If I survive the grizzly bears and the maple syrup, I will be at your service starting August 27 to meet any unusual people you have come across and that you would like to introduce me to: a former wild cat tamer now trained in slug dressage, a former minister exiled at the bottom of an Irish grotto, a veterinarian specializing in the study of crickets, or a harmonica player from the Berlin philharmonic … I smile to myself thinking of all the incredible people who might have flipped through these pages before our thief and I wonder whether we will find one day the person you call Waldo.
Did I tell you that I am starting to become friends with my mailman? On Monday he came up to my door and he looked so happy to bring me my mail that I offered him a coffee. It was awkward at first, then our conversation became more fluid until we launched into an animated discussion on the turbulent relations between Poulet-Malassis and Baudelaire. When my guest noticed that an hour had passed and he would be late for the rest of his route, he took off, but we agreed to meet the next day to finish our friendly argument.
So here I am with a friend who’s a mailman and a Baudelaire specialist who merits inclusion onto the list of all the exceptional people I’ve met thanks to you. These newcomers have settled so powerfully into my life that I have promised myself to tell my daughter about this wild journey. As soon as I set foot on Canadian soil, she will know all the details and I will not forget your part in this affair.
I’m waiting to hear your plan to organize our expedition to the South as soon as I return. I’ve already looked into it and we’ll have to take the train to Montpellier and from there a bus will bring us to the prison in forty-five minutes. Remember, only a year ago, it took me hours to prepare for the tiniest trip to the village bakery! And now, prison … What an incredible adventure for a man who’s never had to pay a single parking ticket!
Sylvestre
P.S. Did you see that we cannot wear watches, belts, and jewelry so as not to set off the metal detector? And that we have to reserve a visiting room, just like reserving a table at a restaurant?
from David Aguilhon to Anne-Lise Briard
AVENUE DU MOULIN-DE-LA-JASSE, VILLENEUVE-LÈS-MAGUELONE, AUGUST 20, 2016
Madame,
I’m writing to let you know that I have refused the visit request you submitted. I don’t know what you want from me, but at my age, I have a right to peace, no matter the reason I was sentenced.
If you are looking for the confession of a convict who can amuse the Parisian bourgeois by recounting his life behind bars, I know prisoners who would be delighted to flaunt their experience. Believe me, mine is not special and would not make for more than two lines in a tabloid. Bank robbery is not a heroic activity and the crooks who turn to it are not daring. If you want to hook your readers, you should invent a story about the thrills of a life of disgrace and the improbable myth of the reformed hero. In any event, I advise you to turn to other testimonials and I remain at your service to provide you with the names of prisoners who dream of starring in reality TV shows. If you avoid my colleagues who work in packaging sweets, there are some who are very presentable and who have kept a certain allure thanks to their diligent visits to the gym.
Thanking you in advance for your understanding upon reading this letter.
Sincerely,
Inmate 822
David Aguilhon
from William to Anne-Lise
GREAT PETER STREET, AUGUST 23, 2016
My dearest Anne-Lise,
I had just opened the door to my London refuge when I saw your words awaited me. Here, I live in the English language, which is also the language of my past and the drama linked to it. So it is easier for me to tell you everything today.
As you already know, ten years ago, I was an English professor at Brunel University, to the west of London. What you don’t know is that at the time, I was married and a father to an adorable little seven-year-old girl. I was happy without really being aware of it, which is often the case when we think our life is on track and that we will continue on in that way until the end of time.
Like many men who are over forty, I dreamed of changing my life, of tackling new challenges. When a young colleague started a poker club, I signed up and discovered the excitement of the game. I, who had never touched cards, quickly became a star on campus and, crowned with that reputation, I plunged into a romantic relationship with the person who had introduced this passion into my life. All of that is unfortunately dull, you will agree, dear Anne-Lise. But, caught up in the joy of rediscovered youth, I didn’t think of the harm I would cause my family when she learned the truth.
The next part is even more common. My wife Moïra left me; she took off with our daughter to her parents’ house in Scotland. Quick to counterattack, I quit my job and started to make the rounds of poker tournaments to earn my living. At the time, I thought our separation was temporary and I took advantage of my bachelor life with a certain pleasure. I went to tournament after tournament and I would go back to see my family haloed with the glory offered by money so easily won. I brought them elaborate gifts, but although Laura was still delighted by my visits, her mother resented me and our reunions were filled with hostility and anger.
July 12, 2008, two years after our separation, I received a message from my stepfather telling me that Moïra had been hospitalized after a car accident. I went to Scotland and found out that she was in a coma. She never came out of it. She died August 15.
My in-laws revealed to me that in the year that had preceded the car accident, Moïra had made two suicide attempts … they didn’t need to spell it out for me to understand. Even if, for a time, I was mad at her parents for not having informed me of the gravity of the situation, I knew, deep down, that my wife never recovered from the breaking up of our family.
So I left the game and settled down in Scotland to devote myself to my nine-year-old daughter who had just lost her mother. We searched for a new equilibrium for the two of us and we lived together for three years. Occasionally I taught seminars but I had enough money to live without going back to my job as a professor. During that time, I took refuge in the manuscript. It had the curious power to diminish my pain and guilt. Until my mother-in-law suffered a heart attack and spent some time in the hospital … Convinced she had had a brush with death, she entrusted Moïra’s last letter to her granddaughter. Reading it, Laura discovered that I was the cause of the depression that had destroyed her mother. At twelve years old, she packed her bags and left to live with her grandparents. Since that day, she has refused to see me or to speak to me on the phone.
I am not trying to make you feel sorry for me, Anne-Lise. I am not miserable and I provide my family with every possible material comfort. I know they are doing well and I get regular updates from my father-in-law, who remains the sole link between my daughter and me. I travel a lot, I meet incredible people like you and your friends, or like the members of the Belgian writing group, and I don’t ask the forgiveness of anyone. If I am guilty of the death of my beloved wife, I am punished each morning waking up alone, without being able to experience the priceless joy of seeing my daughter grow up. That’s why I was delighted to meet Katia, who is exactly the same age and who I watched with pleasure, thinking that Laura might resemble her.
There you have it; you know everything about my silences and the shadows that weigh on my life. Know that I’m still your friend.
Yours,
William
from Anne-Lise to David
RUE DES MORILLONS, AUGUST 24, 2016
Monsieur Aguilhon,
I thank you for personally telling me about your rejection of my visit request. However, I am neither a journalist, nor a writer, nor a producer of a TV series. My interest in meeting you is completely unrelated. The connection between our two existences is a book, written more than thirty years ago, and which you gave to Madame Grant, your sister’s neighbor in Lozère.
The author of this text was reunited with it not long ago and seeks, with my he
lp, to retrace its steps since it disappeared in 1983. Without knowing you, I believe you will grant our request the importance it deserves and I hope you will agree to tell us the name of the person who gave it to you.
You are the last known link in the chain of successive owners of this manuscript, which seems to have caused a veritable disruption in the lives of its readers. I completely understand your suspicion of me, but please know that the only motive for my request was to ask you about this.
I thank you in advance for any information you are willing to share about this novel.
Cordially,
Anne-Lise Briard
P.S. I want to assure you that there was no morbid curiosity on my part when I requested to visit you in prison. I was even briefly relieved to know that you refused my request, that’s how nervous I am to enter a prison. My only motivation was to meet a person who had loved this book and who, because of that, already felt familiar to me.
from Maggy to William
POINTE DES RENARDS, AUGUST 25, 2016
Dear William,
I realize that I’m writing to you for the first time. It’s been three weeks since we left Lozère and I have no idea how you’ve been doing. Well, that’s only partially true, because your exchanges with Anne-Lise prove that you’re at least still alive.
However, she didn’t tell me a word of the revelations you made to her. Normally displaying the opposite of my secretive and silent behavior, she now shuts up like an oyster if I ask her anything about you. I don’t dare imagine what you confided in her to provoke such a transformation. When I called her a few days ago (I have to be pretty worried to go all the way to the hotel and use that device which I so detest!), she responded with these words: “Write to him, please…”
You will agree that it’s risky to contact a person whose struggles we do not know, and I immediately rejected her suggestion. Then, this morning, I went for a walk along the coastal roads. They no longer resemble highways, because the first drizzle chased the August vacationers inland, in the pursuit of Breton authenticity or waterproof ecomuseums. We still have a few local reserves subsidized by Tipiak. Between two menhirs, we can see old Breton women parade by in their traditional headdresses.
I thought again of those strolls we took when you came to Finistère. The morning breeze changed my mood and I realized that even without knowing what was bothering you, I could at least distract you by telling you the latest local gossip.
To start off, the small empty spot in the marketplace has a new buyer. Remember how we guessed at the various businesses that might go there? You had suggested a flute store that would attract players from all over the world, and I thought up a paint store that would sell only the color blue. Oil, watercolor, or pastel doesn’t matter, but on the condition that we buy only the color of the sky, which here is often diluted with gray, as you remarked. We finally agreed on a stand that would display original manuscripts, on the condition that they had never been edited.
We were both wrong, because yesterday I discovered a poster that announced: “Souvenir shop, coming soon.” And so the pipes, the tubes of paint, and the faded pages will give up their place to hangers adorned with shells, clocks decorated with Breton lighthouses, bowls from Quimper with the words “world’s best dad,” or charts that will teach you the recipe for Kig ha farz or explain the workings of marine knots. Of course, everything will be imported from China or Turkey, fabricated by small hands with no clue what region of the world Finistère is in. At least tourists will find a new meeting point directly on the way back from the shuttles that connect Ushant to the continent.
I don’t feel any bitterness or miss the village as it was in my childhood. I observe these evolutions with suspicion, of course, but also with a certain pleasure—at the idea that nothing is unchangeable, that the Earth will continue to turn in our absence despite the numerous predictions about the end of the world in our lifetime.
Did you know that I finished my illustrations? I am very happy with them; I think they’re better than the illustrations in the first volume and it’s a real relief to find that we can age and improve. After being told aging is a shipwreck, we would be tempted to believe that all our faculties deteriorate with time. This is not true, and I have the proof on my desk. The second installment of the adventures of Croco is more elaborate than the first. (As promised, I will send you a copy as soon as it’s out.)
On that note, perhaps you found the folder that I left in Lozère, which contains a preliminary draft of my next book? If so, you can keep it, because I decided to change the animal protagonist. I chose the name of my new character from a novel I just read: he will be named Muffin and he will be a very peculiar puffin. I love this stage, where I come up with the main storyline and where I am allowed to be bold. There is a freedom in this work that enchants me.
I can see black clouds approaching from the west in the distance and it makes me smile. This stormy weather on its way is synonymous with working inside, a mug of tea in my hand, cradled by the sound of the wind because the few remaining walkers will take refuge in the village crêperies. On that note, sniff this letter before putting it away: I’m sure you’ll smell the lovely odor of crêpes that perfumes my entire house, because I made about twenty just now. That will be my lunch, my snack (I remember that seeing me have my snack like a child greatly amused you), and perhaps even my dinner …
There you have it, dear William, anecdotes aimed at distracting you for a bit from the worries that seem to control you. When you are isolated like I am here, nature overrides the human concerns that then become futile and pathetic. If one day you feel lost in the bustling life of the big cities of this world, take a break and come see me at the tip of Brittany; you will see the horizon remains constant, no matter our suffering.
Here’s hoping that I made you smile a bit, sending a hug.
Your friend,
Maggy
from David to Anne-Lise
AVENUE DU MOULIN-DE-LA-JASSE, AUGUST 27, 2016
Madame Briard,
Please accept my apologies. I just read your letter and I admit I find it very hard to trust people since I’ve been shut up in here. It’s true that in the last fourteen years I’ve received requests for interviews by pseudo-novelists or “muckraker” journalists who wanted to see their name on the third page of Midi Libre …
When I told them I would be delighted to describe my days entirely spent packaging scented candles, they flocked to candidates more suitable for tragedy, even if it meant slipping into lies or the absurd.
But, growing older, I’ve exhausted my reserve of sarcasm and now I settle for rejecting all interview requests without attempting to learn more about the motives of the requesters.
Concerning the manuscript you mentioned, you must already know the importance it held for me. I gave it to Madame Grant the day before my arrest. Perhaps she spoke to you about our conversations in the shadows of chestnut trees … But you have it now, and I assume from this that she has shared that part of her past. If you have the occasion to see her again, tell her that our discussions were not in vain and that she inspired a passion for reading in me. That pastime, in fact, saved me from the chronic depression that takes hold of the inmates here like a whelk to its rock.
I remember the young woman who gave it to me very well. I met her in a rehab facility near Montpellier. Like me, she often went to the library in the center of town and we would cross paths regularly when I was there. On a day of weakness, I told her about the impossible love affair I was entangled in at the time and she told me about a book that had had a certain power over her. According to her, it had helped her to emerge from the self-destructive path she had taken after the death of her parents, and she kindly gave it to me when she left. Although it didn’t have the same effect on my life, perhaps for others there is still time … So tell the author to publish his book. In schools, hospitals, prisons … everywhere lost souls are in need of a sign. And if my testimony can contribute to ma
king it better known, don’t hesitate. The simple fact of writing these words to you, after all these years, filled me with an intense joy, even if it is tainted with nostalgia.
I wish you every success.
Cordially,
David Aguilhon
P.S. The young woman is named Elvire and I remember that she was Canadian. I think if you contact the Les Collines rehab facility, they’ll be able to dig up her contact information for you in the old logs.
from Sylvestre to Anne-Lise
LES CHAYETS, AUGUST 27, 2016
Here I am back in the country after the brief trip to see my daughter, Coralie. As soon as I entered her apartment, I handed her my book and then awaited her reaction with a heaviness in the pit of my stomach. When she realized what it was, she started to jump up and down in the hallway calling for Adam, her partner.
The two of them congratulated me as if I had received the Prix Goncourt and they nearly fought each other to read the first pages. My daughter won and shut herself up in their bedroom with the first part. I searched desperately for a subject to broach with my son-in-law, when he himself started a conversation. Although we hadn’t ever exchanged more than ten words, Adam spoke to me with conviction about the last novel he’d read … This boy is much more interesting than I thought, and the two of us made dinner without waiting for Coralie, who refused to eat before she’d finished.
The Lost Manuscript Page 9
