The Sermon on the Fall of Rome, стр. 40

gleaming with saliva between opened lips, and Matthieu felt as if he were dissolving in a soup of human warmth, his shirt was drenched with sweat, the pressure of the belt against his stomach was painful, and then all at once calm descended, the crowd parted to let the dead man through. He was carried by Virgile Ordioni, Vincent Leandri and four of Libero’s brothers, and Matthieu followed him, on his mother’s arm, for she had finally met up with him, walking beside his grandfather and Aurélie, and, as he entered the church he closed his eyes beneath the soothing caress of the cool air while behind the altar Pierre-Emmanuel Colonna and the men from Corte sang the Requiem. Throughout the ceremony Matthieu searched high and low for his own grief, but could find it nowhere, he gazed at the carved wood of the coffin, at his grandfather’s mummified face, he heard his mother’s and Aurélie’s mingled sobs and nothing happened, in vain did he close his eyes and strive after sad thoughts, his grief did not respond to any of his calls, he sometimes sensed it passing quite close by, his lip trembled slightly from it, and then, at the moment when he thought his tears were finally going to begin to flow, all the sources of moisture in his body ran dry and he abruptly became impassive and desiccated, standing before the altar like a dead tree. The priest swung the censer around the coffin one last time, imploring voices arose within the church,

Deliver me, o Lord, from eternal death,

and the coffin moved off slowly toward the door, Matthieu followed it knowing he was walking behind his father for the last time, but he did not weep, he placed a kiss on the crucifix with a piety he wished was not simulated, but neither his father nor God were waiting for him there in the cross and he felt nothing more than the touch of cold metal against his lips. The doors of the hearse closed. Through her tears Claudie murmured her husband’s name, which was also the name of her brother in childhood, and Jacques Antonetti set out on his walk toward the tomb and he was alone, in accordance with the rule of this village, for the strangers making their way along beside him to the rhythm of his silence counted for nothing. The condolences were interminable. Mechanically Matthieu kept replying,

“Thank you,”

and smiled faintly at the approach of familiar faces. Virginie Susini was radiant and hugged him so tightly that he could feel the slow throbbing of her heart, which had had its fill of death. The waitresses were sitting on a wall, giving time for the crowd to thin out before coming over and Matthieu had to make an effort not to kiss Izaskun on the lips. After half an hour some thirty people were left and they repaired to the Antonetti family home, where Libero’s sisters served coffee, eau de vie and cakes. At first conversations were in hushed tones, then gradually louder, a little laughter was heard and soon life returned, pitiless and gay, as always happens, even if the dead are not supposed to know this. Matthieu went out into the garden with a little glass of eau de vie. Virgile Ordioni was pissing against a pile of logs in the corner. Over his shoulder he looked toward Matthieu with his great red eyes. He was full of contrition.

“I didn’t want to ask where the bathroom was. Because of your mother.”

Matthieu absolved him with a wink. He was dreading the inevitable moment when everyone would have left. He dreaded finding himself alone with his nearest and dearest, whose grief he was quite unable to share because his own was still nowhere to be found. At nightfall they would all go to the cemetery together, the stone covering the vault would be sealed, they would be arranging the wreaths and bouquets of flowers, and that is all Matthieu would see, flowers and stone, nothing else, no trace of the father he had lost, not even any trace of his absence. Perhaps he would have been able to weep if he had understood the language of symbols, or if he had at least been able to make an effort of imagination, but he understood nothing and his mind stumbled against the wholly concrete presence of the things that surrounded him, beyond which there was nothing. Matthieu looked at the sea and knew that his insensitivity was no more than an undeniable symptom of his doltishness, he was a creature who enjoyed the constant but narrow happiness animals enjoy, and a hand came to rest on his shoulder, which he took to be that of Izaskun having come into the garden because she was unhappy to see him alone and missed him. He turned and found himself face to face with Aurélie.

“How are you, Matthieu?”

She was studying him without anger but in her presence he lowered his eyes.

“I’m fine, I’m not even sad.”

She went up to him and took him in her arms.

“Of course you are. You’re sad, you’re very sad,”

and the grief he had been hunting for in vain all afternoon was there, wrapped up in his sister’s words, far removed from the useless props of symbol or imagination, it swept over Matthieu and he began weeping like a child in Aurélie’s arms. She stroked his hair and kissed his brow and made him look at her.

“I know you’re sad. But it’s no use, don’t you see? Your sadness is no use to anyone or anything. It’s too late.”

On July 15 he received a letter from Judith Haller, telling him that she had passed her exams for her public teaching qualification with flying colors, she wanted to share her joy with him, albeit from afar, she expected no reply, she hoped he was happy—was he happy? but Matthieu did not put this