The Lost Manuscript

by Cathy Bonidan

  I’m thinking of going back to London at the end of the week, after I see a former colleague exiled to Quebec and have dinner with Elvire, who is interested in my poker playing and would like to hear a few anecdotes about my most recent tournaments.

  In any event, it will be a pleasure to scold Sylvestre (with your help I’m sure) as soon as he reappears.

  Hugs,

  William

  P.S. Don’t tell Maggy that we’re corresponding by e-mail now; she will lose respect for us.

  from Claire Laurent-Mallard to Anne-Lise Briard

  CLAIRELAURENT@FREE.FR

  ROUTE DE COURMAS, SEPTEMBER 30, 2016

  Madame Briard,

  I am responding to you using this name, since that’s the one you used in your letter, but imagine the expression on my editor’s face when he noticed your envelope with that heading among the mail he receives for me each day!

  I would have given anything to be there at that moment and take a photo. He called me immediately after (at least I hope) and when I swore that I had never met you, he continued to get himself worked up on the other end of the line. I ended up giving him permission to open the envelope and read me what was inside so that he would calm down.

  From that point on, my face was frozen in shock! To rediscover a text I thought had disappeared or been abandoned at the back of a closet thirty years ago, and to learn that it had journeyed from hand to hand to eventually arrive in your own: I don’t know whether I should laugh or cry! Of course, hearing about a manuscript I had seemingly hidden from my editor launched him into accusations that I refused to respond to for a long time. I promised to explain everything to him once I had contacted you, but I immediately warned him that I had no right to this story, to which I had only brought a modest contribution thirty years ago.

  Even if I come off as a bit detached, in reality this novel holds great importance for me. It has a very special place in my heart and I could, even thirty years later, recite passages to you from memory … That’s why I will come to Paris. You told me you’ll be away from October 8th to the 13th, so I’m inviting you to meet me Wednesday the 5th, at noon, in the restaurant whose name is below. It doesn’t look like much but the food is very good, and most importantly, it is a nice, calm place for when you want to have a conversation in peace.

  I am delighted to read and reread the copy of your letter sent to me as an attachment by my editor. I cannot wait to hear more and to find out your role in this affair.

  Looking forward to meeting you,

  Yours,

  Claire Laurent-Mallard

  P.S. The restaurant reservation will be in my name, important to note in case you arrive there first. Of course, I am not informing anyone of our meeting, certainly not my editor. I like him a lot, despite all his faults, and I refuse to be the cause of one of those fainting spells he is so fond of and which he generally blames one of his authors for, thinking that guilt spurs our writing.

  from Anne-Lise to William

  ALISE.BRIARD@YAHOO.FR

  RUE DES MORILLONS, OCTOBER 1, 2016

  Dear William,

  I followed your advice and everything is happening very quickly: I have a meeting with Claire Laurent-Mallard on Wednesday. I used my maiden name, which is also, as you know, that of a Parisian publishing house. It goes without saying that this sped up our conversation …

  Claire told me that this novel holds a special place in her heart. It was after all the beginning of her career, but I cannot help myself from thinking, perhaps foolishly, that there exists a stronger link behind all of this.

  You deserve to experience the developing of this adventure at our sides, William, and so I’m inviting you to come to Paris to hear the story from Claire herself. I also invited Maggy (don’t worry, I have two guest rooms now that my older son has left to pursue his studies in the country and you can avoid each other, except perhaps in the hallway that leads to the bathroom since it is very narrow, but if necessary, we will establish precise hours of moving about).

  To simplify your cohabitation, I lied to my friend. I promised her that she would have no more reason to fear your affection because you had told me that you had been seduced by a certain Elvire, who turned out to be more vulnerable to your charm. Given her change of mood (very noticeable at the other end of the line) and the questions she asked me about her, I am now sure of her feelings. Up to you to see how you will use this information. Nevertheless, allow me to give you a piece of advice: let this doubt linger between you two for a bit and maintain my lie by speaking of Elvire more than necessary. I adore Maggy, but she needs an electroshock to own up to her feelings.

  No matter your decision, a room awaits you here. Also, you should know that Claire Laurent-Mallard has just accepted my suggestion that I come with two friends on Wednesday.

  Hoping you arrive in time,

  Hugs,

  Anne-Lise

  P.S. In fact, what is your relationship with Elvire? I noticed that you spent time alone and I hope that the lie I constructed to make Maggy jealous has no basis in reality …

  from William to Anne-Lise

  WILLYGRANT@GMAIL.COM

  MONTREAL, OCTOBER 2, 2016

  Dear Anne-Lise,

  I will be at Roissy Tuesday morning at 8:25 A.M. If that works for you, I will stop at your house first to leave my suitcase (I am thrilled to see you again, as well as Katia and Maggy, and to meet your husband). I will go with you to the restaurant and I thank you for inviting me to meet the author we have been waiting to meet for so long. Thanks also for all that you wrote me. I am happy and it has nothing to do with Elvire.

  Kisses,

  William

  P.S. I have a few meetings to get to in Brussels, so I can make the trip with you to our Belgian capital if you are still taking your trip to Belgium (and of course if Maggy does not get mad).

  from Anne-Lise to William

  ALISE.BRIARD@YAHOO.FR

  RUE DES MORILLONS, OCTOBER 2, 2016

  Dear William,

  What to say? Can’t wait for Tuesday!

  However, I won’t be at the house to welcome you because I still have to go to the office from time to time … if only to annoy my cousin and mark my territory.

  But have no fear, Maggy will be waiting for you …

  See you Tuesday night at the house,

  Hugs,

  Anne-Lise

  from Anne-Lise to David

  RUE DES MORILLONS, OCTOBER 5, 2016

  Dear David,

  As promised, I will tell you the end of the story that brought us all together. This afternoon, I dined with the long-awaited author (a woman!). Even in my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more fitting end to this adventure.

  I already told you that Sylvestre lost his manuscript in 1983, while he was on a trip to Quebec. While he was passing through, he had planned to leave the first part of his novel in Montreal, with a friend who worked in the literary world. He was hoping to get an impartial opinion (if that exists) on his text before writing the end. Unfortunately, when his plane landed, the bag that contained the text had disappeared, and after a few fruitless searches, Sylvestre abandoned all hope of finding it again. For more than thirty years, he had no idea that an attentive passenger had sent it to his friend. Why didn’t the friend tell Sylvestre he had received it? That question remains unanswered for the moment.

  On the other hand, we have finally learned the reality hidden behind the novel. In 1982, while Sylvestre was harvesting grapes in Champagne, he fell in love with the daughter of the vineyard owners. That was Claire Laurent-Mallard, the author we met this afternoon. The same summer, Sylvestre met Achille Gauthier, the famous Quebecois, who was staying in one of the guesthouses connected to the farm. The man had moved to France for three months to write a book on French vineyards. Over the course of those days, he got on well with Sylvestre, then became his confidant and the sole witness to the budding love affair.

  That came to an end with autumn, w
hen Sylvestre had to return to Paris for university. Aware of their youth and warned of the inconstancy of promises we make at that age, the two lovers decided it was easier not to confront the social differences between their two lives, and never saw each other again. Sylvestre chose to soothe his sadness with writing while Claire believed she had simply been forgotten.

  What happened next we learned from Claire herself, who was surprised one day to receive an envelope containing the start of Sylvestre’s novel.

  Achille probably gave her these pages because he wanted her to be aware of the depth of the young man’s feelings. He hoped to reunite the two young people to give their love a second chance. What he didn’t know is that, in the meantime, Claire had developed an illness of an uncertain fate (during our meeting, she didn’t want to say any more about it and we respected her discretion). Not wanting to reveal the gravity of her state to Sylvestre, she hoped to preserve the manuscript as a memory of their former love. When the doctors gave her a glimpse of a chance at recovery, she took it as a sign and set about writing the ending. At lunch this afternoon, she used these words: “When I wrote the last period, I knew I was cured; I had no need for medical analysis, I felt my blood pumping through my veins once more like the sap of a tree in spring…”

  In 1987, she received the confirmation of her full recovery and sent the finished text to Achille, thinking he would send it back to Sylvestre … But time had passed. She didn’t know that a car accident had mowed down Achille, killing him on the spot and preventing him from fulfilling his mission as messenger.

  So there you have it, a story as extraordinary as can be. It contains enough plot twists, great passions, and missed opportunities to give rise to a vital work.

  There’s more. Our Claire has hidden for years behind the pseudonym of Laurent MacDrall, which you must be familiar with if you are a big reader. This afternoon, when William wanted to know whether this discovery would inspire another novel, she responded, with a certain forcefulness, that it was out of the question and that she had written the end, at that time, with the sole aim of moving Sylvestre to return to Champagne. The tragedy is that during all this time, she thought he had received his manuscript but hadn’t deemed it a good idea to get back in touch with her. I wouldn’t know how to describe her face when she realized that he had only just been reunited with it and that he had remained very attached to it.

  Next, we had to tell Claire that Sylvestre had disappeared on the day he learned her identity. She was quiet for the rest of the meal and, before leaving, told us that she knew of two places where he might have chosen to hide. Refusing to reveal any more to us, she asked for a few days to verify her suspicions. She promised to keep us updated and embraced us all.

  When she left the restaurant, she had been rejuvenated to such an extent that I thought I saw her skip in the street (perhaps the effect of the champagne). I remember writing to you about those feelings that seem imprinted on each cell of our bodies. I believe the love that bound (and my sixth sense tells me I shouldn’t speak in the past tense) Sylvestre and Claire is of the same nature as the love you shared with Denise.

  Today, a new couple forms under my roof and, if the protagonists follow their own winding paths before giving in, I can promise you that the outcome is already written somewhere. Strangely, it is only as teenagers that we plunge into love as if we were going to die the next day. The older we get, the more we hem and haw; as if time no longer mattered. Isn’t it funny?

  If all my predictions turn out to be true, we will have more to celebrate than the new year. But perhaps I am inclined to believe in romance more than the average person because of my profession (I will tell you more about that in person, so I can have the pleasure of seeing you smile when I do).

  In the meantime, I am impatiently awaiting Sylvestre’s return and the joy of preparing the New Year’s festivities when we will finally meet.

  Best wishes,

  Hugs,

  Anne-Lise

  from Anne-Lise to Maggy

  RUE DES PIERRES, BRUSSELS, OCTOBER 9, 2016

  My dear Maggy,

  You will find this letter Thursday, returning home after our marvelous escapade in Belgium. Tonight the words come easily to the page as I hear you humming in the shower a few feet from the walnut desk where I’m writing. How long has it been since your looks, your smiles, your gestures have exuded so much tranquility?

  “Not since Richard died” you will respond without hesitation! I will not contradict you, but I know deep down that you have never been so radiant. Yes, even during your time with the man you call the love of your life and from whom you would never dare strip this title because death donned him with a halo he didn’t possess in his lifetime …

  For me, the love of your life is named William. Not only because he’s a beautiful person inside and out and because I get along with him as if we were childhood friends, but also because he came into your life when you had found serenity again and you had no need for anyone to support you. That’s why this love is perfect. Because it’s happening at the right moment of your life, when you’re not waiting for anything other than what he has to offer you: happiness in every moment.

  I am quickly sealing this envelope before you come out of the bathroom.

  Don’t ever forget that I love you like a sister,

  Lisou

  from Anne-Lise to William

  RUE DES PIERRES, BRUSSELS, OCTOBER 9, 2016

  Dear William,

  You were dying to accompany us to Brussels, and even though we begged you, you understood that we needed this time for us women and I appreciate that. Don’t worry, during this short trip I will survey Maggy’s comings and goings and make sure no Belgian distracts her attention …

  In all honesty, it’s not every day we cross paths with poker players with irresistible gazes, not even in Brussels … Maggy is smart enough to have realized this in time and to have made a step toward you before you fell completely under Elvire’s powers!

  We will confess our lie to her at Christmas, when she meets the Canadian woman … Although … Perhaps I should instead ask Elvire to play along? That will keep us both from having to confront Maggy’s fury when she learns about our dishonesty. That would also guarantee you her constant attention for the entire trip. Believe me, it is adorable to watch you two in the corner feigning an indifference that no one believes and which we all talk about as soon as your backs are turned.

  I am happy to learn that Claire found Sylvestre. I will enjoy this weekend more now that I know where they are. I have to stop writing now because the hairdryer in the bathroom has just stopped and I don’t want Maggy to know about our secret correspondence!

  More very soon,

  Your friend,

  Anne-Lise

  P.S. I’ve started addressing you formally again. I think I’ll keep it up for a bit longer. The courteous “vous” that you don’t have in English lends French an inestimable value and superiority in its wording. For that reason, I write more joyously to the people I address formally.

  from Claire to Anne-Lise

  ROUTE DE COURMAS, OCTOBER 11, 2016

  Dear Anne-Lise,

  I am back on my home turf. I spent all my autumns here. Writing. In this attic that I fixed up years ago and where I piled up all the books that mattered. In the distance, there’s still a slight haze over the ground that obscures the vines that surround the house. I’m not bothered by it, I already know the colors of the vines when the light penetrates to the heart of the forgotten bunches, and I savor this blur that is synonymous with a big part of my life.

  I was twenty when my vision brutally deteriorated. That’s how they found the tumor. For several years, I lived without being able to see more than two feet in front of me. People were imprecise silhouettes, recognizable through their gestures or their gaits. I got used to imagining everything I couldn’t recognize. Based on scents, colors, contours, the suddenness of movements, or the gentleness of words, I began reinv
enting the people around me. Then, naturally, I wrote their story. The distance was manageable; just over a foot from the page, I was able to forget my illness.

  I was sent Sylvestre’s manuscript when I had just been given my sentence. Two days earlier, I would have taken the train and rushed to Paris to find him again. Instead, I confided in Achille, and I begged him to keep quiet about my circumstances. I waited. Things would eventually come to an end, good or bad. When I lost my hair, I stopped going to university and started correspondence courses. In the beginning, my friends came to the house. I had nothing to say to them. The tumor was all I could think about, and it’s not a conversation topic for young people who have their lives ahead of them. So I took refuge in my attic and sank into my memories. We think that at twenty years old, we don’t have any memories. That’s false. I even wonder if they were all already there by that point. I don’t think I’ve had any new ones since. No doubt because of my failing sight, which prevented me from retaining images. Or else I simply forgot. Unless the doctors left a small piece of the tumor attached to my memory. Who knows.

  When the illness was at its worst, finishing Sylvestre’s text allowed me to keep him by my side. Him alone. I kept the others at a distance. My loved ones were torn apart by fear and guilt. You know, parents always think they’re responsible for everything that happens to their child. And so I learned not to speak of death. I learned to live, intensely, the color of the vines and the sweetness of spring. I learned to savor, without restraint, the violence of the wind that snakes between the vines and whistles when colliding with the stalks. I learned to love men and their strength, their weaknesses too, in every moment. I spoke less about the uncertain tomorrows and spoke of more distant futures.

  I finished Sylvestre’s novel. It took me four years. The morning I wrote the last word, looking outside, the vines seemed more alive. I knew that I was cured. As soon as the medical results confirmed my remission, I wrote to Sylvestre’s former landlady and got his address. Then I rushed there. I waited several hours at the bottom of his building, our book in my hand. He arrived. On his arm was a young and very beautiful woman. I hid in a café. I hadn’t thought for a single second about that possibility. I had put the last few years in parentheses and I was astonished to find that Sylvestre had continued to live. I returned to Courmas and sent the manuscript back to Achille. I waited. I hoped. I hoped to pick life back up where it had been cut off. I hoped that after reading my ending, Sylvestre would ditch the young woman and come back to Champagne.