The Suitors - By Cecile David-Weill Page 0,69

I had no idea, none, and was too devastated to think. I couldn’t help recalling a misadventure I’d had a few years earlier, however: eager young psychoanalyst that I was, I’d confronted the cleaning lady I’d recently hired about her alcoholism, which I had diagnosed from the falling level of my liquor bottles. I’d been soft-spoken, supportive. And she’d been so touched that to my surprise she had given up drinking. So I was rather pleased with the help I’d given her—until she decompensated into schizophrenia, which until then had been anesthetized by alcohol. And that had taught me once and for all about the limits of therapeutic discourse.

My mother must have found a form of equilibrium between tranquilizers and cocaine. And aside from the fright she’d had over her nosebleed, there was no indication that she wanted to stop. Why not simply give her the name of a psychiatrist? Because I did not see myself having a word with her about the situation. All the more so in that she was probably less than eager to talk things over with me or any other member of the family. And then I wondered: was her addiction an open secret, a problem I was the last to discover? For in spite of my illusions of shrewdness in psychological matters, I was doubtless, like all children, in a particularly poor position to see my parents with clarity and understanding. Did my father know what was going on? I had to sound him out as soon as possible.

Saturday, 7:00 p.m.

I found my mother having tea in the loggia with Laszlo, Gay, Frédéric, and the Démazures. In good spirits? Overexcited? I tried to look at her in a normal way in spite of my suspicions, which I sensed would be difficult to shrug off.

“But … where is Odon?” I exclaimed, with a gaiety intended to mask my concern. “If he were here, the Little Band would be at full strength!”

“Not back from Vallauris yet. Listen, I’ve entrusted Charles with a mission. He was at such loose ends … and as it would never occur to him to open a book, I had to keep him occupied.”

“You know your mother,” added Laszlo. “A heart of gold. She had the bright idea of asking Charles to do her the favor of organizing the wine cellar. So don’t be surprised if you see him emerge in triumph from the lower depths, because he surfaces from time to time to give us bulletins on his progress.”

“He’s phenomenal!” confirmed Frédéric. “Speaking of which, after the wine cellar, you ought to sic him on the library so he can arrange all the books in alphabetical order.”

I suddenly felt completely alone. Which was only natural, since I hadn’t talked to Marie all weekend, and given that nothing was likely to change on that front until Béno’s departure, I decided to go down to the beach in hopes of running into my father.

“Oh! Just the person I wanted to speak to,” he said, coming out of the water. “Georgina went on up already. You didn’t see her? She’s not well, and I’m worried about her, she seemed both wild and depressed. In fact, she scared me a little.”

“Yes, because you didn’t know what to do, but maybe she is just sad and that proves she’s alive.”

“You want to know something? It’s lucky your mother isn’t that way!”

“You think so? I’m not sure about that …”

“No, believe me, beneath that fragile exterior, she’s a rock! In fact, I’ve always preferred women like Flokie to those who seem like tough gals when they’re really spun glass, like Georgina. Because me, I need someone solid to lean on.”

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Asparagus Vinaigrette

Poularde Mancini

Salad and Cheeses

Apple Soufflé

Entering the summer dining room, I saw that my mother had seated everyone very nicely: she had kept Odon and Laszlo to help her with Charles (whom she hadn’t brought herself to seat on her right), while sending Frédéric and me to liven things up at my father’s table, where we’d been placed the previous evening.

Slipping a knife under his plate to tilt it and so pool the vinaigrette from the asparagus, Frédéric began teasing Béno.

“You’re a financier, a collector, a jet-setter, a man of property, and who knows what all else. And I heartily approve, as I myself am a night owl, a playwright, and a pillar of this house. But some would say that you’re spreading yourself too thin. Don’t you ever, as I do, worry that you’re doing everything the