It’s impossible to read Mathilde’s expression. When I asked before about Michel’s father she’d said only that she didn’t know where he was. But then she doesn’t have to tell me anything.
She pushes back a strand of hair. ‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
Her breath whispers against my foot. ‘Louis said he had some sort of business in Lyon. He persuaded my father to lend him some money and then he left. That was eighteen months ago. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’
Again, it seems she’s waiting for me to say something. ‘Couldn’t he have just decided to steal the money and not come back?’
‘I don’t think so. If he were still alive he’d have been in touch with someone by now. Not me, perhaps, but Jean-Claude.’
It’s only what his brother’s already told me, but it seems to carry more weight coming from her. ‘Jean-Claude thinks—’
‘I know what Jean-Claude thinks.’ Mathilde raises her head to look at me. The grey eyes are calm and sad. ‘My father didn’t kill Louis. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. He was unhappy when he found out I was pregnant, and the last time I saw him we argued. If not for that, maybe things would have been different.’
‘You can’t blame yourself. Maybe if your father talked to Jean-Claude—’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘My father’s a proud man. He won’t change his mind.’
‘Then couldn’t you talk to Jean-Claude yourself?’
‘It wouldn’t do any good. He holds us responsible. Nothing I say can change that.’
Mathilde turns her attention back to the stitches, making it clear the conversation has ended. She drops another thread into the dish and repositions my foot. I can feel the warmth of her body through the towel.
‘Just one more.’
There’s a slight sting as the last stitch pulls free. She puts the tweezers in the saucer and dabs antiseptic on the holes where the stitches have been. Without them the foot has an unfinished look, like an unlaced shoe.
‘How does that feel?’ she asks.
‘Not bad.’
My foot is still on her lap. Her hands rest on it, and all at once I’m very aware of the contact. The touch of her fingers on my bare skin is like an electric charge. From the flush that’s risen to her throat, she’s conscious of it too.
‘
Gretchen’s shout comes from downstairs, petulant and demanding. Mathilde moves my foot and quickly rises from the chair.
‘I’m coming,’ she calls. The tiredness is back behind her eyes as she gathers up the tweezers and dish. ‘It might be tender for a day or two where the stitches have been. You should still be careful.’
‘I will. Thanks,’ I say. But she’s already gone.
As I stand I catch sight of my reflection in the mottled bathroom mirror over the washbasin. My face is thinner than I remember. It’s sunburnt and peeling, with white lines radiating from the corners of my eyes where they’ve been screwed up against the light. The beard completes the transformation: it doesn’t look like me any more.
I stare back at the stranger, then go back downstairs.
It feels weird to wear a boot on my injured foot again. The bloodstains on the leather have resisted several scrubbings and there are twin arcs of punctures on both sides. I’ll need a new pair eventually, but for now it’s enough to look down and see two feet that are more or less symmetrical.
The novelty is fading, though. I’m already beginning to forget what it was like to have my foot bound and strapped. I have the strange sensation that everything is reverting to how it was before I stepped in the trap, as though the thread of my life is trying to pick up from where it left off.
Even so, I’m reluctant to put too much weight on my foot, and when I take my afternoon walk down to the lake I still use my walking stick. I’m aware that it’s become more of a psychological crutch than a physical one, but that’s something I don’t dwell on. Once my foot’s fully recovered I’ll have no more reason to stay, and I’m not ready for that.
Not yet.
I go up to my usual spot on the bluff and settle against the trunk of the chestnut tree. The lake is placid, the surface unruffled even by ducks at this time of day. But change is evident even here. The year’s moved on without my noticing it. The leaves of the surrounding trees are a darker green than when I first arrived, and although it’s still hot the sunlight seems subtly sharper. The season is approaching its turn, and so is the weather. I rub my wrist where my watch used to be, looking at a dark smudge of cloud on the horizon.
At one time I couldn’t imagine winter touching here. Now I can.
The cloud bank has encroached further by the time I set off back up the track, obscuring the sun with a preliminary haze. There’s even a threat of rain in the air as I walk through the woods, but the statues at least are unchanged. Pan still capers manically, and the veiled woman still stands bowed and remorseful. Under the darkening sky, the blood-like stain on her worn sandstone looks more livid than ever.
‘Hello.’
