The Lost Manuscript

by Cathy Bonidan

  I’m addressing you by your first name and I hope you won’t be offended. You don’t know me, I know nothing about you, or almost nothing, and yet, I feel as though we share a big secret. We’ve both read a novel that should never have fallen into our hands, an intimate and delicate work that was not meant for us, but which shook up our existences.

  I am not personally involved in this work. I am merely a book lover and this book moved me. I wanted to meet its author, or rather its authors, because it was written by four hands. Of course, there is love in these pages. But above all there is that cliffhanger ending to the story …

  Perhaps it’s that mystery that buries its teeth in us once the book is finished. It’s certainly that suspense that gives the book a timeless and incomplete quality.

  I will now approach, via a proxy, the bartender who gave you this beautiful gift. My journey continues and, who knows, perhaps that man will guide me to another reader.

  I cannot end this letter without mentioning my wish to hear more about your child (and yet, I swore that I would restrain myself). I just wonder how this novel led you to him (God knows that “just” is an understatement!). But you are speaking to someone who isn’t shy, as you are well aware now that you’ve seen what I’m capable of doing for a simple manuscript. You don’t have to answer me, unless you’d like to, and no matter what, I thank you with all my heart for having sent me your first letter.

  Sending a hug to you and to your child as well,

  Anne-Lise

  P.S. Did you choose the Beau Rivage Hotel because it’s all the way at the very tip of the country? And do you really believe that bringing oneself to the end of the road helps to open other doors?

  from Sylvestre to Anne-Lise

  LES CHAYETS, MAY 28, 2016

  It’s true, I was a bit annoyed with you for entering into my life without knocking and leading a search that should have been my own. But your last letter erased all resentment. Nahima’s words flooded my daily life like one of those catchy tunes that have the inexplicable power of bringing us out of our sadness despite ourselves. Thank you for contacting her. Thank you for sharing all the good she got out of the book.

  Is this what sustains writers and gives them the strength to confront the blank page? The certainty that in the end, they’ll be able to save someone from despair? My mood is as stable as a dead leaf drifting in an Autan wind. On the one hand, the joy of feeling that power; on the other, the regret at not having seized that opportunity on a larger scale by publishing the book and multiplying by ten or a hundred the happiness that I’ve just discovered.

  I will satisfy your curiosity even though I don’t have to. No, my wife doesn’t know about the existence of this manuscript, and neither does my daughter. Yes, the brief romance that spans those pages is autobiographical. And no, for those two reasons, I don’t envision submitting the book to a publisher, who, in any event, would send it back to me at the first opportunity. I am certainly naïve, but not enough to believe that a narrative that contains no shouts, no revolt, not an ounce of the supernatural, and no trace of a political message can pique the interest of a scrutinizing editor on the hunt for a bestseller … And then, the idea of revealing, at fifty-six years old, to those around me that I’ve kept in the back of my mind the memory of a bygone romance would start conversations I wouldn’t want to bring about for anything in the world.

  You have fulfilled your mission of finding the person who brought my book to the tip of Brittany. Now you can turn to other projects. I have to say that I’ve taken a liking to our exchanges, which have allowed me to meet my mailman. In fact, no one writes to me anymore and all my bills now arrive electronically. With the “no junk mail” sticker my daughter put on the letterbox after a tenth-grade exposé on deforestation, I thought of doing away with that obsolete object altogether … Thanks to you, it’s regained its utility for a bit.

  And you should know: you have reawakened the fervor for writing in me. Not only am I now determined to finish my old novel, but I am embarking simultaneously on a new book that keeps me up until the middle of the night.

  So you can be happy knowing you’ve saved an idle fifty-something from his ennui.

  Sylvestre

  from Maggy to Anne-Lise

  POINTE DES RENARDS, MAY 29, 2016

  Hi Lisou!

  Who else but you could lead me down such unbelievable paths? And is there any other friend I would set out for to taste the wind of the North (yes, yes, for me, Roscoff is the North) while the spring sun is warming up the plants on my patio? It’s a fact that you alone have this power to get me on the road even when the amateur photographers have refused to go to Finistère, frustrated by the fuel shortage that has us gathered in front of gas stations like junkies harassing their dealers …

  It’s even worse that I was not satisfied by merely obeying the request you made over the phone (on that note, you can thank Agathe for relaying your requests so valiantly), but I did so with an incredible excitement. Upon arriving in Roscoff at noon, I went to the Bellevue and made no mention of my reason for being there before I had tasted their scallops roasted in butter (don’t forget that you’re paying, I made sure to keep the receipt), along with a glass of 2005 Gros Plant, a very good year chosen with the help of the server (who it so happens was very cute).

  I took advantage of a lull in the service (I don’t understand why restaurant owners complain when their places are filled to the brim a month before the official close for paid vacation!) to question Roméo (I swear that’s his name). I had barely mentioned the manuscript on the beach when he asked if I wanted to have coffee during his break (I have to mention here that I still have a perfect tan from my vacation and that I was wearing my little floral dress, even though my teeth chattered with each gust of wind!). Our Roméo, who owes his name to his Italian mother, found the manuscript at the Roscoff library, where he hosts workshops for schoolchildren. This waiter is a literature enthusiast and goes to the library whenever he has time.

  To temper this idyllic description of a perfect young man, you should know that he started to frequent the library because he was infatuated by a young librarian … But at the end of the day, don’t you always say that we are driven to read for the best reasons?

  One winter day, he was watching his ladylove while volunteering for a neighborhood association when a man came to the counter with a collection of books he wanted to donate to the library. It was all the way at the bottom of a box, beneath dozens of dog-eared and yellowed books, that our Roméo found this manuscript that now occupies all my thoughts even though I have yet to read it.

  Our charming young man learned from it that unconfessed love can stay with us an entire lifetime, and so he decided to get over his shyness and declare his feelings for the young librarian named Julie (I swear to you that this is all true and that Julie is her real name) … They’re not married and don’t have children, but I think it’s only because they haven’t had enough time, and I dare to hope that “Roméo” and “Julie” will conquer the tragedy of their namesakes to live happily for years to come!

  Now you know everything, my dear Lisou, and thanks to you I spent a magnificent day in Roscoff, which is, by the way, a town well worth the trek …

  I would have loved to make you languish—to use an expression that couldn’t be any less Breton—but I am your friend and I was too afraid you’d get worked up all alone and get one of your ulcers again. So yes, I asked THE question: Is there any way to find the man who donated the box?

  Roméo doesn’t know his name, but he’s going to ask around and will contact you as soon as he knows more. I gave him your information (I’m handing him over to you only because he’s too young for me, but I assure you he’s very cute and no, I don’t doubt the power of my floral dress).

  What do you think? Haven’t I played a good Watson?

  I know I’ve made you proud and that as you read these words you have that brilliant smile on your face that urges your friends to
do impossible and sometimes reprehensible acts in your name.

  But I regret nothing, you have awakened in me the excitement that allows us to relive the adventures of our childhood heroes and I remain available for all investigations being conducted in my area.

  Now I have to get back to work (I’m behind because of my little escapade) and I hope the rest of your weekend will be brightened up by these revelations.

  Your adoring Watson,

  Maggy

  P.S. You know what? The handsome Roméo was wearing a red-and-white-striped T-shirt, and with his glasses, he reminded me of Waldo. You know Where’s Waldo?, that series of books where the reader has to find a character in a striped T-shirt and a red hat in every image? It struck me that that’s exactly what you’re doing with your second author: you turn the pages and in each new setting, you search for your Waldo!

  P.P.S. I just read an article on the puffer fish. It has a big head, bulging eyes, and a small, slippery body. Throw in some stretchy skin that allows it to puff up to repel predators, and a poison in its flesh that’s deadly to man, and you will have a very accurate portrait of someone you know. Wouldn’t that make an excellent pet for Bastien?

  from Anne-Lise to Maggy

  RUE DES MORILLONS, JUNE 2, 2016

  Dear Maggy,

  You are the best friend anyone could ask for! I can’t wait to share the latest progress with you. Your young waiter called the man with the box and gave him my number (he apologized in a little message; you were right, he’s a charming boy). I’ve just received a call from the man, a certain Mr. Cléder who lives in the western suburbs of Paris. Since he works very close to here, we’re going to have lunch together tomorrow afternoon.

  I’m beginning to think, Maggy, that this manuscript has the power to lower our defenses. Since its appearance in room 128, we have retraced the steps of its readers and, each time we mention it, doors open and faces light up.

  Do you remember the long conversations we had about this thirty years ago? At university, we searched for “The Book.” We dreamed of a text that would divert the anger of wounded hearts, that would shatter the hatred we feel for the unknown, chase away the clouds that leave premature wrinkles on still-young faces, a text that could provoke unbelievable and unforgettable encounters between people.

  Don’t roll your eyes! I abandoned that utopian vision more than thirty years ago, but when I write to people who’ve read Sylvestre’s book, I rediscover my passion for reading and I believe in the power of words again.

  There, I’ve said it. Your mocking tone won’t change anything—this novel does its readers good and I promise to send you a copy. You know me, I couldn’t keep myself from scanning the original before sending it back to its owner. (Of course, you’d have it faster if you joined our modern world and accepted the Internet into your lair.) In the meantime, I’m dying to meet this Mr. Cléder, who could very well be my “Waldo”!

  I’ll keep you posted.

  Kisses,

  Lisou

  P.S. Having two managers for the same company should be banned, especially when the managers are related by blood. This morning, Bastien used our weekly meeting to put down my work once again. I said nothing. I flashed him my best smile. That reaction glued his mouth shut more effectively than all the responses I usually throw his way! It’s because this “quest” gives me a sort of legitimacy that extends even to the office … but all the same I jotted down the name of that poison because, two streets over, there’s a Japanese restaurant owner who owes me a favor …

  from Anne-Lise to Sylvestre

  RUE DES MORILLONS, JUNE 5, 2016

  Dear Sylvestre,

  It’s not over yet! You thought I was going to stop at the Breton border? Well then you don’t know me at all, because my path continues in Waldo’s footsteps (no, I don’t have his first name yet; that’s a reference from my friend Maggy to a childhood cartoon by Martin Handford. Children have to find a small character with a striped sweater in the middle of a multicolored crowd, and I plan to find our man before the last page). I get more excited every day. I talk about my progress all the time at home, and without batting an eye I tolerate the mocking winks Julian (my partner) and the children give each other. How could I expect them to understand my passion for literature? They think that we forget to live our own lives when we slide into the existence of others …

  As you may have guessed, when we are all at the table they generally half-listen to me and they find it amusing to indulge my pastime of choice. Nevertheless, yesterday, all three stopped chewing in unison when I announced my trip to Brussels (more on that later), and Julian shook his head while rolling his eyes (which brought about a coughing fit because his mouth was full … nicely done!).

  For nearly two months now, I’ve had a small place in the back of my mind for your book and for the very particular impact it has had on the people whose paths it has crossed. I suspect my husband thinks that I’m exaggerating. He’s always known my love for books but complains that they invade my daily life. As soon as he sees the dreamy look on my face when an author infects my mind, he reacts as if he had come upon a lover hidden in our bedroom closet. I even hear him sigh when I slide with delight into our bed and throw myself without restraint at one of the numerous novels piled up on my nightstand. So of course, the idea of this trip to a village with an unpronounceable name whose official language is Dutch doesn’t make him happy at all.

  To explain to you (finally) why I’m going over there, I have to tell you about the man who left your novel at Roscoff. I met him on Friday. He’s named Victor Cléder and he’s in charge of an office of European affairs. Don’t ask me what his job is; I wasn’t listening to his explanation, I was too impatient for him to get to the reason for our meeting.

  I only know that he lives between Paris and Brussels and develops business relations in both places. When he’s in Belgium, he stays in Huldenberg, in a studio he rents from a couple of friends. It was there, accompanying their son to his weekly sports practice, that Victor discovered your manuscript. He’s not a sports fanatic and was glad to kill the time with this novel abandoned on a chair. At the end of the practice, he decided to bring it back to Paris so he could read the end, without even stopping to wonder whether it belonged to someone. He still had a few dozen pages left to read when he went to Roscoff to sort out his grandmother’s will (either our friend is a slow reader, or he’s overworked and only picks up the book three times per month).

  What do you think he does once he’s finished the book? Go on, guess … Victor decides to switch careers! He swears that this little revolt had been planned for a long time … That might be true, but it wasn’t until after reading your book that he decided to stop his incessant back-and-forth between the European authorities that employ him! In six months, he will say good-bye to the various offices to take a sabbatical year.

  Keep in mind that Victor is not a big reader and certainly not a man to change his beliefs because of a book. He also started to squander away his Breton inheritance by getting rid of all his family’s books, and I would have openly declared him “boorish” if he hadn’t had information for me. He doesn’t even remember sliding your book to the bottom of one of those boxes and I think we can write off his gesture as a simple mistake. But we know (at least I do) that without the discovery of your book, he would still be a busy man, torn between his dreams and his job for a few more years …

  So here I am ready to face your Belgian readers to find our Waldo. Don’t be mad at me … I simply can’t give up when we’re so close to our goal.

  Warmly,

  Anne-Lise

  P.S. I hope that the flooding going on not far from you won’t affect your mailman’s route … Perhaps his tenacity will spur him to complete his mission aboard a canoe!

  from Sylvestre to Anne-Lise

  LES CHAYETS, JUNE 8, 2016

  What are you playing at?

  Reading your first letter, I thought you lived the hectic and very
full life of a woman with a demanding profession (you spoke of late meetings) all while raising two teenagers and managing the household. Yet here you are on the point of neglecting family and work to go off and chase a stranger, the author of the end of a book that has nothing to do with you!

  Why try to pursue him thirty years later? Are you aware that your Waldo doesn’t care at all about this book? Or did the second half of the book impress you so much that you hope to come upon an established, famous writer? Are you nothing but a groupie in the end, collecting autographs and selfies?

  Sorry! I’m attacking you again. I have a tendency to neglect all manners now that I’ve retreated to the countryside where my few interlocutors are the moles in the garden and the spiders in the attic. You relayed the sentiments of my readers and I thank you for that, because it has evoked in me an unexpected and overwhelming emotion. But the thought of a search that leads you to abandon those around you in addition to your work to go to the four corners of the globe?

  Stop this senseless running around right now. Once I’ve conquered my fear of travel, I promise I’ll visit Brussels and pick back up the trail where you left off. It’s an enticing city and now you’ve given me additional motivation to go. But don’t get in trouble with your loved ones for a few old pages from thirty years ago, that would be ridiculous. Or, if you have a real reason to set out on the hunt for this Waldo, explain it to me and don’t leave me hanging, worried I’ll soon hear you’ve been committed because of me.

  I await your response.

  Sylvestre

  P.S. My response serves as proof that the mailman is still making his way through our streets. He’s wearing a raincoat and boots, but the showers haven’t discouraged him. I believe he thinks highly of his job, and would finish his route by boat if the bad weather persists …

  from Anne-Lise to Maggy