from Anne-Lise to Sylvestre
RUE DES MORILLONS, JULY 14, 2016
Dear Sylvestre,
I would be thrilled to be your first reader and I am glad to know we are not on bad terms.
Because I have a few vacation days to take, I’m thinking of heading to Brussels with a friend. Since I can’t be gone for too long, I will resist the tempting portrait you’ve painted of the beaches in the South and I will return to the office at the beginning of August. Then, three weeks later, I’ll go supervise my son’s move into his student apartment. So I’ll spend the last days of the month painting (walls, don’t get too excited) and building furniture sold in a kit by the Nordic people with their twisted sense of humor …
The quest that brought us together is on hold for now, even if Mr. Grant has promised to do a bit of investigating into his family. But your book has the power to connect people, there’s no doubt about it, and you have to live with this responsibility. So I am curious to know the subject of your next novel: Can you give me a hint to tide me over until it’s in my hands?
From where I’m writing to you (on the little desk in my office, in a slanting ray of inspiring morning sun), my view looks out onto a Parisian garden with a very beautiful tree. For several weeks now, every time I look at it I’ve practiced the meditation exercise you taught me (that’s what it is, right?) and which, I have to admit, brings me a comforting sense of well-being. Is that your secret? Your Folivora sensibilities are fed by exercising your full consciousness in order to grasp the world around you in complete serenity? And above all, were you thinking of this practice when you said this, thirty years ago:
I was walking behind her and observing her, in complete quiet. I had no desire to flaunt her as my property nor to cry out to the world “this woman is mine,” no. It was enough for me to look at her at any hour of the day, in the morning sun or the calming twilight, and to rediscover her at each moment through her unexpected movements which rendered her unfamiliar to me once again.
I hope you’ll tell me the end of that brief romance one day. You left me unsatisfied by implying that the true story is less interesting than the one invented by our Waldo. But I’ll stop asking you questions now, for I fear that my curiosity will cause you to grow distant once again, and nothing matters to me more than your mailman’s well-being …
Your friend,
Anne-Lise
P.S. What lost world do you live in that the post office employees have no vehicle and can only access their routes via home invasion? No wonder people choose to communicate by e-mail!
P.P.S. The family drama is nearly forgotten. I don’t speak about your novel at home anymore, even though I’m often thinking of it.
from William to Anne-Lise
BELLE POELLE, GÉNOLHAC, JULY 14, 2016
Dear Anne-Lise,
Addressing you by name might seem a bit too familiar to you, but I cannot call you “madame” after hearing so many stories about your childhood from Maggy. I’m in my farmhouse in Lozère and if you could see me right now, you would see that I’m covered in spiderwebs, dirty as a rat and slovenly as could be, because I’ve spent the last three days back in the family house emptying each box and every drawer from the cellar to the attic. When I explain that my mother is a person who never throws away anything, and that she’s kept this habit going for twenty years straight, you’ll have an idea of the task I have set for myself.
The last time any tidying happened in this house was after my father’s death, twelve years ago. I wanted to convince my mother to come live with me (at the time I had a more stable profession and I was living in the suburbs of London), but she never felt at home in England and preferred to live near her family in Belgium.
So we rented her an apartment in Brussels not far from where you stayed. I’ll skip the details; just know that this is where our novel appeared. In fact it’s while I was moving my father’s things that I found the book. For a time I thought he might have been the author, but having never seen a typewriter in the house, I soon abandoned that idea.
Before I could ask my mother about the origin of this novel, her mental health deteriorated, definitively cutting her off from the surrounding world. During her moments of lucidity, she often expressed the desire to return to this house in Lozère where she had lived with my father. So I gave in to her desires and brought her here, making frequent trips to be sure she was doing well. Each time I exiled myself in this place (it is indeed tucked away, and Maggy can testify to this if she agrees to come visit me), I enjoyed picking up the book and scribbling a few lines in it before going to sleep.
So, for almost seven years now, my mother hasn’t returned to our world. She lives in a specialized institution half an hour away from the farmhouse. I can’t help her as much as I would like, but her old neighbors are nearby and visit her each week.
You must be wondering why I’m telling you all of my familial misfortunes when we don’t even know each other. I’m getting to that. While tidying some papers, I found some photographs taken during a meal in 1996. My parents and several friends are celebrating an unknown event, and in one of the snapshots, your manuscript is visible on the garden table in the middle of all the glasses. I went to talk to my neighbors about it. To my great surprise, Bernadette (my mother’s friend) burst into sobs upon seeing the photos. Her husband asked me to leave because she was not in a state to speak to me, which I had understood on my own; despite what they seem to think, I do possess a basic understanding of human emotions.
All that is to say, I would like for you to come to Lozère as soon as you can. I sense that you are silent because of your book, and my neighbors refuse to speak to me about any secrets concerning my family. Maggy praised your people skills and your way of getting all kinds of confessions out of people, and I sense that you would know better than me how to gain their trust. I promise you, the house is in very good condition and ready to welcome you. You can come with your entire family. We have plenty of rooms and three bathrooms. I have to be in the United States for ten days for work, but there is always a key at Bernadette’s and you can make yourself at home here. I told Maggy all about it, and I’m certain she will find the same peace here as in her village. Nevertheless, I’m afraid she won’t come, so I’m asking you, dear Anne-Lise, to convince her to come with you.
I am aware that this request is strange, and I am not the type of man who usually opens his door to people he barely knows, but after all, the way we met is at least as crazy as my proposition. For a while now I’ve given free rein to my feelings and my spontaneity long before considering what is reasonable, and today my instinct is telling me that this is the right thing to do.
I hope you will agree so we can finally meet, here in this house that was home to the object of your research for a number of years.
Faithfully yours,
William Grant
from Anne-Lise to Maggy
RUE DES MORILLONS, JULY 17, 2016
My dear Maggy,
Swap out the clothing in your luggage, because I took the liberty of changing our holiday plans. Brussels will have to wait, because our presence is requested in Lozère! We will substitute chocolate for chestnuts and beer for Quézac water.
I can hear your cries and shouts from here so I’ll leave some blank space in my letter where you can be angry with me as much as you like …
Better? Now can I explain myself?
Yesterday morning I heard from your charming visitor. He might have a lead about who brought the manuscript to his parents’ house. As you know, he is leaving soon for the United States, but he has entrusted us with the keys to his house so that we can continue the investigation on site. The place sounds magnificent and we’ll bring along Katia, who is on summer break and doesn’t know how to occupy her days (I suspect my beloved of using her as a chaperone, for, despite his claims, he is still worried about my involvement with this novel. So I happily accepted her presence, which will keep me above all suspicion).<
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So much so that I decided Sylvestre will accompany us. We will spend the first few days without William, but he will join us for the weekend. It’s about time I saw for myself the power of his gray eyes over the female species. He was so insistent that I bring you with me that I get the sense your relationship is not as restrained as you would have me believe, and I am not convinced that we can offer the help he claims to justify our presence, when he seems completely capable of getting what he wants from people …
So, don’t make me wait; tell me if you’re coming to Paris so that we can travel together or let me know if you prefer to go to Lozère alone.
Answer quickly!
Kisses,
Lisou
P.S. Don’t pout, I already know this trip will be incredible!
P.P.S. Note that I made no comment on your last letter nor on its main topic … On the contrary, I acted as if it were completely normal for my best friend to wax poetic about a sunrise she’s already seen a thousand times and for her to use a teenager’s vocabulary to share her morning observations … Do you think the sunrises will be as beautiful in Lozère?
from Anne-Lise to Sylvestre
RUE DES MORILLONS, JULY 18, 2016
Dear Sylvestre,
I left three messages on your answering machine! Is it not working? Did you program it to erase all messages from Paris? Or, more likely, do you simply refuse to come to Lozère alone or with your spouse?
Don’t tell me you still haven’t told her!
We leave on Wednesday, July 27, and I am repeating my offer to drive there together. In case the thought of three women chatting for seven hours on the road is too much to bear, I’ll give you the address where we will be for a week. I’m bringing my daughter (she’s been running in circles around the apartment since her brother left for vacation) and William Grant assured me that the house is very big. It’s a farmhouse typical of the Cevennes region, built on the side of a hill. It’s surrounded by hundred-year-old trees and in the autumn they produce the best chestnuts in Lozère!
Join us and we will finally have the pleasure of speaking without relying on the infallible speed of your mailman.
See you soon.
Best wishes,
Anne-Lise
P.S. In case it wasn’t clear (or if you are one of those men who doesn’t know how to read between the lines), let me be clear that I will be very upset if you do not respond to this letter …
from Anne-Lise to William
RUE DES MORILLONS, JULY 19, 2016
Dear William,
Thank you for this invitation. It touches me more than I can say, even if, through Maggy, I already know how attached you are to this manuscript. The unbearable heat bearing down on the capital makes the idea of a trip to Lozère more appealing than ever.
So I will be there, along with my sixteen-year-old daughter, who is on summer break. I hope your gray eyes will charm her and encourage her to be on her best behavior. She is in a rebellious stage and makes fun of how I spend my free time and who I spend it with (don’t repeat these words to Maggy or she will tear my eyes out, and I’m rather attached to them, believe it or not, even if they’re only brown). To be honest, I hope that being around strangers will make her nicer and more open to the interests of those older than the age of sixteen …
As for our dear friend, I can assure you she will be there, even if she’ll put up a bit of resistance at first to preserve her pride. As you now know, she has a tendency to run for her life as soon as a man takes a step in her direction. However, I suspect she has a weakness for multilingual globetrotting amateur poker players, who knows why! (Of course, all this remains between us and won’t be of any interest to you unless you happen to have a penchant for hermits incapable of stringing two English words together.)
I have to warn you that I’ve also invited Sylvestre Fahmer. I haven’t heard back from him yet, but I hope he will want to meet his readers, who were also the successive and illicit owners of his book.
You must find me shameless to bring all my family and friends to your house in Lozère, but I am very involved in this story and that entanglement alone justifies my loss of all decency. I hope to make a better impression when we finally get to meet.
As soon as the plans are set, I will send you the day and time of our arrival so that you will be able to alert your neighbors.
Thank you for organizing this trip.
Best wishes,
Anne-Lise
P.S. I am sending this letter to the address of the hotel you sent me, but because I have very limited confidence in the Americans and in trans-Atlantic mail delivery, I will confirm our arrival by phone.
from Maggy to Anne-Lise
POINTE DES RENARDS, JULY 20, 2016
Hi Lisou!
The blank space you left in your last letter was not nearly enough to contain my anger. What’s gotten into you? What’s with these vacations surrounded by strangers? We wanted quality time among friends and instead you’ve planned a Club Med parody! I will not play the role of ambassador and I won’t think twice about abandoning you if the environment becomes intolerable. And so I will drive there in MY car, ready to flee at the first opportunity. And if William really wants me to be there, why didn’t he write to me about it himself? I fear you are imposing this rendezvous on me the same way you’re imposing it on your author and your daughter … What will our host think of such an invasion?
After thinking about it, I think I’d be better off contemplating the sun’s reflection on the surface of the water from here, and cider appeals to me far more than Quézac water. If I do come, it will only be to protect your daughter, who, in a state of utter insanity, you’ve invited to a stranger’s house along with Sylvestre, whom you’ve never met … You of all people should know that authors are generally unbalanced and unusual characters and that it’s better to read their novels than spend time with them: it’s not necessarily ideal, but it’s certainly less involved and less risky!
And Julian? He’s okay with you traveling to these far-flung regions, he doesn’t protest? Unless you’re using my presence as your cover … Lisou, I feel like I’m fifteen years old again, lying to your parents so you can meet Roland at a café! Remember how all that ended: your sneaky meeting turned out to be a bowling competition and you returned furious and humiliated because you lost!
As for William, you were not very clear about his words and I wish you wouldn’t play matchmaker when you know very well there is no place for a man in my life. And when I think about it, perhaps I exaggerated the power of his gray eyes. I think that amidst the chestnuts, they will stand out less than on the seashore, and I advise you to keep all references to this subject to yourself.
If you have new information to give me before we leave, I will be at Agathe’s Saturday night; I promised to help her organize a birthday meal (don’t worry, I won’t be the one cooking). So you can call the hotel to tell me what our mission will be over there and what path we are supposed to follow into the heart of the Cevennes woods.
See you Saturday!
Sending kisses, despite everything,
Maggy
P.S. A piece of advice: Swing by the bowling alley for a few practice games, you never know …
from Sylvestre to Anne-Lise
LES CHAYETS, JULY 21, 2016
Were you chosen by evil spirits to disrupt the perfectly tranquil life of a fifty-something in need of distraction? When I see an envelope in my box (its contents are visible from the house, because I never fixed it after a northern wind ripped off its door), I feel slightly worried wondering what I will find in your letters.
And now you expect me to go to Lozère! To the home of a man that I don’t know, to spend time with people I know nothing about, when they’ve invaded my privacy by reading something I wrote more than thirty years ago!
I’m not coming.
I thought my silence in response to your repeated calls made it clear. Apparently that’s not the case and perh
aps it’s time, Anne-Lise, that you finally know who you’re speaking to.
I was born in the Pyrenees. Where stone won every battle. It dominates every house, every tree, every man. Those who live there have resigned themselves to submitting to it because it witnessed their birth and it will see their death. Stone is their eternity. When we leave such a place, we carry with us the immobility of the rock and the rustling of the forest. You think you can contain nature living out the days of your city-slicker life, but every night it reenters the fray. Into your dreams it slips: the wildness of the wind blowing down from the summits, the force of the water rolling its sludge down into the valley, and the stories of men and their demons who made generations of little mountain dwellers tremble.
My parents had two children. The first they named Pierre, the second, Sylvestre. Those two first names say it all. My brother was smart enough to stay. When we grow up in the shadow of mountains, we do not feel at home in metro stations. We try to get through it. Until one day, the body rebels. For me, that happened when I reached fifty years old. The first time I fainted was underground, between the Pyrénées and Belleville stations. First hospitalization. They alluded to burnout as a result of strenuous hours and long journeys in public transit. The second time I fainted, they advised me to get a car and opt for the relative quiet of traffic jams. The third time, the company therapist intervened so I’d be able to work remotely, in the cool of the early mornings near the gray stone. Because my wife works in Paris, we couldn’t go back to the Pyrenees. So we withdrew to the north, at a reasonable distance from the capital. We bought an old house facing the horizon. In this hamlet where the land is affordable, a few scattered huts house depressed city-dwellers linked to the world by their high-speed Internet or destitute retirees living their last days as cheaply as possible.
The Lost Manuscript Page 6
