When she sat at the table, she had tears in her eyes and I was afraid she would bring up the subject of her mother, forcing me to compare the two loves of my life. But I didn’t have to lie to her (which I was ready to do if necessary), because she didn’t mention it. She asked me questions about the end of the text and I confessed to her that it existed, but that it had been written by an unknown author. I had left that part at the hotel, but she made me promise to bring it the next day. Finally I described the incredible journey taken by my manuscript and I had the joy of seeing the stunned expressions on their faces.
I’ve always been on good terms with my daughter, probably—I have to say—because I never exercised my right to veto her activities or her desires. Nevertheless, our relationship was tainted with a certain detachment, as if we didn’t have enough things in common to be able to penetrate the other’s universe. And then my illness cut me off from the rest of the world and our rare time together was filled with clichéd phrases on her part and unbearable silences in place of response.
That night, closing the door to my hotel room, I was struck by the difference between that night and all the others that had come before it. Our exchanges were no longer restrained, they were natural; Coralie asked me questions about my novel in progress and her interest was genuine.
Alone, facing the window that looked out onto a depressing view of a parking lot, I felt my blood bubbling as if I had just been plugged back in to life. In the eyes of my daughter and my son-in-law, I felt myself exist for the first time, and that recognition slowly erased the feeling of being cast aside, which I had lived with for years.
I don’t know if you’ll understand, Anne-Lise, because you are still in the heat of the action: your children are still your responsibility, your husband is by your side, and you struggle to manage a household while working a demanding job. But our years of difference had pushed me into the realm of observers, people who have time and who live without hours or constraints (those of my profession being almost nonexistent since I am able to work from home).
In that state, sometimes we forget that we are still alive.
And so I return a man transformed; the same in appearance, but with a completely different mindset. Almost as soon as I arrived home, I opened my mail and saw your little note concerning the cancelation of our “trip” to prison. That made me sad, because this new Sylvestre really wanted to turn back time and rub shoulders with a burglar with a heart of gold.
If you have found any other information during my absence, please do share it with me, because I still have a few days of vacation left to take before the end of the year and I am ready to use them to meet new readers.
For the moment, I will plunge back into writing with delight, for I am making quick progress toward the conclusion …
Sylvestre
from William to Maggy
GREAT PETER STREET, AUGUST 29, 2016
Dear Maggy,
I’m ashamed that I didn’t write to you earlier, even if I know that your independence makes you immune to my mood swings. Your letter brought my smile back and I had to restrain myself from jumping on an airplane for Finistère to enjoy the calming effect of the ocean spray in your company.
Last night, while I was walking along the Thames, I lost myself in the memory of our meeting in that pub that you found so charming. I remember every detail of our lunch because that was a timeless moment, like the time we spent in Brittany or Lozère.
And of course, this morning, I woke up too early.
The air was charged with that morning pollution that fills the city when there are several hot days in a row and I decided to clean my London apartment. When everything was tidy, its stark character jumped to my eyes. I thought again of my house in Lozère and of your Breton cottage and I understood that this place is lacking the warmth that would make it welcoming.
Something has made me see the world through new eyes. When I was a child, my mother told me that we could tell we were growing older when we changed glasses. Up until I was a teenager, I believed she was talking about our sight, which diminishes with age. And then one day, when she saw me spending time with Betty, a classmate, she reminded me that three months earlier, I had called that girl dreadfully annoying.
She smiled and said to me: “So, my son, you’ve changed glasses … Congratulations!”
For a few weeks now, Maggy, I have had new glasses. Thanks to them, I have the courage to look behind me, and I feel it is time to reconnect with the people I love and without whom I can no longer picture my future. I know that you’ll understand and that you’ll forgive me for not having spoken sooner about this past that holds me back.
I think of you very often and I hope that I accompany you sometimes in your morning strolls along the coastal paths … Your fragrance indelibly filled the London streets and the aroma follows me each time I walk through the city.
Tenderly,
William
from Anne-Lise to David
RUE DES MORILLONS, AUGUST 31, 2016
Dear David,
Thank you for the information you gave me. I’ve just called Les Collines, but of course the secretary refuses to give me the information over the phone. The only way to obtain Elvire’s contact information is to visit the director, and even then, they warned me that she is not in the habit of giving out the information of her residents. But I am counting on the extraordinary nature of my request to persuade her.
Reading your letter, I see you are not aware of the illness that has struck Madame Grant. She has lived for several years in a home that specializes in the treatment of those with Alzheimer’s, a half hour away from the place where she lived when you saw her for the last time. It would seem that over the years since you left, her memories were erased bit by bit until she fully succumbed seven years ago.
I met her last month and she had the distant demeanor of a person who moves around in life having forgotten how or why she wound up there. She emerged from her lethargy only one time: when she noticed the manuscript sitting on the table, she uttered your name. Do you know what that means? There are attachments so strong that they survive in our memories as if they were physically imprinted in each cell of our bodies …
I don’t know what your reaction will be when you read this, but I couldn’t leave you in the dark about these facts. Maybe you have suffered from no one sharing updates with you, and that is why. I am basing this on the principle that the reality, as upsetting as it is, is always preferable to the endless questioning caused by our brains with more or less reason.
This information is not the only reason for writing you. I am regularly in contact with her son, William, who will soon ask to meet you. Since I know how rapidly you refuse such requests, I’m asking you to give William Grant’s more consideration. I think you will both gain something from speaking about a woman who mattered in your lives.
I seem to be meddling in something that is none of my business (and in fact that’s exactly what I’m doing), but for reasons that even I can’t explain, I am convinced that this text has a power that’s bigger than us and I am trying to keep it going through my small means and my naïve advice.
You should know that since I learned of your existence and of the place where you are, I often think of you. I realized this is the first time that I’ve met (even if only through words on a page) an individual imprisoned in the wake of such crimes (I mean the burglaries and the holdup). I’ve only known two people who were charged with a crime, and one of them was given a suspended sentence. Both were businessmen who had dabbled in embezzlement for their professional advantage. I draw a distinction between them and your situation: even if I suspect they stole larger sums than you did, they know nothing of the terror one feels walking into a bank with a gun in their hand. They put their signatures on illegal certificates, or authorized money withdrawals from accounts that didn’t belong to them; but the risks that they took posed no threat to their physical well-being.
Up until to
day, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine writing letters back and forth with a man who had committed violent theft. But William read me a few excerpts from your letters that he found at his mother’s house and I realized I am more sympathetic to your story than to those other two people I mentioned.
The truth is that despite the wrongdoings you are guilty of, I’m sorry that we weren’t able to meet, and I am certain it could have marked the beginning of a friendship. If this feeling is shared, don’t hesitate to write to me; I will happily respond. I know that you still have a year left behind bars. It might take that long for me to recount for you all the adventures associated with this book that led me to contacting you. You will be surprised by all the twists and turns.
I hope you have the best day possible (meaning: when bars deprive us of contact with nature and our only occupation is packaging scented candles).
Warm regards,
Anne-Lise Briard
P.S. They say there will be one more day of this heat wave … do you have air-conditioned rooms in prison? If not, how cruel to have you wrap up candles in this temperature!
P.P.S. Have you thought of writing a novel about your life? If so, don’t hesitate to keep me updated—I know editors who might be interested. In fact, I even know publishing houses that could publish a lovely book on scented candles for the year-end festivities …
from Maggy to William
POINTE DES RENARDS, SEPTEMBER 2, 2016
Dear William,
Yesterday I went for a three-hour walk along the water and you can be glad I did. If I hadn’t forced myself to do so, I would have responded to you right away and you would have seen what an angry woman is capable of writing!
You know nothing about my desire for independence or the care I can feel for people with whom I correspond, but you will learn today that I loathe lies and withholding of information. Your letter is perhaps exemplary in England, but I am past the age of relishing your “tenderly” when you inform me that you are going to reconnect with your past, which no doubt includes a woman (don’t tell me there are several!) and one or two children … When we reach the half-century mark, we all have a past that we drag behind us with more or less regret, but I believe we must remain honest and not allow ourselves to forget it in one moment only to then use it as protection the next moment.
I imagine you thought, quite arrogantly, that your natural charm had worked its magic on me, the poor solitary and exiled woman. Think again! I am vaccinated against the beauty and cheap compliments of men, and the distance you excuse yourself for taking without much tact will not disrupt my walks, nor my five o’clock tea …
I congratulate you for your big spring cleaning and your new glasses—they must suit you marvelously and will be able to provide your gray irises with the insight that they currently lack. Thanks to them, you will have opened your eyes for another reason than that of seducing your entourage, and I encourage you to continue down that road.
From now on, you will no longer have to hammer me with half-truths or allusions to a tenderness that did not exist between us, both because we’ve known each other for very little time and because we know nothing of each other’s respective pasts. If we have to see each other again, which would only happen through the intervention of our mutual friend, keep your distance, and be direct about your former or present attachments. You will then gain a sincere and faithful friend.
When I started writing to you, I thought I might tell you about the tragedy that influenced my life choices. But I won’t now. That information is no longer relevant to our platonic relationship. You’ll note the sharp tone I’m using today. You know, we Bretons are reserved people, with round and supple contours. We are not of a difficult nature, because our regional survival depends on the ability to accept others and their differences. Brittany is a welcoming land, and this fact has been inscribed over time in our genes. Nevertheless, when we feel betrayed or ridiculed, we transform, all our angles come out, more cutting than Ushant rocks. Don’t hold this purely hereditary reaction against me.
I’m still your friend, and I wish you the happiness that you deserve.
Warm regards,
Maggy
from David to Anne-Lise
AVENUE DU MOULIN-DE-LA-JASSE, SEPTEMBER 5, 2016
Hello Anne-Lise,
Thank you.
Thank you for telling me all of this.
Thank you for rekindling the pain of sentiments that I thought had gone out forever, which allows me to feel alive once again.
You were right, I had no idea about all of Denise’s health problems, since I cut off contact with her after my sentence was pronounced. Knowing that I would be imprisoned for a decade, I chose to break the strong bond that had united us. How absurd that my sentencing, the longest I ever received, came at the very moment when I decided to change my life … But it was out of the question to drag such a wonderful woman down with me. I knew that she would be ready to leave everything to support me during my struggle. She would have lost her friends and her family only to end up alone in the world, the victim of an impossible love that would have brought her no reward.
I am not a good man. I never was, except perhaps when I was by her side. Despite my desire to keep her close to me, I couldn’t bring myself to plunge her into that hell. I decided to preserve her future despite her wishes, and I destroyed all her letters without ever opening a single one. I refused her visits to prison and I prayed for her to find peace with her family, if not with the love that we had lost and which happens only once in life.
After reading your letter, I understood that in my attempt to behave like an honest man, I had caused her misfortune. I am the source of that illness, and so my sacrifice was in vain. That woman didn’t forget me: five words that drag me into a whirlwind of emotions. The absurd joy of learning that she still thought of me, the pain of knowing that perhaps I could have relieved her suffering, and the depression, of going back to a life that caused nothing but harm to those who crossed my path.
A few days ago I received her son’s visit request. I accepted and invited him to come with Denise. Can you please help me and insist that he bring his mother with him? I know that this place is not suited for a woman who has already suffered so much, but I think that her illness will be able to protect her from the negative influence that a prison exerts over sensitive souls. And if it’s true that our love has survived, perhaps it can give her the strength to reconnect with our world? I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming and I’m fully aware of it. I would just like to finally do something good and preserve the memory for the day when I leave.
While I’m waiting for my release from prison (which might be early because of my age and a few health concerns), I would be delighted to continue writing to you if the idea of corresponding with a criminal doesn’t bother you.
On this note, I have to tell you the truth, at risk of steering your inventiveness to less romantic roads. I am just a thief, Anne-Lise; I never entered a jewelry store with a gun in my hand and I never had to use this kind of aggression. If that were the case, I would have received a heavier sentence each time over the years.
I belonged to a vulgar gang who broke into people’s houses and we got our adrenaline rushes from the fear of getting caught when we broke into abandoned villas or when we neutralized, with more or less skill, the alarm systems of small bank offices. Fortunately, we were never confronted by people defending their possessions, because I don’t know how I would have reacted in that situation. Today I can tell myself that deep down in me remained a baseline of humanity that would have kept me from hurting another human for money. I believe it. I can never be certain of it.
For that reason more than any other, I will never write a book about my exploits. I would feel as though I were embellishing acts that had nothing heroic about them and were guided solely by the lure of profit.
Best wishes,
David Aguilhon
from Anne-Lise to Maggy
RUE DES M
ORILLONS, SEPTEMBER 6, 2016
My dear Maggy,
I just received a short note from William. He thanked me for intervening in his favor regarding David Aguilhon, who he will soon meet at the Villeneuve-lès-Maguelone prison.
Guess what? He wants to organize a Christmas party in Lozère! Even Julian doesn’t seem opposed to the idea when he sees the joy it brings his beloved daughter … And you? What do you think?
We will have an opportunity to talk about all of that soon because I think I should come visit you this weekend. I don’t work Monday the 12th or Tuesday the 13th of September, so I could stay four or five days with you. That time will allow us to plan our trip to Belgium and give us a nice break. You know that this is a very busy time at the office, and with age, my neurons require recuperation time after each task. I am aware that by taking breaks I leave the path open for Bastien and his team, but I’m tired. Our nine-year age gap creates a serious rift between our ways of working, and I hate his method just as much as he loathes mine.
So that you’ll understand how we’ve reached the point of no return, I have to tell you about the incident that shook up the office yesterday morning. For the millionth time, Julian had spent the morning listing off the advantages of me staying at home (he must dream of a partner who cooks him breakfast before he leaves for the office). He doesn’t understand that I complain about the pressure I face at the office to then attach myself to my job as to a life preserver. Anyway, I was still furious when I woke up Monday morning and I burned his toast before leaving (inadvertently, I assure you, but his housewife fantasies must have evaporated when he bit into the char).
As soon as I walk into the office, I find out that Bastien has moved up the meeting by one hour because of an urgent trip to Geneva. So there I am, walking into the big room, all eyes on me and the mocking air of my cousin who is surprised that I didn’t receive his message (sent to my professional e-mail at eleven-thirty the night before!). With that, he grabs his cell phone, turns around sighing toward the minute taker, and invites him to share with me the decisions that I missed! I responded that not knowing the gossip of the other departments would not stop me from working efficiently this week. Of course, he acted as though he hadn’t heard me and continued to smile at his phone screen. I don’t know why, but my mind went to his coffee, that Guatemala Antigua that he keeps talking about and that he buys every morning at Starbucks with the sole aim of seeming hip. I walked up to him, I took his new iPhone from his hands, and I plunged it giddily into the bottom of his XXL cup … Everyone present stood there with their mouths gaping. I left with as much dignity as possible, followed by Ingrid, my assistant, who I could hear snickering behind me. Bastien’s shouts followed me to my office and included the two adjectives “hysterical” and “stark raving mad” which, by the way, are justified given the price of the phone in question. At least he will be forced to endure a few hours without being glued to his Twitter feed!
The Lost Manuscript Page 10
