Theory of Remainders (8 page)

But Philip had only one question: Where do I sign? With a flourish, the prescient notary produced another document. This one would allow him to transfer his portion of the assets and liabilities, the
actif
and the
passif
, back to the family.

The din from the other discussions went quiet, and Philip felt all eyes upon him. He patted his pocket in search of a pen, and Yvonne touched his arm, offering him a black ballpoint. He nodded his thanks and turned to the signature page, pretending to skim the last clauses, tapping the pen by each bullet point, delaying the final gesture. This legal claim was his last, unexpected connection to this particular past.

And yet, his signature was what Yvonne wanted, which was all that mattered. He wrote out his name, then scratched his initials at the bottom of each sheet, feeling Hervé’s scrutiny, perhaps even his breath, over his shoulder. When he was done, he closed his fist around the pen.

“Thank you,” Yvonne said from behind.

There were other signatures, some photocopies to be made, but soon it was over. The notary shook hands with all those in attendance, issued a few parting comments designed to be charming, and saluted them collectively as he left the Aubert family to digest the transaction they had just concluded.

“See how fast he took off?” Roger said loudly as the door closed. “I imagine he has other cats to whip.”

Other cats to whip
. Philip remembered this one, the French version of
other fish to fry.
The language was full of such surprising turns of speech, and they were gradually coming back to him. The total immersion of the meeting had helped.

Chairs scooted, papers rustled, purses snapped.

“Well, that’s that,” Évelyne proclaimed, dusting off her hands.

“A pity, though,” Roger said. “Money is what keeps families together.”

Évelyne glared. “Do you try to be so crass? Or does it just come naturally?”

“What now?” Roger protested. “I’m just telling the truth. It’s not my fault if the truth is crass.”

Hervé joined in. “Not everyone thinks the way you do, Roger. Thank God.”

“You really think there’s more to family than cash?”

“Indeed I do,” Hervé replied.

Roger fingered his chin while he pondered the statement. “Hmm. Then I suppose that means Philip should stay for dinner tonight. Since stripping him of the money doesn’t really change anything.”

Hervé’s eyes grew large.

“Don’t you think, Yvonne?” Roger added, all innocence.

Philip suppressed a smile.

Yvonne had been pulling together her papers, searching for her pen, patting the pockets of the Chanel jacket. Now she gave the current matter her full attention, turning to Philip. “Roger’s right. Why don’t you stay for the meal? Since we didn’t have a chance to see you yesterday?”

Not two hours earlier his goal had been to escape as quickly as possible, to flee back home. Now the web of familiarity caught at him. He begged off, protesting that his flight left the next afternoon.

“Nonsense,” Roger pressed. “Everyone’s still here from the funeral. We’re having one final bash. It’ll be like old times. Stay tonight and leave in the morning. You’ll be at the airport in three hours.”

“I already have a reservation near Roissy.”

“Cancel it,” Roger said. “French hotels are used to being stood up.”

“Do come,” chimed in Flora. “You can meet the children.”

Philip turned to Yvonne for help.

“You should stay,” she said.

He tried to read her eyes.

“See?” Roger added. “Everyone hopes you’ll come. You do too, don’t you, Hervé?”

Hervé scowled. “Yes,” he said flatly. “Of course we hope you can stay for dinner.”

Philip had to admire Roger’s pluck. That’s what had brought them together so many years ago: Roger’s steadfast resistance to protocol, to being
comme il veut
instead of
comme il faut
. Yvonne used to have a touch of that, too.

“All right,” he conceded. “I’ll stop by for a little bit.”

Back in his hotel room he sat at the wobbly desk, rolling Yvonne’s ballpoint pen between his fingers. It was a simple, black-barreled job with a button at the top and the logo of the University of Rouen on its side. They probably made them by the thousands and sold them for two or three euros at the university bookstore. She wouldn’t miss it.

The morning had been strange, filled with surprising memories, as if he’d pulled the stopper from an old perfume bottle, only to find a pungent ghost of fragrance within. He still felt the brush of her cheek.

Only Hervé had been truly annoying.

When Philip went down to let Monsieur Bécot know he’d be staying another night, the old man’s expression darkened.

“You’d rather I left, wouldn’t you?” Philip said.

“That is not for me to decide, Monsieur Adler.” His nose approached the register as he amended the reservation. “But I know Yvetot. I have lived here all my life. I know the names, the people. At least the ones that are left. So many families are gone now. Yvetot is a dying town.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

Bécot paused and looked up. “There have been so many problems here, you know. The Germans destroyed Yvetot. Then came the occupation. Then the collaboration. One pain after another.”

“That was nearly sixty-five years ago.”

Bécot flicked his hand. “What I am saying, Monsieur Adler, is that people in Yvetot are not interested in going back to the past. Just ask Monsieur Guérin at the archives in the town hall: no one goes there. People, they do not wish to be reminded of these problems. Especially by someone who does not—if you will excuse the expression—who does not belong here.”

Philip’s temper rose. So he was an unwelcome guest. Yes, Sophie’s rape and murder had attracted the press, casting Yvetot in a bad light. The journalists had salted their articles with subtle insinuations, hinting that something was wrong in a town where such a crime could take place, where no one foresaw what a boy like Édouard Morin might do. Philip’s return now picked open the old scabs of shame.

But after all, he told himself, it
was
Yvetot’s fault. They should have helped Édouard Morin before it was too late. Instead, they’d refused to face the facts, had waited too long, and his family had borne the cost. And now they dared assert that he didn’t belong?

“And you, Monsieur Bécot?” he pressed. “Is that how you feel?”

“Me?” Bécot’s face was hard to read. “I run a hotel, Monsieur. It is my job to welcome people who come to our town. So I do not take sides.”

“I suppose I should thank you for your honesty.”

Bécot turned his attention to the register. “I wish you a very fine stay, Monsieur Adler. You will be at the Aubert home this evening, is that right? I look forward to seeing you at check-out in the morning.”

In his room Philip attempted a nap before the gathering but only managed to study the flaking paint of the ceiling. The window was open, and the fabric shade of the light swayed with the breeze.

His mind refused to shut down. Everything in Yvetot reminded him of Sophie, and Sophie made him think of Morin. What, he wondered, would that boy look like now? What had become of his father, Olivier, that pitiful, apprehensive little man?

He closed his eyes, desperate for a nap, but sleep wouldn’t come. Memories nuzzled at his mind’s gate like kenneled dogs.

Five

The dinner proved to be a heavily populated event with a buffet laid out in the dining room of the Aubert home. The house was a stone structure, a hundred and fifty years old, three stories tall, large enough for a separate service stairway in the back, and rich with history. It had been spared by German artillery thanks to its location on the outskirts of town. During the Nazi occupation, officers had been billeted there, and according to family legend a certain lieutenant colonel had enjoyed taking target practice in the dining room. Now guests roamed about the spacious rooms of the main floor carrying plates and glasses, moving from group to group. Philip stepped gingerly through this familiar space. A few furnishings had changed since his last trip to Yvetot, but the portrait of Yvonne’s father still glared down from above the mantel, and even now Philip couldn’t tell if the old ghost approved of him.

He met Flora’s and Évelyne’s children, each name promptly displaced in his memory by the next. Overall, he marveled at how few of the creatures in this house he actually knew, or rather, recognized. There were multiple generations of Auberts, ranging from an unsupervised pack of five-and-six-year-old marauders to a herd of ancient, sexless ruminants who sipped at
digestifs
and exchanged mutters in hushed tones. The entire extended family was present, with one important omission: Roger himself. Mr. Incorrigible hadn’t turned up yet.

He exchanged greetings with guests and strained to hear responses over the hubbub, nodding and smiling with special vigor whenever he had no idea what the other person had said. He was an expert at vague replies—one of the skills he sometimes practiced in sessions with patients.

Still, it wasn’t long before the novelty of the American had worn off, and soon he ended up alone in an armchair in a corner, listening to the clinks of glass and silverware, wondering how long it would be before he could legitimately depart. The box of chocolates he’d brought had been plundered by the children. He was pretty sure Yvonne had never even seen them.

Hervé came through the room, and by the time he’d recognized the tall stranger sitting in the shadows, it was too late for either of them to pretend he hadn’t. “You don’t have a glass,” he said with a pinched smile. “Can I fetch you something to drink? A Chardonnay? Something stronger?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? There’s an excellent Burgundy here.” He was rattling through the bottles on the table, tipping them back to decipher their labels. “I don’t know how familiar you are with fine wines . . .”

“I don’t need anything, really.”

“Nonsense. You really must try this Meursault.” He was already pouring a glass.

Back home people might have taken the hint, but here Philip was going to have to be direct. “I don’t drink,” he announced, and Hervé gave him a surprised look. “They say there’s a god who watches over drunkards,” Philip continued, “but he didn’t do such a good job with me. I have to look after myself.”

“Ha-ha! I see,” Hervé replied, overcoming the awkwardness of the confession. “Nicely put, I must say. Yvonne told me your French was pretty good, but still, I’m impressed. For an American.”

“When you live somewhere for fifteen years,” Philip replied, “you don’t have much choice but to pick up the language.”

“A bit of an accent, of course.”

There it was—the jab.

Hervé was already off on another topic. “So tell me, is psychiatry in your family? What are you—a nephew or grandson of the great Alfred Adler?”

“No relation.”

“I see.” He leaned against the table, crossing his ankles. “But that is a Jewish name, isn’t it?”

Such a question would never have been asked so baldly in the States. Philip responded in the affirmative and braced himself for more questions about his family’s background, but in fact Hervé was already moving on. He was more interested in conjuring up questions than in hearing the answers.

“And what do you consider yourself?” Hervé said. “A Freudian? A Jungian? A Lacanian?”

“A pragmatist.”

Already Philip was zeroing in on his diagnosis of Yvonne’s husband. Definite narcissistic tendencies. Not pathological, of course, but measurable.