Now everything had changed. When Inès and Nassim weren’t there, the silence that filled the house, Nora’s absence, the darkness that greeted him when he came home gave him a feeling of being stifled that he couldn’t shake off. Ironically, solitude is like being caught in a vise, when it’s meant to give you space and freedom.
And meanwhile when he had the kids, every day was a race against time that began at dawn and ended only when he went to bed. Inès was fairly independent—although he did have to make sure she’d completed her homework assignments and didn’t go to school dressed like a prostitute—but Nassim still needed a lot of attention and affection. It seemed to his father that it was Nassim who was suffering the most from the separation. Apart from Gérard himself, of course.
Nassim had a tendency to sink into a state of listless gloom at occasional moments, which worried Gérard. Every time it happened he blamed Nora for having left a family that he had believed was solid and strong.
Then he’d be struck by a pang of conscience. Didn’t he have things to be ashamed of, too? According to Nora there was no doubt, leaving aside the passage of time and the waning of desire, that he was almost entirely responsible for the breakdown of their marriage. Her principal argument was that she didn’t see a problem with the separation since he was never around anyway. In other words, he never appeared to need to see her and the children, and therefore wouldn’t miss them. Such a cruel assertion, for she knew full well that when things slip from our grasp, they become even more desirable. And even more so when it comes to people.
How had she moved from desire and the need to see more of him to disinterest and rejection?
But honestly, what could he have done about it? His work was demanding, and he was passionate about it, that was a fact. And where was the harm in it? Isn’t that what everyone dreams of: a career that’s not only fulfilling but that fills up the bank account with a welcome succession of figures every month? When a golden opportunity presents itself, why would you turn it down? Gérard loved his work. But more important, over the years, he had seen an increasing number of innocent people being wrongly accused. He had won a number of cases, and success brought in more and more interesting work. As a result he had begun to make a name for himself in the legal world. Everything was turning out how he and Nora had hoped it would back in the early days of their marriage, when they had barely been able to make ends meet. And now the goal had been reached, she blamed him for the consequences! That was a little too much. It was true that he sometimes found himself in a spiral of activity that he couldn’t control, but wasn’t that what made life exciting?
What would she have preferred? A boring civil servant? A husband who was always on time, whose constant presence would have ended up driving her crazy?
He couldn’t imagine giving up his work. It would have been like amputating a limb, falling into a black hole, depriving himself of air. His work was what gave him worth. It was who he was. It wasn’t the kind of work that could be done by half measures, from eight in the morning till four in the afternoon. It demanded that he immerse himself in it utterly, sparing neither his strength nor his time. It was a vocation.
Gérard Depardieu prided himself on his cunning. On several occasions he had won cases by putting forth tortuous arguments and bamboozling his adversaries in court. With his quick intelligence and capacity for empathy he had the ability to consider a situation from multiple angles and put himself in other people’s shoes. This made him particularly effective at anticipating the other side’s reactions. But above all he had a kind of sixth sense that set off an internal alarm when something seemed anomalous. And he was rarely wrong.
Now his intuition was telling him there was something off about the David Brunelle affair.
He had only Friday to spend any time on his little personal investigation. He popped into the town hall between two appointments to request a birth certificate for Milo Brunelle. With the file folder tucked under his arm, he went into the register office, praying to all the saints that Amélie, the little redhead who was always so helpful, would be there. He had no right to ask for a copy of the document, except in his position as Milo’s father’s attorney. The problem was that he didn’t know the child’s date of birth. All he had was the boy’s name and address and his father’s name and date of birth.
When he got to the counter he breathed a sigh of relief: ever-faithful Amélie was there. She saw him and gave a little wave. When it was his turn, he opened the file folder and showed Amélie a few official documents concerning his client.
“Eight years ago, I was appointed defense attorney for a man named David Brunelle, who was, I believe, wrongly accused of a fatal poisoning. I won’t go into detail, because my client died shortly afterward, and the case was closed. But recently I discovered something that’s been niggling at me and I’d like...”
“Niggling!” Amélie exclaimed with a little giggle. “You must be the only person left on earth who still uses that word.”
Gérard gave a faint laugh, trying to sound friendly despite his irritation at the young woman’s interruption.
“Let’s say it’s been playing on my mind.”
“You’re curious?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. I’m curious. I’d like to be sure, and for that I need to see his son’s birth certificate. Do you think that might be possible?”
“Monsieur Depardieu, you know that if you’re not the person concerned or a relative, even if you were his lawyer, I can’t give you the document.”
“I know that, Amélie. The truth is...” He paused and gave her a shrewd smile. “I don’t really need his birth certificate. I just need his mother’s name.”
“Your client’s wife’s name, in other words?”
“That would make sense. If she’s the child’s biological mother.”
“I see.”
She looked at Gérard with a doubtful expression. She looked like she was wavering. Merely giving him a piece of information wouldn’t put her in an awkward position. And she liked him. She was just a lowly city hall employee, and he always treated her with kindness and respect, aware of the value of her work and her worth. Not like some other people who, with a look, a comment, or a tone of voice, displayed the contempt or straightforward indifference they felt for her.
“All right!” she said decisively. “I’ll see what I can do. What’s his name?”
“Milo Brunelle.”
Gérard spelled out the boy’s first and last names, then his father’s. Amélie noted them down on a Post-it note.
“Date of birth?”
“That’s just it...I don’t know.”
She threw him a disappointed glance but made no comment.
