Autumn leaves waltz on the melancholic floor while I straighten Veronique’s hat. I give her a kiss on the forehead and tighten my grip on her tiny fingers that always radiate intense heat for the whole world to feel. She responds with a content smile; and off we go, losing ourselves into the crowd of busy eyes that are quietly searching for something unpronounced.
We get through the stamping of the shoes and sit on a grey-painted bench, next to a grey stone wall. The red letters scream, 7 minutes. Just enough time for Veronique to get bored, so I start to gently rock her on my lap, humming a song from my childhood -- kilometres of sundried grass, serpentine streams of clear water, and never-ending sunflower fields.
C’était un’ petit' fille
Qui s'appellait Suzon
Qui allait à l'école
Tout près de sa maison
sol la si do do
do si la sol ré ré ré
ré mi ré do si la si do.
My voice suddenly turns cold, out of some strange, unknown longing. I let Veronique sing louder when we get to the second verse. It’s her favourite song, and has been since she learnt to speak. How has it already been four years...
Qui allait à l'école
Tout près de sa maison;
Dans son chemin rencontre
Un joli papillon
”Maman, I want to see a butterfly, too!” she cries interrupting our singing. Smiling, I tell her that it’s not possible to see one before the spring arrives.
”How long will it take, maman?”
I pause briefly and then go on about how soon it’ll all be green and happy. ”Close your eyes and you’ll see. Let’s go!”
We imagine a cloud of colourful butterflies flying above a verdant meadow; we imagine the first flowers of the spring peeking from the trenches of promesse; we imagine dance steps here and there, bright lipsticks, first touches of the spring sun, final exams, moving ceremonies, excitement on school girls’ faces.
”But maman, when can I see it myself?!”
I force a smile and make empty promises once again. It’s only October, but I’m too afraid myself to admit that it takes about half a year until she can see those oh, so important butterflies.
”Vero, we’ve got to go now, take my hand.”
I’m already rushing toward the metro that would be arriving soon when I realize that the extension of my arm isn’t following me. When I turn around, I see my little girl standing still, weakly pulling my hand toward herself.
”Stop.”
”Vero, what’s wrong now? We’re in a hurry!”
”Non, non, maman, look, on the floor... you could’ve tripped on that paper and hit your head. You’ve said it yourself, you’ve said that we always have to watch where we step."
I feel guilty, culpable of all these everyday injustices I let happen to my only child, blaming lack of time, tiredness, or hastiness. In the middle of endless quotidian responsibilities and tasks to carry out, I sometimes come to question my motherly abilities.
”My little life guard, you’re right. Thank you."
She throws a mesmerizing smile and off we hurry, escaping the darkness that’s chasing me and my girl who is loyally following her infallible guardian.
Dans son chemin rencontre
Un joli papillon
Ell' le prit par la patte
Et lui dit : mon mignon
sol la si do do
do si la sol ré ré ré
ré mi ré do si la si do.
Ell' le prit par la patte
Et lui dit : mon mignon
Que tu es donc heureux !
Tu n'as pas de leçons.
Someone knocks on my shoulder and I turn around telling Veronique to wait a moment. A ragged stranger grabs my arm and pulls me aside. I become aware of the arriving metro; it’s already shaking the grey ground. I have just the time to open my mouth intending to complain about our hurry, when the man starts to proclaim in a thick Parisian accent:
”Madame, you must listen to me for just a moment! I am sure you have time for this, because my announcement is very important!"
He doesn’t even breathe before he goes on for a few more words, until I interrupt him, rudely, in a way so very unusual of me. When rushing toward the metro that is now slowing down only about a hundred metres away from the platform, I keep thinking about my nature that I’m sure has changed into identical with the busy city people, who don’t care about anyone else surrounding them. They know how to dispirit a childishly enthusiastic tourist, the likes of whom I once served in the countryside. In my past life, I would happily bake them cakes and pies, pour perfectly steamed milk into espresso, and decorate chocolates, with a wide smile complementing my features; but when they would return to the melancholy tango of car lights on buzzing yet depressingly grey streets, they would forget all about the texture of my divine dark chocolate truffles.
There’s the crowd again, swirling and moving toward the metro. I fake a smile once more, preparing to take Veronique on her first metro trip to a whole new part of Paris. ”Vero, are you ready for an adventure?”
Que tu es donc heureux !
Tu n'as pas de leçons
Tous deux de compagnie
Nous nous envolerons.
Suddenly, there is no answer.
Everything is fine, I must be overreacting, I tell myself -- the girl stood next to me a second ago, I’m being paranoid, surely she just wandered a few feet away from me, and now all these people are just covering her tiny figure; she’s so easy to lose if you let her hand go for a single second... It really is about seconds.
The seconds I wandered around the metro station felt like hours. When it finally struck my mind, the one thing no one should ever have to experience, which eventually ended up being the truth, everything went silent.
Like in a movie, people start to scream here and there, pointing toward the metro tunnel, staring and marvelling. It felt like a disgrace -- as if there wasn’t enough pain to get through in the accident itself. From that day on, I started to dislike people.
Tous deux de compagnie
Nous nous envolerons
La clochette m'appelle
Adieu, cher papillon.
I make my way through the crowd of faceless Parisians now in disarray, to see what is going on.
There lies an angel on the rails, and she is smiling; her smile is cruel and beautiful. A left foot’s shoe has flown metres away and a right arm bent unnaturally. I stare at this sight without any understanding, thinking that the angel looks relieved, happy even.
But it’s not spring yet.
I jump down not noticing the tears falling down my cheeks. ”Oh my God, she’s breathing, what are you all looking at, the angel is breathing and she’s happy, she’s enjoying the spring sun, she’s smiling, can’t you see..."
La clochette m’appelle
Adieu, cher papillon.
Slowly, my senses begin to work again, and a clear comprehension strikes my mind. My bones start to ache, my lungs shut down. I can’t hear any noise of breathing, the body next to me is ice-cold, the smile is gone.
Suddenly, I am being dragged away from the last scene of her I ever get to witness again. I lift my head and notice a painted butterfly on the concrete wall behind her.
It’s smiling.
