their marriage too. What would happen if they were miserable there and fighting over it all the time? Nothing about his Beijing offer appealed to her, but Jean-Philippe wanted it desperately. She knew that. And it had started a war between them that was poisoning everything. They both felt like their world was falling apart. They had gone from being allies and best friends to enemies instantly, which was unfamiliar to both of them after seven easy, happy years. And whichever way they turned now, whatever they decided, one of them would lose, or even the whole family.
—
When Chantal boarded the plane to Berlin on Friday afternoon, all she could think of was the thrill of seeing her youngest child again. She was bringing him the food he loved, two new sweaters she was sure he could use, since everything he owned had holes in it when she last saw him, and several books she thought he’d like to read. And once she was there, she always noticed things in his apartment that needed replacing. She’d even brought her tool kit with her to do small repairs. Eric never paid attention to them or bothered to do them himself. She was the full-service mother, and her children always teased her about it. Eric was the only one who appreciated it, and loved it when she fussed over him. It was just bad luck that the art scene in Berlin was more avant-garde than in Paris, and professionally he was happier there. He felt that for his art he needed to be in Berlin, which was a loss for her.
Her relationship with Charlotte, her second child, had always been more difficult, and Charlotte liked living halfway around the world from her mother. And Paul had fallen in love with the States when he went to film school at USC, and decided to stay, which didn’t surprise her. At thirty-one, he seemed far more American now than French, after thirteen years there. Eric was her baby, a sweet boy who enjoyed her company, and was totally open with her. They always had fun together. He was only three when his father died, and she had raised him alone. And he was the one she missed most. He had retained the same sweetness even as a man of twenty-six, and he still seemed like a boy to her.
He put his arms around her in a giant bear hug when he met her at baggage claim, and had borrowed a friend’s truck to drive her to his apartment, where he always insisted that she stay. Eric loved her staying with him and having breakfast in the morning with her when they both got up. He actually made enough money from his art to survive, although she helped him occasionally, but he didn’t need much. He lived in the Friedrichshain district and paid a tiny rent for an apartment that looked like a hovel, but he loved it, and he rented a studio in the same building, where he built his installations. They still made no sense to her, but there was a market for his work, and he was represented by one of the best avant-garde conceptual galleries in Berlin. She was proud of him, although she didn’t understand his work. But she admired how dedicated he was, and how much it meant to him. And she loved meeting his friends, and seeing his milieu while she was there. It was always an adventure visiting him.
When they got to his apartment, she gave him the food she’d bought him at the Bon Marché, and he was delighted. He opened the foie gras immediately, and she made toast for him in the decrepit oven he never used. She felt like a mother again just being with him, listening to his stories, laughing at things together, and talking about the World War II script she was working on. He was always interested in what she was writing. It made her realize again how much she missed him, and how empty her life was now without all of them at home. But there was no turning back time to when they were children. Those days were over, and all she could do now was enjoy them when she saw them, when they had time to spend with her, however infrequently, or however far away they lived.
It
—
When Chantal boarded the plane to Berlin on Friday afternoon, all she could think of was the thrill of seeing her youngest child again. She was bringing him the food he loved, two new sweaters she was sure he could use, since everything he owned had holes in it when she last saw him, and several books she thought he’d like to read. And once she was there, she always noticed things in his apartment that needed replacing. She’d even brought her tool kit with her to do small repairs. Eric never paid attention to them or bothered to do them himself. She was the full-service mother, and her children always teased her about it. Eric was the only one who appreciated it, and loved it when she fussed over him. It was just bad luck that the art scene in Berlin was more avant-garde than in Paris, and professionally he was happier there. He felt that for his art he needed to be in Berlin, which was a loss for her.
Her relationship with Charlotte, her second child, had always been more difficult, and Charlotte liked living halfway around the world from her mother. And Paul had fallen in love with the States when he went to film school at USC, and decided to stay, which didn’t surprise her. At thirty-one, he seemed far more American now than French, after thirteen years there. Eric was her baby, a sweet boy who enjoyed her company, and was totally open with her. They always had fun together. He was only three when his father died, and she had raised him alone. And he was the one she missed most. He had retained the same sweetness even as a man of twenty-six, and he still seemed like a boy to her.
He put his arms around her in a giant bear hug when he met her at baggage claim, and had borrowed a friend’s truck to drive her to his apartment, where he always insisted that she stay. Eric loved her staying with him and having breakfast in the morning with her when they both got up. He actually made enough money from his art to survive, although she helped him occasionally, but he didn’t need much. He lived in the Friedrichshain district and paid a tiny rent for an apartment that looked like a hovel, but he loved it, and he rented a studio in the same building, where he built his installations. They still made no sense to her, but there was a market for his work, and he was represented by one of the best avant-garde conceptual galleries in Berlin. She was proud of him, although she didn’t understand his work. But she admired how dedicated he was, and how much it meant to him. And she loved meeting his friends, and seeing his milieu while she was there. It was always an adventure visiting him.
When they got to his apartment, she gave him the food she’d bought him at the Bon Marché, and he was delighted. He opened the foie gras immediately, and she made toast for him in the decrepit oven he never used. She felt like a mother again just being with him, listening to his stories, laughing at things together, and talking about the World War II script she was working on. He was always interested in what she was writing. It made her realize again how much she missed him, and how empty her life was now without all of them at home. But there was no turning back time to when they were children. Those days were over, and all she could do now was enjoy them when she saw them, when they had time to spend with her, however infrequently, or however far away they lived.
It
Similar Books
