ici ma petite" / "Merde" / & "Arrete, alors c'est suffit," but perhaps provincial Brittany is a big jump from Paris.

You have got a good story, but develop it more in each aspect you are dealing with, flesh it out more with the characters. By the way I was amused at the description of the widow at what I presume was the funeral. I had images of Raquel Welch, in her middle age prime, or Anna Nicole Smith dressed in black mourning saying "There will never be another Hughie!"

If you find this critique too blunt, I crave indulgence, but you have talent. Just develop it constructively.

Best regards
M.

[DieterM]

Nothing is too blunt, dear Manichaean, and your saying that I have talent goes down very well ;-) Some of your points are rather encouraging, anyway; I gather by what you've written that I didn't say enough in my tale (entirely fictional; by the way; I would like my father and mother to have been rich and me to live in a penthouse but, alas, that isn't very likely to happen anytime soon). You should know that the whole idea was triggered off by the memory of my reading Albert Camus' 'L'étranger' (The Stranger in English?) when I was a teenager. I remembered very vividly the first lines which go something like 'Yesterday, my mother has died. Or the day before yesterday. I don't know exactly.' And suddenly, I wanted to write like a modern, distorted version of these three simple lines. How someone could become a person who could think along these lines, that is. I don't know if any of this is clear. Thus the idea of that strange funeral where nobody seems to mourn the deceased; the story of hidden family feuds. Now, as short story would have it, one shall not delve too deep into each person's story; I wanted it to be glances at some very very complicated family construction. But, while I was writing, new ideas kept coming up, enough to make it a full-blown novel where bits of the secrets are revealed chapter after chapter. Pray tell, do you think going on with the tale could be a good idea? I'd be more than happy to know what you're thinking.
As for the Americanized dialogues, well, I AM writing in English, am I not? I thus have to "translate" each and every "merde" and "putain" (which the French use much more often than merde by the way when they want to say "f.uck"). My apologies if it's too American (and sometimes too vulgar, too). The French language, when used "correctly" (lol) can be very very vulgar.
Thank you for your precious comments.

[DieterM]

(Continuation)

The next morning, Raphaëlle drives me to the railway station. While we’re waiting for the train to arrive, an awkward silence stands between us like an insurmountable obstacle. A soft wind sweeps over the empty platform with unseasonal heat. Finally, I say, ‘How long will you stay?’

‘Just as long as necessary,’ my sister answers. She doesn’t sound like herself; rather subdued, tired maybe? ‘I think Maître Chambard will want to see us next week to talk about father’s will.’

‘Ah, father still dealt with that old weasel, then,’ I murmur. ‘Too bad I won’t be there.’

‘I could do without it, too. Believe me,’ Raphaëlle says.

‘And Angie? Will she stay with you?’ I ask.

‘I think so, yes,’ Raphaëlle says.

‘Do try and be nice with her, okay?’ I beg.

‘No worry. I shall remember my good manners.’ I detect a trace of my sister’s old sarcasm.

‘Good manners might not be enough this time, and you know it. She’s our sister, after all,’ I smile. Then, serious again, ‘I mean it. You two are my only family. We should try to, you know, care for each other.’

My sister chews on that for a while before she says slowly, ‘I do care for her. It’s not always easy to see, but in my own way, I do. You can’t ask for more, given the circumstances.’

‘I know.’ I hug her briefly, which makes her flinch. She pulls away and we glare at each other, rather sheepishly. Raphaëlle’s hand brushes over my black shirt. ‘Let’s keep in touch?’ Her request sounds like a question.

‘Don’t we always do?’ I ask, taken aback.

‘Yes, we do. But let’s try… harder? I don’t know.’

‘Okay. Let’s try. I’ll call you,’ I say. I’m not sure but I think I’m sincere for once.

In the distance, the train appears. The brakes screech, a piercing, metallic cry of pain. ‘What are you going to do now?’ Raphaëlle wants to know.

I could inquire what she means exactly. Yet I don’t; I think I understand. So, I just shrug. ‘Same as usual. Get on with my life. My job.’

‘You’re not going to change, then?’

‘No. I’m fine with what I’m doing,’ I state flatly.

The train comes to a halt with an exhausted wheeze. Raphaëlle walks with me to one of the doors. ‘You don’t have to prove anything,’ she says. ‘Not anymore. He’s dead now, you know.’

‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

She sends me a puzzled look.

I continue, ‘Don’t you have the feeling that he’s still alive, somehow? He still seems to be there, you know. In each one of us, isn’t he?’

Raphaëlle doesn’t answer, just stares at me, wearily.

I kiss her on the cheek. ‘Chin up, Big One,’ I say. Very softly. This old nickname I had invented for her resurfaces like a fond memory and brings a shiny glance to her eyes. That’s the last thing I see before the doors close on me.

THE END

[MANICHAEAN]

Dieter

Glad you like Camus. "The Plague" is one of my favourites.

Glad also you took the compliments & criticism in a balanced manner.

The bit about the American dialogue is more difficult. Let me try and explain. Chandler writes in this mode, but then its in a slightly sleezy US background. La France, c'est La France, pas une autre pay. Its got its French slang, sometimes with a bit of American mixed up, but in your story it somehow is too pure US slang to ring true. Either that, or my observations in France are becoming limited.

No problem with vulgarity in writing if handled correctly to give authenticity to the character & the scene. Thus, if the story were in Germany I would expect arsh this and arsh that.

Regards
M

[Benvenuti]

Just popping by to read the latest... wanting to know what this Marc fellow is going to turn out to be like at the end...
Ciao.

[Benvenuti]

I didn't notice the second page, when I posted my first quick comment, sorry about that.

So I've been wanting to know what this Marc fellow is going to turn out to be like at the end... I guess he's like all of us, isn't he? Not perfect. A bit troubled, but not bad at heart? The key for me was his sister's comment at the end about living up to his father's expectations. And him thinking that there's no escape...

I did feel that Marc was very American. It's more than just the the english idioms... I can't put my finger on it, I'd have to spend some time analysing why. But to me, Marc definitely comes across as somebody who "thinks" in English, not just narrates in it. The story needs to be true to you, but perhaps if it Marc can be shown to have spent some formative years in an English speaking country, then this wouldn't niggle.

The story did touch me, because of the characters. Thanks.

[DieterM]

@Manichaean: I understand what you mean with the Americanized dialogues and I'm currently working on it (second editing phase). Let me just tell you that, whereas I have been taught a very British English at school (in Austria, and some lightyears ago), the French in general try to talk with their personal rendering of an American accent (when they deign talk in English at all, that is; and the personal rendering results in "blood" being pronounced not like "mud" but like "good" for instance). My colleagues are always horrified when I have an English-speaking customer on the phone and they hear my "Thatcherish" accent. So, if you make a Frenchie talk in English, it would be American rather than British (and with many f...s and other swear-words). But as this was not my intention, I'm working on it…

@Benvenuti: glad you liked the story. And believe me, the characters are as French as they come (despite the whole being written in English) or, if you want, universal. Let me explain briefly. Family bonds are very strong in my traditional, Catholic Austria (and really very much so in my own family). I've found them even stronger in Mediterranean countries likes Tunisia or Greece. But here in France, I've discovered that they tend to be thin at their best (I don't want to generalize so I'm talking about the families of friends & lovers, current and past). And what I have noticed is that the parents tend to be extremely egocentric, evolving around their own persons and caring little about what's happening to their (adult) children. As an example, my parents are not rich but when they know I'm in financial trouble, they'll send me some money at once. The parents of my French friends will commiserate, then shrug and say 'Take a loan'.
But anyway, I wanted the plot to take place in France because I couldn't describe correctly downtown New York or the deep Tennessee (not knowing personnally any of these places). And I wanted the characters to be as far from myself as possible, troubled, ambiguous, modern, and somewhat universal. Anyway, I'm quite at a loss right now as I don't know if I should let the story stand alone, or if I should continue writing sequels and make a novel (I've got so many ideas for the characters, that's my problem). So, if you had any advice whatsoever, it would be very welcome.

[Benvenuti]

I have no advice as a writer, only as a reader! But I worry that you think too much of other people's opinions. You do have a feel for the characters. If you think they have a story to tell, then you should tell their story. You can always work more on language details later, if you decide to. Trust yourself.