The Lost Manuscript

by Cathy Bonidan

  From the attic window, the road is visible in the distance. So for the first time I grabbed those glasses I always refused to wear to bring the horizon closer. I kept watch. I kept watch for him over the course of writing three novels: eight hundred and ten days to be exact. And then I stopped waiting. And living, I think. I sought an editor and I chose to submerge myself into the lives of others.

  Of course, I met men; I even got married, once. After my parents’ deaths, I started to direct the vineyard more remotely, between periods of writing and a few publicity tours in the capital. Fortunately, the personnel do very well without me and only consult me to give me the illusion that I still own this land. I didn’t have any children and the people who work here wish I had. I know. But one does not bear life when the word “relapse” haunts the beginning of every migraine. No, we simply put our glasses on the nightstand and concentrate on what is distinct, near. The present moment.

  What I’m telling you today, Anne-Lise, I told Sylvestre a few days ago. But not everything. No. I didn’t mention the pain of his silence. I didn’t mention my anger after my trip to Paris. I didn’t mention my fear, either. It’s too soon. That’s why I’m telling you all this. Because we never know if we’ll have the chance to go all the way through with our confession and it’s reassuring to know that someone knows, somewhere, and that this person will be able to carry on the memory—as books do.

  As I write to you, I have a smile on my face. I can talk about my death because I am no longer afraid. My life begins again and I see it in a thousand ways according to the light of day or the dark nuances of night. Does everyone do that? Do you, too, amuse yourself predicting a hypothetical future, recasting the roles of the people around you? It’s so new for me …

  Sylvestre told me what you’ve done. How far you went for a story that was not your own. He doesn’t understand. I do. I know that a story can monopolize our summers and our autumns. I know that a novel can transport us far, penetrate and transform us forevermore. I know that characters on paper can modify our memories and remain forever at our sides.

  I wish you a very good night,

  Claire

  from Sylvestre to Anne-Lise

  BEAU RIVAGE HOTEL, LE CONQUET, OCTOBER 13, 2016

  Anne-Lise, nearly six months ago, we wrote to each other for the first time … and I thank you for having sent me this manuscript lost in the drawer of a nightstand. This piece of furniture that reunited us, I’ve caressed it countless times over the course of these last twenty days.

  On September 24th, when my daughter said the name Claire, it was total chaos. It was impossible for me to react because the emotions flooded too quickly for me to choose just one. So I came to the tip of this unfamiliar peninsula, almost at the edge of the void, here where everything began, to take stock of the situation and allow this unfurling to gently wash over me.

  I hadn’t picked up on Claire’s scent. And yet, all the signs were there. She alone could be generous enough to draw a flattering portrait of me as a young man, setting aside my cowardice of the time. Did I dream of finding her at the end of the road? I don’t know. But at the idea of seeing her again and confronting her judgment, I fled. I came to this hotel whose card you gave me and I checked in under a false name. Then I walked … The day after my arrival, I had to jump behind some ferns to avoid Maggy, who I glimpsed at the bend of a path. I hope she won’t be mad at me when she finds out. She understands the need for solitude better than anyone.

  During those days, I followed the wanderings of my mind with my steps. I retraced the path of that imperfect man who had left his land the day of his eighteenth birthday because he had felt hemmed in. At that age, we don’t realize that each step that takes us farther away makes us into a stranger. We don’t leave the land that gave birth to us to take root elsewhere.

  I think back to that brilliant scholar, so full of pride, who would send word to his family of his successes without ever stepping foot back in the country. He thought he would elicit envy and only fostered pity. Over there, no one dreamed of the capital, no one would have traded the tiniest parcel of land or even the tiniest gray pebble for a diploma or a bank account. That man, Anne-Lise, built his life nevertheless. He believed that a house without a foundation could protect him from torment. He was wrong. The main characteristic of these dwellings is that they are at the mercy of every hurricane, every storm, every gust of wind. So his life was at the mercy of that precariousness. He existed on the surface of life without ever reaching the depths. One summer, he met a rooted woman. She was so similar to him. But unlike him, she knew what was important. She refused to leave her vines and her past. So, he made her pay for that loyalty. He left her without a second thought, without realizing her shadow would loom over him for decades.

  One week ago, returning to the hotel, I noticed a silhouette at the front desk. The woman had her back to me. She was playing with her rings and tilting her head in a gesture I would have recognized anywhere. And it was all clear once again. Sufficiently clear in any case for me to walk toward her without hesitation and face her.

  She turned around and smiled at me as if we had seen each other the day before.

  Do I sound like a teenager? Believe me, I’m aware and I’m not at all ashamed. Claire and I spoke the entire night and for the days that followed until she left again for an obligation in Paris. But during those three days, walking at her side, I no longer knew where I was. Nor when. We roamed the Champagne vineyards and I was astonished at the wrinkles on my hands when I extended my arm to show her the countryside. In my head, I was twenty years old …

  A FEW HOURS LATER …

  I was interrupted by Maggy. She just got back from Brussels and found out I was staying a stone’s throw from her home (now I know the recipients of Claire’s words) … She invited me to her place. I confessed to her that the conclusion to our saga had upended my life. Suddenly, I was enchanted by the idea that I had lived only for this moment. That a superior destiny had guided me to this specific day when I would see the love of my youth again.

  Maggy laughed at that idea and dragged me to the edge of the peninsula. The wind was blowing and we had to shout to hear each other. Faced with that unbounded nature, which will survive us for a long time, I understood what she was trying to tell me: in one hundred years, no one will worry about my life or the paths I could have taken. Armed with that certainty, I have no more fear.

  So to begin, I will rewrite this story. Without Claire. And I will send it to a publisher (according to Maggy, we all know one; I don’t know where she gets this absurd idea from). Next, I hope to have the joy of discovering the woman she has become, and I already feel that she will charm me even more than she did as a young girl. I will set about winning her over (please, don’t mock me, it appears that, like riding a bike, we don’t forget how!). And believe me, Anne-Lise, if love comes of this reunion, it will be new. I will not allow the past to steal the enchantment of discovery and uncertainty from us. Destiny does not exist, but I will pretend to believe in it …

  Just now, coming back from the beach, Maggy and I took off our shoes and discussed the value of a grain of sand. That tiny particle that jams up the machine and alters its course. Tonight, on the verge of falling asleep, I think of you as a grain of sand, Anne-Lise, and believe me, there couldn’t be a more pleasant image in my mind.

  Sylvestre

  P.S. Maggy wasn’t mad at me about the ferns; she confessed she’s used this strategy several times over the course of her walks …

  from Anne-Lise to Sylvestre

  RUE DES MORILLONS, OCTOBER 17, 2016

  Dear Sylvestre,

  You deserve my anger and you won’t get away with it! Especially not for calling me a grain of sand when I put you back on the rails that you abandoned thirty years ago. What about your phobia of traveling? Did you forget all about it when you left, without alerting us, to cross the Breton coast? Did you think at all about how worried we might be during your relaxing strolls
on the seaside?

  Anyway. You’ve resumed your novel? It’s about time! I will support you as much as possible in this endeavor. One detail I left out: the business I run with my cousin is the subsidiary of a publishing house that was created by my grandfather. That’s why, Sylvestre, I am equipped to edit your book. Obviously I thought about it when I found your manuscript in the nightstand where it was waiting for me, but I forgot all about my job when I realized the value that the book held for you. So I accompanied you in this quest without any ulterior professional motive—but you knew that already.

  Nevertheless, if that is your wish, I can edit your book, for no other editor will defend it with as much conviction as me. Of course, I would not take offense if you chose to hand yourself over to a stranger (but please, don’t give it to my cousin!), as our friendship has no use for matters of money. The adventure I undertook at your side these last few months has no price; it was the cause of exceptional encounters with many people, the majority of whom have become friends.

  Let’s speak about the celebrations instead. Nahima will come with her son, William will go to Belgium to pick up Ellen Anthon and Hanne Janssen, and his daughter Laura will leave Scotland and ring in 2017 with us. David obtained his leave authorization and as you must already know, Elvire will come from Montreal on December 30 with your daughter. However, Roméo and Julie cannot join us, because they are going on a year-end trip.

  It would be marvelous if you had finished your book by then, so that we have the opportunity to take a peek before you submit it to a publisher …

  There you have it; these few words feel like a conclusion. But that’s not the case. Your novel’s path continues, along with your life path, and I almost envy you, you and Claire, William and Maggy, advancing on tiptoe toward an uncertain future.

  But after all, isn’t the future always unpredictable?

  Your friend from room 128,

  Anne-Lise

  P.S. Despite what I insinuated above, my relations with Bastien have considerably improved since my return from Belgium. We decided to adjust our way of working together. We will go back to the way things were at the beginning, when I joined my father in the family business and he let me create the imprint that gradually became the most important of the company. I will give up a large part of the management responsibilities to my cousin (I recognize that he’s getting off much better than me when it comes to money and status) and I will go back to what I do best: scouting and choosing the books that we will accompany to the shelves of bookstores and libraries to find their readers.

  BELLE POELLE, DECEMBER 31, 2016

  Just hours away from the new year, I am seized by an overpowering need to write. All my favorite correspondents are at my side and so I cannot send them a letter to clarify my thoughts and liberate my spirit. So I’m writing these few pages into the void, without any real recipient, like a teenager writing in her diary.

  My friends and I arrived the night of December 24 and we joyously celebrated Christmas 2016. Sylvestre shared, for the first time, the end of his manuscript, which renders a vibrant homage to the young woman that Claire was thirty years ago. It must be strange to receive such a declaration of love before an audience of strangers. Fortunately for her, she could not join us in time for the public reading. She will discover this version of their story in a few months, when it adorns the shelves of bookstores. That’s her wish.

  To my knowledge, our two authors were very busy these last few weeks and only saw each other twice. The first time in Maggy’s homeland, where Sylvestre had organized a meal at the Beau Rivage Hotel. We spoke of books and the journeys they take us on. We shared the books that have shaped our lives. William and Claire recorded the conversations on their respective phones, Maggy and Sylvestre took out small notebooks from their pockets, Agathe jotted notes in her order pad and I, I’m ashamed to say, preserved the precious advice on a paper napkin adorned with the hotel’s logo … it’s still at the bottom of my bag.

  Over the course of the conversation, I observed my friends. Their faces especially. Those who were exchanging glances, those who were avoiding each other’s eyes. I had an extraordinary time noting what was left unsaid and the various sneaky gestures. The brushing of fingers reaching for the pepper, the hand placed on a trembling shoulder getting up to get another helping of tart (seemingly unaware that there was still a piece on their plate) … Am I turning into a starry-eyed girl?

  The second meeting didn’t grant me as much freedom. It happened at my house on rue des Morillons, and I was so monopolized preparing the meal that I neglected the signs of complicity between my guests. When they had all left, Katia gave me her report: “Did you see how cute they are, all four of them? It’s like they’re afraid of admitting their feelings. Like it’s too big a risk!”

  We’ll forgive her, she’s so young … She knows nothing of what we stand to lose at our age when we show our cards. When the quantity of collected chips testifies to the years past and we know that there’s not enough time left for us to make up for a loss. So, ever the experienced player, William keeps his distance. That grants him all of Maggy’s attention, who is scared, now, to see him distance himself. She must know that her suitor is a master in the art of bluffing. But what do you expect, love is known to blind us …

  However, I did not sense any craftiness between Sylvestre and Claire. The few gestures that they have for one another are of an infinite tenderness and they no longer hide their feelings. Perhaps they are waiting for the new year to embark on a new path side by side. If it were up to me to decide the end of the story, that is without a doubt what I would write.

  From William’s office, in the back of the old farmhouse, I can hear my friends’ exclamations and laughter as they prepare the New Year’s Eve dinner. I said I had to take a call, because I needed to isolate myself for a bit amidst the festivities. This distance allows me to savor the joy of this night all the more intensely.

  For we know, you and I, how fragile perfect moments are. In a few days, Nahima will bring her son back home to his family, others will leave for Quebec or Belgium, and what will remain of our bond spurred by this book that united us? Will I still have it in my thoughts when I begin promoting the novel and Bastien and I discuss marketing and profitability? And you? Will you keep a trace somewhere of these letters and this collaboration with strangers turned friends?

  I’m writing these lines to preserve the memory of all this. When I reread them, in a week or in a year, I will rediscover the scent of the hellebore on the table for New Year’s dinner and of the turkey just taken out of the oven. I will hear the laughter of Laura and Katia making fun of the adults with the cheekiness of their sixteen years, and I will see the gleam of the snow on the tops of trees surrounding the house.

  Thanks to these words that will imprison these scraps of happiness, like the herbariums we make in middle school, I will finally be able to rejoin my adopted family to fully relish the celebration.

  I am one of those people who cannot savor the present unless they have kept a fragment, forever nestled in the heart of their memories …

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I say thank you, I think first of all of the people who will forever hold a place in my heart because without them, none of this would have happened.

  In France, I think of the site monBestSeller.com and all its members who brought me out of the shadows almost despite myself. I think of Marie Leroy, director of the publishing house La Martinière Littérature, who was brave enough to accompany me as an inexperienced author to the front windows of bookstores. A big thank-you to Jeanne Pois-Fournier, to Sacha Serero, and to Carine Barth, who supported me by generously providing commentary, sometimes funny, always pertinent.

  In the United States, I want to thank above all Marleen Seegers and Chrysothemis Armefti at 2 Seas Agency for convincing foreign editors of the value in this little French story, and of course Laura Apperson at St. Martin’s Press for her enthusiasm for The Lost Manuscri
pt, as well as Emma Ramadan for her fantastic translation skills. Finally, I want to thank with all my heart Sallie Lotz, my editor at St. Martin’s Press, for the work she’s done on the American version of this book.

  Thanks to all of these people, my novel now sets off for new lands. I confess, the book didn’t have such big plans. Written between April and December 2016, on the exact dates you will find within these pages, its sole ambition back then was to transport its author.

  Today, incredibly, it has crossed the Atlantic and set foot on a continent I’ve only reached in my dreams. I hope also that you will forgive me for having used real addresses, notably in New York and Montreal. When I wrote this book, I didn’t imagine it would one day find its way to you.

  I will conclude by giving you, the readers, a big thank-you, for welcoming this book into your daily lives.

  ALSO BY CATHY BONIDAN

  The Perfume of the Hellebore Rose

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CATHY BONIDAN works as a teacher in Vannes and has been writing since the age of fourteen. Her debut novel, The Perfume of the Hellebore Rose, won eleven literary awards in France. You can sign up for email updates here.