Could she ever love him the way his mother did? It was true, Jean Seberg was spectacularly good-looking, turning heads wherever she went. Some producer had just buttonholed her, and his nerves prickled as he observed their interaction. This was why he disliked going to the Opera with her — they could have no peace here, there were always bothersome people around looking to grovel and fawn over her. Jean was barely looking at the man, but she listened to what he was saying nonetheless; he had a few films under his belt and a fair amount of influence. Still, he was no Godard. Romain had loved his wife’s performance in Breathless. These ‘New Wave’ films suited her; she was so independent, so eccentric and free, she was a new wave all of her own, one that had washed over his life and left him exposed. He was a successful writer; sad Romain, Romain the skirt-chaser, who had succumbed to her crashing, pounding grace. He’d had many names: Roman Kacew, Romain Gary and Émile Ajar, he was Polish and French, a novelist, diplomat, aviator and screenwriter, a man of many faces. His mother had known only one of them; the one that looked just like all the rest. Jean had known him as a great man, strong and accomplished. But could she really love him the way his mother had?
To anyone who hadn’t had a mother like his, it might seem like a silly question – unhealthy, even, and perhaps somewhat sad. But Romain had had an exceptional mother who’d sacrificed everything for him, a grand dame at his beck and call who’d given him everything and asked for nothing in return. He often remembered the Menton, the hotel his mother had managed, where she’d shown such grace and kindness to her guests. She was attentive to everyone, his mother; she had no delusions of grandeur, she never asked for anything more. Except for her son. Her son would become the greatest there ever was. He remembered when he used to proudly bring home his prizes for speech and grammar, and she would remain unimpressed, for it was not enough. He had tried to convince her, to tell her that it was important, that these were a sign of success, but deep down he had known that impressing his mother would be the greatest challenge he would ever face.
A mother’s love is not given twice. Romain was not really watching the show. His thoughts were in France, the country he had fallen in love with, the country he was so proud of. He missed his mother, and yet life went on. Couldn’t he simply go and be with her now? Sometimes he dreamed about it, returning to the comfort of his mother’s arms. She had done everything for him. Made everything happen for him. She’d sacrificed everything for her Romain. And what had he done since? What would she have thought of his novels, his fame and his success? She’d have been proud of him, but she’d still have found some shortcoming. Would she have liked Jean? She liked to boast about all the pretty women he dated, but marrying one of them was a different story. What type of woman would his mother have wanted for him? “You’ll be a hero, my son.” But what is a hero? Today he was at the Opera with a young actress on his arm, and he wondered if he had not succumbed to the easy option in the end. But what else could he do? He loved Jean madly and had plenty of love to give after all he had received. But this love could never be as beautiful, as pure, as unconditional as his mother’s. He loved Jean with passion, with pride; he loved her for being so perfect. His mother had loved him as an uncut diamond, a blank page on which she’d written the future like a fortune teller. His mother loved him for his promise. She hoped for nothing for herself.
She was there, at the back of the room. She waved her hand and called out to him: “Here I am, my son!” She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. Roman heard her. The noise of the opera was distant, indistinct. How long could he go on without his mother? Ah, a mother’s love...so unique, so irreplaceable.
Alan Alfredo Geday