The kitchen was narrow. We had placed the long side of a rectangular table against the wall with two chairs side by side and another one at the head. Father and I sat on the same side, both staring at the white wall. I liked not having to look at his face when we spoke.
Happy birthday, he said, pulling out a gift from under the table. He had been holding it when he walked in, and I hadn’t noticed. I thanked him. Father had called me on my birthday in the late evening, after dinner. I had checked my phone every hour, waiting for his call, worried he had forgotten because I knew how upset he would be, but also hoping he wouldn’t call so I could indulge in my sadness, give shape to my anger, feel that dark twinge of satisfaction. Not a good father. I wondered if Anouk had reminded him of the date at the last minute. He called every year and sometimes we saw each other, but most often he was caught up at work.
I opened the gift. A book by a contemporary philosopher.
I heard a fascinating interview on the radio with this man, Father said, and I thought of you right away. He was talking about cultural difference. You’re intelligent. I know you’ll enjoy it.
I leafed through the book, pretending to read a sentence here and there. I could smell the soap on his skin. I hadn’t seen him in weeks. His hair, brown and thin, fanned across his forehead as if he’d just taken off a sweater.
How was your birthday? he asked.
Oh, it was fine. I put the book down. Did you think of me?
Of course. Father furrowed his brow. Are you asking because I didn’t spend the day with you?
I looked at his hands. They were on the table in front of him, where one would put a plate, the nails clipped short. His skin was smooth and pale, even though he had driven trucks, carried cases of wine, and tilled the vegetable patch with his mother throughout his adolescence. That was a long time ago. Since then, his hands touched paper, books, microphones, the leather handle of his briefcase.
No, I said, I’m not upset.
That’s good.
I arranged the napkins on the table into a neat pile. Can I tell you something? I asked, looking away from him.
Of course, Margot.
My stomach constricted. I hadn’t planned on telling him, but before I could change my mind, I opened my mouth.
I saw her the other day. Your wife, Claire.
The thought of saying those words had been exciting moments before, but now I was nervous, unsure of what I wanted from him.
Father tensed, his neck jerking slightly, before he regained his composure. Where was that? he asked.
Close to the Luxembourg. We were sitting at a café and we saw her on the street. I crossed my legs under the chair, skimming the cold tiles with my toes.
Your mother was with you?
She’s the one who recognized her. I had no idea what she looked like.
Father glanced away from me. The silence bothered me, so I ventured forward. We left right away, I said.
He surprised me by taking my hands in his, and I was startled by the warm, fragile skin. It was like touching the hands of an old woman.
Was your mother upset?
Not really. But don’t worry, I added, I don’t think she saw us.
Even if she did, she wouldn’t recognize you.
I paused and thought carefully about what to say next. The apartment was quiet. Anouk had finished her phone conversation and would appear at any moment.
Have you ever said something about us by accident? I asked.
Father shook his head. It doesn’t work that way. I’m not ashamed of you. I don’t feel like I’m hiding you and your mother.
You don’t?
I searched his face to see if he was lying, but his expression wasn’t easy to decipher. He was a practiced liar. Anouk had implied Madame Lapierre suspected her husband was unfaithful, and a small part of me couldn’t help but believe she was right.
Would you ever tell her about us? I asked.
He ignored my question, and instead said it would be easier once I was no longer in school, once I was an adult.
Was it because as a woman I’d blend into the cohort of men and women who surrounded him, one more person at a business meeting, and perhaps one day I’d work alongside him on a campaign? Whereas as a young girl I stood out? He seemed to think this was almost over—not the secret of our family but the weight of taking great measures to dissimulate.
I can’t stop thinking about her, I said, interrupting him. And when I saw her the other day, I realized I don’t know anything about her.
What do you want to know?
Would she like me?
Yes, he answered, a little too quickly.
Would I like her?
Eventually. He smiled.
What would I like about her, then?
His demeanor relaxed, and he spoke gently. I was to understand that unlike Anouk, who was all on the outside, Madame Lapierre had a hidden, inner resilience. Most people didn’t see it at first and thought she was shy. She had driven herself twice to the hospital when she went into labor. She was an excellent cook. I would love her food. She didn’t have Anouk’s strong-headedness. She was more flexible.
His words echoed around me in the small space of the kitchen. They were hard to absorb. Where had he been when she went into labor? Was she kinder than Anouk? Why had he chosen a woman so different from my mother? Would she want anything to do with me? Although these questions swirled in my head, I was unable to say them aloud. I tried to match his description to the memory of the woman on the street. I noticed the way he compared her to Anouk. It was obvious he couldn’t think of one without the other. I had known he was a married man since I was a little girl, and yet I felt betrayed, as if I’d just found out he was having an affair. What did her voice sound like up close? And did they sit on the couch watching television, their legs touching? I was less interested in their sons, who no longer lived at home. One of them was married and lived in Brussels, and the other was at university in London. As I listened in a daze, it occurred to me that my mother’s intuition was misplaced, and what she believed to be a marriage of convenience without a trace of affection was in reality something much closer to what she herself had with him.
You love them both? I asked. The boldness of my question surprised me.
He swallowed with difficulty, as if I’d asked him to eat a pile of fish bones. I could see it pained him.
Above all, I love my children, he said.
We heard Anouk walk down the stairs, and we waited for her in silence. She entered the kitchen and raised her eyebrows. I don’t think she’d heard a word of our conversation, but still I blushed deeply. She kissed Father and smoothed his hair. Bonjour, ma chérie, he said. He stood and busied himself with breakfast preparations.