Neither Clarisse Rivière nor Ladivine quite knew how Richard Rivière was making all that money in Annecy, and so Ladivine felt vaguely uncomfortable, almost fraudulent, as if she’d stolen her identity as his daughter, when with a broad sweep of her skinny arm the Cagnac woman showed her the fleet of four-wheel drives, saying she hardly needed to explain whom they had to thank for all this, she and Cagnac, and after a moment Ladivine realised she meant Richard Rivière.
Her husband Cagnac was a tanned, lean man with swept-back grey hair and wearing espadrilles adorned with an intricate little knot.
The Cagnac woman introduced Marko and the children to him first, with a fervour that Cagnac must have seen as a sign, thought Ladivine, for a gleam of curiosity, of devout interest, immediately flickered on in his pond-water eyes.
Marko gave him a warm greeting, so casual that he might simply have been arriving at some gathering of friends.
Did he see, Ladivine wondered, the anticipation he aroused in these strangers, full of desire and pious respect, did he see that they’d pegged him as one of them?
When at last Cagnac turned to Ladivine, his wife having left her to introduce herself, the particular gleam in his eyes dimmed, that brief flame of longing and deference giving way to a slightly chilly politeness that was however immediately warmed by the words “I’m Richard Rivière’s daughter.”
Cagnac let out a cry of delight.
For a second time he clasped Ladivine’s hand, having first shaken it somewhat stiffly, and held it for a moment in his, as if to fill himself with some substance peculiar to the Rivières, or to attempt, through his daughter’s flesh, to recapture Richard Rivière’s real presence.
“We owe him so much, you know,” he said with emotion. “And your father’s often told us about you, very often.”
“Is that so?” asked Ladivine, sceptical but thrilled in spite of herself.
Though, she wondered, why should she think Richard Rivière never spoke of her to his friends?
She’d never doubted his affection for her, his only daughter, even when he proved little interested in having her come to Annecy, or in meeting Marko and the children.
And when she thought of Richard Rivière, she told herself love did not have to mean wanting to know all about a person’s life and companions, did not have to mean needing to be with or talk to that person, because this, she believed, was how her father loved, with a love both abstract and unwavering, vague and absolute, incurious and unlimited.
He loved her, she told herself, and that was all there was to it.
And so she’d learned to make do without the usual displays of fatherly love, and the fact that Richard Rivière asked her for news of Daniel and Annika, and often sent them presents as costly as they were inappropriate, but never thought it only natural to want to meet them one day, never even seemed to believe that that was another thing he could do, she accepted all that, since this was how Richard Rivière loved.
“He’s very proud of you,” Cagnac went on.
He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes.
“But you’re not how I pictured you. Completely different. And yet he described you so often, it’s strange.”
She could feel her breath coming heavier, hotter, her scalp prickling.
She scratched her head with a sort of fury, hoping Cagnac would say nothing more.
“We thought you’d be thin and light-haired,” said the Cagnac woman in her cold, jaded voice.
“That’s how my mother is, I mean was,” Ladivine murmured. “He never mentioned your mother.”
“Well, they were divorced,” she said, with a disagreeable sense of defending herself.
“He never told us he’d been married, not to mention divorced. He only talked about you, his daughter, and actually we had the idea you were Clarisse’s daughter.”
“Well, yes, that’s right, my mother’s name was Clarisse,” said Ladivine with a forced little laugh, feeling the blood drain from her cheeks and her lips, her mouth at once horribly dry.
“We must not be talking about the same Clarisse. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What do you say we sit down to lunch?”
Cagnac must have been afraid he’d said too much, thought Ladivine, relieved, and so neglected his duty to be discreet where his friend Richard Rivière was concerned.
And although she had no desire to go on talking of Clarisse Rivière, although she was in fact delighted at this change of subject, she was astounded to find words crossing her lips, immediately wishing she could cram them back down her throat.
“My mother was murdered in her house in Langon,” she said hurriedly. “The trial will be starting soon.”
“Let’s go and eat, since you’re here,” said the Cagnac woman. “We’ll make do with whatever’s on hand.”
Had she not heard her?
Marko and the children were looking away, towards the gleaming cars, at once uneasy and distant, thought Ladivine, as if unconcerned by all this but nonetheless embarrassed for her, Ladivine, who couldn’t seem to get into the spirit of things.
She’d never spoken so plainly of what happened to Clarisse Rivière in front of Daniel and Annika.
And yet there was no dismay in their faces, in their eyes, still fixed on the shining four-wheel drives, nothing troubled or tense.
The Cagnacs were heading towards the house with Marko close behind, one hand on each child’s shoulder.
“The real Clarisse Rivière must not be forgotten!” Ladivine sobbed aloud. “Who will remember her if not us? After all, she was. . she was a very good woman!”
Marko turned around and gave her a cautious smile.
He’s trying to shut me up. Well, it won’t be that easy.
In two furious strides, she was beside him.
She then realised that a strap on her sandal had broken, where the delicate leather bands crossed.
She squatted down as Marko and the children went inside, and now she was alone on the gravel path, in the heavy, scorching silence, now with tears in her eyes she was remembering Clarisse Rivière’s gold sandals and yellowed, callused heels and the shame they made her feel for her mother, because they made her seem like an un- refined woman doing her sad best to dress up.
Were her own heels not also dry and cracked, in the dust of that path?
And her legs, whose brown hairs were beginning to grow back, her doughy legs, what leap could they make to propel her away from the Cagnac house in case of danger?
Far, far in the distance, she thought she heard a dog bark.
The strap was beyond a quick fix. She’d have to clench her toes to hold the sandal in place as she walked.
“This was all his idea, our opening a dealership in the forest,” Cagnac was explaining. “We came out to this country with him two or three years ago, and he told us it was only his second visit, but he led us straight here, as if he’d been thinking of it for some time, and he said, ‘This is where you should build,’ and he dealt with leasing the land, all the paperwork, he found an architect for the house, all in just a few days. We trusted him, but still, he seemed so sure of himself that it scared us a little, we were half convinced he was going to swindle us in some way or other. I said to him, ‘Richard, what’s the scam?’ If that had angered him, then we’d have dropped the whole thing then and there and never seen him again, but he hardly even blinked, he just smiled his friendly smile and told us it wasn’t his way to deceive his friends. And we went back to Annecy, and that’s where we sealed the deal. He sends us practically new cars, almost never driven, and then we sell them here, and you know what, it’s going well, there’s a real demand.”