Mend the Living by Maylis de Kerangal Page A

here, we’re with you, can you hear me, Simon, my boy, we’re here. He places his forehead against that of the young man stretched out, his skin is still warm and there it is, his smell, smell of wool and cotton, smell of the sea, and Sean probably begins to whisper words just for the two of them, words that no one else can hear and that we will never know, archaic babble from the Polynesian Isles, or mana words that have crossed unaltered through all the layers of language, pebbles that glow red with a fire intact, this dense, slow matter, inexhaustible, this wisdom; it lasts two or three minutes and then he stands again, his eyes meet Marianne’s and their hands brush together above their child’s chest, a movement that makes the sheet slip down, revealing the Maori tattoo they’ve never touched, vegetal design beginning at the shoulder and spreading over the indent of the clavicle and onto the shoulder blades – Simon had marked his skin in the summer of his fifteenth year at a surf camp in the Basque country, a way of stating my body is my own, and while Sean, calm, himself with tattoos across his back, had asked him about the meaning, the choice, and the placement of such a design, trying to tease out whether he was giving a nod to the traces of Maori in his blood; Marianne, for her part, had taken it badly, Simon was so young, she had said, anxious, your tattoo, you know it’s there for life, right? And the word comes back to her like a boomerang: irreversible.
    Revol has just entered the room. Sean turns and says: I hear his heart beating – it seems like the hum of the machines grows amplified in that moment – and then again, insistent: his heart is beating, right? Yes, Revol asserts, his heart is beating, thanks to the machines. And after a moment, when he’s getting ready to leave the room, Sean stops him again: why wasn’t he operated on as soon as he arrived? The doctor detects the aggressive tension, the despair that’s turning to anger and on top of it the father has been drinking, he smells alcohol on his breath, and he explains carefully: it wasn’t possible to operate, sir, the hemorrhage was too severe, too advanced, the scan ordered in emergency when Simon was admitted clearly showed that it was too late. Maybe it’s this certitude maintained in the cataclysm, this imperturbable calm approaching arrogance even as the tremors intensify that causes Sean to suddenly raise his voice, to explode: you didn’t even try! Revol winces but doesn’t bat an eye, would like to reply but feels that all he can do is remain silent, and anyway someone is knocking at the door now, and without waiting for a response Cordelia Owl enters the room.
    The young woman has splashed a little water on her face, had a coffee, she’s beautiful as some girls are after a sleepless night. She greets Marianne and Sean with a furtive smile and then, focused, approaches the bed. I’m going to take your temperature now. She’s talking to Simon. Revol freezes. Marianne and Sean open their eyes wide, astonished. The young woman turns her back to them, murmurs, there, that’s good, then she checks his blood pressure on the monitor and says, I’m going to check your catheter now, to see if you’ve gone pee – she moves with almost excruciating gentleness. Revol catches the stunned look that passes between Marianne and Sean Limbeau, hesitates to interrupt the nurse, to give her the order to leave, and finally opts for movement: we need to speak in my office, please, come with me. Marianne starts, resists, doesn’t want to leave the room, I’m staying with Simon – locks of hair hang in her face, accompanying the to and fro of her head that sways in the void – and Sean too shifts from foot to foot while Revol insists, come with me, your son needs care, you can come back to see him right after.
    Once again the labyrinth, corridors that break off into other corridors, once again the outlines of people at work, the