“That asshole she was fucking on the sly,” he said as though it were obvious. “That pretentious little philosopher…what was his name?”

“Alexis Clément.”

“Clément, yeah, that’s the guy.”

“Do you know anything else about Vinca’s disappearance?” I asked gravely.

“What could I possibly know? You don’t think I was involved, do you? I was in Papeete with your brother and sister when she disappeared.”

As an alibi, it was watertight.

“Why do you think she didn’t take the money with her?”

“I honestly have no idea, and I don’t give a damn.”

He relit his cigar, which filled the room with acrid smoke, and picked up the remote. He turned up the volume. Djokovic was struggling against Nadal, who was leading 6 to 2, 5 to 4, and was now serving for a place in the final.

The air in the room was unbreathable. I needed to get out now, but Richard was not about to let me leave without giving me a last life lesson.

“It’s about time you toughened up, Thomas, time you realized that life is war. Since you’re such a fan of books, try rereading Roger Martin du Gard: ‘All existence is a battle. Life is any victory that endures.’”

10

The Hatchet

1.

The conversation with my father had made me feel sick, but it had not revealed anything I didn’t already know. When I went back into the kitchen, my mother had moved the boxes and was busy cooking.

“I’m going to make you an apricot tart. It’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”

This was something I had never understood about my mother, something integral to her personality—her ability to blow hot and cold. Sometimes Annabelle would lower her defenses; she would relax, become gentler, warmer, more Mediterranean, as though Italy was suddenly prevailing over Austria. When she looked at me, her eyes would glitter with a spark akin to love. For a long time, I craved that spark, watched for it, waited for it, always hoping it would be the prelude to a more enduring blaze. But the flame never rose above a flicker. Over time, I learned not to be taken in.

“Don’t put yourself to all that trouble, Mom,” I said tersely.

“But it’s my pleasure, Thomas.”

I caught her eye and gave her a look that said Why do you do this? She had unknotted her chignon and her hair spilled out. Her aquamarine eyes shimmered, pure and translucent. On days like today, her eyes were as fascinating as they were inscrutable. My mother, the alien, even went so far as to venture a smile.