the woman his father had married a few years before but whom Norah had never met.
Sony had informed her at the time that their father had remarried and that his new wife had given birth to twin girls, something the old man had not seen fit to tell her himself.
But Sony hadn’t revealed that he’d embarked on a relationship with his stepmother, nor that, as the article in Le Soleil put it, they’d planned to run away together. He’d never mentioned having fallen head over heels in love with the woman, who was abouthis own age, much less that she changed her mind, broke off the affair, and asked him to move out of the house.
He’d lain in wait for her in her bedroom, where she slept alone.
“I know why my father wasn’t there,” Norah said. “I know where he goes at night.”
Standing by the door he’d waited in the shadows while she put her children to bed in another room.
When she entered he grabbed her from behind and strangled her with a length of plastic-coated clothesline.
He’d then carefully set the woman’s body onto the bed and gone back to his own room, where he’d slept until morning.
All that he had himself described, without prompting and with dazzling affability, as the newspaper article, very reproachfully, stressed.
Jakob listened closely, gently shaking the ice cubes at the bottom of his glass.
He was wearing jeans and a newly laundered blue shirt that smelled nice and fresh.
Norah said nothing, afraid she might be about to pee again without realizing it.
It came back to her, the burning, suffocating, scandalized incomprehension she’d felt on reading the article, but her indignation stubbornly refused to remain focused on Sony. Their father alone was to blame. He’d gotten into the habit of replacing one wife with another, of expecting a woman too young for him, a woman he’d bought in one way or another, to live with his aging body and damaged spirit.
What right had he to snatch from the ranks of men in their thirtiesa love that was their due, to help himself so freely to that store of burning passion, this man who’d been perching for so long on the big branch of the poinciana that his flip-flops had made it shine?
Grete and Lucie came out of the hotel with their backpacks on and stood beside the table, ready to leave.
Norah gazed intently, sorrowfully, at Lucie’s face. It suddenly seemed to her that this beloved face meant nothing to her anymore.
It was the same face, with its delicate features, smooth skin, tiny nose, and curly forehead, but she didn’t recognize it.
She felt alive but, as a mother, distant, distracted.
She’d always loved her daughter passionately, so what was this?
Was it simply the humiliation of feeling that behind her back Jakob and the children had taken advantage of her absence to become closer?
“Right,” said Jakob, “let’s go, I’ve already paid the bill.”
“Go where?” asked Norah.
“We can’t stay in the hotel, it’s too expensive.”
“True.”
“We can go to your father’s, can’t we?”
“Yes,” said Norah airily.
He asked the girls if they’d been sure to sort their things carefully into their two backpacks and to leave nothing behind. Norah couldn’t help noticing that he was now able to talk to them with just that gentle firmness she’d always wanted to see him adopt.
“And school?” she asked casually.
“The Easter holidays have begun,” Jakob said, somewhat surprised.
“I’d forgotten that.”
She was upset and started trembling.
Things like that had always been her responsibility.
Was Jakob lying to her?
“My father never liked girls much. Now there are suddenly going to be two more!”
Faced with their serious expression she giggled nervously, ashamed to admit having such a father and also for making fun of him.
Yes, nothing ever emerged from that house but heartbreak and dishonor.
In the taxi she had some difficulty indicating precisely where her father lived.
She had only a rough
Sony had informed her at the time that their father had remarried and that his new wife had given birth to twin girls, something the old man had not seen fit to tell her himself.
But Sony hadn’t revealed that he’d embarked on a relationship with his stepmother, nor that, as the article in Le Soleil put it, they’d planned to run away together. He’d never mentioned having fallen head over heels in love with the woman, who was abouthis own age, much less that she changed her mind, broke off the affair, and asked him to move out of the house.
He’d lain in wait for her in her bedroom, where she slept alone.
“I know why my father wasn’t there,” Norah said. “I know where he goes at night.”
Standing by the door he’d waited in the shadows while she put her children to bed in another room.
When she entered he grabbed her from behind and strangled her with a length of plastic-coated clothesline.
He’d then carefully set the woman’s body onto the bed and gone back to his own room, where he’d slept until morning.
All that he had himself described, without prompting and with dazzling affability, as the newspaper article, very reproachfully, stressed.
Jakob listened closely, gently shaking the ice cubes at the bottom of his glass.
He was wearing jeans and a newly laundered blue shirt that smelled nice and fresh.
Norah said nothing, afraid she might be about to pee again without realizing it.
It came back to her, the burning, suffocating, scandalized incomprehension she’d felt on reading the article, but her indignation stubbornly refused to remain focused on Sony. Their father alone was to blame. He’d gotten into the habit of replacing one wife with another, of expecting a woman too young for him, a woman he’d bought in one way or another, to live with his aging body and damaged spirit.
What right had he to snatch from the ranks of men in their thirtiesa love that was their due, to help himself so freely to that store of burning passion, this man who’d been perching for so long on the big branch of the poinciana that his flip-flops had made it shine?
Grete and Lucie came out of the hotel with their backpacks on and stood beside the table, ready to leave.
Norah gazed intently, sorrowfully, at Lucie’s face. It suddenly seemed to her that this beloved face meant nothing to her anymore.
It was the same face, with its delicate features, smooth skin, tiny nose, and curly forehead, but she didn’t recognize it.
She felt alive but, as a mother, distant, distracted.
She’d always loved her daughter passionately, so what was this?
Was it simply the humiliation of feeling that behind her back Jakob and the children had taken advantage of her absence to become closer?
“Right,” said Jakob, “let’s go, I’ve already paid the bill.”
“Go where?” asked Norah.
“We can’t stay in the hotel, it’s too expensive.”
“True.”
“We can go to your father’s, can’t we?”
“Yes,” said Norah airily.
He asked the girls if they’d been sure to sort their things carefully into their two backpacks and to leave nothing behind. Norah couldn’t help noticing that he was now able to talk to them with just that gentle firmness she’d always wanted to see him adopt.
“And school?” she asked casually.
“The Easter holidays have begun,” Jakob said, somewhat surprised.
“I’d forgotten that.”
She was upset and started trembling.
Things like that had always been her responsibility.
Was Jakob lying to her?
“My father never liked girls much. Now there are suddenly going to be two more!”
Faced with their serious expression she giggled nervously, ashamed to admit having such a father and also for making fun of him.
Yes, nothing ever emerged from that house but heartbreak and dishonor.
In the taxi she had some difficulty indicating precisely where her father lived.
She had only a rough
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