Despite his affectionate words, I didn’t have the strength to answer. I just slammed the car door. Since I did not have a key fob, I had to climb over the gates. I remembered that it was possible to get into the house through the garage, which my parents never locked. In the living room, I didn’t even bother to turn on the light. I set my bag and Francis’s pistol on the table. I pulled off my sodden clothes, stumbled across the living room like a sleepwalker, and collapsed on the sofa. I wrapped myself in a thick wool blanket and let sleep overcome me.

I had gambled and lost on every front. I had been crushed by fate. Utterly unprepared, I had just lived through the worst day of my life. Yesterday morning, as I landed on the Côte d’Azur, I’d known that an earthquake was looming, but I hadn’t reckoned on its magnitude, its brutal, devastating consequences.

17

The Garden of Angels

Sunday, May 14, 2017

When I opened my eyes, the midday sun was streaming into the living room. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and I had slept through half the day. A deep, dreamless sleep that allowed me to completely disconnect from the blackness of reality.

I had been woken by my cell phone ringing. I hadn’t been quick enough to answer, so I listened to the message. Using his lawyer’s phone, my father had called to tell me he had been released from custody and was on his way home. I tried calling him back, but my phone battery died. My charger was in the suitcase I had left in the rental car, so I vainly searched for a compatible charger for my phone, then gave up. Using the landline, I called the hospital, but there was no one who could update me on Maxime’s condition.

I showered and pulled on some clothes I found in my father’s wardrobe, a Charvet shirt and a vicuña jacket. I drank three straight espressos, gazing out the window as the sea unfurled its myriad shades of blue. In the kitchen, all my old things were exactly where I had left them. A large cardboard box was precariously balanced on a stool, and the hardwood counter was littered with old school essays, report cards, mixtapes, and the collection of Tsvetaeva’s poetry. I opened it again and reread the beautiful dedication:

For Vinca,

I wish I were an incorporeal soul

that I might never leave you.

To love you is to live.

Alexis