Chapter Text
Dick's father is usually the one behind the wheel for their bi-annual drive from Paris to Arles, not because he is a particularly better driver than his mother, but because she always says her attention span is terrible enough that she would make them crash halfway. Dick and his father both know the truth: she likes getting to sleep for five hours at least, and spending the other five singing her heart out to classics of all genres, from Django Reinhardt to the new American pop song the radio broadcasts. She plays her favourite jazz tapes, lets a few songs echo in the car, windows closed for the sound to stay in. "Dickie, isn't that crazy ?" She turns around on her seat to face him, eyes twinkling. "Jean Reinhardt was burnt in his left hand!" She mimes a two-finger hand brushing guitar strings, and Dick rolls his eyes: "I know, Mama, you've told me before !" His father huffs a laugh. He always finds it funny how his wife calls the international star by his birth name as if she knows him personally.
This particular time, his father is silent on the passenger seat, and his mother is driving full speed on the left lane, probably faster than allowed. If Dick angles himself right from where he is seated, he can see the side of his mother's face, her jaw clenching and unclenching frenetically. If he moves a bit more, tilts his head a certain way, he gets to see his father's red-rimmed eyes in the front mirror of the car. Every time their gaze crosses, his father gives him a tight-lipped smile he manages to keep for a few seconds before the corner of his lips drops again.
Dick is accustomed to his parents' joy, which is big and contagious; he is aware of his father's slow-simmering anger and his mother's quick-tempered nature; he is even aware of their shared frustration when dealing with unpleasantness or their annoyance when he gets overexcited, despite their own tiredness. What Dick is not used to is his parents' sadness. It is the first time he sees his father cry, and while his mother sometimes sheds tears in front of a sad movie or after a particularly intense performance, he has never seen her crumble as she did after the phone call yesterday. In the middle of the night, she knelt and wailed - "Tata is gone!"; and his father gathered her into his arms. Dick ran startled from his room and got stuck on the doorframe, watching as his Mama shook and sobbed. His father gestured for him to come and brought his arms around him too. When he approached, his mother brought him to her chest, and it felt as if it had been the tightest hug his mother had ever given him.
The thing is, Dick, does not quite know what to feel. In fact, he does not know how he feels exactly. It seems as if nothing has changed. He says so discreetly to Haly when his father is packing the car, careful that he is out of his mother's hearing span. The old man puts his hand on Dick's shoulder.
"It's okay not to know how to feel, or to feel the same as always." The grip hardens. "It will be a hard time for your family. You will be here for each other, and it's all that matters". Despite the reassurances, his chest has tightened and remains tight ever since.
In the car, unable to utter a word or to give comfort to his Mama and Tata, he realizes that the tightness is something he has felt before; the very same feeling as when he stumbles and drops a china set in front of everyone or when he steps on the cat's tail, the one who sometimes hangs around the trailer. It is guilt. Guilt for not feeling the same, for not knowing what to say, for not shedding a single tear.
Last night, or really, earlier in the early-early morning, when his mother had calmed a bit and went out to get some air, his own Tata knelt down in front of him, holding his face with his hands. "Your mother's Tata is gone." Dick nodded; yet for a split-second, his father's face looked devastated. Then it was gone, his expression placid. "He is dead", his father added. "It means we will not see him again."
Dick is used to seeing his Papou multiple times a year, whether it is when going down to the south of France or when they do a show in Spain or Italy. These shows, his Papou always insists on seeing. His Mama says they are an excuse for him to go out-of-town and be a tourist.
After the car ride, and after three days and three nights, where everyone talks and cries, they light up the biggest fire Dick has ever seen just as the sun rises. After a while, everyone gathers even more oak wood around the campfire, so much so that it has tripled in size and power. His aunts and uncles bring multiple suitcases around, and his Mama and her sisters tinker with each one of them, gathering various goods into a big pile next to the fire. After a few minutes, he recognizes his Papou's jacket being thrown in, and then the guitar he sometimes likes to use, despite not being very good at it. Then, the pants he always swears belong to a famous celebrity; his limited and complete edition of Les Misérables he keeps pretending to have read and loved (Mama always says he's a liar and has only seen the movies) ; the suit in which he goes to job interviews, weddings, and burials.
His Tata takes Dick's hand in his, grounding and warm. Dick looks up.
"They are going to burn everything he owned," his Tata says, and Dick gasps in alarm. In front of them, his Mama takes the old guitar, taps her fingers on its wooden body and throws it in the fire.
His father's grasp tightens. "If they don't do so, your grandfather…he might come back. But he might be different."
"He'll come back a mulo," his Mama says, coming next to him. Dick cannot help but gasp again. She hands him a denim jacket. Dick supposes it used to be a vivid blue, but it is mostly washed up and partially sewn up with various colors. His father lets go of his hand and pushes him toward the fire. He hesitates. He crosses his mother's gaze: she smiles, with a closed mouth and a little tight, but full of confidence, and she nods towards the heat.
He looks at the fire, steps towards it. He wants to look back one last time for reassurance, but he braces himself, approaches, and throws the jacket into the fire. His hands get a little close, and the heat licks his palms, a feeling he doesn't hate. He waits by the blaze.
"We didn't do this for Mamie," he blurts when his Mama approaches. She kneels next to him and brings her arm around him, her head resting on his shoulder. Her hair tickles his neck.
"The fire's not something all of us do anymore. Mama didn't ask for it, but you know how Tata is…he was very insistent we respect the tradition!" Her tone gets lighter at the end, but Dick doesn't miss how her voice still shakes.
She calls them Mama and Tata. The thought hits him, sudden and cruel. There is no more Mamie and no more Papou. As his Mama holds him, he realizes she will no longer feel her own Tata's embrace. The fire keeps crackling while something splits inside him.
His breath gets stuck in his chest, and his Mama feels it and raises her head from his shoulder.
One day, people will stand around a fire for her, too. For his Tata. And he will be the one lighting it, gathering the little wooden robins Papou carved for decoration and the costumes they wear and the jewelry she keeps in her handbag.
His stomach twists so hard he folds forward.
His mother makes a little worried sound and turns his face towards hers.
He shakes his head, but tears are already coming, hot and embarrassing. He presses his fists against his eyes. The smoke is not very heavy but it suddenly feels thick enough to choke on.
“I don't want you to die,” he says, and it has been a long time since his voice had so much difficulty coming out of his mouth. He can feel the muscles around his throat spasm. He wants to wail in a way he has not felt the need to for a very long time.
His mother pulls him closer until his head rests against her chest.
“Not for a long time yet,” she whispers. Her fingers find their way in his hair, and they brush, warm and comforting.
He knows she is telling the truth, after all, Papou is - or was, he finally realizes - ninety years old, which leaves plenty of time for them to share moments, spectacles, restaurants, and more. Despite knowing this, he still feels something collapse inside his heart, and he is grateful his Mama is here to hide the little noises he makes while he sobs for the next few minutes.
After the night arrives and he has stopped sobbing and shaking so much, he watches. Sometimes, he tries to gather his courage to take something by himself in the piles and throw it, but he always decides not to at the last moment. He keeps looking.
An uncle throws one of Papou's old hats into the fire.
He watches it blacken at the edges, curl inward, disappear.
After a few days, perched upside down on the trapeze while both of his parents chatter with Haly, he thinks back of his Papou, of the fire, of the mulo. One day, he will do the same for his Mama and Tata, he will have to light up a fire and burn everything to make sure they are at peace, untethered to the earth and free in the heavens. It will be his duty as the only child. The thought is as heavy as when it first crossed his mind, but this time, he is a little more prepared to receive it. It still brings tears to his eyes, and he gets back up to wipe them before anyone can see them.
Except, one year after, his parents' cord snaps, he is sent to juvie - and the adults stay uncaring of his pleas to burn everything his parents owned. He tries to explain it with the little amount of words he has in English, mimes all he can, grabs a smoker's lighter, and approaches the flame to the tissue they hand him. He is troubled, the psychologist says to his social worker when he begs to know if their possession has been thrown in the fire.