LOVE IS IN THE MAIL

5. LEO

From: Leo Chorro

12/24/2018 at 7:10 a.m.

To: Cora Tuffin

Subject: Christmas Traditions

Cora,

If there was one Christmas tradition that you couldn't give up, which one would it be?

When I was a kid, it was to search the cupboards before D-Day to find the gifts my mother had hidden. I did that with my brother, being careful to put everything back in place. We never got caught. I admit that I don't do it anymore, even if I miss it a bit.

From: Cora Tuffin

12/24/2018 at 7:15 a.m.

To: Leo Chorro

Subject: RE: Christmas Traditions

Isn't it a bit early to talk about this? Who gets up at 7 am on December 24? There are too many traditions to choose from: chocolates, logs, gifts, the tree...

Why don't you do it anymore if you liked it so much?

From: Leo Chorro

12/24/2018 at 7:18 a.m.

To: Cora Tuffin

Subject: RE: RE: Christmas Traditions

Someone who goes to work. Did I wake you up? You should put your phone on silent at night.

I quit because it’s no fun alone, and also I’m not 7 years old anymore.

From: Cora Tuffin

12/24/2018 at 7:22 a.m.

To: Leo Chorro

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Christmas Traditions

I forgot to do this because of a certain person who chatted with me all evening by email. Good luck with today. I'll be thinking of you at work while I'm under my quilt. :)

From: Leo Chorro

12/24/2018 at 7:27 a.m.

To: Cora Tuffin

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Christmas Traditions

Traitor… I'm no longer sorry for waking you up now that I know you'll have all morning to go back to sleep!

I stare at the latest generation chrome coffee maker which slowly pours black gold into the bottom of my cup. The noise of the machine barely disturbs the silence of the break room. And for good reason, on this December 24, there’s nobody here. Most of my colleagues must be enjoying breakfast with the family, or even sleeping in. But none of that for me. I’m going to spend my day here, behind the bay windows of a building with the grey sky for the horizon. Even the lobby, although busy at this hour at normal times, is almost deserted.

I pick up my cup and head to my office. A closet would be a more suitable term. Indeed, if some may think that my status as the son of the big boss brings me privileges, it’s certainly not at the level of the allocation of workspaces that I have been spoiled. Wedged between the men's restroom and a meeting room, it's barely large enough to hold my desk, chair, and cupboard. The only thing that distinguishes it from a closet is a window. To be honest, I don't spend a lot of time here, being often travelling or in the field. And if my father thinks that, like this, he doesn’t grant me preferential treatment, good for him.

Speaking of my father, he must also be somewhere in the building. I have the confirmation when the number of his assistant is displayed on my phone.

“Hello, Michelle, how are you today?”

As far as I can remember, she has always worked for him. She's his Miss Moneypenny. She's known me since I was a kid, so we have a little bit of a special relationship. She has a good sense of humour—which despite the years has never rubbed off on her employer—and doesn’t let herself be stepped on. A quality that certainly earned her this longevity in her post. I have sometimes wondered why she never wanted to go to work elsewhere, and I have even asked her the question. She responded with a shrug, then, “I feel like family here.” I didn't push.

“Mr Chorro would like to see you in his office as soon as possible,” she says.

I confirm to her that, of course, I’ll go there right away. We don’t keep Mr Chorro senior waiting.

I’ve been working in my father's business since I graduated. I started as a simple assistant and now I’m responsible for my own projects. Chorro Design specializes in the creation of large constructions such as shopping centres or convention centres. After having concreted spaces in the four corners of France, the company attacked foreign markets, and it’s in Asia that it is increasing its development. My father built this company from scratch. At first, when he started, no one believed in him (apart from my mother, and perhaps his mother). And now everyone would like to be him. I admit that I have a lot of admiration for his career, even if I’ve never admitted it to him.

When he asked me to come and work for him, I was quite surprised. I always thought he would have preferred to have my brother, Benjamin, by his side. I’m certainly the default choice and at times I get the impression that he blames me for it.

I take the stairs to get to what is commonly called the executive floor. Here the carpet is thicker, the walls have a brighter shade, and the closer you get to the Holy of Holies—my father's office—the more cosy and luxurious the surroundings become. Everything is done to confirm to customers and suppliers who walk these corridors that our company is one of the leaders in the sector.

I walk into the lobby that serves as Michelle’s office. She smiles kindly and permits me to enter my father’s. However, I knock twice on the door to signal my presence.

Behind the huge desk made of glass and steel, the director of Chorro Design barely looks up from his computer to verify the identity of the person entering the room, and says "sit down" dryly and without any warmth. I comply and spend the next few minutes observing him as he is focused on some sort of task. If I were a stranger he would like to have the advantage over, I would take this attitude as a strategic means. But since I'm not, it irritates me.

When his attention is finally focused on me, he sits back in his chair and puts his hands together on his desk. I feel like I have in front of me the image that the mirror sends me every morning, but thirty years older. Even if my father voluntarily forgets to introduce me as his son during our professional meetings, the family relationship is immediately obvious. His glacier blue eyes, the only feature of his appearance that I haven’t inherited, pierces me.

“You had time to study the list of contractors I left for you?” he asks.

No "how are you this morning?", Or even "hello". As usual, he is strictly professional. I put my resentment aside and answer him:

“Yes, I have gone through them, I selected a few that I think are interesting.”

He nods and adds:

“I suppose you are aware of the stakes for us?”

This question annoys me, I feel like a kid he doesn't completely trust. But I don’t answer, I know that provoking him would be useless if not to make me appear in his eyes even more juvenile and irresponsible. I let him continue.

“The future of the company depends on our ability to renew ourselves and integrate these new markets. If we don’t succeed in this challenge, I’m afraid that our situation here will become critical within a few years.”

I nod to let him know I’ve understood the lesson. The same that I’ve been applying over and over again for months. And I'm no fool, I saw the numbers, he's right. We need to renew ourselves if we are to keep our heads above water.

“Perfect. I await your report as soon as possible, and also the itinerary of your next trip. You're leaving in a week or so, is that right?”

“Yes, right after New Year’s.”

His attention is refocused on his computer screen, I don't know if it's because he's already moved on or if it's the fault of the two little words with which I finished my sentence: New Year’s. I could swear I saw him stiffen. But maybe I wanted to see something that doesn't exist.

We could very well have done this by phone or email. I don't understand why he insisted on meeting me in person. To check that I was in the building, maybe? I get up, and as I’m about to turn and leave, he stops me with a question:

“Are you having dinner with your mother tonight?”

“Yes, you told me that you weren’t available.”

He stares at me like he doesn't understand what I'm talking about.

“How is she?”

“You can call her if you want to know,” I say dryly.

He doesn't answer for a moment.

“It's good that you spend some time with her. The end of year celebrations are always complicated for her.”

"It is for all of us," I said, looking at him.

How does he manage to pretend not to be affected? I know he’s not that insensitive.

This time, he really pivots towards his computer. I understand the conversation is finished. It's his way of telling me it's time to go.

I turn, but before walking through the door, I say bitterly:

“And by the way, Father, Merry Christmas!”

From: Leo Chorro

12/25/2018 at 10:37 a.m.

To: Cora Tuffin

Subject: Merry Christmas!

Dear Cora,

I wish you a Merry Christmas! I want to share with you a joke that my young neighbour told me in the elevator earlier: "What do you call an old snowman? Water."

Enjoy your day.

Leo

From: Cora Tuffin

12/25/2018 at 10:48 a.m.

To: Leo Chorro

Subject: RE: Merry Christmas!

Leo,

Merry Christmas to you, too, I hope you have a good time with your loved ones.

Your joke is cute. But was it really your young neighbour who told you about it, or was it an excuse because you were a little ashamed to admit that it came from you?

Cora

From: Leo Chorro

12/25/2018 at 11:10 am

To: Cora Tuffin

Subject: RE: RE: Merry Christmas!

I think that even though we are talking through the screens, you understand me a little too quickly. Are you sure we've never met?

From: Cora Tuffin

12/25/2018 at 11:14 a.m.

To: Leo Chorro

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Merry Christmas!

In truth, I’m not Cora, 24, who lives in the South of France. I’m the poor neighbour you tested your joke on earlier in the elevator...

From: Leo Chorro

12/25/2018 at 11:21 am

To: Cora Tuffin

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Merry Christmas!

Mr Maklowski? The retiree on the second floor who always smells like fish? So it was you! It's funny, I didn't see him being passionate about horseback riding...

From: Cora Tuffin

12/25/2018 at 11:33 am

To: Leo Chorro

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Merry Christmas!

I never asked, do you ride, too?

From: Leo Chorro

12/25/2018 at 11:37 am

To: Cora Tuffin

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Merry Christmas!

I don’t ride anything except the elevator. For your information, know that I was tempted, as a teenager, to join the Republican Guard (for about two weeks), until I realized that it was necessary to be able to ride a horse for that...

I open the door to the apartment where I spent most of my childhood. I hear the radio down the hall, my mom must be in the kitchen.

“Mom, it's me!” I said to warn her of my arrival.

I take my shoes off. Christmas day or not, she doesn't like them to be kept on inside. It must be said that the solid wood parquet which covers almost all the floors is glossy to perfection.

I follow the hallway to the kitchen, and as I had expected, I find my mother busy behind her stove. She’s wearing an apron that says "Best Mom in the World" that we gave her on Mother's Day a long time ago. I walk over and kiss her cheek.

“Hello, Mom, Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you too, my darling. Give me two minutes and I'm yours.”

I look at the ton of food that’s spread over all the surfaces around us.

“Don't you think you went a little overboard?” I ask, puzzled.

She shakes her hand as if to dismiss the idea.

“You can take the leftovers home.”

Considering the quantity, I’d better invite a few friends over to share them...

I open the refrigerator to put away the bottle of champagne I brought. My eyes linger on a dish that sits on the middle shelf.

“You made the chestnut cream log,” I said aloud without wanting to.

You might think that over time we forget, but it's little details like this that remind us that it still hurts so badly. The pain is just a little more buried. We believe that it’s no longer there, and suddenly it reappears and we understand that it will never really leave us.

The chestnut log is my father's favourite… and it was also Benjamin’s.

“Will you set the table, please?” Mom answers as if she hadn't heard me.

“Of course,” I whisper.

Acting as if nothing had happened is usually my father's speciality. But since I don't want to mention it, I do so without saying anything.

“Take the pretty porcelain that’s in the sideboard in the dining room. It's Christmas after all.”

I head to the adjoining room when she adds:

“And set the table for three. Your father will join us.”

I freeze in the doorway.

“You invited Dad?” 

My parents have hardly spoken to each other since the ink dried on their divorce papers. So spending Christmas together? I don't mind there's supposed to be magic in the air that day, but all the same… It's a miracle and it doesn’t look good for me.

“Your father called me this morning to wish me a Merry Christmas. He had nothing planned. What Christian would I be if I hadn't offered to share our meal with him?”

This line leaves me sceptical. My mother was always an occasional Catholic who went to church mainly for weddings, baptisms or funerals. Sometimes at Christmas or Easter, when a burst of religious guilt seized her, but nothing more. Since Ben's death, these rare outbursts of faith have completely disappeared. To invoke Christian charity to justify her invitation seems ridiculous to me.

I set the table, but I can't help but think that the last time I celebrated Christmas with both my parents around the same table, my brother was still here.

I have barely finished when the doorbell rings. I warn my mother that I’ll answer it. Unsurprisingly, I find my father on the doorstep. For once, he's not in a suit. Burgundy velvet trousers, a white shirt half-open at the collar and a jacket. Having seen him most of the time at work in recent years, I'm not used to seeing him like this anymore. He comes over to hug me. This gesture of affection has disappeared from our routine at the office, which makes us clumsy instantly. I stiffen up and he’s uncomfortable.

“Merry Christmas, Leo.”

I barely have time to answer him when I hear my mother join us.

“Come in, Richard, don't stay in the hallway!” she exclaims.

The transformation in my father's attitude is interesting to see. His eyes fall on his ex-wife and a smile appears on his lips. I almost forgot that this expression still existed.

“Catherine, you are very elegant.”

He’s right. My mother has taken off her kitchen apron and is wearing an emerald-coloured dress that highlights the green of her eyes. She walks up to him and kisses him on the cheek. My father hands her a bouquet, daffodils, her favourite. Since it's not the season at all, I can't imagine how many stores he had to search to find them. Which makes me doubt the story of the last-minute invitation.

We head for the living room, I pick up the bottle of champagne while my mother takes out the flutes from the sideboard. My father seems a little lost sitting all alone on the sofa that was still his a few years ago. He’s looking at the room, and I guess it must be strange to be here. Not much has changed. When he left, he left most of the furniture with my mother. Some cushions have been added, the curtains have been replaced. The major difference is in the frames that Mom likes to have on the dresser. Gone are the photographs of their marriage. In their place, dozens of photos of a smiling and vibrant Ben appeared.

When my brother died, my parents reacted in exactly opposite ways. My mother does everything to ensure that the whole world doesn’t forget that once he was part of it. Someone outside could almost believe Ben is about to walk through the apartment door. Unless they realize, because the decoration borders on the obsessive, that something is wrong.

My father shut himself up like an oyster. Rarely does he say his name. I don’t think his suffering is any less, on the contrary, they were very close. Ben was always the one who was meant to follow in our father’s footsteps. And you don't have to be a psychologist to understand that his death was the source of all the problems between my parents. Before that, they were the model couple for me, the one who seemed so happy compared to my friends' parents. They were close and spent all of their time together. At the time, my mother even worked for Chorro Design as a financial manager. Ben's loss changed everything. From then on, the arguments became incessant, both at home and at work. The subjects could be ridiculous at times, but it always came back to the same thing: one criticized the other for the way of managing their grief. After several months, they decided to separate. Overnight my father left the apartment and my mother left the company.

And in all of this, they at least spared me the role of referee. But that doesn't mean I haven't had my share of the pain, too. I just tried to hide it and be the best son to each of them. Attentive with my mother, hardworking with my father. I changed direction in my studies and finally joined the family business. It wasn't my dream, it was Ben's. But I admit that I’m not complaining about it. Also, I wasn’t forced to do anything.

I guess it's not easy for them every day to have me under their nose. Although non-identical twins, the resemblance between Ben and me was significant. If our characters were sometimes opposite, on the physical level, no one could deny our family bond. He’s been gone for five years, and I wonder from time to time when I look at myself in the mirror if we would have aged differently. Would we have stayed close? This isn’t the only question I ask myself, but unfortunately, I’ll never have answers. Maybe if I had made another decision that night, we would all be around this table as before. But with ifs and maybe's, we can remake the world.

I think of Cora and her big Christmas table. Ours is much more modest, but for once it looks like a real family meal. The beginnings are a little awkward as if everyone had to settle in. And little by little, with the help of champagne, the atmosphere becomes warmer.

I offer my mother my gift that I found on Cora's advice. Tickets for the opera. She has always been a fan of it, and at the time she and my father used to go there together. From the way her eyes shine when she opens the envelope containing the tickets, I understand that she likes my present. I’ll have to thank Cora, this idea is much better than the sweater I was about to give her (like in previous years). I then ask her:

“Do you know who you're going to go with?”

I bought two tickets. I prepared myself mentally for her to ask me. The idea of going to listen to people singing in Italian (a language that I don’t speak) for three hours doesn’t make me jump with joy. But if I have to...

“I'll think about it,” she answers, smiling.

She exchanges a look with my father, which I cannot interpret. But very quickly, I focus on something else. It's my turn to open my gifts, and for that, I remained a real kid, it's a moment that I adore!