Her father was crippled by doleful allegiance to a time and events with which, not wanting to saddle her, he kept from her. Thus, Cathérine resented him for being, without apparent explanation, so much unlike other people. The fathers of other children in school at Saint-Germainen-Laye had been businessmen or functionaries of government. They went to offices, were members of clubs, danced, drank, took vacations on fashionable islands, and dressed sharply. They were happy in groups, schools, flocks, teams, and herds. Although Jules, always athletic, would play tennis with Jacqueline and Fran?ois, he did everything else alone – running, rowing, swimming, even riding (except for the horse). Jacqueline was that way, too. At a time when Cathérine needed to fit in with classmates or suffer their rejection, her parents had few friends, avoided social engagement, were awkward when they couldn’t avoid it, and spent most of their time reading, playing music, doing punishing exercise, or, like crazy Zen monks, sitting for hours in the garden or on the terrace doing absolutely nothing.
They and especially Jules were not only incapable of imparting to her the skills necessary for a happy life among others, but for the rest of her life she was angry that they had never seen the need to do so. Her time at school was immensely painful because they had failed to protect her by at least making an effort to be like everyone else. They were not materially rich. They were not normal. Different as well for being Jewish, they were allergic to overt religiosity and ritual, and had no home even among the Jews.
When Jules was about to debut his music in the most important setting possible and at the start of an exciting season, Cathérine came with Jacqueline. Before they left home, Jules looked at his wife and daughter, both of whom had dressed beautifully, even little Cathérine, who was so young he could carry her in the crook of his arm. He loved them so much at that moment that he was diverted from ambition and felt guilty for having indulged it. Later, as they and a thousand other people watched, he began the concert with a Bach piece, the Sei Lob. Cathérine knew it well by sound, but was so young she didn’t know that music was composed by people, and thought it was just there. The public never heard Jules’ music, and Cathérine, who at first had been proud, was suddenly frightened and ashamed because, as a thousand people held their breath in embarrassment, her father wept.
As she grew older she separated from them as much as she could. She became religious. She dressed carefully. She married an accountant. She had many friends, and was comfortable in their society. When Jacqueline died, Cathérine asked her father point-blank why he had lived the way he had lived, why her mother had been that way as well, and what it was that kept him apart, even from Jews, who were themselves forever condemned to be apart. He didn’t really tell her, because it was so much what he was that he was unable to identify it as an outside force. And he had never wanted to make her like him, but rather to keep her from the details of his affliction so she would not repeat it. He wanted her to be successful and to thrive, to shed the past. So he answered indirectly.
“Because your mother and I,” he said, “are like Thierry.”
“Thierry? What does he have to do with it?” He was one of their few friends, and they saw him probably no more than thrice in her lifetime. But they often spoke about him.
“He’s one of the greatest photographers in France, and when he was younger he was quite famous and getting quite rich. Unlike many others, he was an artist of lab work, and did all his own. Photographic printing is an art in itself, and other photographers would turn to him for it. He was so good at this that he decided to build the finest lab in the world, to train protégés, and strive for better and better work. He mortgaged his house and went deeply into debt on all fronts to build a magnificent facility.
“Just as things were solidifying well, photography began to embrace digitization. Now the embrace is complete. But Thierry stuck with the old processing and printing. In five years, he lost everything. People begged him to switch while he could, but he didn’t. There’s no mystery in digital. It’s all asymptote and no curve; binary code, unvarying, with no imperceptible bridge between its discrete elements. Thierry’s prints, especially the black and white, had worlds between those elements. They gleamed as they retreated into dusk and darkness, like mother of pearl in fading light. In photographic printing, art lives in the variations of chemicals, paper base, enlarger lenses, bulb filaments, and processing permutations. He stuck with that art because, even though it was as defeated as if a tank had rolled over it, it was beautiful, it was better, he loved it, and he was loyal to what he loved.”
“But he suffered because of it.”
“He continues to suffer. But loyalty is like magic. It makes suffering immaterial.”
“You’re loyal to what? Being peculiar?”
“No, I’m loyal to a world that was destroyed.”
THEIR DIFFERENCES HAD by necessity receded into the background when Luc got sick. Now Jules was in Cergy out of love for his child and his grandchild, and to say goodbye before he left for America.
“David is working?” he asked Cathérine.
She nodded. She was worn down from living with the threat to Luc far more than she would have been had she herself been ill.
“I brought Luc a book.” He held up a thin, broad, gift-wrapped slab.
“I hope it’s not about going to the hospital. One of our friends gave him a book like that before I could intercept it.”
“This is a picture book in which there are hundreds of chubby little people in helmets and bright uniforms. They build roads, climb ladders, fly planes, and collect garbage. They all look like Hollande, they live in a world where everything is colorful, rounded, and kind, nothing sharp or dirty. Danger is everywhere, but perfectly contained. They’re safe because they wear harnesses, hard hats, and reflective vests. I’ll read it to him before lunch.”
Luc trailed in absentmindedly, but when he saw his grandfather he rushed to him and hugged his leg. Jules lifted the child onto his lap, kissed him, and said “Ah! Luc! What a good boy! And, you look less swollen!”
Luc, who knew what swollen was only too well, said, “Less swollen.”
“Here’s a book for you. Would you like to unwrap it?”
Children unwrap presents either three times as fast or three times more slowly than adults. Seldom is there an in between. Luc did it slowly.
“He’s going to be an archaeologist,” Jules said to Cathérine. “Look how carefully and thoughtfully he’s peeling off the layers.”
When Luc was done and he saw the bright colors, he smiled. Looking slowly over the cover and taking in all its great detail, he put an index finger – like a cat using its paw to pounce – on a little white police car in a corner of the frame. Then he wiggled off Jules’ lap and ran to his room, returning proudly with a toy car just like the one in the picture, only it had a yellow rubber dome at the top that, when depressed, made the car beep. Both the plastic and drawn cars were unthreateningly bulbous, non–aerodynamic, and taller than they were long.
Back in Jules’ lap, Luc held the toy upside down, showing his grandfather the undercarriage. Jules knew that this meant, what is it? “It’s a police car,” Jules said. “See the policeman inside?”
Luc nodded. He thought for a while. Then he turned to Jules with an expectant, skeptical look. “Are they good guys or bad guys?” he asked. At two and a half, he thought the world was divided that way, and it was, though not as clearly as he imagined.