— Can you communicate with Ergis or me while in Geneva ? I asked, pacing to keep myself from the end of day chill while Ergis was driving another, more Parisian-looking, car out of the garage.
— I am barely polymorphic. I can communicate with anyone anywhere, more or less. Only you do not know how to answer, and Ergis can barely reach me from Paris. So hand me your phone, I will give you my number.
I gave him my phone. My genetic classes were too far away to be sure I understood properly, so I made a mental note to check « polymorphism ».
— So it has a range ?
— Yes. And unfortunately, it is inversely dependent on the polymorphism ratio. The most powerful of us are usually also the most severely sick.
— So if the most powerful telepaths are also dying first, you are not only slowly going extinct, but you are also going powerless. Like us. I mean, like humans.
— That is a frightening concept, but yes.
He was sitting on his chair slightly ahead of me, so I took a minute to look at him. What was he then ? Ergis did say that he was a very powerful telepath. And he looked sick enough already. How old was he ? 35 ? What a waste.
I couldn’t push out the idea that telepaths must have had some sort of prophylaxis to detect risks, that his parents must have known they were having a condemned child. And I knew I was projecting my own fear of turning into my mom if I had kids - my therapist had said so several times, but I couldn’t help but hate his parents right now.
I kept my anger to myself, lifted my luggage onto the back seat, and buckled my safety belt.
We drove in silence for a while, around the traffic circle where I had tried to flee, then towards the highway. Then I pulled my phone out to let mom know I’d be on time.
— Désolé. Pour hier soir.
Je n’avais pas tellement envie d’accepter ses excuses. Mais j’appréciai la rupture du silence et la tentative d’enterrer la hache de guerre.
— C’est qui normalement tes clients ? Parce que manifestement c’est pas les petits poissons.
— Des trafiquants de médicaments, pour la plupart. Il y a des télépathes prêts à payer très cher les médicaments qui traitent les premiers symptômes de la Maladie. Ça aiguise les appétits. Sauf que les humains s’en servent normalement dans les unités de réanimation, et que les vrais malades comme Aldan en ont besoin aussi. Si on laisse le trafic s’étendre, on se tire une balle dans le pied. Les humains pourraient se mettre à refuser que leurs médicaments servent à soigner les télépathes, et nos malades mourraient dans d’atroces souffrances.
— Je ne comprends pas. Quel est l’intérêt de cacher ses symptômes ?
— Pourquoi tu crois qu’Aldan vit tout seul dans cette grande maison au milieu de nulle part et qui ne lui appartient pas. On n’a aucune idée de quand ils vont mourir. Donc on anticipe la transmission des biens, la garde des petits. Et surtout on leur pose un implant.
— J’ai du mal à suivre. Un implant GPS ?
— Un implant hormonal. Par sécurité.
Mon estomac fit un bond et je sentis de l’acidité me remonter l’oesophage.
— Je crois que je vais vomir, dis-je en descendant la vitre.
— Ah non hein ! Qu’est-ce que t’as à vomir tout le temps ?
— Vous vivez parmi les humains depuis dès siècles mais jamais vous vous êtes dits qu’on n’avait pas que des mauvaises idées ?
— C’est facile de critiquer quand on ne sait pas de quoi on parle.
Je regardai approcher les tours de La Défense en me demandant si je ne me sentirai pas mieux après avoir volontairement lâché la bride à ma nausée et repeint l’intérieur de la voiture d’Ergis. Mais je décidai que ma mère n’avait pas besoin que je sente le vomi pour être imbuvable au restaurant, et posai ma tête contre le montant de la porte pour profiter de l’air frais.
— Plus facile que de se sortir la tête du sable et d’admettre ses torts, c’est certain.
J’entendis Ergis snort, puis il se concentra sur la route, et moi sur mon estomac, sur lequel je repris peu à peu l’ascendant.
Je finis par remonter la vitre pour réduire le bruit des voitures dans le trafic, dense à l’entrée de Paris, glissai mes écouteurs dans mes oreilles et cherchai J’ai demandé à la Lune.
J’arrivai au restaurant avec quinze minutes d’avance, que préférai attendre à l’intérieur plutôt que dans la voiture avec Ergis. Je pris le micro qu’il me tendait, l’accrochai à ma ceinture et claquai la portière.
Je m’assis à ma table en choisissant le côté mur - premier arrivé, premier servi - commandai des edamame et un verre d’umeshu, et me plongeai dans le puits sans fond de Pinterest à la recherche d’idées magiques pour rendre mon appartement artificiellement moins exigu.
Mon téléphone vibra entre mes doigts.
Good luck, A
I bit a smile as I snacked on salted beans.
Thanks, will be needed
— I am soo happy to see you.
Mom took off her expensive jacket, put it on her chair and shook her straightened hair out of her face.
— So, new case ? I started, mainly to avoid her asking me about myself.
— Same stuff every time. French startup thinking they can avoid being bought just because they are friend with a maire somewhere.
Mic still off !
— Can’t you stop that when you’re with real people ? I’m talking to you and you’re not listening.
I pressed the small microphone button while pretending to put my phone in my pocket with my best sorry face. I had been pretending around mom for years, and today it finally felt like I was doing it for something.
— Who is it anyways ? I thought you only talked with your creole friend.
— I have several friends you know.
I sipped my umeshu while she ordered some sake and sushis for both of us.
— That’s good, that’s good.
She took out her own phone and answered a call. I smiled politely, rolling eyes only in the privacy of my head, and waited for her to finish.
— I’m sorry, you were saying ? New friends ?
— Not so new. I made friends working for the gendarmerie. And I have several friends at the hospital too.
— How come you never bring them home ?
Maybe because I invite them to my own home, now ? Maybe because last time you had an occasion to meet one you suddenly had a headache ?
— By the way, look what you missed yesterday morning.
She unlocked her phone again and turned it so I would see the screen right side up. There was a fancy-looking puppy on the oversized sofa.
— Is that a greyhound ?
— Yess ! I called her Coco. Isn’t she gor-geous ?
— You do know that greyhounds need space to run, right ?
— Don’t be such a doomster. I hired a dog walker. She’ll be fine.
I started eating my sushi, wondering how I could steer our discussion towards my subject. I had taken some stage play classes as part of my therapy, and played roles in my nursing cursus, but no matter how predictable mom could be on some topics I knew I would have a hard time getting her to talk about dad.
— You’re still coming to Steve’s wedding, right ? I asked as default idea.
— What do you take me for ? I would never miss my son’s wedding.
— You were about to miss mine though. I said before thinking, and I instantly knew that was a mistake.
Fuck. And I was being listened to.
— If you would take time to remember properly, you would recall that you refused to listen no matter how many times I told you he was manipulating you.
Well. Takes one to know one.
I figured that if was anyway going to ruin this already poor evening by bringing up the biological dad issue, I might as well empty my bag.
— That’s not how I remember it. You called me a week before to tell me you were invited to a team building event.
— Who cares ! You canceled it anyways.
— I care ! I’m your daughter too !
She snorted.
— I didn’t come here for you to eat for free and accuse me of not loving you again. You’re not 16 anymore. Grow up.
— Oh but I do. And doing so I learnt something. Did dad know that Steve and I aren’t his ?
The slap came hard, but not unexpected. And somehow it felt like she was finally acknowledging me.
— How dare you ?!
— I had to take a DNA test. For medical reasons. I know dad wasn’t my biological father.
— I’m out of here.
And she stormed off, only leaving her Shalimar behind, and plates full of sushis.
I shuddered, drank the sake left over in her glass and hid my face in my hands.
That didn’t help. She had not given us any interesting clue to work on.
— Tu penses qu’elle savait ?
I looked up to find Ergis sitting in the seat my mom had just left.
— What ? I struggled with the sake to find where I’d left my French. Pardon. Je sais pas. Non. Probablement pas.
Un serveur s’approcha, interpellé par le changement de client. Je lui fis signe que tout allait bien.
Non. J’étais quasi certaine qu’elle ne savait pas.
— Il est quelle heure ? Demandai-je.
— Il faut qu’on soit partis dans vingt-cinq minutes si on veut être à l’heure à Roissy.
— Sushi ? On partage ?