Charlotte. David Foenkinos

      Not the absence of his body.

      She sank into insanity.

      Two full-time nurses were hired.

      To protect her from herself.

      As would later happen to Franziska, just after her first suicide attempt.

      So history would repeat itself.

      Repeat itself endlessly, like the refrain of the dead.

      The grandmother remembers such difficult years.

      When she had to constantly watch her own mother.

      She would speak to her sometimes to soothe her.

      This seemed to calm her down.

      But inevitably she started mentioning her son again.

      She said he was a sailor.

      That was why they didn’t see much of him.

      And then suddenly the reality would hit her in the face.

      It would bite, hard.

      And she would scream for hours.

      After eight years of mental exhaustion, she finally succumbed.

      Perhaps the family would be able to find a semblance of peace.

      But it wasn’t over for Charlotte’s grandmother.

      No sooner was their mother in the ground than her younger sister committed suicide.

      Inexplicably, unforeseeably.

      At eighteen years old, she got up in the night.

      And threw herself in the icy river.

      Just as the first Charlotte would do later.

      So history would repeat itself.

      Repeat itself endlessly, like the refrain of the dead.

      The grandmother had been paralyzed by her sister’s death.

      She had not seen it coming—and nor had anyone else.

      She had to get away, fast.

      Marriage was the best option.

      She became a Grunwald.

      And quickly had two daughters.

      . . .

      A few years passed, strangely happy.

      But the black march began again.

      Her brother’s only daughter committed suicide.

      And then it was her father’s turn, and then her aunt’s.

      So there would never be any escape.

      The morbid atavism was too powerful.

      The roots of a family tree gnawed at by evil.

      And yet she never would have thought her own daughters contaminated.

      Nothing suggested it during their happy childhood.

      They ran all over the place.

      Jumped, danced, laughed.

      It was unthinkable.

      Charlotte, then Franziska.

      Shut away in her room, the grandmother continues to mourn her dead.

      The letter lying on her lap.

      Soaked with tears, the words blur, distort.

      What if Paula was right?

      After all, that woman sings like an angel.

      Yes, what she says is true.

      Everyone around her dies.

      So she must be careful.

      Protect Charlotte.

      She will see her less often, if it’s better that way.

      Her granddaughter will no longer come to stay here.

      That is the essential thing.

      Charlotte must live.

      But is that even possible?

      Part Three

      1

      Charlotte is now sixteen.

      A serious girl, brilliant at school.

      People sometimes find her mysterious.

      Her stepmother considers her insolent, above all.

      They no longer get along so well.

      Albert is still obsessed with his medical explorations.

      So the two of them spend long days together.

      Getting on each other’s nerves, growing irritable: what could be more normal?

      Charlotte is increasingly divided.

      She idolizes Paula, and she can’t bear her.

      But she never tires of hearing her sing.

      She goes to all her concerts in Berlin.

      And feels the same emotion she felt the first time.

      Paula is one of the greatest living divas.

      Crowds rush to hear her.

      One night, she records a magnificent version of Carmen.

      Charlotte is in the first row that night.

      Her stepmother holds the note a long time.

      The last note of the concert.

      The audience holds its breath.

      The sound fades elegantly.

      It’s a triumph, an ovation, something even greater if that’s possible.

      Here and there, people shout bravos.

      Charlotte observes the bouquets of flowers that clutter the stage.

      The bouquets that will soon decorate their living room.

      Everything is red.

      And in the heart of this redness, a dissonant note.

      To begin with, Charlotte is not sure.

      Perhaps it’s a slightly strange form of admiration.

      The shouting grows more raucous, the whistling more shrill.

      No, it’s not admiration.

      It’s coming from somewhere above.

      It’s still not easy to see.

      The lights have not come back on yet.

      The noise grows louder.

      Now the boos are drowning out the applause.

      Paula understands, and runs backstage.

      She does not want to listen to that.

      She does not want to hear their hatred.

      Men yell insults, horrible things.

      They tell Paula to go home.

      They don’t want to hear her anymore here!

      Charlotte, trembling, goes to find her.

      She expects to find her stepmother devastated.

      But no, there she is, standing in front of her mirror.

      She looks strong, almost unshakeable.

      It is she who reassures Charlotte.

      We have to get used to it, that’s just how it is . . .

      But her voice rings false.

      Her veneer of calm cannot hide her anxiety.

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