Someone I Loved E-Book

Anna Gavalda

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 161

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Described as 'a gifted literary stylist' by Vogue, Anna Gavalda brings us a story about rebuilding a life after being abandoned by the one you love.How long does it take to forget the smell of someone who loved you? And when do you stop loving them? When Chloe's husband leaves her and their children for another woman, she is devastated. Unexpectedly, it's her usually distant father-in-law who comes to Chloe's aid, both with practical help and his personal wisdom on life and love. In this beautifully crafted novella, Anna Gavalda poignantly explores the fragility of human relationships.

Leseprobe

Someone I Loved

Someone I Loved

Anna Gavalda

Translated from the French by Catherine Evans

Pushkin Press

A Gallic Book

First published in France as Je l’aimais by Le Dilettante, 2002

English translation copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2005

First published in the UK by Vintage as part of the collection, I WishSomeone Were Waiting for me Somewhere

This edition published by Gallic Books, 2012

Gallic Books, 59 Ebury Street, London, SW1W 0NZ

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved

Anna Gavalda has asserted her right to be identified as the author of the Work

Every reasonable effort has been made to contact copyright holders and obtain the necessary permissions. In the event of an inadvertent omission or error please notify the editorial department at Gallic Books, at the address shown above, for the correction to be made in future printings.

A CIP record for this books is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-805334-16-3

Typeset by Gallic Books in Fournier

Printed and bound by CPI Books (Chatham) ME5 8TD

For Constance

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I’m going to take them. It will do them good to get away for a while.’

‘But when?’ my mother-in-law asked.

‘Now.’

‘Now? You’re not thinking …’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘What are you talking about? It’s nearly eleven! Pierre, you –’

‘Suzanne, I’m talking to Chloé. Chloé, listen to me. I want to take you away from here. What do you say?’

I say nothing.

‘Do you think it’s a bad idea?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Go and get your things. We’ll leave when you get back here.’

‘I don’t want to stop at my place first.’

‘Then don’t. We’ll sort everything out when we’re there.’

‘But you don’t –’

‘Chloé, Chloé, please. Trust me.’

*

My mother-in-law continued to protest:

‘But –! You’re not really going to wake up the children! The house isn’t even heated, and there’s nothing to eat! Nothing for the girls! They –’

He stood up.

...

Marion is sleeping in her car seat, her thumb touching the edge of her lips. Lucie is beside her, rolled in a ball.

I look at my father-in-law. He sits upright. His hands grip the steering wheel. He hasn’t said a word since we left. I see his profile in the headlights of oncoming cars. I think that he is as unhappy as I am. That he’s tired. Disappointed.

He feels my gaze:

‘Why don’t you get some sleep? You should get some rest, you know – lean your seat back and go to sleep. We’ve got a long way to go …’

‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘I’m watching over you.’

He smiles at me. It’s barely a smile.

‘No … it’s the other way around.’

We return to our private thoughts.

I cry behind my hands.

We’re parked at a service station. I take advantage of his absence to check my mobile.

No messages.

Of course.

What a fool I am.

What a fool …

I turn the radio on, then off.

He returns.

‘Do you want to go in? Do you want something?’

I give in.

I press the wrong button; my cup fills with a nauseating liquid that I throw away at once.

In the store, I buy a pack of nappies for Lucie and a toothbrush for myself.

He refuses to start the car until I have leaned my seat back.

...

I opened my eyes as he switched off the engine.

‘Don’t move. Stay here with the girls while it’s still warm. I’ll go and turn on the radiators in your room. Then I’ll come and get you.’

I pleaded with my phone.

At four in the morning …

I’m such a fool.

No way to go back to sleep.

The three of us are lying in Adrien’s grandmother’s bed, the one that creaks so horribly. It was our bed.

We would try to make love with as little movement as possible.

The whole house would hear if you moved an arm or a leg. I remember Christine’s insinuations when we came down to breakfast the first morning. We blushed into our coffee and held hands under the table.

We learned our lesson. After that, we made love as quietly as anyone possibly could.

I know that he will return to this bed with someone else, and that with her, too, he will pick up this big mattress and throw it on the floor when they can’t stand it any longer.

It’s Marion who wakes us up. She is making her doll run along the quilt, and telling a story about flying lollipops. Lucie touches my eyelashes: ‘Your eyes are all stuck together.’

We dress under the covers, because the room is too cold.

The creaking bed makes them laugh.

My father-in-law has lit a fire in the kitchen. I see him at the end of the garden, looking for logs in the woodshed.

This is the first time I’ve been alone with him.

I’ve never felt comfortable in his presence. Too distant. Too silent. And with everything Adrien told me about how hard it was growing up beneath his gaze, his harshness, his rages, the dramas about school.

It was the same with Suzanne. I never saw them be affectionate with each other. ‘Pierre is not very demonstrative, but I know what he feels for me,’ she told me one day when we were talking about love while snapping the ends off green beans.

I nodded, but I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand this man who minimised and controlled his passions. To show nothing for fear of appearing weak – I could never understand that. In my family, touching and kissing are like breathing.

I remember a stormy evening in this kitchen … Christine, my sister-in-law, was complaining about her children’s teachers, calling them incompetent and small-minded. From there, the conversation drifted into education in general, then hers in particular. And then the winds changed. Menacingly. The kitchen was transformed into a courtroom, with Adrien and his sister as the prosecutors, and in the dock – their father. It was horrible … If only the lid had finally blown off, but no. All the bitterness was pushed down again, and they avoided a big explosion by making do with a few deadly jabs.

As usual.

What would have been possible, anyway? My father-in-law refused to take the bait. He listened to his children’s bitter words without a word of response. ‘Your criticisms roll off me like water off a duck’s back,’ he always said, smiling, before leaving the room.

This time, though, the argument had been fiercer.

I can still see his strained face, his hands gripping the water jug as though he had wanted to smash it before our eyes.

I imagined all those words that he would never say and I tried to understand. What possessed him? What did he think about when he was alone? And what was he like – intimately?

In despair, Christine turned to me:

‘And you, Chloé, what do you make of all this?’

I was tired, I wanted the evening to be over. I had had it up to here with their family drama.

‘Me?’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I think that Pierre doesn’t live among us, I mean not really. He’s a kind of Martian lost in the Dippel family …’

The others shrugged and turned away. But not him.

He loosened his grip on the jug. His face relaxed and he smiled at me. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile in that way. Maybe the last time, too. I think we developed some sort of understanding that evening … something subtle. I had tried to defend him as best I could, my odd, grey-haired Martian, who was now walking toward the kitchen door pushing a wheelbarrow full of wood.

...

‘Is everything all right? You’re not cold?’

‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine, thanks.’

‘And the girls?’

‘They’re watching cartoons.’

‘There are cartoons on at this hour?’

‘They’re on every morning during the school holidays.’

‘Oh … great. You found the coffee?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘And what about you, Chloé? Speaking of holidays, shouldn’t you –’

‘Call the office?’

‘Well, I just thought –’

‘Yes, yes, I’m going to do it, I …’

I started to cry again.

My father-in-law lowered his gaze. He took off his gloves.

‘I’m sorry, I’m interfering with something that’s none of my business.’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that … I feel lost. I’m completely lost … I … you’re right, I’ll call my boss.’

‘Who is your boss?’

‘A friend. At least, I think she’s a friend. We’ll see …’

I pulled my hair back with an old hairband of Lucie’s that was in my pocket.

‘Just tell her you’re taking a few days off to take care of your cantankerous old father-in-law,’ he suggested.

‘All right … I’ll say cantankerous and impotent. That makes it sound more serious.’

He smiled as he blew on his cup of coffee.

Laure wasn’t in. I mumbled a few words to her assistant, who had a call on another line.

I also called home. Punched in the answering machine code. Nothing important.

What did I expect?

And once again, the tears came. My father-in-law entered and quickly left.

Go on, I told myself, you need to have a good healthy cry. Dry your tears, squeeze out the sponge, wring out your big, sad body and turn the page. Think about something else. One foot in front of the other and start again.

That’s what everyone keeps saying. Just think about something else. Life goes on. Think of your daughters. You can’t just let yourself go. Get a grip.

Yes, I know, I know, but: I just can’t.

What does ‘to live’ mean, anyway? What does it really mean?

My children, what do I have to offer them? A messed-up mother? An upside-down world?

I really do want to get up in the morning, get dressed, feed myself, dress them, feed them, hang on until evening and then put them to bed and kiss them good night. I’ve done that, anybody can. But not any more.

For God’s sake.

Not any more.

‘Mum!’

‘Yes?’ I answered, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

‘Mum!’

‘I’m here, I’m here …’

Lucie stood in front of me, wearing her coat over her nightdress. She was swinging her Barbie doll around by the hair.

‘You know what Grandpa said?’

‘No.’

‘He said we’re going to go eat at McDonald’s.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I answered.

‘But it’s true! He told us himself.’

‘When?’

‘A little while ago.’

‘I thought he hated McDonald’s …’

‘Nope, he doesn’t hate it. He said we’re going shopping, and afterwards we’re going to McDonald’s – even you, even Marion, even me, and even him!’

She took my hand as we climbed the stairs.

‘I don’t have many clothes here, you know. We forgot them all in Paris.’

‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘We forgot everything.’

‘And you know what Grandpa said?’

‘No.’

‘He told me and Marion that he’s going to buy us clothes when we go shopping. And we can choose them ourselves.’

‘Oh, really?’

I changed Marion’s nappy, tickling her tummy as I did so.

All this time, Lucie sat on the edge of the bed and kept on talking.

‘And then he said okay …’

‘Okay to what?’

‘To everything I asked for …’

Oh no …

‘What did you ask for?’

‘Barbie clothes.’

‘For your Barbie?’

‘For my Barbie and for me. The same for both!’

‘Not those horrendous sparkly T-shirts?’

‘Yes, and everything that goes with them: pink jeans, pink sneakers with Barbie on them, and socks with the little bow … You know … right there … the little bow at the back …’

She pointed at her ankle.

I laid Marion down.

‘Beeeeooootiful,’ I told her, ‘you’re going to look just beeeooooootiful!’

Her mouth twisted.

‘Anyway, you think everything that’s nice is ugly.’

I laughed; I kissed her adorable little frown.

She put on her dress, dreaming all the while.

*

‘I’m going to look beautiful, huh?’

‘You’re already beautiful, my sweet. You’re already very, very beautiful.’

‘Yes, but even more …’

‘You think that’s possible?’

She thought for a second.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Come on, turn around.’

What a wonderful invention little girls are, I thought as I combed her hair. What a wonderful invention.

As we queued at the checkout, my father-in-law admitted he hadn’t set foot in a supermarket in more than ten years.

I thought about Suzanne.

Always alone, behind her shopping trolley.

Always alone everywhere.

After their chicken nuggets, the girls played in a sort of cage filled with coloured balls. A young man told them to take off their shoes, and I kept Lucie’s awful ‘You’re a Barbie girl!’ sneakers on my lap.

The worst thing was that they had a sort of transparent wedge heel …

‘How could you have bought such hideous things?’

‘It made her so happy … I’m trying not to make the same mistakes with the next generation. You see, it’s like this place … Even if it had been possible, I would never have brought Christine and Adrien here thirty years ago. Never! And why, I ask myself now – why would I have deprived them of this type of pleasure? In the end, what would it have cost me? A miserable fifteen minutes? What’s a miserable fifteen minutes compared with the shining faces of your kids?’

‘I’ve done everything wrong,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Even this bloody sandwich, I’m holding it the wrong way up, aren’t I?’

His trousers were covered with mayonnaise.

‘Chloé?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to eat. I’m sorry I’m talking to you as if you were Suzanne, but you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.’

‘I can’t seem to do it.’

He backed off.

‘You’re right – how could you eat something like this, anyway? Who could? Nobody!’

I tried to smile.

‘All right, you can stay on a diet for now, but tonight, it’s over! Tonight I’m making dinner, and you’re going to have to make an effort, all right?’

‘All right.’

‘And this? How do you eat this astronaut thing, anyway?’

He held up an improbable salad sealed in a plastic shaker.

...

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden. The girls fluttered around their grandfather, who had got it into his head to mend the old swing. I watched them from a distance, sitting on the steps. It was cold but clear. The sun shone in their hair, and I thought they were lovely.

I thought about Adrien. What was he doing?

Where was he at this exact moment?

And with whom?

And our life, what was it going to look like?

Every thought drew me closer to the bottom. I was so tired. I shut my eyes. I dreamed that he had arrived. There was the sound of an engine in the courtyard, he sat down next to me, he kissed me and put his finger to my lips in order to surprise the girls. I can still feel his tender touch on my neck, his voice, his warmth, the smell of his skin, it’s all there.

It’s all there …

All I have to do is think about it.

How long does it take to forget the smell of someone who loved you? How long until you stop loving?

If only someone would give me an hourglass.

...

The last time we were in each other’s arms, I was the one who kissed him. It was in the lift in the Rue de Flandre.

He didn’t resist.

Why? Why did he let himself be kissed by a woman he no longer loved? Why did he give me his lips? His arms?

It doesn’t make any sense.

The swing is fixed. Pierre shoots me a glance. I turn my head. I don’t want to meet his gaze. I’m cold, my nose is running, and I have to go and heat the bathroom.

‘What can I do to help?’

He had tied a dish towel around his waist.

‘Lucie and Marion are in bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘They won’t be cold?’

‘No, no, they’re fine. Tell me what I can do.’

‘You can cry without embarrassing me for once … It would do me good to see you cry for no reason. Here, cut these up,’ he added, handing me three onions.

‘You think I cry too much?’

‘Yes.’

Silence.

I picked up the wooden cutting board near the sink and sat down across from him. His face was tight once again. The only sounds came from the fireplace.

...

‘That’s not what I meant to say …’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t think you cry too much, I’m just overwhelmed. You’re so pretty when you smile …’

‘Would you like a drink?’

I nodded.

‘Let’s let it warm up a bit, it would be a shame otherwise … Do you want a Bushmills while we’re waiting?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t like whisky.’

‘What a shame! This isn’t just whisky. Here, taste this.’

I put the glass to my lips; it tasted like lighter fluid. I hadn’t eaten for days, and suddenly I was drunk. My knife slipped on the onion skins, and my head rolled on my neck. I thought I was going to chop off a finger. I felt just fine.

‘It’s good, isn’t it? Patrick Frendall gave it to me for my sixtieth birthday. Do you remember Patrick Frendall?’

‘Uh … no.’

‘Yes, you do. You met him here, don’t you remember? A big fellow with huge arms.’

‘The one who tossed Lucie in the air until she was about to throw up?’

‘That’s the one,’ Pierre said, pouring me another drink.

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘I really like him; I think about him a lot. It’s odd, I consider him to be one of my best friends and I hardly know him.’

‘Do you have best friends?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Just to ask, I … I don’t know. I’ve never heard you talk about them.’

My father-in-law threw himself into cutting carrot rounds. It’s always amusing to watch a man cook for the first time in his life. That way of following a recipe to the letter, as if Delia Smith were looking over his shoulder.

‘It says “cut the carrots in medium-sized rounds”. Do you think these will do like this?’

‘Perfect!’

I laughed. With a rubber neck, my head lolled on my shoulders.

‘Thanks. So, where was I? Oh yes, my friends … I’ve had three in my life. I met Patrick on a trip to Rome, some sort of pious nonsense organised by the local church. My first trip without my parents … I was fifteen. I didn’t understand a word this Irishman, twice my size, was saying to me, but we got along immediately. He had been brought up in the most Catholic family in the world, and I was just getting out from under my suffocating family … Two young hounds unleashed in the Eternal City … What a pilgrimage that was!’

It still gave him a thrill.

He heated the onions and carrots in a casserole with bits of smoked ham. It smelled wonderful.

‘And then there’s Jean Théron, whom you know, and my brother, Paul, who you never met because he died in ’56.’

‘You considered your brother to be your best friend?’

‘He was even more than that. Chloé, from what I know of you, you would have adored him. He was sensitive, funny, attentive to everyone, always in a good mood. He painted … I’ll show you his watercolours tomorrow, they’re in my study. He knew all the bird calls. He liked to tease people, but never harmed a soul. He was charming, really charming. Everyone loved him …’

‘What did he die of?’

My father-in-law turned away.

‘He went to Indochina. He came back sick and half-mad. He died of tuberculosis on Bastille Day, 1956.’

I said nothing.