I know it was a bit much, to speak like my children, and I didn’t dare brag about my exploits at home, of course. But I regret nothing. I think that many of our employees rather enjoyed my gesture even if they would never admit it.
And so I need to distance myself from my mailbox and from my phone for a while. In fact I’m awaiting a call from the director of the center in Montpellier where David found the manuscript. You can imagine how anxious I am when I check my voicemail at all hours of the day …
Anyway, a break is clearly necessary …
In anticipation of your invitation (forced, I know), I am already packing my suitcase and I await your confirmation via telephone (or a call from Agatha if it’s too much to ask).
Kisses,
Lisou
P.S. While I’m thinking of it: Katia is in the same class as her friends! I apparently could have been spared from the back-to-school crisis, as I caught whisperings of a certain Yann who sits right in front of her. With a first name like that, I fear the worst. Breton characters can be just as twisted as the trees that weather the storms from the west, and that doesn’t mean anything good for my daughter …
from Anne-Lise to Sylvestre
RUE DES MORILLONS, SEPTEMBER 7, 2016
Dear Sylvestre,
I am writing to you because it is Wednesday … This might seem surprising, but this day is the most peaceful of all for me.
When my children were young, I was in the habit of organizing my schedule in order to leave work in the middle of the week. Like many women, I filled this day with all the tasks associated with the fortune of being the mother of a family: doctor’s appointments, gymnastics classes, music lessons, birthday parties, and more. It turns out that my children grew up and I choose to ignore this fact. During the school term (and like all good mothers, I welcome the return of classes), the entire household leaves on Wednesday morning. So I feel something close to ecstasy finding myself with all of this solitary free time. I can devote myself to the sin of listening to music or reading without any interruption during this four-hour period. Oh yes, dear Sylvestre, this pleasure is limited since my daughter comes home from high school at noon and fills the space with repeated attacks aimed at her professors before reorganizing the entire French school system in her own fashion.
Be that as it may, here I am in the eye of the cyclone, and I’m taking advantage of this calm to share my latest inquiries with you. First: Do you think a woman could be the author of the end of your book? Second: Is it all right for me to contact the director of the nursing home again if she continues to ignore me?
I was very clear with her secretary. She insisted on the confidential nature of this information and I had to promise to wait for the director to contact me before bothering her again. What if she’s hung me out to dry?
You know that patience is not my best quality: so I have decided to go to Maggy’s for a few days to clear my head. For the sake of total honesty, I confess that I am also going there to check on my best friend’s well-being. Do you remember how we both joked last month about the attraction between her and our host? I was wrong. Maggy is definitely closed off to love affairs. She just called me from the hotel to confirm that she is expecting me and told me that she will be spending Christmas on the island of Guernsey and so cannot come to Lozère … Since she didn’t mention William once in those fifteen minutes, it seems like we can forget about that fling!
I am counting at least on your presence at Belle Poelle for the New Year. I would be delighted to introduce you to my husband as well as to my son who, urged by his sister, will join us for the New Year’s party.
That’s it for the Wednesday report, dear Sylvestre. I’m waiting for your advice with impatience. While I’m gone, I’ve left my daughter in charge of answering the phone and she has instructions to give your number to the director of the center in Montpellier if she calls. I will be unreachable for several days since cell phones and other means of communication are strictly forbidden at Maggy’s. So please, turn off your answering machine and pick up your calls!
Looking forward to your response,
Anne-Lise
P.S. For anything urgent regarding our search, you can always call the Beau Rivage Hotel. Ask for Agathe, who is up to speed about everything and will get in touch with me …
from William to Maggy
GREAT PETER STREET, SEPTEMBER 11, 2016
Maggy,
I found your letter last night when I returned from London and I spent the evening and a large part of the night pacing back and forth in my living room. Fortunately, the English courtesy that you reproached me for obliged me to take off my shoes so as not to disturb the sleep of my neighbors. That way I could freely trample both the softness of my carpet and the severity of your words.
Since I no longer had access to the letter that made you so angry, I had to search for how I could have hurt you so much by studying the list of your accusations. If I spoke of your desire for independence, it was not at all a criticism, but rather a limitless admiration for the life that you lead. I beg you to excuse my clumsiness for deforming the meaning of my words. I don’t typically write in French to people dear to me, so perhaps you can forgive me for my poor turns of phrase.
In regard to your comment about the number of wives and children, I can answer you honestly. I was only married once (but if you want me to confess, I have in fact been with other women). Her name was Moïra … she passed away in 2008. We had a daughter, Laura, who now lives with her grandparents and refuses to see me. I don’t know if I should tell you any more, but if you would like, you can ask Anne-Lise, who knows all about my past. I don’t think I deserved such judgment by keeping quiet about a painful life, but it’s true that I was afraid of disappointing you by revealing to you the parts of my past that I am not so proud of.
In that regard, perhaps I do deserve the grief that you gave me.
However, it isn’t fair to be angry with me for trying to win you over you when I always felt deprived of affection when we spent time together! I never wanted to disrupt your strolls or your five o’clock tea through the simple fact of my existence or through how much I care about you. If I let slip a sign of contentment, it was that hope you stirred in me by welcoming me into your refuge that you had said was closed to all. How can you so easily neglect the lovely moments we shared in London and in Brittany? What happened to that natural and obvious connection? And our walk back from Roscoff, at night, strolling along the coast from one lighthouse to another, was it nothing but an illusion?
I’m reading your words over and over and I don’t understand anything, Maggy, especially not your accusation about my lies or my withholding of the truth. I won’t offend you by saying that I never lie, but I can assure you that in your presence I never said anything that wasn’t rigorously exact or truly felt. Like that “tenderly” which so irritated you and which escaped from me, it’s a fact, revealing the attachment I feel for you that I should have kept to myself if I’m to believe your bitterness.
To finish this plea (and this term, which is not premeditated, testifies to the brutality of your accusations), I must explain that the new glasses I’m wearing (which you brutally removed from my head) were nothing but a projection of what my future could have been had you shared my feelings. I will remove them now, since it’s clear that you want me to. So feel free to join in any future reunions we might organize in Lozère without fearing the least demonstration of affection on my part.
William
P.S. You didn’t deem it useful to share your own secrets with me. So be it. In your case, it’s simply a matter of contempt for me and not a matter of not wanting to share with me …
P.P.S. I just bought some stamps and was struck by the front page of the newspapers. I know your passion for photography and it reminded me of our conversations about the snapshots celebrating a dramatic birthday that no one would forget. I hate the outpouring of media that transforms us into voyeurs of individual tragedie
s. However, I couldn’t take my eyes off of one of the photos. It depicted a man, alone, the morning of the disaster. He was among the wreckage. His hands were in his pockets and nothing in his expression evoked the horror he had just witnessed. He could have been cut out and placed, in the same position, in front of a magnificent seaside landscape. And so you see, Maggy, that image unsettled me.
from Sylvestre to Anne-Lise
LES CHAYETS, SEPTEMBER 12, 2016
For the first time, I’m the one leading the dance, and I’m proud of it. While you take advantage of the sea air to clear your head (and believe me, it can only be good for you, I’ll tell you why later), I’ve just received a call from Madame Cartier, the director of the rehabilitation center outside of Montpellier.
She refused to give me the name or the contact information of the famous Elvire, whom David met in 1994 in her establishment, over the phone. When I tried to explain my request, she cut me off point-blank, arguing that she was not paid to discuss novels during her work hours! Quite unexpectedly, I insisted, and offered to go to the South to tell her about my situation in person. She agreed to meet with me, reserving the right to help or not depending on what I told her.
I am going to figure this out very quickly because I leave tomorrow for Montpellier. I have a five o’clock meeting and I am more determined than ever.
You haven’t said anything (and for good reason!), but I’d like to think that you are impressed by how easily I’ve resumed your mission. Here I am prepared to leave northern Île-de-France, where I had retreated from the world, to meet a stranger in the deep South and to convince her to break the fundamental rule of confidentiality. I am going to use all my skills of persuasion (it’s too bad that I don’t possess the charm of our English friend) to make her tell me the story.
So that’s the next step in this adventure, dear Anne-Lise, and please, don’t abuse poor Maggy, and avoid any reference to her trip to the Anglo-Norman island. Seriously! Where did your legendary understanding of the female mind fly off to? The choice of that quasi-British destination doesn’t seem surprising to you? I will let you reflect on all this, and we will discuss it as soon as I’m back from the South. In the meantime, please, don’t meddle too much in the matters of Maggy’s heart and for once, please, trust me!
More very soon, to introduce you to our Waldo, whom I will deliver on a platter,
Sylvestre
from Anne-Lise to Sylvestre
RUE DES MORILLONS, SEPTEMBER 14, 2016
Dear Sylvestre,
This weekend in Brittany rejuvenated me. I was so happy to rediscover our carefree teenage habits at our age! Over the course of those four days, we imagined our ideal world as we used to do thirty years ago. We fell back into our hysterical fits of laughter and forgot our daily worries. Of course, we spoke a great deal of your manuscript. We imagined you at twenty years old, in love to the point of making impassioned declarations, and we were in agreement on one thing: we would have swooned over the dark, handsome stranger you must have been at the time. I don’t know what you would have done with two teenage groupies hanging on your coattails, but this belated declaration will warm your heart, I have no doubt! If you go to Brittany one day, ask Maggy to show you her photo albums; you will see how irresistible we were thirty years ago …
This afternoon, as soon as I got back, I called you and had to have a conversation with your answering machine … which you were supposed to have unplugged. After I opened my mail I realized you had left for the South of France. I am very proud of the way you’ve taken the reins and I’m impatiently waiting for the story of your progress. If you wish to replace me in this quest, at least do it with magnanimity and tell me everything.
On that note, you should know that your (understandable!) fears concerning my lack of insight into the female mind are unfounded: I refused to interrogate Maggy on the subject of her love affairs. It’s true, that choice of an English-language destination surprised me, but William cannot be the reason: we will all be in the Lozère house on that date (by the way, Katia has already set aside a few fantasy novels for you).
To tell you the truth, I get the feeling that Maggy is hiding something from me. Even when we were having fun these past few days, I saw worry in her eyes, a tiny grain of sand that partially veiled her sparkle. Have you noticed how obtuse we can be when we try to understand the people that we love? It’s almost as if our understanding was handicapped by too much proximity, like how our sight becomes blurry when we look at an object from too close. Your stance will allow you to see things more clearly. Now that I’ve admitted you understand her better, I’m waiting for your analysis with great impatience.
Anne-Lise
P.S. Don’t underestimate yourself, my dear Sylvestre. I promise you that the somber and tormented air you like to put on in all circumstances grants you quite a bit of charm … But I imagine you already knew that, didn’t you?
from Anne-Lise to Maggy
RUE DES MORILLONS, SEPTEMBER 15, 2016
Dear Maggy,
I don’t understand the message you left on my house answering machine at all. Remember that I have a cell phone and I’ve given you the number three times: the point of this technological innovation is in fact to be reachable when we are not at home!
What is going on? And what was so urgent that you had to go to Agathe’s to use a device that you still have not mastered? Although your tirade was cut off before the end, I grasped the most important thing: you are angry that I knew information about William that I hid from you. If I know parts of his past that you don’t, it’s probably because I made the effort to ask him questions, so don’t be mad at me for my silence regarding facts about which you never expressed interest! And if you want to know more, you will have to stop acting indifferent. On that note, I refuse from now on to respond to your questions in writing. Since you are capable of calling to blame me, you will have to repeat the exploit to feed your curiosity.
I will stop my critiques here, which, of course, are only teasing. Your message did not bother me, it frightened me. The trembling voice I heard didn’t match the cheerful friend I left yesterday morning in Brittany. Although I sensed during my stay that something was worrying you, it seemed that I underestimated its importance, and that blindness is not worthy of a friend. So please, Maggy, call me back as soon as you can and I will tell you anything you’d like in order to ease both your pain and your anger.
Your friend, who is still here despite your anger.
Big kisses,
Lisou
P.S. You won’t believe it, but Sylvestre left for Montpellier to meet the director of the center I contacted! Soon our misanthropic hermit will become more sociable than a politician in need of votes … I have to say that such a sudden transformation makes me a bit nervous. Don’t you think that man has a bit of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in him?
from Sylvestre to Anne-Lise
LES CHAYETS, SEPTEMBER 15, 2016
I returned yesterday and it’s my turn to give you a report of the events.
I didn’t sleep a wink Monday night, I was so excited at the idea of nearing our goal. I paced in circles and reread the end of the manuscript, asking myself if those lines could have been written by a woman.
Unfortunately I still know nothing about that today …
On Tuesday I left very early and was in Montpellier by one o’clock (don’t mock my “SNCF timetable” style, you’re the one who asked for all the details). I killed time in a café a bit farther down the street. I ate a sandwich, which I hadn’t done since I was working in Paris, and I struck up a conversation with the waitress. Perhaps she thought I was a future resident (my tormented air must be marvelously suited for that kind of place), since she willingly described for me the life of the sick, the kindness of the doctors, and the beauty of the garden (she must have worked for a tourist office once). She described a comforting place, and if the term appeared curious to me at the time, it’s exactly what came to mind two hours later wh
en I was standing at the front desk. Of course, I was early: I thought this would show my determination, and before sitting down in the waiting room, I reminded the secretary that I had come from far away for this meeting.
You would have liked Madame Cartier, the Director. The capital letter is intentional. Opposite her, any normally constituted individual would feel inferior: she is as tall as me with broader shoulders. Her voice is very deep, almost masculine, and her eyes penetrate you so deeply that before she even opens her mouth, you are ready to confess all the sins you’ve committed since you were four years old … However, despite this intimidating presence, she makes you feel comfortable and makes you wish she were your best friend.
We walked through the garden and she showed me the center as if I were thinking of staying there … For you to understand who we’re dealing with, I will tell you an anecdote. While we were talking about the surrounding trees (you know that’s a subject I never tire of), I saw her face transform for a fraction of a second. By the time I turned my head to follow her gaze, she had taken off in an Olympic sprint to reach a resident who was sobbing on a bench. I then saw her get down on her knees at the feet of this young woman and grab her hands, speaking in a low voice. Then she whispered a few words in her ear and took out a tissue from her pocket to dry her cheeks. When she came back to me, she had regained all her spirit, and the ailing woman, walking away toward the building, seemed relieved. You see, Anne-Lise, in this world there are individuals who exist who make us feel very small, literally and metaphorically.
The Lost Manuscript Page 11
