April in Paris

by John J. Healey

  “That sounds very nice.”

  “Right? I thought so too. I think I fell more in love with the situation than I did with him.”

  “It got rocky.”

  “It got rocky quickly. It was a mistake to have gotten married at all, really. I know it’s a bit of a cliché but so many analysts I’ve met, including Matthew and his colleagues, are mad as hatters.”

  “How do you get on with him now?”

  “Not well. I’m the one who left, and so even now, over a year later, he alternates between fits of anger and declarations of unrequited love, neither of which I care to deal with.”

  “And no kids.”

  “Thank god. He had two from his first marriage, who are quite grown up. I don’t really think I can have them anyway, physically I mean.”

  “Me either.”

  “Really.”

  “Sub-zero sperm count. Inherited from my mother’s side. It has a name I can’t remember.”

  “I’m sorry. Have you missed being a father?”

  “Occasionally. Though I’m not a great fan of children. I’m not one of those people who find them automatically adorable. Not having them has freed my life up considerably.”

  She looked away. It might not have been the smartest thing to say.

  “And your folks?” I asked, eager to change the subject. “Are they still alive?”

  “My father died some years ago. My mother lives in Madrid.”

  “Right. Duh. Of course.”

  – 12 –

  The lobby of my building, a very old hôtel particulier, and then the apartment came to the rescue.

  “Oh my god,” she said, walking into the entrance hall, raising her hands to her mouth.

  “You like it?”

  “How could you live anywhere else?”

  “I’m not sure what I’d do here all year round. I like my neck of the woods in Massachusetts too. I’m grateful to the Clark for letting me organize a special exhibition now and then, and I have my students.”

  I took her coat.

  “I got this place on my own, by the way,” I added. “After Scarlett died.”

  We walked into the living room.

  “It’s extraordinary,” she said, looking around.

  “Baudelaire lived here once upon a time. I had to do a serious renovation, new plumbing and wiring, new bathrooms and kitchen. But otherwise it’s pretty much as it was.”

  “And the furniture?”

  “Some of it was here. The rest I’ve acquired over the years.”

  “On your own?”

  “I hate decorators.”

  She went over to the line of tall windows that opened in pairs looking down at the Seine.

  “Well, it’s just divine.”

  “I toyed with the idea of going minimalist, very white, and cleaning it out. But in the end, I went with the sort of place I imagine the Impressionists living in. Cozy but not cluttered. Comfortable furniture, big comfy beds, lots of flowers, paintings, mirrors.”

  After finishing the tour, we ended up in the kitchen where I made us some tea. Thierry phoned to say he had her bags and I told him to take a few hours off and be back in time to take her to the station.

  Had it been a film, a European film, the situation by then would have clamored for a seduction scene. The time constraint and the approaching train whistle begged for an act of passion a l’apres midi. But we were still getting to know each other, and I was happy just listening to her talk. So we returned to the living room and leaned over the balconies and watched the Bateaux Mouches pass by. Then she turned to me and said, out of the blue, “You’ve never been in love, have you.”

  I was silent for a moment, considering it. “No,” I said. “I agree. I have not.” Her eyes went tender then and sparkled with intelligence. I felt an overwhelming desire to tell her about my dream. I had a hunch she would understand it.

  And so I did. I described it in detail and included the day remnants preceding it, including the anniversaries of my mother’s and my wife’s deaths.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious the date is what set things off,” she said.

  “Right?”

  “And you must have heard something about this case when you were little. No? Otherwise it’s just too weird.”

  “My father’s parents are the best candidates. They had to know these people. It happened in their basement.”

  “Or maybe your father told you.”

  A barge went by. The wash and chugging noise always pleased me. A snobby, resentful acquaintance of mine considered the barges and the tour boats the great disadvantage of living on a quay of the Ile. I loved them.

  I told Carmen how my father had talked to me in bed a lot during the year after my mother died. How I slept in the bed that had been hers. It was pushed up next to his. He’d get home tipsy late at night and wake me. What I most remembered was him telling me what a good man the Judge was. I later thought he said it so often because he felt guilty about not taking better care of me. On her deathbed my mother made the Judge promise to look after me. So perhaps there was something about my father she didn’t entirely trust. These memories of him were ones I cherished. The closeness of him. His simple sincerity. The white T-shirts and boxer shorts from De Pinna. The way the booze washed away his lawyerly authority, revealing a man at sea.

  “And you say he and the Swedish girl were the same age,” she said.

  “They must have known each other,” I said, “played together. It must have been traumatic for him and the other children who lived in that building and on that block.”

  She went over to the fireplace. I fantasized we already lived there together and then worried this might be the kind of moment I would someday take for granted, become inured to, that I would lose the capacity to appreciate the grace of her movements, the way she held her teacup and tilted her head.

  “If I was told about it and I’ve repressed it all this time,” I said, “I just wonder why it’s percolated to the surface now, regardless of the date.”

  She looked at me.

  “I don’t know you well enough to know.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I mean we don’t know each other at all, really.”

  There she was saying it again.

  “And yet I feel I’ve known you for a long time,” I said. “I’m sorry if that sounds corny, but there you have it.”

  “It sounds like you may be making an argument for fate,” she said.

  “Fate, no,” I said, lying. “Luck, maybe.”

  “Maybe you overheard things, but assuming somebody did tell you about this little girl,” she said, “what do you think they might have said? What would have been the moral of the tale?”

  “Sadism?”

  She laughed.

  “Not to talk with strangers?” I said.

  “That sounds more like it. Maybe it was the first time you were forced to think about death.”

  “Oh, I’d already thought about death. When my mother first got sick, they thought she was pregnant. It’s what they told me. The thought that a new baby was on its way to hijack the love she rained down on me was untenable. I wanted it dead. I wanted it gone. And then I got my wish. But I didn’t want my mother to die. All of my life since then I’ve been terrified of being found out, of having my crime revealed. I’ve been hounded inside by a great fear of being caught.”

  “You mentioned Anne Frank.”

  “Yes. The scene, the sequence, when she and her family are discovered and arrested, terrified me.”

  “So the siren you heard before falling asleep that night got that association going.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “You cut the wire binding your legs together and then ran, frightened of being apprehended.”

  “That’s how it went.”

  “But then you mentioned the Abraham and Isaac reference, in which a father is prepared to murder his own son. I’m not sure I get the connection.”

  �
�It’s something to do with sacrifice. The Ingrid murder, reading about it, I’m getting a sacrificial vibe.”

  “Or maybe you have some issues about children.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Hey, would you like a little champagne?”

  She laughed again. “Why not?”

  When I came back with it, she was looking at the river again. She turned my way.

  “The dream is really interesting,” she said.

  “Where is your ex-husband when we need him?”

  “You know,” she said, “he wears those same round glasses the Ed Wynn character in your dream did. But I’m sure you can figure this out without him.”

  “You should read the transcript from the trial,” I said, peeling the metallic foil off the top of the bottle. “It’s very compelling, though hard to take at times.”

  “I’d like to.”

  “I’ll email you a copy.”

  I popped the cork and filled our glasses.

  When it was time for her to go, Thierry held the car door open and I kissed her on both cheeks. I watched them pull away until the Mercedes made its turn onto the Pont de Sully, in the hope she might turn around and wave a final time. But she didn’t.

  The last exchange we had on the street was, “So what about Madrid?”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “Well, come if you can. That would be great. I’m sure I’ll find a way for us to see each other.”

  “Good. I’ve been meaning to visit the Prado Museum for a while now anyway. I’ll text you when I get there and if you’ve got some time we can continue the conversation.”

  I made the last flight to Madrid that evening. A taxi got me to the Ritz in time for a late dinner. Not interested in hotel food, I took the concierge’s suggestion and found my way to a small Navarran bistro within walking distance, near to what had been the city’s main post office and that was now the town hall. Invigorated by the sudden journey and change of culture, I sat at the bar and ordered some wine, Serrano ham, and fried artichoke hearts. It was close to midnight and the place was still jumping with people seated at tables finishing their meal or having after-dinner drinks. I walked back to the hotel wishing I had spent more time in that city. My room—the hotel had recently been renovated from head to toe—was large and pleasantly appointed and looked across at the Prado. After a hot bath I got into bed, set my alarm, and read a bit more from the trial. I decided not to contact Carmen until the next day.

  – 13 –

  Catherine Moriarty: “I reside at 1075 Ogden Avenue. I am fifteen years old. I knew Ingrid Anderson who lived in that house. I remember the day her body was found in the cellar. I know the defendant MacBride by sight. On that afternoon I was playing stoop ball at 1077. We were catching it against the stoop. I was playing with all the children around there. I did not see the defendant while playing there. I saw him that afternoon sitting on the stone wall. We were playing until about a half past six. I don’t remember how long I saw him there. The wall is about a half block from where we were playing. Ingrid was sitting on the stoop of 1077. She stayed there all the time we were playing and when I went home she was still there. I am positive, because I remember I asked her if she was not going up for her supper, and she said no. I never saw Ingrid alive again.”

  Arthur Woolf: “I am ten and a half years old. I reside at 1077 Ogden Avenue. I knew Ingrid Anderson. I did not play with her much. I play with boys. She lives next door. I know MacBride by sight. I remember the day Ingrid was found in the cellar. I was playing with Ingrid and her brother Edwin. I saw MacBride while I was playing there. I heard Ingrid say, ‘Give me a penny.’ I don’t know who she meant it for. I don’t know whether she meant it for MacBride or for me. MacBride was on the stoop at the time. We were playing where the two houses are attached. She looked at MacBride when she said it. He did not say anything to her. After we stopped playing my mother took me up in the house to eat my supper. Ingrid stayed there on the stoop. When I went up in the house MacBride was not there. I know Mr. Conlan. I know MacBride lived with Conlan.”

  Rita Moriarty: “I am twelve years old. I am the sister of Catherine Moriarty. I knew Ingrid Anderson. I remember the day she died. I did not see her that day. I saw her two days before. I saw Ingrid get a penny from MacBride.

  Francis Buckley: “I am twelve years old and reside at 1075 Ogden Avenue. I remember the day Ingrid was found in the cellar. We were playing stoop ball. Ingrid was on the stoop of 1075. I was playing with the Colossi boy. I did not see Catherine Moriarty there. I saw Arthur Woolf on the other stoop with Ingrid and her brother Edwin. The two houses are right next to each other. MacBride was standing on the top of the stoop of 1077 while we were playing. We hit him with the ball by accident. He told us to throw the ball down lower and after that he came down the stairs and went away. I saw him walk in the direction of the firehouse just across the way. When I left I did not see MacBride around anywhere. He did not come back to the house again while I was there.”

  Bernard Carl Valiunas: “I am a saloon keeper opposite 1075 and 1077 Ogden Avenue, next to the firehouse. I know MacBride. I remember the night when the child was found. I saw and heard the ambulance come. I stood outside the place. When the ambulance came, I saw MacBride. He was alongside the firehouse. He stayed there a couple of minutes and then came into my place in an ordinary way and asked me for a drink of whiskey. He was in a hurry. More people came in and he went out. I have known him for four or five years. I did not notice anything odd about him when he was drinking.”

  ***

  I stopped reading here. The parents, the Andersons, referred to their son as Adranaxa. But the Woolf child and the Francis Buckley kid called him Edwin. I wondered why everyone in the transcript was referred to by their full names, or by their title, all except for the defendant, whom everyone simply called “MacBride.”

  The children’s testimonies sounded coached to me. My father and brothers, all of whom lived at 1077 Ogden Avenue, did not appear in the transcript. Why? School was in session on the sixth of June. Surely they were there. And where were my grandparents? Wasn’t Pop Kerry also in Bernard Carl Valiunas’s saloon, or part of the crowd gathered about the ambulance? The Colossi child was surely my very own Gino, the namesake of the miserly barber up the street, Francis Buckley’s little friend who grew up to be my father’s driver, the man who often slept at our house, who cut our hair on the lawn in Southampton, who drove me into Manhattan in his cigar-smelling Chrysler. The timeline was confusing. Last seen at six-thirty and found at ten, when had Ingrid Anderson been raped and strangled to death? Whose sperm was it that had stained her garments?

  The more I thought about it the more I was convinced that in that pre-DNA-testing world, poor MacBride had been framed. He came across to me like the Boo Radley of the neighborhood, easy pickings for cops who were suspiciously eager to solve the case quickly. Were the police in on it in some macabre way? Or maybe, because the victims were immigrants, they didn’t really give a damn. Who might have been the rapist and murderer capable of squeezing his hands about the little girl’s throat with all their might, for three long minutes, in the basement of the house where she and so many people lived? Had the rape occurred before or after he killed her?

  Stoop ball. The children had been playing stoop ball. I had played it too, against the very same stoop, four decades later. It raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  – 14 –

  The next morning I had breakfast in the dining room and texted Carmen to let her know I was there. She answered right away.

  Where are you staying?

  The Ritz.

  Of course. Might we have dinner tomorrow evening?

  Yes.

  Nine-ish?

  Perfect. I’ll reserve. I look forward to it.

  The day and evening yawning open before me presented a stretch of time that felt interminable. I went out and walked around the immediate neighborhood until the Spanish lunch hour. Not being a fan of that substantial Iberian m
eal, I went to the Prado when most people in Madrid, or so I thought, would be tucking in. But the museum was filled with tourists. I wandered from hall to hall, walking quickly, only stopping before paintings I have special affection for: Velasquez’s Head of a Deer, Zurbarán’s Agnus Dei, Goya’s Dog Half Buried in the Sand. Along with every other yo-yo and despite my sophisticated professorial credentials, I marveled once again at Las Meninas. Finally, spurred on by my interest in the quote that grabbed my attention in Leiris’s L’Age d’homme, I found Andrea del Sarto’s painting, The Sacrifice of Isaac.

  The story, taken from Genesis, a text written down at least as early as the sixth century BCE, was one that Christian artists like del Sarto consistently depicted as an allegory for the so-called Passion of Christ. As a twenty-first-century man I could only view these things as stories from primitive times whose intention was to urge moral restraint on human instincts. Though children were sacrificed in ancient eras, and though it persisted as a theme in certain satanic rites, what was it really all about?

  I had a sandwich and a coffee in the museum cafeteria while reading the New York Times on my phone. Almost all of the people around me, Italians, Japanese, Chinese, Northern Europeans, rich Russians, and various species of Americans, had abandoned the notion of leather shoes. The New York Times, desperate to keep up with social media sites, was becoming increasingly vacuous, article after article about food and relationships and problèmes de riches. I left the museum and walked through the Botanical Gardens where new blossoms were only beginning to appear, then crossed the Castellana and wandered up through the Barrio de las Letras.

  I avoided strolling up the Calle de las Huertas, where, if its name bore any relation to its origins, centuries earlier there had once been tilled gardens growing vegetables. Now, free of vehicular traffic, it was lined with bars and awash with people. I went by the cloistered Trinitarias convent under whose central patio Cervantes was said to be buried, where the sister of his rival playwright, Lope de Vega, spent her final years as a nun. I went up the Calle Lope de Vega to the Calle del León, a jolly street with a hipper feel to it, and then walked up the Calle del Prado, lined with antique stores, to the Plaza Santa Ana. This plaza—where the Cerveceria Alemana still exists, a place little changed from when it was patronized by Hemingway, and where the Teatro Español has stood in one form or another since the middle of the eighteenth century—has also been made tourist and family friendly. It was jammed to the gills. The former Hotel Victoria, where so many bullfighters had prepared for and recovered from their strange occupation, was now a very modern hotel, a black napkin sort of place with a disco on the roof. I avoided the city’s nearby main square entirely, the Puerta del Sol, the nation’s geographic center, the reason why in 1561 Philip II chose Madrid to be the capital of Spain, for it too was blanketed with people. It was dominated by a mammoth Apple store and sprinkled with roaming mimes.