50

Not only did Valérie seem to lack clarity about the emotional drama she was about to unleash on her family, but she was growing increasingly cheerful. Admittedly, we were close to finishing our second bottle of red. I had to slow down or I would no longer be capable of transcribing what we said to each other. But I was surrendering to the pleasure of the evening, sometimes completely forgetting I was there to work. Then again, that is pretty much the definition of a writer: we never really know when we’re working. It’s the kind of profession that allows you to sit there doing nothing for hours on end while claiming that you’re in the middle of a huge undertaking.

Between all the alcohol and the released emotions, I had forgotten to tell Valérie about the trip I would soon be making with her mother. When I did finally announce this, she burst out in hysterical laughter. The vision of me travelling to the other side of the world with Madeleine seemed utterly ridiculous to her. ‘I think you’re losing the plot!’ she told me, pouring us some more wine. Easily influenced, I found myself wondering if she was right. I had imagined our trip as a fascinating, romantic adventure, but what if it was merely risible? What was I going to do in Los Angeles with an elderly person I barely knew? But I decided to put my doubts to one side. I was strapped into the rollercoaster of my mind again. As before, I had feared Valérie’s reaction to my news – baselessly, as it turned out. I’d even thought she might try to stop us leaving. That was why I’d bought the flight tickets without telling her, so I could present her with a fait accompli. But in fact, she told me that she thought it was a wonderfully batty thing for her mother to do. In a softer voice, she added: ‘All of this is like a balm for her heart, you know.’

I thought this phrase was not only true but beautiful. Probably wrongly, I also saw it as an allusion to the conflict between Valérie and her sister, which must have caused Madeleine some heartache. So our trip would do her good; it would take her mind off things, as the saying goes. If only one’s mind could really be ‘taken off’ things as easily as taking a wine glass off a table. I saw an opening and tried once again to get Valérie to talk about this painful subject.

‘Ah, my sister … Do you really want to ruin our evening?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I do miss her, you know,’ she said suddenly, with a hint of sadness in her voice. But it was a sadness inspired by alcohol. Drunkenness is like a fork in the road that can lead in two very different directions: towards hawkishness or mawkishness, towards bitterness or forgiveness. Apparently Valérie had taken the second path.

‘You should call her and tell her that.’