The Woman With the Bouquet by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Page B

Uncle Jan said the same thing already. And Aunt Éliette did, too!”
    I fell silent. I found it unpleasant to acknowledge that this crude woman might be right; when common sense looks like a wild boar with an obtuse forehead, wearing yellow rubber gloves and a dress with giant flowers, and her vocabulary is poor, her syntax deficient, I am not attracted to common sense. Nevertheless, I had to share her diagnosis: Emma Van A. had left the real world behind, to go into a world of make believe, completely unaware of the journey undertaken.
    Gerda went off to prepare dinner.
    As for me, I was prevaricating. Should I leave things as they stood, or go to calm Emma down? I could not stand making her unhappy. It would be better to lie than to distress her.
     
    At seven o’clock, once Gerda had left for the day, I went down to the living room.
    In the fading daylight, in the middle of the library gradually overtaken by gloom, she sat in her usual place, her eyelids red. I slowly went up to her.
    “Madame Van A . . .”
    My words were lost in the silence of the room.
    “May I sit down?”
    The total absence of reaction gave me the impression that I had become voiceless, transparent. However, although she neither spoke nor looked at me, through the excessive contraction of her muscles and the fact that she had reduced her field of vision, I felt that she could perceive my presence and found it unpleasant.
    I improvised a solution to get out of the crisis.
    “Madame Van A., I am very sorry about what happened earlier, and I feel completely responsible. I cannot understand what came over me. It must be jealousy. Yes, without doubt. Your past is so fascinating that I needed to believe it was untrue, that you had invented it. You understand, it’s difficult for ordinary people like myself to learn that such . . . extraordinary things can happen. Please accept my apologies. I have been furious with myself. I wanted to trample on your happiness by shouting out that it wasn’t real. Do you hear me?”
    She turned to me as, gradually, a victorious smile appeared on her face.
    “Jealous? Really, jealous?”
    “Yes. I defy anyone who listens to you not to die of a fit of pique, of envy . . .”
    “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
    She studied me, sympathetically. I insisted, in order to regain her trust.
    “No doubt that is why you never spoke about yourself: to avoid arousing any violent envy.”
    “No. What held me back was my promise. And then the idea that I might be taken for a madwoman.”
    “A madwoman . . . why would that be?”
    “There are so many miserable people who lead such a boring lives that they will tell incredible tall tales and end up believing them. I understand them in a way.”
    The mystery of words . . . Like birds, they land on a branch, and the tree does not even realize. And so Emma Van A. had just described her own case without recognizing herself, as if it were an illness affecting only other people.
    I felt she was calmer. As a result, I felt the same sense of peace.
    And so I left Emma Van A., in silence.
     
    The next morning, at half past eight, I was woken by Gerda’s screams: she had just found her aunt dead in her bed.
    Paramedics, doctors, sirens, policemen, doorbells, doors banging, movement, and noise—all came to confirm throughout the day what we had found when we went into her room: Emma Van A. had succumbed to a new heart attack.
    Gerda behaved impeccably. Full of sorrow yet efficient, she took care of everything, including me: she asked if I wanted to curtail my stay—two weeks had been paid for in advance—or not. As I decided to stay, she thanked me, both for herself and for her aunt’s sake, as if I were doing them a personal favor, when in fact I did not know where to go.
    Emma Van A. was groomed, made up, and laid out on her bed, while we waited for her to be placed in her coffin.
    I continued my strolls, which brought me a strange comfort. Today there was a sad dignity