Page 85 of The Girl You Left Behind
She had been half expecting something depressing, some 1970s box in liverish brick with uPVC windows and an orderly car park. But the building they pull up outside is a four-story house, its elegant windows framed with shutters, its frontage covered with ivy. It is surrounded by neatly tended gardens, fronted by a pair of tall wrought-iron gates.
Liv buzzes the door and waits while Mo reapplies her lipstick.
They stand in reception for several minutes before anybody pays them any attention. Through glass doors to the left, quavering voices are raised in song, as a short-haired young woman plays an electric organ. In a small office, two middle-aged women are working through a chart.
Finally one turns around. “Bonjour.”
“Bonjour,” says Mo. “Who are we here for again?”
“Monsieur Bessette.”
Mo speaks to the woman in perfect French.
She nods. “English?”
“Yes.”
“Please. Sign in. Clean your hands. Then come this way.”
They write their names in a book, then she points them toward an antibacterial-liquid dispenser, and they make a show of rubbing it thoroughly over their fingers. “Nice place,” Mo murmurs, with the air of a connoisseur. Then they follow the woman’s brisk walk through a labyrinth of corridors until she reaches a half-open door.
“Monsieur? Vous avez des visiteurs.”
They wait awkwardly by the door as the woman walks in and holds a rapid-fire discussion with what looks like the back of a chair. And then she emerges. “You can go in,” she says. And then: “I hope you have something for him.”
“The matron said I should bring him some macarons.”
She glances at the expensively wrapped box Liv pulls from her bag.
“Ah, oui,” she says, and gives a small smile. “These he likes.”
“They’ll be in the staff room before five o’clock,” Mo murmurs, as the woman leaves.
Philippe Bessette sits in a wing-backed chair, gazing out at a small courtyard with a fountain; an oxygen tank on a trolley is linked to a small tube taped to his nostril. His face is gray, crumpled, as if it has collapsed in on itself; his skin, translucent in places, reveals the delicate tracings of veins underneath. He has a thick shock of white hair, and the movement of his eyes suggests something sharper than their surroundings.
They walk around the chair until they are facing him, and Mo stoops, minimizing the height differential.She looks immediately at home, Liv thinks.As if these are her people.
“Bonjour,” she says, and introduces them. They shake hands, and Liv offers the macarons. He studies them for a minute, then taps the lid of the box. Liv opens them and offers him the tray. He gestures to her first, and when she declines, he slowly chooses one, and waits.
“He might need you to put it in his mouth,” Mo murmurs.
Liv hesitates, then proffers it. Bessette opens his mouth like a baby bird, then closes it, shutting his eyes as he allows himself to relish the flavor.
“Tell him we would like to ask him some questions about the family of Édouard Lefèvre.”
Bessette listens, and sighs audibly. “I can speak English,” he says.
“Did you know Édouard Lefèvre?”
“I never met him.” His voice is slow, as if the words themselves are an effort.
“But your father, Aurélien, knew him?”
“My father met him on several occasions.”
“Your father lived in St. Péronne?”
“My whole family lived in St. Péronne, until I was eleven. My aunt Hélène lived in the hotel, my father above thetabac.”
