Sisters. Brigitte Lozerec'h

it regularly. My mother had gone to see the mother superior, who’d set the condition that I had to have a lady from the convent go with me to Passy every Thursday afternoon, if I wanted these lessons so badly. As the years went by, I became wildly attached to Aunt Dilys, whose life seemed colorful to me, full of mystery. In time I learned she’d met many of the people that she associated with through her friendship with the Natanson brothers, the creators and directors of the Revue Blanche. Their pages were open to both known and unknown artists, writers, poets, and journalists; they promoted exhibits and had sided with Captain Dreyfus, whose name was not to be mentioned in Grandmother’s house. Aunt Dilys used to meet with people of a sort we’d never seen, and she even dined with them, something I found very exciting. I found out, just by chance, that it was at one of her parties in Passy our mother had met M. Versoix.

      In the carriage taking the four of us to Sainte-Colombe, you’d have thought that even our laughter had an English accent. A cool shower after a long walk in the noonday sun couldn’t have made me feel any better. Ah! If only the horse weren’t trotting so fast!

      William’s voice was done changing. I saw him less and less as my twin; instead, he seemed a big brother who was waiting without much anxiety for the results of his baccalaureate exams. I was as impressed by this as if he’d digested the entire encyclopedia. I was above all impressed by how, just by being his assertive self, he stood out in any group. His presence exuded an inner strength that was enviable, a quiet confidence in himself and in existence. He didn’t speak too loudly and never said things just to be saying them. Now that his arms no longer looked too long for his body and his head didn’t resemble a peony perched on a yielding stalk, his body had a natural balance that gave him a remarkable presence. He looked at people when they were speaking, listened attentively, and always gave the impression that he thought that person was very important.

      August was beginning under the best of auspices.

      And yet, once we were through the gate and around the turn in the driveway, I knew even before the horse stopped moving that things wouldn’t be that simple. Grandmother was waiting there on the doorstep with our little sister hidden in the folds of her gown. I knew my sister well enough to know that this was a sign not of some discreetly hidden happiness on her part but of her great anxiety. I had no trouble sensing when a situation had wound her up. I was burdened by this, but I couldn’t pretend to be insensible to her feelings; I could read them too easily for that.

      How could I have expected that, just because we’d been close for one summer month, our relationship had really changed? She’d grown up being treated like a little queen by her mother and grandmother, and this continued when her mother became Mme Versoix and she moved with her to the rue du Four. She’d always regarded William and my natural rapport with something more than suspicion. She would never get over the pain this had caused her, and I knew it. Even when my brother and I weren’t actually talking to each other, she would watch us closely and try to interfere. But then, speaking English when we were not with the rest of the family was for us something more than a necessity—how could she deprive us of that? You could tell by the way she acted that she’d have liked to make us repudiate our first nine years and see us become amnesiacs; I couldn’t help but recognize Grandmother’s influence in all this. When she was very little, our sister would sneak after us to the study that served as my bedroom at the house on rue Moncey. Usually, William and I would hide out there to talk in the language we’d shared since birth. Because she didn’t understand us, anything—whether we were building with blocks or playing games, or just talking or reading—was an opportunity to blame us for abandoning her.

      Those precious moments prolonged a life in which she hadn’t had a part. Worse, they were proof of a history that was still so real for us, and still had such power, that she could only imagine our enthusiasm coming from some Eden on the banks of the Thames. How many times did she stammer out something of this nature through uncontrollable sobs? As if we were depriving her of something just for the pleasure of making her sad. She was fighting an imaginary war against ghosts. But, basically, she wasn’t wrong; it was our paradise, and she would never have access to it. It was no use telling her again and again that she couldn’t fill the gap of the nine years that separated us. She ended up by setting herself up as our enemy and trying to pick fights using her tears and threats, which was terribly exasperating. I’d sometimes look at her and think that even having her mouth awry and her hair sticky with tears and mucus wasn’t enough to make her look ugly. I’d be charmed and yet still want to give her a good slap so she’d leave us in peace. As long as we were alone together, our grandmother respected the powerful need that William and I had to go back to our roots together by immersing ourselves in the language of our childhood, but as soon as there was a witness . . .