She wept only when she saw his body. After the meal she heated water and brought out a zinc basin, the little child's bath, which she placed in the middle of the room. Fyodor crouched in this gray vessel, whose bottom yielded underfoot, emitting a vibrant sound. And as she poured a trickle of warm water onto the body of her husband, who clumsily rubbed his shoulders and his back, Charlotte began to weep. The tears coursed down her face, whose features remained immobile, and they fell, mixing with the soapy water in the basin.
This body was that of a man she did not know. A body riddled with scars, with gashes – some of them deep, with fleshy edges, like huge voracious lips, some with a smooth shiny surface, like a snail's trail. In one of the shoulder blades a cavity had been dug: Charlotte knew what type of little jagged shell splinters did that. The pink traces of the stitches of a suture surrounded one shoulder, losing themselves in his chest…
Through her tears she viewed the room as if for the first time: a window at ground level; the bunch of dill, already a relic from another epoch in her life; a soldier's pack on the stool near the hall; great boots covered with red dust. And beneath a bare and dim bulb, in the midst of this room half sunk in the ground – this unrecognizable body, as if torn by the wheels of a machine. Stunned words formed unconsciously within her: "this is me, Charlotte Lemonnier, here in this izba buried beneath the grass of the steppes, with this man, this soldier, whose body is lacerated with wounds, the father of my children, the man I love so much… this is me, Charlotte Lemonnier…"
Across one of Fyodor's eyebrows there was a broad white gash, which, as it grew narrower, made a line across his forehead. It gave him a permanently surprised expression. As if he simply could not manage to get used to this postwar life.
He lived for less than a year… In winter they moved into the apartment where, as children, we were to come and stay with Charlotte every summer. They did not even have time to buy new crockery and cutlery. Fyodor cut the bread with the knife he had brought back from the front, fashioned from a bayonet…
As I listened to the adults' stories, this was how I pictured our grandfather during that incredibly brief reunion: a soldier climbs the steps to the izba. His gaze is lost in his wife's, and he has just time to say, "You see, I have come back…," before collapsing and dying of his wounds.
9
That year France enveloped me in deep and studious isolation. At the end of the summer I had returned from Saranza, like a young explorer with a thousand and one discoveries in my luggage – from Proust's bunch of grapes to the plaque bearing witness to the tragic death of the duc d'Orléans. In the autumn and particularly during the winter I turned myself into a fanatic of erudition, an archivist obsessively gleaning all possible information about the country whose mystery he had only managed to scratch the surface on his summer excursion.
I read everything of interest about France that our school library possessed. I immersed myself in the much vaster shelves of our city library. I sought to complement the broad outlines of Charlotte's impressionistic stories with a systematic study, progressing from one century to another, from one Louis to the next, from one novelist to his colleagues, disciples, or imitators.
These long days spent in dusty book-lined labyrinths doubtless corresponded to a monkish inclination that everyone feels at that age. One seeks escape before being caught up in the toils of adult life. One remains alone in order to enjoy fantasies about amorous adventures to come. This waiting, this reclusive life, soon becomes painful. Hence the swarming, tribal collectivism of adolescents – a feverish attempt to act out all the scenarios of adult society in advance. Rare are those who at the age of thirteen or fourteen know how to resist the role-playing that is imposed on the loners and the dreamers, with all the cruelty and intolerance of those who were but children yesterday.
It was thanks to my French quest that I managed to preserve my own attentive isolation as an adolescent.
Sometimes the society in miniature of my schoolfellows displayed a careless condescension toward me (I was "not mature," I did not smoke, and I did not tell salacious stories in which the male and female genital organs became characters in their own right); sometimes an aggressiveness, whose collective violence left me stunned. I did not feel I was very different from the others; I did not feel I merited so much hostility. It is true that I did not go into raptures about the films that their mini-society discussed during breaks, and I could not tell apart the football teams of which they were passionate supporters. My ignorance offended them. They perceived it as a challenge. They attacked me with their taunts and with their fists. It was during that winter that I became aware of a disconcerting truth: to harbor this distant past within oneself, to let one's soul live in this legendary Atlantis, was not guiltless. No, it was well and truly a challenge, a provocation in the eyes of those who lived in the present. One day, worn out with the bullying, I pretended to take an interest in the latest match score; I joined in their conversation and mentioned several players' names, learned the previous day. But everyone smelled the imposture. The discussion broke off. The mini-society dispersed. I earned several almost pitying looks. I felt even more undervalued.
After this pathetic attempt I plunged even deeper into my research and my reading. Fleeting glimpses of Atlantis over the years were not enough for me. Henceforth I aspired to know the intimate details of its history. Wandering through the caverns of our ancient library, I sought to throw light on the reasons for that extravagant marriage between Henri I and the Russian princess Anna. I wanted to know what on earth her father, the celebrated Yaroslav the Wise, could have sent as a dowry. And how he managed to transport herds of horses from Kiev to his French son-in-law when he was attacked by the warlike Normans. And how Anna Yaroslavna spent her days in the somber medieval castles, where she so lamented the absence of Russian baths… I was no longer content with the tragic story depicting the death of the duc d'Orléans beneath the windows of the fair Isabeau. No, I now set off in pursuit of his murderer, this Jean sans Peur, whose lineage had to be traced; military exploits verified; dress and weapons reconstructed; landholdings located… I learned by how much maréchal Grouchy's divisions were delayed, those few extra hours more, fatal for Napoleon at Waterloo…
Of course the library, a hostage of ideology, was very unevenly stocked. I only found a single book there on the period of Louis XIV, whereas the shelves next door offered a score of volumes devoted to the Paris Commune and a dozen on the birth of the French Communist Party. But, hungry for knowledge, I contrived to thwart this manipulation of history. I turned to literature. The great French classics were there and, with the exception of a few famous proscribed authors, like Rétif de la Bretonne, or Sade, or Gide, they had in the main escaped censorship.
My youth and my inexperience made a fetishist of me: rather than grasping history's features, I was a collector. And in particular I sought anecdotes, like those recounted to tourists by guides at ancient monuments. In my collection were Théophile Gautier's red waistcoat, worn at the first night of Hernani; Balzac's walking sticks; George Sand's hookah, and the scene of her treachery in the arms of a doctor, who was supposed to be attending Musset. I admired her elegance in providing her lover with the subject for Lorenzaccio. I never tired of mentally reviewing the sequences, full of images, that my memory recorded, albeit in great disorder. Like the one where Victor Hugo, the grizzled and melancholy patriarch, met Leconte de Lisle under the canopy in a park. "Do you know what I was just thinking about?" the patriarch asked. And, perceiving his interlocutor's confusion, he declared roundly, "I was thinking about what I shall say to God when, very soon perhaps, I enter His Kingdom…" To which Leconte de Lisle, at once ironic and respectful, asserted confidently, "Oh, you will say to him, ' Cher confrère …'"